stuff that’s in us. Are ye ready for the stroke, boys?” A groan of
pain interrupted the trapper. The oars of Charley were trailing—his
strength had given out and his nose was bleeding profusely. “Never mind,”
whispered the trapper to Fred, “you must win this race if your whole
family dies—all right, long and quick now.” The young man obeyed. He
threw the full force of his strength on the oars. The sudden vigor was
too much for the wood; there was a crash and the guide was thrown on
his side. The trapper was now thoroughly aroused. The boats were within
a hundred yards of the home-line and the Lad was fully fifteen astern.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, but through it a voice arose: “John
Norton, now is your time, pull.”
The old man gathered himself for a supreme effort, and then occurred a
catastrophe so overwhelming that it hushed the roar of the crowd. He
had torn the rowlocks from the gunnels. For a moment there was silence;
even the professionals intermitted a stroke; but the Lad turned his
face ahead. The old man arose and stood erect in the boat. He shook the
heavy oars in the air as if they had been reeds and shouted in a voice
that sounded awful in its intensity: “Now, Lad, row for the sake of John
Norton, and save his gray hairs from shame. Pull with every ounce of
strength the Almighty has given you, or the honor of the woods is gone.”
It was worth a thousand miles of travel and a year of life to see what
happened. The Lad suddenly sat erect and his stroke lengthened to the
full reach of oar and arm. His boat seemed to spring into the air, it
flew on the top of the water, and, as it passed the trapper, he shouted
wildly, “Go it, Lad, go it, Lad, the honor of the woods be on ye! Give it
to ’em, give it to ’em, ye’ll beat ’em yit, sure as judgment day.”
Except his voice, not a sound was heard. Men clutched their fists till
the nails cut the skin of their palms. One of the professionals fainted
unnoticed, another threw up his oars, crazed by the excitement, while the
third pulled in grim desperation; but he pulled in vain, for the Lad’s
boat caught him within fifty feet of the line and shot across it half a
length to the front. And then there arose such a shout as had not been
heard that day. “Three cheers for the Lad, three cheers for the Lad,”—and
the honor of the woods was saved.
TRAVERS’ FIRST HUNT
BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
Young Travers, who had been engaged to a girl down on Long Island for the
last three months, only met her father and brother a few weeks before the
day set for the wedding.
The brother was a master of hounds near South Hampton; the father and son
talked horse all day and until one o’clock in the morning, for they owned
fast thoroughbreds, and entered them at Sheepshead Bay, and other race
tracks.
Old Mr. Paddock, the father of the girl, had often said that when a young
man asked for his daughter’s hand, he would ask him in return, not if
he _lived_ straight, but if he could _ride_ straight; and that on his
answering in the affirmative, depended her parent’s consent.
Travers had met Miss Paddock and her mother in Europe. He was invited to
their place in the fall when the hunting season opened, and had spent the
evening most pleasantly and satisfactorily with his fiancée in the corner
of the drawing-room. But as soon as the women had gone, young Paddock
joined him and said: “You ride, of course?”
Travers had never ridden, but had been prompted what to answer by Miss
Paddock, and so said there was nothing he liked better. As he expressed
it, he would rather ride than sleep.
“That’s good!” said Paddock. “I’ll give you a mount on Satan to-morrow
morning at the meet. He is a bit nasty at the start of the season, and
ever since he killed Wallis, the second groom, last year, none of us care
much to ride him; but you can manage him, no _doubt_. He’ll just carry
your weight.”
Mr. Travers dreamed that night of taking large, desperate leaps into
space on a wild horse that snorted forth flames, and that rose at solid
stone walls as though they were hay-racks. He was tempted to say he was
ill in the morning, which was, considering the state of his mind, more or
less true, but concluded as he would have to ride sooner or later during
his visit, and if he died breaking his neck, it would be in a good cause,
he determined to do his best.
He didn’t want to ride at all for two excellent reasons: First, because
he wanted to live for Miss Paddock’s sake, and second, because he wanted
to live for his own sake.
The next morning was a most forbidding and doleful looking morning, and
young Travers had great hopes that the meet would be declared off, but
just as he lay in doubts the servant knocked at his door with his riding
things and his hot water.
He came down-stairs looking very miserable indeed. Satan had been taken
to the place where they were to meet, and Travers viewed him on his
arrival there with a sickening sense of fear as he saw him pulling three
grooms off their feet.
