The bundles of notes fell out of the leather wallet and were

scattered over the ground. The tramps did not hesitate, but plumped

down on their hands and knees, leaving the field to Simon.

Fifty yards away, Forsetta was running along the river, with his prey

slung over his shoulder. Farther on, the two tramps posted on the

other bank were punting themselves across on a raft which they had

found. If Forsetta came up with them, it meant his safety.

"He won't get there," Simon said to himself, measuring the distance

with his eye.

With a quick movement, he snatched the knife of one of his aggressors

and set off at a run.

Forsetta, who believed him to be still struggling with the vagabonds,

did not hurry. He had, so to speak, rolled Dolores round his neck,

holding her legs, head and arms in front of him and crushing them to

his chest with his rifle and his brawny arms. He shouted to the two

men on the raft, to stimulate their ardour:

"Here's the girl! She's my share. . . . You shall have all her

jewels!"

The men warned him:

"Look out!"

He turned, saw Simon at twenty paces' distance and tried to throw

Dolores to the ground with a heave of the shoulder, like an irksome

burden. The girl fell, but she had so contrived matters, under cover

of the suffocating blanket, that at the moment of falling she had a

good grip on the barrel of the Indian's rifle; and in her fall she

dragged him down with her.

The few seconds which Forsetta needed to recover his weapon were his

undoing. Simon leapt upon him before he could take aim. He stumbled

once more, received a dagger-thrust in the hip and went down on his

knees, begging for mercy.

Simon released Dolores' bonds; then, addressing the two tramps who,

terror-stricken when on the point of touching ground, were now trying

to push off again:

"See to his wound," he ordered. "And there's the other Indian over

there: he's probably alive. Look after him too, you shall have your

lives."

The tramps were scattering so rapidly in the distance, with Simon's

bank-notes, that he gave up all idea of pursuing them.

Thus he remained master of the battle-field. Dead, wounded, or in

fight, his adversaries were defeated. The extraordinary adventure was

continuing as it were in a savage country and against the most

unexpected background.

He was profoundly conscious of the incredible moments through which he

was passing, on the bed of the Channel, between France and England, in

a region which was truly a land of death, crime, cunning and violence.

And he had triumphed!

He could not refrain from smiling and, leaning with both hands on

Forsetta's rifle, he said to Dolores:

"The prairie! It's Fenimore Cooper's prairie! The Far West! It's all

here: the attack by Sioux, the improvised blockhouse, the abduction,

the fight, with the chief of the Pale-Faces coming out victorious!

. . ."

She stood facing him, very erect. Her thin silk blouse had been torn

in the struggle and hung in strips around her bosom. Simon added, in a

tone of less assurance:

"And here's the fair Indian."

Was it emotion, or excessive fatigue after her protracted efforts?

Dolores staggered and seemed on the verge of fainting. He supported

her, holding her in his arms:

"You're surely not wounded?" he said.

"No. . . . A passing giddiness. . . . I have been badly frightened.

. . . And I had no business to be frightened, since you were there and

you had promised to save me. Oh, Simon, how grateful I am to you!"

"I have done what any one would have done in my place, Dolores. Don't

thank me."

He tried to free himself, but she held him and, after a moment's

silence, said:

"She whom the chief calls the fair Indian had a name by which she was

known in her own country. Shall I tell you what it was?"

"What was it, Dolores?"

In a low voice, without taking her eyes from his, she replied:

"The Chief's Reward!"

He had felt, in his inner consciousness, that this magnificent

creature deserved some such name, that she was truly the prey which

men seek to ravish, the captive to be saved at any cost, and that she

did indeed offer, with her red lips and her brown shoulders, the most

wonderful of rewards.

She had flung her arms about his neck; he was conscious of their

caress; and for a moment they stood like that, motionless, uncertain

of what was coming. But Isabel's image flashed across his mind and he

remembered the oath which she had required of him:

"Not a moment's weakness, Simon. I should never forgive that."

He pulled himself together and said:

"Get some rest, Dolores. We have still a long way to go."

She also recovered herself and went down to the river, where she

bathed her face in the cool water. Then, getting to work immediately,

she collected all the provisions and ammunition that she could find on

the wounded men.

"There!" she said, when everything was ready for their departure.

"Mazzani and Forsetta won't die, but we have nothing more to fear from

them. We will leave them in the charge of the two tramps. The four of

them will be able to defend themselves."

They exchanged no more words. They went up the river for another hour

and reached the wide bend of which the people from Cayeux had told

them. At the very beginning of this bend, which brought the waters of

the Somme direct from France, they picked up Rolleston's trail on a

tract of muddy sand. The trail led straight on, leaving the course of

the river and running north.

"The fountains of gold lie in this direction evidently," Simon

inferred. "Rolleston must be at least a day's journey ahead of us."

"Yes," said Dolores, "but his party is a large one, they have no

horses left and their two prisoners are delaying their progress."

They met several wanderers, all of whom had heard the strange rumour

which had spread from one end of the prairie to the other and all of

whom were hunting for the fountain of gold. No one could give the

least information.

But a sort of old crone came hobbling along, leaning on a stick and

carrying a carpet-bag with the head of a little dog sticking out of

it.

The dog was barking like mad. The old crone was humming a tune, in a

faint, high-pitched voice.

Dolores questioned her. She replied, in short, sing-song sentences,

which seemed a continuation of her ditty, that she had been walking

for three days, never stopping . . . that she had worn out her shoes

. . . and that when she was tired . . . she got her dog to carry her:

"Yes, my dog carries me," she repeated. "Don't you, Dick?"

"She's mad," Simon muttered.

The old woman nodded in assent and addressed them in a confidential

tone:

"Yes, I'm mad. . . . I used not to be, but it's the gold . . . the

rain of gold that has made me mad. . . . It shoots into the air like a

fountain . . . and the gold coins and the bright pebbles . . . fall in

a shower. . . . So you hold out your hat or your bag and the gold

comes pouring into it. . . . My bag is full. . . . Would you like to

see?"

She laughed quietly and, beckoning to Simon and Dolores, took her dog

by the scruff of the neck, dropped him on the ground and half-opened

her bag. Then, again in her sing-song voice:

"You are honest folk, aren't you? . . . I wouldn't show it to any one

else. . . . But you won't hurt me."

Dolores and Simon eagerly bent over the bag. With her bony fingers the

old woman first lifted a heap of rags kept there for Dick's benefit;

she then removed a few shiny red and yellow pebbles. Beneath these lay

quite a little hoard of gold coins, of which she seized a generous

handful, making them clink in the hollow of her hand. They were old

coins of all sizes and bearing all sorts of heads.

Simon exclaimed excitedly:

"She comes from there! . . . She has been there!"

And shaking the mad woman by the shoulders, he asked:

"Where is it? How many hours have you been walking? Have you seen a

party of men leading two prisoners, an old man and a girl?"

But the madwoman picked up her dog and closed her bag. She refused to

hear. At the most, as she moved away, she said, or rather sang to the

air of a ballad which the dog accompanied with his barking:

"Men on horseback. . . . They were galloping. . . . It was yesterday.

. . . A girl with fair hair. . . ."

Simon shrugged his shoulders:

"She's wandering. Rolleston has no horses. . . ."

"True," said Dolores, "but, all the same, Miss Bakefield's hair is

fair."

They were much astonished, a little way on, to find that Rolleston's

trail branched off into another trail which came from France and which

had been left by the trampling of many horses--a dozen, Dolores

estimated--whose marks were less recent than the bandits' footprints.

These were evidently the men on horseback whom the madwoman had seen.

Dolores and Simon had only to follow the beaten track displayed before

their eyes on the carpet of moist sand. The region of shells had come

to an end. The plain was strewn with great, absolutely round rocks,

formed by pebbles agglomerated in marl, huge balls polished by all the

submarine currents and deep-sea tides. In the end they were packed so

close together that they constituted an insuperable obstacle, which

the horsemen and then Rolleston had wheeled round.

When Simon and Dolores had passed it, they came to a wide depression

of the ground, the bottom of which was reached by circular terraces.

Down here were a few more of the round rocks. Amid these rocks lay a

number of corpses. They counted five.

They were the bodies of young men, smartly dressed and wearing boots

and spurs. Four had been killed by bullets, the fifth by a stab in the

back between the shoulders.

Simon and Dolores looked at each other and then each continued in

independent search.

On the sand lay bridles and girth, two nosebags full of oats,

half-emptied meat-tins, unrolled blankets and a spirit-stove.

The victims' pockets had been ransacked. Nevertheless, Simon found in

a waistcoat a sheet of paper bearing a list of ten names--Paul

Cormier, Armand Darnaud, etc.--headed by this note:

"Foret-d'Eu Hunt."

Dolores explored the immediate surroundings. The clues which she thus

obtained and the facts discovered by Simon enabled them to reconstruct

the tragedy exactly. The horsemen, all members of a Norman hunt,

camping on this spot two nights before, had been surprised in the

morning by Rolleston's gang and the greater number massacred.

With such men as Rolleston and his followers, the attack had

inevitably ended in a thorough loot, but its main object had been the

theft of the horses. When these had been taken after a fight, the

robbers had made off at a gallop.

"There are only five bodies," said Dolores, "and there are ten names

on the list. Where are the other five riders?"

"Scattered," said Simon, "wounded, dying, anything. I daresay we

should find them by searching round? But how can we? Have we the right

to delay, when the safety of Miss Bakefield and her father is at

stake? Think, Dolores: Rolleston has more than thirty hours' start of

us and he and his men are mounted on excellent horses, while we. . . .

And then where are we to catch them?"

He clenched his fists with rage:

"Oh, if I only knew where this fountain of gold was! How far from it

are we? A day's march? Two days'? It's horrible to know nothing, to go

forward at random, in this accursed country!"

CHAPTER V

THE CHIEF'S REWARD

During the next two hours they saw, in the distance, three more

corpses. Frequent shots were fired, but whence they did not know.

Single prowlers were becoming rare; they encountered rather groups

consisting of men of all classes and nationalities, who had joined for

purposes of defence. But quarrels broke out within these groups, the

moment there was the least booty in dispute, or even the faintest hope

of booty. No discipline was accepted save that imposed by force.

When one of these wandering bands seemed to be approaching them, Simon

carried his rifle ostentatiously as though on the point of taking aim.

He entered into conversation only at a distance and with a forbidding

and repellent air.

Dolores watched him uneasily, avoiding speech with him. Once she had

to tell him that he was taking the wrong direction and to prove his

mistake to him. But this involved an explanation to which he listened

with impatience and which he cut short by grumbling:

"And then? What does it matter if we keep to the right or to the left?

We know nothing. There is nothing to prove that Rolleston has taken

Miss Bakefield with him on his expedition. He may have imprisoned her

somewhere, until he is free to return for her . . . so that, in

following him, I risk the chance of going farther away from her.

. . ."

Nevertheless, the need of action drew him on, however uncertain the

goal to be achieved. He could never have found heart to apply himself

to investigations or to check the impulse which urged him onward.

Dolores marched indefatigably by his side, sometimes even in front.

She had taken off her shoes and stockings. He watched her bare feet

making their light imprint in the sand. Her hips swayed as she walked,

as with American girls. She was all grace, strength and suppleness.

Less distracted, paying more attention to external things, she probed

the horizon with her keen gaze. It was while doing so that she cried,

pointing with outstretched hand:

"Look over there, the aeroplane!"

It was right at the top of a long, long upward slope of the whole

plain, at a spot where the mist and the ground were blended till they

could not say for certain whether the aeroplane was flying through the

mist or running along the soil. It looked like one of those

sailing-ships which seem suspended on the confines of the ocean. It

was only gradually that the reality became apparent: the machine was

motionless, resting on the ground.

"There is no doubt," said Simon, "considering the direction, that this

is the aeroplane that crossed the river. Damaged by Mazzani's bullet,

it flew as far as this, where it managed to land as best it could."

Now the figure of the pilot could be distinguished; and he too--a

strange phenomenon--was motionless, sitting in his place, his head

almost invisible behind his rounded shoulders. One of the wheels was

half-destroyed. However, the aeroplane did not appear to have suffered

very greatly. But what was this man doing, that he never moved?

They shouted. He did not reply, nor did he turn round; and, when they

reached him, they saw that his breast was leaning against the

steering-wheel, while his arms hung down on either side. Drops of

blood were trickling from under the seat.

Simon climbed on board and almost immediately declared:

"He's dead. Mazzani's bullet caught him sideways behind the head.

. . . A slight wound, of which he was not conscious for some time, to

judge by the quantity of blood which he lost, probably without

knowing. . . . Then he succeeded in touching earth. And then . . .

then I don't know . . . a more violent hemorrhage, a clot on the

brain. . . ."

Dolores joined Simon. Together they lifted the body. No foot-pads had

passed that way, for they found the dead man's papers, watch and

pocket-book untouched.

His papers, on examination, were of no special interest. But the

route-map fixed to the steering-wheel representing the Channel and the

old coast-lines, was marked with a dot in red pencil and the words:

"Rain of gold."

"He was going there too," Simon murmured. "They already know of it in

France. And here's the exact place . . . twenty-five miles from where

we are . . . between Boulogne and Hastings . . . not far from the Banc

de Bassurelle. . . ."

And, quivering with hope, he added:

"If I can get the thing to fly, I'll be there myself in half an hour.

. . . And I shall rescue Isabel. . . ."

Simon set to work with a zest which nothing could discourage. The

aeroplane's injuries were not serious: a wheel was buckled, the

steering-rod bent, the feed-pipe twisted. The sole difficulty arose

from the fact that Simon found only inadequate tools in the tool-box

and no spare parts whatever. But this did not deter him; he contrived

some provisional splices and other repairs, not troubling about their

strength provided that the machine could fly for the time required:

"After all," he said to Dolores, who was doing what she could to help

him, "after all, it is only a question of forty minutes' flight, no

more. If I can manage to take off, I'm sure to hold out. Bless my

soul, I've done more difficult things than that!"

His joy once more bubbled over in vivacious talk. He sang, laughed,

jeered at Rolleston and pictured the ruffian's face at seeing this

implacable archangel descending from the skies. All the same, rapidly

though he worked, he realized by six o'clock in the evening that he

could scarcely finish before night and that, under these conditions,

it would be better to put off the start until next morning. He

therefore completed his repairs and carefully tested the machine,

while Dolores moved away to prepare their camp. When twilight fell,

his task was finished. Happy and smiling, he followed the path on his

right which he had seen the girl take.

The plain fell away suddenly beyond the ridge on which the aeroplane

had stranded; and a deeper gully, between two sand-hills, led Simon to

a lower, basin-shaped plain, in the hollow of which shone a sheet of

water so limpid that he could see the bed of black rock at the bottom.

This was the first landscape in which Simon perceived a certain charm,

a touch of terrestrial and almost human poetry; and at the far end of

the lake there stood the most incredible thing that could be imagined

in this region which only a few days earlier had been buried under the

sea: a structure which seemed to have been raised by human hands and

which was supported by columns apparently covered with fine carving!

Dolores stepped out of it. Tall and shapely, with slow, sedate

movements, she walked in to the water, among some stones standing

upright in the lake, filled a glass and, bending backwards, drank a

few sips. Near by, a trace of steam, rising from a pannikin on a

spirit-stove, hovered in the air.

Seeing Simon, she smiled and said:

"Everything's ready. Here's tea, white bread and butter."

"Do you mean it?" he said, laughing. "So there were inhabitants at the

bottom of the sea, people who grew wheat?"

"No, but there was some food in that poor airman's box."

"Very well; but this house, this prehistoric palace?"

It was a very primitive palace, a wall of great stones touching one

another and surmounted by a great slab like those which top the Druid

dolmans. The whole thing was crude and massive, covered with carvings

which, when examined closely, were merely thousands of holes bored by

molluscs.

"Lithophagic molluscs, Old Sandstone would call them. By Jove, how

excited he would be to see these remains of a dwelling which dates

thousands and thousands of centuries back and which perhaps has others

buried in the sand near it . . . a whole village, I dare say! And

isn't this positive proof that this land was inhabited before it was

invaded by the sea? Doesn't it upset all our accepted ideas, since it

throws back the appearance of men to a period which we are not

prepared to admit? Oh, you Old Sandstone, if you were only here! What

theories you could evolve!"

Simon evolved no theories. But, though the scientific explanation of

the phenomenon meant little to him, how acutely he felt its

strangeness and how deeply stirring this moment seemed to him! Before

him, before Dolores, rose another age and in circumstances that made

them resemble two creatures of that age, the same desolate, barbarous

surroundings, the same dangers, the same pitfalls.

And the same peace. From the threshold of their refuge stretched a

placid landscape made of sand, mist and water. The faint sound of a

little stream that fed the lake barely disturbed the infinite silence.

He looked at his companion. No one could be better adapted to the

surrounding scene. She had its primitive charm, its wild, rather

savage character and all its mysterious poetry.

The night stretched its veil across the lake and the hills.

"Let us go in," she said, when they had eaten and drunk.

"Let us go in," he said.

She went before, then, turned to give him her hand and led him into

the chamber formed by the circle of stone slabs. Simon's lamp was

there, hanging from a projection in the wall. The floor was covered

with fine sand. Two blankets lay spread.

Simon hesitated. Dolores held him by a firmer pressure of the hand and

he remained, despite himself, in a moment of weakness. Besides, she

suddenly switched off the lamp and he might have thought himself

alone, for he heard nothing more than the infinitely gentle lapping of

the lake against the stones upon the beach.

It was then and really not until then that he perceived the snare

which events had laid for him by drawing him closer to Dolores during

the past three days. He had defended her, as any man would have done,

but her beauty had not for a moment affected his decision, or

stimulated his courage. Had she been old or ugly, she would have found

the same protection at his hands.

At the present moment--he realized it suddenly--he was thinking of

Dolores not as a companion of his adventures and his dangers but as

the most beautiful and attractive of creatures. He reflected that she,

perturbed like himself, was not sleeping either, and that her eyes

were seeking him through the darkness. At her slightest movement, the

delicate perfume with which she scented her hair, mingled with the

warm emanations that floated on the breeze.

She whispered:

"Simon. . . . Simon. . . ."

He did not reply. His heart was oppressed. Several times she repeated

his name; then, no doubt believing him asleep, she rose and her naked

feet lightly touched the sand. She went out.

What was she going to do? A minute elapsed. There was a sound as of

rustling clothes. Then he heard her footsteps on the beach, followed

almost immediately by the splash of water and the sound of drops

falling in a shower. Dolores was bathing in the darkness.

Simon was next hardly able to detect what was scarcely more

perceptible than the swan's gliding over the surface of the pond. The

silence and peace of the water remained unbroken. Dolores must have

swum towards the centre of the lake. When she returned, he once more

heard the pattering of drops and the rustle of clothes while she

dressed.

He rose suddenly, with the intention of going out before she entered.

But she was quicker than he anticipated and they met on the threshold.

He drew back, while she asked him:

"Were you going, Simon?"

"Yes," he said, seeking a pretext. "I am anxious about the aeroplane

. . . some thief. . . ."

"Yes . . . yes," she said, hesitatingly. "But I should like first

. . . to thank you. . . ."

Their voices betrayed the same embarrassment and the same profound

agitation. The darkness hid them from each other's eyes; yet how

plainly Simon saw the young woman before him!

"I've behaved as I should to you," he declared.

"Not as other men have done . . . and it is that which touched me.

. . . I was struck by it from the beginning. . . ."

Perhaps she felt by intuition that any too submissive words would

offend him, for she did not continue her confession. Only, after a

moment's pause, she murmured:

"This is our last night alone. . . . Afterwards we shall be parted by

the whole of life . . . by everything. . . . Then . . . hold me tight

to you for a little . . . for a second. . . ."