Travers decided that he would stay with his feet on solid earth just as
long as he could, and when the hounds were thrown off and the rest had
started at a gallop, he waited, under pretense of adjusting his gaiters,
until they were well away. Then he clenched his teeth, crammed his hat
down over his ears, and scrambled up on the saddle. His feet fell _quite_
by _accident_ into the stirrups, and the next moment he was off after the
others, with an indistinct feeling that he was on a locomotive that was
jumping the ties.
Satan was in among and had passed the other horses in less than five
minutes, and was so near the hounds that the whippers-in gave a cry of
warning. But Travers could just as soon have pulled a boat back that was
going over the Niagara Falls as Satan, and it was only that the hounds
were well ahead that saved them from having Satan run them down.
Travers had to hold to the saddle with his left hand to keep himself from
falling off, and sawed and sawed on the reins with his right. He shut his
eyes whenever Satan jumped, and never knew how he happened to stick on;
but he did stick on, and was so far ahead that in the misty morning no
one could see how badly he rode. As it was for daring and speed he led
the field, and not even young Paddock was near him from the start.
There was a broad stream in front of him—and a hill just on the other
side. No one had ever tried to take this at a jump, it was considered
more of a swim than anything else, and the hunters always crossed it by
the bridge on the left. Travers saw the bridge and tried to jerk Satan’s
head in that direction, but Satan kept right on as straight as an express
train over the prairies. Fences and trees and furrows passed by and under
Travers like a panorama run by electricity, and he only breathed by
accident. They went on at the stream and the hill beyond as though they
were riding on a stretch of turf, and though the whole field sent up a
shout of warning and dismay, Travers could only gasp and shut his eyes.
He remembered the fate of the second groom and shivered.
Then the horse rose like a rocket, lifting Travers so high in the air
that he thought Satan would never come down again, but he did come down
with his feet bunched on the opposite bank.
The next instant he was up and over the hill and stopped, panting, in the
center of the pack that was snarling and snapping around the fox. And
then Travers showed that he was a thorough-bred, even though he could
not ride, for he hastily fumbled for his cigar case, and when the others
came pounding up over the hill, they saw him seated nonchalantly on his
saddle, puffing critically at his cigar and giving Satan patronizing pats
on his head.
“My dear girl,” said old Mr. Paddock to his daughter as they rode back,
“if you love that young man and want to keep him, make him promise to
give up riding. A more reckless and more brilliant horseman I have never
seen; he took that double jump at the gate and at the stream like a
centaur, but he will break his neck sooner or later, and he ought to be
stopped.” Young Paddock was so delighted with his future brother-in-law’s
riding that that night in the smoking room he made him a present of Satan
before all the men.
“No,” said Travers gloomily, “I can’t take him; your sister has asked me
to give up what is dearer to me than anything next to herself, and that
is my riding; you see she is absurdly anxious for my safety, and she has
asked me never to ride again, and I have given my word.”
A chorus of sympathetic remonstrances rose from the men.
“Yes, I know,” said Travers, “but it just shows what sacrifices a man
will make for the woman he loves.”
MARY’S NIGHT RIDE
BY GEORGE W. CABLE
Mary Richling, the heroine of this story, was the wife of John Richling,
a resident of New Orleans. At the breaking out of the Civil War she went
to visit her parents in Milwaukee. About the time of the bombardment of
New Orleans, she received news of the dangerous illness of her husband,
and decided at once to reach his bedside, if possible. Taking with her
her baby daughter, a child of three years, she proceeded southward,
where, after several unsuccessful attempts to secure a pass, she finally
determined to break through the lines.
About the middle of the night Mary Richling was sitting very still and
upright on a large, dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in the
black shadow of a great oak. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose
naked saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the
full moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there
emerged from the shadow of woods on either side and divided into a main
right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary’s left. Off
in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires.
Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness.
She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next
moment a man came out of the bushes on the left and, without a word, took
the bridle of the led horse from her fingers and vaulted into the saddle.
The hand that rested for a moment on the cantle grasped a navy-six. He
was dressed in dull homespun, but he was the same who had been dressed in
blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the lesser road.
“If we’d of gone three hundred yards further, we’d a run into the
pickets. I went nigh enough to see the videts settin’ on their horses
in the main road. This here ain’t no road; it just goes up to a nigger
quarters. I’ve got one of the niggers to show us the way.”