Simon did not move. She was asking for a display of affection of which

he dreaded the danger all the more because he longed so eagerly to

yield to it and because his will was weakening beneath the onslaught

of evil thoughts. Why should he resist? What would have been a sin and

a crime against love at ordinary times was so no longer at this period

of upheaval, when the play of natural forces and of chance gave rise

for a time to abnormal conditions of life. To kiss Dolores' lips at

such a moment: was it worse than plucking a flower that offers itself

to the hand?

They were united by the favouring darkness. They were alone in the

world; they were both young; they were free. Dolores' hands were

outstretched in despair. Should he not give her his own and obey this

delicious dizziness which was overcoming him?

"Simon," she said, in a voice of supplication. "Simon. . . . I ask so

little of you! . . . Don't refuse me. . . . It's not possible that you

should refuse me, is it? When you risked your life for mine, it was

because you had a . . . a feeling . . . a something. . . . I am not

mistaken, am I?"

Simon was silent. He would not speak to her of Isabel, would not bring

Isabel's name into the duel which they were fighting.

Dolores continued her entreaties:

"Simon, I have never loved any one but you. . . . The others . . . the

others don't count. . . . You, the look in your eyes gave me happiness

from the first moment. . . . It was like the sun shining into my life.

. . . And I should be so happy if there were a . . . a memory between

us. You would forget it. . . . It would count for nothing with you.

. . . But for me . . . it would mean life changed . . . beautified.

. . . I should have the strength to be another woman. . . . Please,

please, give me your hand. . . . Take me in your arms. . . ."

Simon did not move. Something more powerful than the impulse of the

temptation restrained him: his plighted word to Isabel and his love

for her. Isabel's image blended with Dolores's image; and, in his

faltering mind, in his darkened conscience, the conflict continued.

. . .

Dolores waited. She had fallen to her knees and was whispering

indistinct words in a language which he did not understand, words of

plaintive passion of whose distress he was fully sensible, and which

mounted to his ears like a prayer and an appeal.

In the end she fell weeping at his feet. Then he passed by, without

touching her.

The cold night air caressed his features. He walked away at a rapid

pace, pronouncing Isabel's name with the fervour of a believer

reciting the words of a litany. He turned towards the plateau. When

almost there, he lay down against the slope of the hill and, for a

long time before falling asleep, he continued to think of Dolores as

of some one whose memory was already growing dim. The girl was

becoming once more a stranger. He would never know why she had loved

him so spontaneously and so ardently; why a nature in which instinct

must needs play so imperious a part had found room for such noble

feelings, humility and delicacy and devotion.

In the earliest moments of the dawn he gave the aeroplane a final

examination. After a few tests which gave him good hopes of success,

he went back to the dwelling by the lake. But Dolores was gone. For an

hour he searched for her and called to her in vain. She had

disappeared without even leaving a footprint in the sand.

On rising above the clouds into the immensity of a clear sky all

flooded with sunlight, Simon uttered a cry of joy. The mysterious

Dolores meant nothing to him now, no more than all the dangers braved

with her or all those which might still lie in wait for him. He had

surmounted every obstacle, escaped every snare. He had been victorious

in every contest; and perhaps his greatest victory was that of

resisting Dolores' enchantment.

It was ended. Isabel had triumphed. Nothing stood between her and him.

He held the steering-wheel well under control. The motor was working

to perfection. The map and the compass were before his eyes. At the

point indicated, at the exact spot, neither too much to the right nor

too much to the left, neither overshooting nor falling short of the

mark, he would descend within a radius of a hundred yards.

The flight certainly took less than the forty minutes which he had

allowed for. In thirty at most he covered the distance, without seeing

anything but the moving sea of clouds rolling beneath him in white

billows. All he could do now was to fling himself upon it. After

stopping his engine, he drew closer and closer, describing great

circles. Cries or rather shouts and roars rose from the ground, as

though multitudes were gathered together. Then he entered the rolling

mist, through which he continued to wheel like a bird of prey.

He never doubted Rolleston's presence, nor the imminence of the fight

which would ensue between them, nor its favourable outcome, followed

by Isabel's release. But he dreaded the landing, the critical rock on

which he might split.

The sight of the ground showing clear of the mist reassured him. A

wide and, as it seemed to him, almost flat space lay spread like an

arena, in which he saw nothing but four disks of sand which must

represent so many mounds and which could be easily avoided. The crowd

kept outside this arena, save for a few people who were running in all

directions and gesticulating.

At closer quarters, the soil appeared less smooth, consisting of

endless sand-coloured pebbles, heaped in places to a certain height.

He therefore gave all his attention to avoiding collision with these

obstacles and succeeded in landing without the slightest shock and in

stopping quite quietly.

Groups of people came running about the aeroplane. Simon thought that

they wished to help him to alight. His illusion did not last long. A

few seconds later, the aeroplane was taken by assault by some twenty

men; and Simon felt the barrels of two revolvers pushed against his

face and was bound from head to foot, wrapped in a blanket, gagged and

deprived of all power of movement, before he could even attempt the

least resistance.

"Into the hold, with the rest of them!" commanded a hoarse voice.

"And, if he gives trouble, blow out his brains!"

There was no need for this drastic measure. The manner in which Simon

was bound reduced him to absolute helplessness. Resigning himself to

the inevitable, he counted that the men carrying him took a hundred

and thirty steps and that their course brought him nearer to the

roaring crowd.

"When you've quite done bawling!" grinned one of the men. "And then

make yourselves scarce, see? The machine-gun's getting to work."

They climbed a staircase. Simon was dragged up by the cords that bound

him. A violent hand ransacked his pockets and relieved him of his arms

and his papers. He felt himself again lifted; and then he dropped into

a void.

It was no great fall and was softened by the dense layer of captives

already swarming at the bottom of the hold, who began to swear behind

their gags.

Using his knees and elbows, Simon made room for himself as best he

could on the floor. It must have been about nine o'clock in the

morning. From that moment, time no longer counted for him, for he

thought of nothing but how to defend the place which he had won

against any who might seek to take it from him, whether former

occupants or new-comers. Voices muffled by gags uttered furious

snarls, or groaned, breathless and exhausted. It was really hell.

There were dying men and dead bodies, the death-rattle of Frenchmen

mingling with Englishmen, blood, sticky rags and a loathsome stench of

carrion.

During the course of the afternoon, or it might have been in the

evening, a tremendous noise broke out, like the sound of a great sheaf

of rockets, and forthwith the numberless crowd roared at the top of

its voice, with the frenzied fury of an insurgent mob. Then, suddenly,

through it all, came orders shouted in a strident voice, more powerful

than the tumult. Then a profound silence. And then a crack of sharp,

hurried explosions, followed by the frightful rattle of a machine-gun.

This lasted for at least two or three minutes. The uproar had

recommenced; and it continued until Simon could no longer hear the

fizzing of the fireworks and the din of the shooting. They seemed

still to be fighting. They were dispatching the wounded amid curses

and shrieks of pain; and a batch of dying men was flung into the hold.

The evening and the night wore through. Simon, who had not touched

food since his meal with Dolores beside the lake, was also suffering

cruelly from the lack of air, the weight of the dead and the living on

his chest, the gag which bruised his jaw and the blanket which wrapped

his head like a blind, air-tight hood. Were they going to leave him to

die of starvation and asphyxia, in this huddle of sticky, decomposing

flesh, above which floated the inarticulate plaint of death?

His bandaged eyes received a feeling as though the day were breaking.

His torpid neighbours were swarming like slimy reptiles in a tub.

Then, from above, a voice growled:

"No easy job to find him! . . . Queer notions the chief has! As well

try and pick a worm out of the mud!"

"Take my boat-hook," said another voice. "You can use it to turn the

stiffs over like a scavenger sorting a heap of muck. . . . Lower down

than that, old man! Since yesterday morning, the bloke must be at the

bottom. . . ."

And the first voice cried:

"That's him! There, look, to the left! That's him! I know my rope

around his waist. . . . Patience a moment, while I hook him!"

Simon felt something digging into him that must have been the spike of

the boat-hook catching in his bonds. He was hooked, dragged along and

hoisted from corpse to corpse to the top of the hold. The men

unfastened his legs and told him to stand up:

"Now then, you! Up with you, my hearty!"

His eyes still bandaged, he was seized by the arms and led out of the

wreck. They crossed the arena, whose pebbles he felt under foot, and

mounted another flight of steps, leading to the deck of another wreck.

There the men halted.

From here, when his hood and gag were removed, Simon could see that

the arena in which he had landed was surrounded by a wall made of

barricades added according to the means at hand: ships' boats,

packing-cases and bales, rocks, banks of sand. The hulk of a

torpedo-boat was continued by some cast-iron piping. A stack of

drain-pipes was followed by a submarine.

All along this enclosure, sentinels armed with rifles mounted guard.

Beyond it, kept at a distance of more than a hundred yards by the

menace of the rifles and of a machine-gun levelled a little way to the

rear, the swarm of marauders was eddying and bawling. Inside, there

was an expanse of yellow pebbles, sulphur-coloured, like those which

the madwoman had carried in her bag. Were the gold coins mixed with

those pebbles and had a certain number of resolute, well-armed robbers

clubbed together to exploit this precious field? Here and there rose

mounds resembling the truncated cones of small extinct volcanoes.

Meantime, Simon's warders made him face about, in order to bind him to

the stump of a broken mast, near a group of prisoners whom other

warders were holding, like so many animals, by halters and chains.

On this side was the general staff of the gang, sitting for the moment

as a court-martial.

In the centre of a circle was a platform of moderate height, edged by

ten or a dozen corpses and dying men, some of the latter struggling in

hideous convulsions. On the platform a man who was drinking sat or

rather sprawled in a great throne-like chair. Near him was a stool

with bottles of champagne and a knife dripping with blood. Beside him

was a group of men with revolvers in their hands. The man in the chair

wore a black uniform relieved with decorations and stuck all over with

diamonds and precious stones. Emerald necklaces hung round his neck. A

diadem of gold and gems encircled his forehead.

When he had finished drinking, his face appeared. Simon started. From

certain details which recalled the features of his friend Edward

Rolleston, he realized that this man was no other than Wilfred

Rolleston. Moreover, among the jewels and necklaces, was a miniature

set in pearls, the miniature and the pearls of Isabel Bakefield.

CHAPTER VI

HELL ON EARTH

A rascally face was Wilfred Rolleston's, but above all a drunkard's

face, in which the noble features of his cousin Edward were debased by

the habit of debauch. His eyes, which were small and sunk in their

sockets, shone with an extraordinary glitter. A continual grin, which

revealed red gums set with enormous, pointed teeth, gave his jaw the

look of a gorilla's.

He burst out laughing:

"M. Simon Dubosc? M. Simon Dubosc will pardon me. Before I deal with

him, I have a few poor fellows to dispatch to a better world. I shall

attend to you in three minutes, M. Simon Dubosc."

And, turning to his henchman:

"First gentleman."

They pushed forward a poor devil quaking with fear.

"How much gold has this one stolen?" he asked.

One of the warders replied:

"Two sovereigns, my lord, fallen outside the barricades."

"Kill him."

A revolver-shot; and the poor wretch fell dead.

Three more executions followed, performed in as summary a fashion; and

at each the executioners and their assistants were seized with a fit

of hilarity which found expression in cheers and the cutting of many

capers.

But when the fourth sufferer's turn came--he had stolen nothing, but

was under suspicion of stealing--the executioner's revolver missed

fire. Then Rolleston leapt from his throne, uncoiled his great height,

towered above his victim's head and buried his knife between his

shoulder-blades.

It was a moment of delirious delight. The guard of honour yelped and

roared, dancing a frantic jig upon the platform. Rolleston resumed his

throne.

After this, an axe cleft the air twice in succession and two heads

leapt into the air.

All these monsters gave the impression of the court of some nigger

monarch in the heart of Africa. Liberated from all that restrains its

impulses and controls its actions, left to itself, with no fear of

the police, mankind, represented by this gang of cut-throats, was

relapsing into its primitive animal state. Instinct reigned supreme,

in all its fierce absurdity. Rolleston, the drink-sodden chieftain of

a tribe of savages, was killing for killing's sake, because killing is

a pleasure not to be indulged in everyday life and because the sight

of blood intoxicated him more effectually than champagne.

"It's the Frenchman's turn"; cried the despot, bursting into laughter.

"It's M. Dubosc's turn! And I will deal with him myself!"

He stepped down from his throne again, holding a red knife in his

hand, and planted himself before Simon:

"Ah, M. Dubosc," he said, in a husky voice, "you escaped me the first

time, in a hotel at Hastings! Yes, it appears I stabbed the wrong man.

That was a bit of luck for you! But then, my dear sir, why the deuce,

instead of making yourself scarce, do you come running after me . . .

and after Miss Bakefield?"

At Isabel's name, he suddenly blazed into fury:

"Miss Bakefield! My _fiancee_! Don't you know that I love her! Miss

Bakefield! Why, I've sworn by all the devils in hell that I would

bury my knife in the back of my rival, if ever one dared to come

forward. And you're the rival, are you, M. Dubosc? But, my poor fool,

you shouldn't have let yourself get caught!"

His eyes lit up with a cruel joy. He slowly raised his arm, while

gazing into Simon's eyes for the first appearance of mortal anguish.

But the moment had not yet come, for he suddenly stayed the movement

of his arm and sputtered:

"I have an idea! . . . An idea . . . not half a bad one! . . . No, not

half! Look here. . . . M. Dubosc must attend the little ceremony! He

will be glad to know that the lot of his dear Isabel is assured.

Patience, M. Dubosc!"

He exchanged a few words with his guards, who gave signs of their

hearty approval and were at once rewarded with glasses of champagne.

Then the preparations began. Three guards marched away, while the

other satellites seated the dead bodies in a circle, so as to form a

gallery of spectators round a small table which was placed upon the

platform.

Simon was one of the gallery. He was again gagged.

All these incidents occurred like the scenes of an incoherent play,

stage-managed and performed by madmen. It had no more sense than the

fantastic visions of a nightmare; and Simon felt hardly more alarmed

at knowing that his life was threatened than he would have felt joy at

seeing himself saved. He was living in an unreal world of shifting

figures.

The guard of honour fell in and presented arms. Rolleston took off his

diadem, as a man might take off his hat in sign of respect, and spread

his diamond-studded tunic on the deck, as people might spread flowers

beneath the feet of an advancing queen. The three attendants who had

been ordered away returned.

Behind them came a woman escorted by two coarse, red-faced viragoes.

Simon shuddered with despair; he had recognized Isabel, but so much

changed, so pale! She swayed as she walked, as though her limbs

refused to support her and as though her poor distressful eyes could

not see plainly. Yet she refused the aid of her companions. A male

prisoner followed her, held on a leash like the others. He was an old,

white-haired parson.

Rolleston hurried to meet her whom he called his _fiancee_, offering

her his hand and leading her to a chair. He resumed his tunic and took

his place beside her. The clergyman remained standing behind the

table, under the threat of a revolver.

The ceremony, of which the details must have been arranged beforehand,

was short. The parson stammered the customary words. Rolleston

declared that he took Isabel Bakefield to be his wife. Isabel, when

the question was put, bowed her head in assent, Rolleston slipped a

wedding-ring upon her finger; then he unfastened from his uniform the

miniature set in pearls and pinned it to the girl's bodice:

"My wedding-present, darling," he said, cynically.

And he kissed her hand. She seemed overcome with dizziness and

collapsed for a moment, but recovered herself immediately.

"Till this evening, darling," said Rolleston, "when your loving

husband will visit you and claim his rights. Till this evening,

darling."

He made a sign to the two viragoes to lead their prisoner away.

A few bottles of champagne were opened, the clergyman received a

dagger-thrust as his fee and Rolleston, waving his glass and

staggering on his legs, shouted:

"Here's the health of my wife! What do you say to that, M. Dubosc?

She'll be a lucky girl, eh? To-night makes her King Rolleston's bride!

You may die easy, M. Dubosc."

He drew near, knife in hand, when suddenly there broke out, from the

arena, a succession of crackling noises, followed by a great uproar.

The fireworks were beginning again, as on the night before.

In a moment the scene was changed. Rolleston appeared to sober down at

once. Leaning over the side of the wreck, he issued his commands in a

voice of thunder:

"To the barricades! Every man to his post! . . . Independent fire! No

quarter!"

The deck resounded with the feet of his adherents, who rushed to the

ladders. Some, the favoured members of the guard of honour, remained

with Rolleston. The remaining captives were tied together and more

cords were added to the bonds that bound Simon to the foot of the

mast.

However, he was able to turn his head and to see the whole extent of

the arena. It was empty. But from one of the four craters which rose

in the centre a vast sheaf of water, steam, sand and pebbles spurted

and fell back upon the ground. In the midst of these pebbles rolled

coins of the same colour, gold coins.

It was an inconceivable spectacle, reminding Simon of the Iceland

geyser. The phenomenon was obviously capable of explanation by

perfectly natural causes; but some miraculous chance must have heaped

together at the exact spot where this volcanic eruption occurred the

treasures of several galleons sunk in times gone by. And these

treasures, now dropping like rain on the surface of the earth, must

have slipped gradually to the bottom of the huge funnel in which the

new forces, concentrated and released by the great upheaval, were

boiling over now.

Simon had an impression that the air was growing warmer and that the

temperature of this column of water must be fairly high, which fact,

even more than fear of the pebbles, explained why no one dared venture

into the central zone.

Moreover, Rolleston's troops had taken up their position on the line

of the barricades, where the firing had been, furious from the first.

The mob of marauders, massed at a hundred yards beyond, had at once

given way, though here and there a band of lunatics would break loose

from the crowd and rush across the slope. They toppled over,

ruthlessly shot down; but others came on, bellowing, maddened by those

golden coins which fell like a miraculous rain and some of which

rolled to their feet.

These men in their turn spun on their heels and dropped. It was a

murderous game, an absolute massacre. The more favoured, those who

escaped the bullets, were taken prisoners on the line of the

barricades and set aside for execution.

And suddenly all grew quiet again. Like a fountain when the water is

turned off, the precious sheaf wavered, grew smaller and smaller and

disappeared from sight. The troops remaining at the barricades

completed the rout of the assailants, while the satellites who made up

the guard of honour gathered the gold in rush baskets collected at the

fore of the wreck on which Rolleston was performing his antics. The

harvest did not take long. The baskets were brought up briskly and the

sharing began, a revolting and grotesque spectacle. Eyes burned with

greed, hands trembled. The sight, the touch, the sound of the gold

drove all these men mad. No famishing beasts of prey, disputing a

bleeding quarry, could display greater ferocity and spite. Each man

hid his booty in his pockets or in a handkerchief knotted at the

corners. Rolleston put his into a canvas bag which he held clasped in

his arms:

"Kill the prisoners, the new ones as well as the others!" he shouted,

relapsing into drunkenness. "Have them executed! After that, we'll

string them all up, so that they can be seen from everywhere and

nobody will dare attack us. Kill them comrades! And M. Dubosc to begin

with! Who'll attend to M. Dubosc? I haven't the energy myself."

The comrades rushed forward. One of them, more agile than the rest,

seized Simon by the throat, jammed his head against the broken mast

and, pressing the barrel of his revolver against his temple, fired

four times.

"Well done!" cried Rolleston! "Well done!"

"Well done!" cried the others, stamping with rage around the

executioner.

The man had covered Simon's head with a strip of cloth already spotted

with blood, which he knotted round the mast, so that its ends, brought

level with the forehead and turned upwards, looked like a donkey's

ear, which provoked an explosion of merriment.