“Where is he?” whispered Mary, but, before her companion could answer, a
tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started
ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a
clear, open forest and followed the long, rapid, swinging strides of the
negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow
stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when
they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his
arms, and directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle with her
skirts gathered carefully under her; so they went down into the cold
stream, the negro first with arms outstretched above the flood, then
Mary and then the white man, or let us say plainly the spy, with the
unawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on the farther
side without a shoe or garment wet, save the rags of their dark guide.
Again they followed him along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the
woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young
cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of housedogs, now
the doleful call of the chuckwill’s widow, and once Mary’s blood turned
for an instant to ice at the unearthly shriek of a hoot-owl just above
her head. At length they found themselves in a dim, narrow road, and the
negro stopped.
“Dess keep dis yer road fo’ ’bout half mile an’ yo’ strike ’pon de broad
main road. Tek de right, an’ you go whar yo’ fancy take you. Good-by,
Miss. Good-by, Boss; don’t yo’ fergit yo’ promise to tek me throo to de
Yankees when you come back. I feered yo’ gwine fergit it, Boss.”
The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half mile was soon
passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length
Mary’s companion looked back as they rode single file with Mary in the
rear, and said softly, “There’s the road.”
As they entered it and turned to the right, Mary, with Alice in her arms,
moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferent horsemanship
having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush. His horse was
just quickening his pace to regain the lost position when a man sprang up
from the ground on the farther side of the highway, snatched a carbine
from the earth and cried, “Halt!”
The dark, recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen enveloped
in their blankets lying about a few red coals. Mary turned a frightened
look backward and met the eye of her companion.
“Move a little faster,” said he, in a low, clear voice. As he did so, she
heard him answer the challenge, as his horse trotted softly after hers.
“Don’t stop us, my friend; we’re taking a sick child to the doctor.”
“Halt, you hound!” the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back three or
four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw also her companion,
his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost an agony, rise in
his stirrups with the stoop of his shoulders all gone, and wildly cry,
“Go!” She smote her horse and flew. Alice woke and screamed.
The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousand
echoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, and
there went close by Mary’s ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the
same moment she recognized—once, twice, thrice—just at her back, where
the hoofs of her companion’s horse were clattering, the tart rejoinders
of his navy six.
“Go! lay low! lay low! cover the child!” But his words were needless.
With head bowed forward and form crouched over the crying, clinging
child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and sunbonnet and
loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, Mary was riding for life and
liberty and her husband’s bedside.
“Go on! go on! They’re saddling up! Go! Go! We’re going to make it!
Go-oo!” And they made it.
PEABODY’S LEAP
A LEGEND OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN
Many are the places, scattered over the face of our beautiful country,
whose wild and picturesque scenery is worthy of the painter’s pencil or
the poet’s pen. Some of them, which were once celebrated for their rich
stores of “legendary lore,” are now only sought to view their natural
scenery, while the traditions which formerly gave them celebrity are
buried in oblivion. Such is the scene of the following adventure—a
romantic glen, bounded on the north side by a high and rocky hill which
stretches itself some distance into Lake Champlain, terminating in a
precipice, some thirty feet in height, and once known by the name of
“Peabody’s Leap.”
At the time of this adventure, Timothy Peabody was the only white man
that lived within fifty miles of the place, and his was the daring
spirit that achieved it. In an attack on one of the frontier settlements
his family had all been massacred by the merciless savages, and he had
sworn that their death should be avenged. The better to accomplish this
dread purpose, he had removed to this solitary place and constructed
the rude shelter in which he dwelt, till the blasts of winter drove him
to the homes of his fellow-men, again to renew the contest when spring
had awakened nature into life and beauty. He was a man who possessed
much rude cunning, combined with a thorough knowledge of Indian habits,
by which he had always been enabled to avoid the snares of his subtle
enemies. Often when they had come with a party to take him, he escaped
their lures, and after destroying his hut, on their return homeward some
of their boldest warriors were picked off by his unerring aim—or, on
arriving at their settlement, they learned that one of their swiftest
hunters had been ambushed by him, and fallen a victim of his deadly
rifle. He had lived in this way for several years, and had so often
baffled them, that they had at last become weary of the pursuit, and, for
some time, had left him unmolested.