Simon did not feel the least surprise on discovering that he was

still alive, that he had not even been wounded by those four shots

fired point-blank. This was the way of the incredible nightmare, a

succession of illogical acts and disconnected events which he could

neither foresee nor understand. In the very article of death, he was

saved by circumstances as absurd as those which had led him to death's

threshold. An unloaded weapon, an impulse of pity in his executioners:

no explanation gave a satisfactory reply.

In any case, he did not make a movement which might attract attention

and he remained like a corpse within the bonds which held him fixed in

a perpendicular position and behind the veil which hid his face, the

face of a living man.

The hideous tribunal resumed its functions and hurried over its

verdicts, while washing them down with copious libations. As each

victim was condemned, a glass of spirits was served, the tossing off

of which was meant to synchronize with a death-struggle. Foul jests,

blasphemies, laughter, songs, all mingled in an abominable din which

was dominated by Rolleston's piercing voice:

"Now have them hanged. Tell them to string up the corpses! Fire away,

comrades! I want to see them dancing at the end of their ropes when I

come back from my wife. The queen awaits me! Here's her health,

comrades!"

They touched glasses noisily, singing until they had escorted him to

the ladder; then they returned and immediately set to work upon the

loathsome business which Rolleston had judged necessary to terrorize

the distant crowd of marauders. Their jeers and exclamations enabled

Simon to follow the sickening incidents of their labours. The dead

were hanged, with head or feet downwards alternately, from everything

that projected from the ship's deck or its surroundings; and

flagstaffs were stuck between their arms, with a blood-soaked rag

floating from each.

Simon's turn was approaching. A few dead bodies at most divided him

from the executioners, whose hoarse breathing he could hear. This time

nothing could save him. Whether he was hanged, or stabbed the moment

they saw that he was still alive, the issue was inevitable.

He would have made no attempt to escape, if the thought of Isabel and

Rolleston's threats had not exasperated him. He reflected that at that

moment Rolleston, the drunkard and maniac, was with the girl who for

years had been the object of his desire. What could she do against

him? Captive and bound, she was a prey vanquished beforehand.

Simon growled with rage. He contracted his muscles in the impossible

hope of bursting his bonds. The period of waiting suddenly became

intolerable; and he preferred to draw upon himself the anger of all

those brutes and to risk a fight which might at least give him a

chance of safety. And would not his safety mean Isabel's release?

Something unexpected, the sensation of a touch that was not brutal

but, on the contrary, furtive and cautious, gently persuaded him to

silence. A hand behind his back was untying his hands and removing the

ropes which held him bound against the mast, while an almost inaudible

voice whispered in his ear:

"Not a movement! . . . Not a word! . . ."

The cloth around his head was slowly withdrawn. The voice continued:

"Behave as if you were one of the gang. . . . No one is thinking about

you. . . . Do as they do. . . . And, above all, no hesitation!"

Simon obeyed without turning round. Two executioners, not far away,

were picking up a corpse. Sustained by the thought that nothing must

disgust him if he meant to rescue Isabel, he joined them and helped

them to carry their burden and hang it from one of the iron davits.

But the effort exhausted him: he was tortured by hunger and thirst. He

turned giddy and was seeking for a support when some one gently seized

his arm and drew him toward Rolleston's platform.

It was a sailor, with bare feet and dressed in a blue serge pea-jacket

and trousers; he carried a rifle across his back and wore a bandage

which hid part of his face.

Simon whispered:

"Antonio!"

"Drink!" said the Indian, taking one of the bottles of champagne; "and

look here . . . here's a tin of biscuits. You'll need all your

strength. . . ."

After the shocks of the frightful nightmare in which he had been

living for thirty-six hours, Simon was hardly capable of surprise.

That Antonio should have succeeded in slipping among the gang of

criminals accorded, after all, with the logic of events, since the

Indian's object was just to be revenged on Rolleston.

"Did you fire at me with a blank cartridge?" asked Simon, "and saved

my life?"

"Yes," replied the Indian. "I got here yesterday, when Rolleston was

already beginning to drive back the mob of three or four thousand

ruffians crowding round the fountains. As he was recruiting all who

possessed fire-arms and as I had a rifle, I was enlisted. Since then,

I've been prowling right and left, in the trenches which they've dug,

in the wrecks, more or less everywhere. I happened to be near his

platform when they brought him the papers found on the airman; and I

learnt, as he did, that the airman was no other than yourself. Then I

watched my opportunity and offered myself as an executioner when it

came to a matter of killing you. But I didn't dare warn you in his

presence."

"He's with Miss Bakefield, isn't he?" asked Simon anxiously.

"Yes."

"Were you able to communicate with her?"

"No, but I know where she is."

"Let's hurry," said Simon.

Antonio held him back:

"One word. What has become of Dolores?"

He looked Simon straight in the eyes.

"Dolores left me," Simon replied.

"Why?" asked Antonio, in a harsh voice. "Yes, why? A woman alone, in

this country: it's certain death! And you deserted her?"

Simon did not lower his eyes. He replied:

"I did my duty by Dolores . . . more than my duty. It was she who left

me."

Antonio reflected. Then he said:

"Very good. I understand."

They moved away, unobserved by the rabble of henchmen and

executioners. The boat--a Channel packet whose name Simon read on a

faded pennant: the _Ville de Dunkerque_; and he remembered that the

_Ville de Dunkerque_ had been sunk at the beginning of the

upheaval--the boat had not suffered much damage and her hull was

barely heeling over to starboard. The deck was empty between the

funnels and the poop. They were passing the hatch of a companion-way

when Antonio said:

"That's Rolleston's lair."

"If so, let's go down," said Simon, who was quivering with

impatience.

"Not yet; there are five or six accomplices in the gangway, besides

the two women guarding Lord Bakefield and his daughter. Come on."

A little farther, they stopped in front of a large tarpaulin, still

soaked with water, which covered one of those frames on which the

passengers' bags and trunks are stacked. He lifted the tarpaulin and

slipped under it, beckoning to Simon to lie down beside him.

"Look," he said.

The frame contained a skylight protected by stout bars, through which

they saw down into the long gangway skirting the cabins immediately

below the deck. In this gangway a man was seated with two women beside

him. When Simon's eyes had become accustomed to the semidarkness which

showed objects somewhat vaguely, he distinguished the man's features

and recognized Lord Bakefield, bound to a chair and guarded by the two

viragoes whom Rolleston had placed in charge of Isabel. One of these

women held in her heavy hand, which pressed on Lord Bakefield's

throat, the two ends of a cord passed round his neck. It was clear

that a sudden twist of this hand would be enough to strangle the

unfortunate nobleman in the space of a few seconds.

CHAPTER VII

THE FIGHT FOR THE GOLD

"Silence!" whispered Antonio, who divined Simon's feeling of revolt.

"Why?" asked Simon. "They can't hear."

"They can. Most of the panes are missing."

Simon continued, in the same low tone:

"But where's Miss Bakefield?"

"This morning I saw her, from here, on that other chair, bound like

her father."

"And now?"

"I don't know. But I suppose Rolleston has taken her into his cabin."

"Where's that?"

"He's occupying three or four, those over there."

"Oh," gasped Simon, "it's horrible! And there's no other way out?"

"None."

"Still, we can't. . . ."

"The least sound would be Miss Bakefield's undoing," Antonio declared.

"But why?"

"I am sure of it. . . . All this is thought out. . . . That threat of

death to her father; it's blackmail. Besides. . . ."

One of the women moved to a cabin door, listened and returned,

sniggering:

"The chit's defending herself. The chief will have to employ strong

measures. You're resolved to go through with it, are you?"

"Of course!" said the other, nodding in the direction of her hand.

"Twenty quid extra for each of us: it's worth it! On the word of

command, pop! And there you are!"

The old man's face remained impassive. His eyes were closed; he

appeared to be asleep. Simon was distracted:

"Did you hear? Isabel and Rolleston: she's struggling with him. . . ."

"Miss Bakefield will hold out. The sentence of death has not been

issued," said Antonio.

One of the men keeping watch at the entrance to the gangway now came

along on his rounds, walking slowly and listening. Antonio recognized

him:

"He's one of the original accomplices. Rolleston had all his Hastings

stalwarts with him."

The man shook his head:

"Rolleston is wrong. A leader doesn't concern himself like that with

trifles."

"He's in love with the girl."

"A funny way of being in love! . . . He has been persecuting her now

for four days."

"Why does she refuse him? To begin with she's his wife. She said yes

just now."

"She said yes because, ever since this morning, some one has been

squeezing dear papa's throat."

"Well, she'll say yes presently so that it shan't be squeezed a little

tighter."

The man bent down:

"How's the old chap doing?"

"Impossible to say!" growled the woman, who held the cord. "He told

his daughter not to give in, said that he'd rather die. Since then,

you'd think he's sleeping. It's two days since he had anything to

eat."

"All this sort of thing," retorted the sentry, moving off, "isn't

business. Rolleston ought to be on deck. Suppose something happened,

suppose we were to be attacked, suppose the enclosure was invaded!"

"In that case, I've got orders to finish the old man off."

"That wouldn't make us come out on top."

A short time elapsed. The two women talked in very low tones. At

moments Simon seemed to hear raised voices from the cabin:

"Listen," he said. "That's Rolleston, isn't it?"

"Yes," said the Indian.

"We must do something, we must do something," said Simon.

The door of the cabin was flung open violently. Rolleston appeared. He

shouted angrily to the women:

"Are you ready? Count three minutes. In three minutes strangle him,"

and, turning round, "You understand, Isabel? Three minutes. Make up

your mind, my girl."

He slammed the door behind him.

Quick as thought, Simon had seized Antonio's rifle, but, hampered by

the bars, he was unable to take aim before the villain had closed the

door.

"You will spoil everything!" said Antonio, crawling from under the

tarpaulin and wresting the rifle from him.

Simon, in turn, stood up, with distorted features:

"Three minutes! Oh, poor girl, poor girl!"

Antonio tried to restrain him:

"Let's think of something. There must be a porthole in the cabin."

"Too late. She will have killed herself by then. We must act at once."

He reflected for a moment, then suddenly began to run along the deck

and, reaching the hatch of the companion-way, jumped to the bottom.

The gangway began with a wider landing where the sentry sat playing

cards and drinking.

They rose. One of them commanded:

"Halt! No passage here!"

"All hands on deck! Every man to his post," shouted Simon, repeating

Rolleston's words. "At the double! And no quarter! The gold! The rain

of gold has started again!"

The men leapt to their feet and made off up the companion. Simon

darted down the gangway, ran into one of the two women, whom his

shouts had attracted, and flung the same words at her:

"The gold! The rain of gold! Where's the chief?"

"In his cabin," she replied. "Tell him!"

And she made off in her turn.

The other woman, who held the cord, hesitated. Simon felled her with a

blow on the point of the chin. Then, without troubling about Lord

Bakefield, he rushed to the cabin. At that moment, Rolleston opened

the door, shouting:

"What's up? The gold?"

Simon laid hold of the door to prevent his closing it and saw Isabel,

at the back of the cabin, alive.

"Who are you?" asked the villain, uneasily.

"Simon Dubosc."

There was a pause, a respite before the struggle which Simon believed

inevitable. But Rolleston fell back, with haggard eyes:

"M. Dubosc? . . . M. Dubosc? . . . The one who was killed just now?"

"The same," said a voice in the gangway. "And it was I who killed him,

I, Antonio, the friend of Badiarinos whom you murdered."

"Ah!" groaned Rolleston, collapsing. "I'm done for!"

He was paralysed by his drunkenness, by his state of stupor and even

more obviously by his natural cowardice. Without offering the least

resistance, he allowed himself to be knocked down and disarmed by

Antonio, while Simon and Isabel rushed into each other's arms.

"My father?" murmured the girl.

"He's alive. Don't be afraid."

Together they went to release him. The old lord was at the end of his

forces. It was all that he could do to kiss his daughter and press

Simon's hand. Isabel too was on the verge of swooning; shaken with a

nervous tremor, she fell into Simon's arms, faltering:

"Oh, Simon, you were just in time. I should have killed myself! . . .

Oh, what degradation! . . . How shall I ever forget?"

Great as was her distress, she had nevertheless the strength to check

Antonio's hand when he raised it to stab Rolleston:

"No, please don't. . . . Simon, you agree, don't you. We haven't the

right. . . ."

Antonio protested:

"You're wrong, Miss. A monster like that has to be got rid of."

"Please! . . ."

"As you will. But I shall get him again. We have an account to settle,

he and I. M. Dubosc, lend me a hand to tie him up!"

The Indian lost no time. Knowing the ruse which Simon had employed to

remove the guards, he expected them to return at any moment, no doubt

escorted by their comrades. He therefore shoved Rolleston to the other

end of the corridor and bundled him into a dark cupboard.

"Like that," he said, "his accomplices won't find their chief and will

look for him outside."

He also bound and locked up the big woman, who was beginning to

recover from her torpor. Then, despite the exhausted condition of Lord

Bakefield and his daughter, he led them to the companion.

Simon had to carry Isabel. When he reached the deck of the _Ville de

Dunkerque_, he was astounded to hear the rattling sounds and to see

the great sheaf of pebbles and water spurting towards the sky. By a

lucky coincidence, the phenomenon had occurred just as he announced it

and caused an excitement by which he had time to profit. Isabel and

Lord Bakefield were laid under the tarpaulin, that part of the wreck

being deserted. Then Antonio and Simon went to the companion in quest

of news. A band of ruffians came pouring down it, shouting:

"The chief! Where's Rolleston?"

Several of them questioned Antonio, who pretended to be equally at a

loss:

"Rolleston? I've been hunting for him everywhere. I expect he's at the

barricades."

The ruffians streamed back again, scampering up on deck. At the foot

of the platform they held a conference, after which some ran towards

the enclosing fence, while others, following Rolleston's example,

shouted:

"Every man to his post! No quarter! Shoot, can't you, down there?"

"What's happening?" whispered Simon.

"They're wavering," said Antonio, "and giving way. Look beyond the

enclosure. The crowd is attacking at several points."

"But they're firing on it."

"Yes, but in disorder, at random. Rolleston's absence is already

making itself felt. He was a leader, he was. You should have seen him

organize his two or three hundred recruits in a few hours and place

each man where he was best suited! He didn't only rule by terror."

The eruption did not last long and Simon had an impression that the

rain of gold was less abundant. But it exercised no less attraction

upon those whose work it was to collect it and upon others who, no

longer encouraged by their leader's voice, were abandoning the

barricades.

"Look," said Antonio. "The attacks are becoming fiercer. The enemy

feels that the besieged are losing hold."

The slope was invaded from every side; and small bodies of men pushed

forward, more numerous and bolder as the firing became less intense.

The machine-gun, whether abandoned or destroyed, was no longer in

action. The chief's accomplices, who had stood in front of the

platform, finding themselves unable to enforce their authority and

restore discipline, leapt into the arena and ran to the trenches. They

were the most resolute of the defenders. The assailants hesitated.

So, for two hours, fortunes of the fight swayed to and fro. When night

fell, the battle was still undecided.

Simon and Antonio, seeing the wreck deserted, collected the necessary

arms and provisions. They intended to prepare for flight at midnight,

if circumstances permitted. Antonio went off to reconnoitre, while

Simon watched over the repose of his two patients.

Lord Bakefield, although fit to travel, was still badly pulled down

and slept, though his sleep was disturbed by nightmares. But Simon's

presence restored to Isabel all her energy, all her vitality. Sitting

side by side, holding each other's hands, they told the story of those

tragic days; and Isabel spoke of all that she had suffered, of

Rolleston's cruelty, of his coarse attentions to her, of the constant

threat of death which he held over Lord Bakefield if she refused to

yield, of the nightly orgies in camp, the bloodshed, the tortures, the

cries of the dying and the laughter of Rolleston's companions. . . .

She shuddered at certain recollections, nestling against Simon as

though she feared to find herself once more alone. All around them was

the flash of fire-arms and the rattle of shots which seemed to be

coming nearer. A din at once confused and terrific, made up of a

hundred separate combats, death-struggles and victories, hovered above

the dark plain, over which, however, a pale light appeared to be

spreading.

Antonio returned in an hour's time and declared that flight was

impossible:

"Half the trenches," he said, "are in the hands of the assailants, who

have even penetrated into the enclosure. And they won't let any one

pass, any more than the besieged will."

"Why?"

"They're afraid of gold being taken away. It seems that there's a sort

of discipline among them and that they're obeying leaders whose object

is to capture from the besieged the enormous booty which they have

accumulated. And, as the assailants are ten or even twenty to one, we

must expect a wholesale massacre!"

The night was full of tumult. Simon observed that the dense layer of

clouds was breaking up in places and that gleams of light were falling

from the starry sky. They could see figures darting across the arena.

Two men first, then a number of others boarded the _Ville de

Dunkerque_ and went down the nearest companion way.

"Rolleston's accomplices returning," murmured Antonio.

"What for? Are they looking for Rolleston?"

"No, they think he's dead. But there are the bags, the bags filled

with coin, and they are all going to fill their pockets."

"The gold is there, then?"

"In the cabins. Rolleston's share on one side; his accomplices on the

other."

Below deck quarrels were beginning, followed almost immediately by a

general affray, which was punctuated by yells and moans. One by one

the victors emerged from the companion way. But shadows crept down it

all night long; and the newcomers were heard searching and destroying.

"They'll find Rolleston in the end," said Simon.

"I don't care if they do," said Antonio, with a grin which Simon was

to remember thereafter.

The Indian was getting together their arms and ammunition. A little

before daybreak, he awoke Lord Bakefield and his daughter and gave

them rifles and revolvers. The final assault would not be long

delayed; and he calculated that the _Ville de Dunkerque_ would be the

immediate objective of the assailants and that it would be better not

to linger there.

The little party therefore set out when the first pale gleams of dawn

showed in the sky. They had not set foot on the sand of the arena

before the signal for the attack was given by a powerful voice which

sounded from the bulk of the submarine; and it so happened that, at

the very moment when the final offensive was launched, when the

besieged, better armed than the attackers, were taking measures of

defense which were also better organized, the roar of the eruption

rent the air with its thousand explosions.

Then and there, the enemy's onslaught became more furious, and the

besieged began to retreat, as Simon and Antonio perceived from the

disorderly rush of men falling back like trapped animals, seeking

cover behind which to defend themselves or hide.

In the middle of the arena, the scorching rain and the showers of

falling pebbles created a circular empty space; nevertheless, some of

the more desperate assailants were bold enough to venture into it and

Simon had a fleeting vision in which he seemed to see--but was it

possible?--Old Sandstone running this way and that under a strange

umbrella made of a round sheet of metal with the edge turned down.

The mob of invaders was growing denser. They collided with groups of

men and women, brandishing sticks, old swords, scythes, hill-hooks and

axes, who fell upon the fugitives. Simon and Antonio were twice

obliged to take part in the fighting.

"The position is serious," said Simon, taking Isabel aside. "We must

risk all for all and try to find a way through. Kiss me, Isabel, as

you did on the day of the shipwreck."

She gave him her lips, saying:

"I have absolute faith in you, Simon."

After many efforts and two brushes with some ruffians who tried to

stop them, they reached the line of the barricades and crossed it

without hindrance. But in the open space outside they met fresh waves

of marauders breaking furiously against the defences, including

parties of men who seemed to be running away, rather than pursuing a

quarry. It was as though they themselves were threatened by some great

danger. Fierce and murderous for all that, they plundered the dead and

wildly attacked the living.

"Look out!" cried Simon.

It was a band of thirty or forty street-boys and hooligans, among whom

he recognized two of the tramps who had pursued him. At sight of

Simon, they egged on the gang under their command. By some ill chance

Antonio slipped and fell. Lord Bakefield was knocked down. Simon and

Isabel, caught in an eddy, felt that they were being stifled by a

mass of bodies whirling about them. Simon, however, succeeded in

seizing hold of her and levelling his revolver. He fired three times

in succession. Isabel did likewise. Two men dropped. There was a

moment's hesitation; then a new onslaught separated the lovers.

"Simon, Simon!" cried the terrified girl.

One of the tramps roared:

"The girl! Carry her off! She'll fetch her weight in gold!"

Simon tried to reach her. Twenty hands opposed his desperate efforts;

and, while defending himself, he saw Isabel pushed towards the

barricades by the two tramps. She stumbled and fell. They were trying

to raise her when suddenly two shots rang out and both fell headlong.

"Simon! Antonio!" cried a voice.

Through the fray Simon saw Dolores, sitting erect on a horse all

covered with foam. Her rifle was levelled and she was firing. Three of

the nearest aggressors were struck. Simon contrived to break away, run

to Isabel and join Dolores, to whom Antonio at the same time was

bringing Lord Bakefield.

Thus the four were together again, but each was followed by the

rabble of persistent marauders, and these were reinforced by dozens of

others, who loomed out of the fog and doubtless imagined that the

stake in such a battle, in which the number of their opponents was so

small, must be the capture of some treasure.

"There are more than a hundred of them," said Antonio. "We are done

for."

"Saved!" cried Dolores, who now ceased firing.

"Why?"

"Yes, we must hold out . . . one minute. . . ."

Dolores' reply was drowned in the uproar. Their assailants came along

with a rush. With their backs against the horse, the little party

faced in all directions, firing, wounding, killing. With his left hand

Simon discharged his revolver, while with his right hand, which

gripped his rifle by the barrel, whirling it to terrible effect, he

held the enemy at a distance.

But how could they resist the torrent, continually renewed, that

rushed upon them. They were submerged. Old Lord Bakefield was struck

senseless with a stick; and one of Antonio's arms was paralysed by a

blow from a stone. Any further resistance was out of the question. The

hideous moment had come when people fall, when their flesh is

trampled underfoot and torn asunder by the enemy's claws.

"Isabel!" murmured Simon, crushing her passionately in his arms.

They dropped to their knees together. The beasts of prey fell upon

them, covering them with darkness.

A bugle sounded some distance away, scattering its lively notes upon

the air. Another call rang out in reply. It was a French bugle

sounding the charge.

A great silence, heavy with fear, petrified the hoardes of pillagers.

Simon, who was losing consciousness, felt that the weight above him

was lightened. Some of the beasts of prey were taking flight.

He half-raised himself, while supporting Isabel, and the first thing

that struck him was Antonio's attitude. The Indian, with drawn face,

was gazing at Dolores. Slowly and steadily he took a few steps towards

her, like a cat creeping up to its prey, and suddenly, before Simon

could intervene, he leapt on the crupper behind her, passed his arms

under hers and dug his heels into the horse, which broke into a

gallop along the barricades, towards the north.

From the opposite direction, through the mist, appeared the sky-blue

uniforms of France.

CHAPTER VIII

THE HIGH COMMISSIONER FOR THE NEW TERRITORIES

"My fault! . . . Now aren't you convinced, as I am, that this is a

ramification of my fault, ending in a _cul-de-sac_? So that all the

eruptive forces immobilized in the direction of this blind alley have

found a favourable position . . . so that all these forces . . . you

grasp the idea, don't you?"

Simon grasped it all the less inasmuch as Old Sandstone was becoming

more and more entangled in his theory, while he, Simon, was wholly

absorbed in Isabel and had ears for hardly anything but what she was

telling him.

They were all three a little way outside the barricades, among the

groups of tents around which the soldiers, in overalls, and

fatigue-caps, were moving to and fro and preparing their meals.

Isabel's face was already more peaceful and her eyes less uneasy.

Simon gazed at her with infinite tenderness. In the course of the

morning the fog had at last dispersed. For the first time since the

day when they had travelled together on the deck of the _Queen Mary_,

the sun shone in a cloudless sky; and one might almost have thought

that nothing had occurred between that day and this to divide them.

All evil memories faded away. Isabel's torn dress, her pallor and her

bruised wrists were the reminder merely of an adventure already

remote, since the glorious future was opening out before them.

Inside the barricades, a few soldiers scurried round the arena,

stacking the dead bodies, while others, farther back, stationed on the

wreck of the _Ville de Dunkerque_, removed the sinister shapes hanging

from their gibbets. Near the submarine, in an enclosed space guarded

by many sentries, some dozens of prisoners were herded and were joined

at every moment by fresh batches of captives.

"Of course," resumed Old Sandstone, "there are many other obscure

points; but I shall not leave this until I have studied all the causes

of the phenomenon."

"And I," said Simon, laughing, "should very much like to know how you

managed to get here."

This was a question which possessed little interest for Old Sandstone,

who replied, vaguely:

"How do I know! I followed a crowd of good people. . . ."

"Good looters and murderers!"

"Oh, do you think so? Yes, it may be . . . it seemed to me, sometimes.

. . . But I was so absorbed! So many observations to make! Besides, I

was not alone . . . at least, on the last day."

"Really? Who was with you?"

"Dolores. We made the whole of the last stage together; and it was she

who brought me here. She left me when we came in sight of the

barricades. For that matter, it was impossible to enter this enclosure

and examine the phenomena more closely. Directly I went forward,

pom-pom went the machine-gun! At last, suddenly, the crowd burst the

dike. But what puzzles me now is that these eruptions seem already to

be decreasing in violence, so that we can foresee the end of them very

shortly. True, on the other hand. . . ."

But Simon was not listening. He had caught sight, in the arena, of the

captain commanding the detachment, with whom he had not been able to

exchange more than a few words that morning, as the officer had at

once gone in pursuit of the fugitives. Simon led Isabel to the tent,

set aside for her, in which Lord Bakefield was resting, and joined the

captain, who cried:

"We are straightening things out, M. Dubosc. I've sent a few squads

north; and all these bands of cut-throats will fall into my hands or

into those of the English troops, who, I'm told, have arrived. But

what savages! And how glad I am that I came in time!"

Simon thanked him in the name of Lord Bakefield and his daughter.

"It's not I whom you should thank," he replied, "but that strange

woman, whom I know only by the name of Dolores, and who brought me

here."

The captain related how he had been operating since three o'clock in

the out-posts of Boulogne, where he was garrisoned, when he received

from the newly-appointed military governor an order instructing him to

move towards Hastings, to take possession of the country as far as

mid-way between the two coasts and to put down all excesses

ruthlessly.

"Well, this morning," he said, "when we were patrolling two or three

miles from there, I saw the woman ride up at a gallop. She told me in

a few words what was happening inside these barricades, which she had

not been able to pass, but behind which Simon Dubosc was in danger.

Having succeeded in catching a horse, she had come to beg me to go to

your assistance. You can imagine how quickly I marched in the

direction she gave me, as soon as I heard the name of Simon Dubosc.

And you will understand also why, when I saw that she in her turn was

in danger, I rushed in pursuit of the man who was carrying her off."

"What then, captain?"

"Well, she returned, quite quietly, all alone on her horse. She had

thrown the Indian, whom my men picked up in the neighbourhood, rather

the worse for his fall. He says he knows you."

Simon briefly related the part which Antonio had played in the

tragedy.

"Good!" cried the officer. "The mystery is clearing up!"

"What mystery, captain?"

"Oh, something quite in keeping with all the horrors that have been

committed!"

He drew Simon to the wreck and down, the companion-ladder.

The wide gangway was littered with empty bags and baskets. All the

gold had disappeared. The doors of the cabins occupied by Rolleston

had been demolished. But, outside the last of these cabins and a

little before the cupboard into which Antonio had locked Rolleston on

the previous evening, Simon, by the light of an electric torch

switched on by the officer, saw a man's body hanging from the ceiling.

The knees had been bent back and fastened to keep the feet from

touching the floor.

"There's the wretched Rolleston," said the captain. "Obviously he has

got no more than his deserts. But, all the same. . . . Look closely.

. . ."

He threw the rays of the lamp over the upper part of the victim's

body. The face, covered with black clotted blood, was unrecognizable.

The drooping head displayed the most hideous wound: the skull was

stripped of its skin and hair.

"It was Antonio who did that," said Simon, remembering the Indian's

smile when he, Simon, had expressed the fear that the ruffians might

succeed in finding and releasing their chief. "After the fashion of

his ancestors, he has scalped the man whom he wished to punish. I

tell you, we're living in the midst of savagery."

A few minutes later, on leaving the wreck, they saw Antonio who was

talking to Dolores near the spot where the submarine strengthened the

former line of defence. Dolores was holding her horse by the bridle.

The Indian was making gestures and seemed to be greatly excited.

"She's going away," said the officer. "I've signed a safe-conduct for

her."

Simon crossed the arena and went up to her:

"You're going, Dolores?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Where my horse chooses to take me . . . and as far as he can carry

me."

"Won't you wait a few minutes?"

"No."

"I should have liked to thank you. . . . So would Miss Bakefield.

. . ."

"Miss Bakefield has my best wishes!"

She mounted. Antonio snatched at the bridle, as though determined to

detain her, and began to speak to her in a choking voice and in a

language which Simon did not understand.

She did not move. Her beautiful, austere face did not change. She

waited, with her eyes on the horizon, until the Indian, discouraged,

released the bridle. Then she rode away. Not once had her eyes met

Simon's.

She rode away, mysterious and secretive to the last. Simon's refusal,

his conduct during the night which they had passed in the prehistoric

dwelling must have humiliated her profoundly; and the best proof was

this departure without farewell. But, on the other hand, what miracles

of dogged heroism she must have wrought to cross this sinister region

by herself and to save not only the man who had spurned her but the

woman whom that man loved above all things in this world!

A hand rested on Simon's shoulder:

"You, Isabel!" he said.

"Yes. . . . I was over there, a little farther on. . . . I saw Dolores

go."

The girl seemed to hesitate. At length, she murmured, watching him

attentively:

"You didn't tell me she was so strikingly beautiful, Simon."

He felt slightly embarrassed. Looking her straight in the eyes, he

replied:

"I had no occasion to tell you, Isabel."

At five o'clock that afternoon, the French and British troops being

now in touch, it was decided that Lord Bakefield and his daughter

should make part of an English convoy which was returning to Hastings

and which had a motor-ambulance at its disposal. Simon took leave of

them, after asking Lord Bakefield's permission to call on him at an

early date.

Simon considered that his mission was not yet completed in these days

of confusion. Indeed, before the afternoon was over, an aeroplane

alighted in sight of the camp and the captain was asked to send

immediately reinforcements, as a conflict appeared inevitable between

the French and a British detachment, both of which had planted their

colours on a ridge overlooking the whole country. Simon did not

hesitate for a moment. He took his place between the two airmen.

It is needless to describe in all its details the part which he played

in this incident, which might have had deplorable results: the way in

which he threw himself between the adversaries, his entreaties, his

threats and, at last, the order to withdraw which he gave to the

French with such authority and such persuasive force. All this is

history; and it is enough to recall the words uttered two days later

by the British prime minister in the House of Commons:

"I have to thank M. Simon Dubosc. But for him, there would have been a

stain upon our country's honour; French blood would have been shed by

English hands. M. Simon Dubosc, the wonderful man who crossed what was

once the Channel at one stride, understood that it would be necessary,

at least for a few hours, to exercise a little patience towards a

great nation which for so many centuries has been accustomed to feel

that it was protected by the seas and which suddenly found itself

disarmed, defenceless, deprived of its natural ramparts. Let us not

forget that Germany, that very morning, with her customary effrontery,

offered France an alliance and proposed the immediate invasion of

Great Britain by the whole of the united forces of the two countries.

_Britannia delenda est!_ Mr. Speaker, it was Simon Dubosc who gave the

reply, by achieving the miracle of a French retreat! All honour to

Simon Dubosc!"

France at once recognized Simon's action by appointing the young man

high commissioner for the new French territories. For four days longer

he was ubiquitous, flying over the province which he had conquered,

restoring order, enforcing harmony, discipline and security. Pursued

and captured, all the bands of pillagers and spoilers were duly

brought to trial. Aeroplanes sailed the heavens. Provision-lorries ran

in all directions, assuring travellers the means of transport. Chaos

was becoming organized.

At last one day, Simon called at Lord Bakefield's country-house near

Battle. Here too tranquillity had returned. The servants had resumed

their duties. Only a few cracks in the walls, a few gaps in the lawns

reminded them of the hours of terror.

Lord Bakefield, who appeared to be in excellent health, received Simon

in the library and gave him the same cordial welcome as on the

Brighton golf-links:

"Well, young man, where do we stand now?"

"On the twentieth day after my request for your daughter's hand," said

Simon, smiling, "and as you gave me twenty days in which to perform a

certain number of exploits, I come to ask you, on the appointed date,

whether I have, in your opinion, fulfilled the conditions settled

between us."

Lord Bakefield offered him a cigar and handed him a light.

He made no further reply. Simon's exploits and his rescue of Lord

Bakefield when at the point of death, these obviously were interesting

things, deserving the reward of a good cigar, with Isabel's hand

perhaps thrown into the bargain. But it was asking too much to expect

thanks as well and praise and endless effusions. Lord Bakefield

remained Lord Bakefield and Simon Dubosc a nobody.

"Well, see you later, young man . . . Oh, by the way! I have had the

marriage annulled which that reptile Rolleston forced upon Isabel.

. . . The marriage wasn't valid of course; but I've done what was

necessary just as though it had been. Isabel will tell you all about

it. You'll find her in the park."

She was not in the park. She had heard that Simon had called and was

waiting for him on the terrace.

He told her of his interview with Lord Bakefield.

"Yes," she said, "my father accepts the position. He considers that

you have satisfied the ordeal."

"And you, Isabel?"

She smiled:

"I have no right to be more difficult than my father. But remember

that there were not only his conditions: there was one added by

myself."

"Which condition was that, Isabel?"

"Have you forgotten? . . . On the deck of the _Queen Mary_?"

"Then, Isabel, you doubt me?"

She took both his hands and said:

"Simon, it sometimes makes me rather sad to think that in this great

adventure it was not I but another who was your companion in danger,

the one whom you defended and who protected you."

He shook his head:

"No, Isabel, I never had but one companion, you, Isabel, and you

alone. You were my only aim and my only thought, my one hope and my

one desire."

After a moment's reflection, she said:

"I talked of her a good deal with Antonio, on the way home. Do you

know, Simon, that girl is not only very beautiful, but capable of the

noblest, loftiest feelings? I know nothing of her past; according to

Antonio, it had its unsettled moments. But since then . . . since

then . . . in spite of her present mode of life, in spite of all the

admiration which she attracts, she leads an existence apart. You alone

have really stirred her feelings. For you, from what I can see for

myself and from what Antonio told me--and he, after all, is only a

rejected and embittered lover--for you Dolores would have laid down

her life and that from the first day. Did you know that, Simon?"

He was silent.

"You are right," she said. "You can't answer. However, there is one

point, Simon, on which I ask you to tell me the absolute truth. I can

look you straight in the face, can I not? There is not in the depths

of your being a single memory that comes between us? . . . Not a

weakness? . . . Not a disloyal thought?"

He pressed her to him and, with his lips on hers, said:

"There's you, Isabel, and you alone: you in the past and you in the

future."

"I believe you, Simon," she declared.

The wedding took place a month later; and they went to live in the

wreck of the _Ville de Dunkerque_, the official residence of the

French high commissioner of the new territories.

It was here that the draft agreement was signed, in accordance with

Simon Dubosc's proposal and his preliminary investigations, for the

great canal which was to bisect the Isthmus of Normandy, allotting to

each country, right and left, an almost equal portion of land.

Here too was signed the solemn covenant by which Great Britain and

France declared eternal friendship and laid the foundations of the

United States of Europe.

And it was here that four children were born to Isabel and Simon.

In after years, Simon often went on horseback or by aeroplane,

accompanied by his wife, to visit his friend Edward Rolleston. When he

had recovered from his wounds, Rolleston set to work and became the

manager of a large fishing-industry on the new English coast, in which

he employed Antonio. Rolleston married. The Indian lived alone for a

long time, waiting for her who never came and of whom no one ever

spoke. But one day he received a letter and went away. Some months

later, he wrote from Mexico announcing his marriage to Dolores.

But Isabel and Simon's favourite walk led them to Old Sandstone's

house. He lived in a little bungalow, close to the prehistoric

dwelling by the lake, where he pursued his researches into the new

land. The showers of gold, now exhausted, no longer interested him;

moreover, the problem had been solved. But what an indecipherable

riddle was this building, standing on a site of the Eocene period!

"There were apes in those days," Old Sandstone declared. "There's no

doubt of that. But men! And men capable of building, of ornamenting

their dwellings of carving stone! No, I confess this is a phenomenon

which unsettles all one's ideas. What do you make of it, Simon?"

Simon made no reply. A boat was rocking on the lake. He took his place

in it with Isabel and rowed with a care-free mind; nor did Dolores'

image ever rise from this limpid water, in which she had bathed on a

certain voluptuous evening. Simon was the husband of one alone and

this was the woman whom he had won.

THE END

* * * * *

Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors present in the

original edition have been corrected.

In Part I, the following corrections were made.

In Chapter I, "To day another ship" was changed to "To-day another

ship", "more so to-morow" was changed to "more so to-morrow", and

"Quite badly" was changed to "Quite baldly".

In Chapter II, a comma was added after "the Comte de Bauge's

_Castor_", and a comma was changed to a period before "It's here".

In Chapter IV, "reconqueror the lost ground" was changed to "reconquer

the lost ground".

In Chapter VIII, a missing period was added after "a sound of voices",

"foot-prints of the rubber soles" was changed to "footprints of the

rubber soles", and a missing period was added after "I don't know".

In Part II, the following corrections were made.

In Chapter I, "Eocence and Pliocene" was changed to "Eocene and

Pliocene", "precipitious sides" was changed to "precipitous sides",

and "out or reach" was changed to "out of reach".

In Chapter II, "Le Harve and Southampton" was changed to "Le Havre and

Southampton", missing quotation marks were added before "and our

horses perhaps won't last" and "I've just come from there",

"indispensible words" was changed to "indispensable words", missing

periods were added after "flew off at a gallop", "barring their

progress", and "propounded by the exceptional circumstances", and

"proof of my loyality" was changed to "proof of my loyalty".

In Chapter III, "some where ahead" was changed to "somewhere ahead",

"split on the sloping shore" was changed to "spilt on the sloping

shore", and "the firing, would have told them" was changed to "the

firing would have told them".

In Chapter IV, "took air and fired" was changed to "took aim and

fired", and a quotation mark was removed after "Where is it?".

In Chapter VI, "he perferred to draw" was changed to "he preferred to

draw", and "passing the hatch of a compion-way" was changed to

"passing the hatch of a companion-way".

In Chapter VII, "One, of the women moved to a cabin door listened and

returned" was changed to "One of the women moved to a cabin door,

listened and returned", "you'd thinking he's sleeping" was changed to

"you'd think he's sleeping", "The gangay began" was changed to "The

gangway began", a period was changed to a comma after "Every man to

his post", "The assailants hesistated" was changed to "The assailants

hesitated", a quotation mark was removed after "the laughter of

Rolleston's companions....", "then enemy's onslaught" was changed to

"the enemy's onslaught", and "losing unconsciousness" was changed to

"losing consciousness".

In Chapter VIII, a missing period was added after "was

unrecognizable", "by which Great Britian and France" was changed to

"by which Great Britain and France", "fishing-inindustry" was changed

to "fishing-industry", and "Eccene period" was changed to "Eocene

period".