About this time, a party of Indians made a descent on one of the small
settlements, and had taken three men prisoners, whom they were carrying
home to sacrifice for the same number of their men that had been shot
by Peabody. It was towards the close of day when they passed his abode;
most of the party in advance of the prisoners, who, with their hands
tied, and escorted by five or six Indians, were almost wearied out by
their long march, and but just able to crawl along. He had observed this
advance guard, and let them pass unmolested, for he suspected there
were prisoners in the rear, and intended to try some “Yankee trick” to
effect their rescue. He accordingly followed on in the trail of the
party, keeping among the thick trees which on either side skirted the
path. He had proceeded but a short distance before he heard the sharp
report of a rifle apparently very near him, and which he knew must be
one of the Indians who had strolled from the main body to procure some
game for their evening meal. From his acquaintance with their habits and
language, he only needed a disguise to enable him to join with the party
if necessary and, aided by the darkness which was fast approaching, with
but little danger of detection. The resolution was quickly formed, and as
quickly put into operation, to kill this Indian and procure his dress.
He had got but a few paces before he discovered his intended victim, who
had just finished loading his rifle. To stand forth and boldly confront
him would give the savage an equal chance, and if Tim proved the best
shot, the party on hearing the report of two rifles at once would be
alarmed and commence a pursuit. The chance was, therefore, two to one
against him, and he was obliged to contrive a way to make the Indian
fire first. Planting himself, then, behind a large tree, he took off his
fox-skin cap, and placing it on the end of his rifle, began to move it
to and fro. The Indian quickly discovered it, and was not at a loss to
recollect the owner by the cap. Knowing how often the white warrior had
eluded them, he determined to despatch him at once, and without giving
him notice of his dangerous proximity, he instantly raised his rifle,
and its contents went whizzing through the air. The ball just touched
the bark of the tree, and pierced the cap, which rose suddenly like the
death-spring of the beaver, and then fell amid the bushes. The Indian,
like a true sportsman, thinking himself sure of his victim, did not go to
pick up his game till he had reloaded his piece, and dropping it to the
ground, was calmly proceeding in the operation, when Timothy as calmly
stepped from his hiding-place, exclaiming—“Now, you tarnal kritter, say
yer prayers as fast as ever you can.”
This was a short notice for the poor Indian. Before him, and scarcely ten
paces distant, stood the tall form of Peabody, motionless as a statue—his
rifle to his shoulder—his finger on the trigger, and his deadly aim
firmly fixed on him. He was about to run, but he had not time to turn
around, ere the swift-winged messenger had taken his flight; the ball
pierced his side—he sprang in the air, and fell lifeless on the ground.
No time was now to be lost. Peabody immediately proceeded to strip the
dead body and to array himself in the accouterments, consisting of a
hunting shirt, a pair of moccasins, or leggins, and the wampum belt
and knife. A little of the blood besmeared on his sunburnt countenance
served for the red paint, and it would have taken a keen eye in the gray
twilight and thick gloom of the surrounding forest to have detected the
counterfeit Indian. Shouldering his rifle, he again started in pursuit,
and followed the band till they arrived in the glen, where their canoes
were secreted. Here they stopped, and began to make preparations for
their expected supper, previous to their embarkation for the opposite
shore. The canoes were launched and their baggage deposited in them. A
fire was blazing brightly and the party were walking around, impatiently
waiting the return of the hunter.
The body of Timothy was safely deposited behind a fallen tree, where he
could see every motion, and hear every word spoken in the circle. Here he
had been about half an hour. Night had drawn her sable curtain around the
scene or, in other words, it was dark. The moon shone fitfully through
the clouds which almost covered the horizon, only serving occasionally
to render the darkness visible. The Indians now began to evince manifest
signs of impatience for the return of their comrade. They feared that
a party of the whites had followed them and taken him prisoner, and at
last resolved to go in search of him. The plan, which was fortunately
overheard by Timothy, was to put the captives into one of the canoes,
under the care of five of their number, who were to secrete themselves in
case of an attack, massacre the prisoners, and then go to the assistance
of their brethren.
As soon as the main body had started, Peabody cautiously crept from
his hiding-place to the water and, sliding in feet foremost, moved
along on his back, his face just above the surface, to the canoe which
contained the rifles of the guard. The priming was quickly removed from
these, and their powder-horns emptied, replaced, and the prisoners given
notice of their intended rescue, at the same time warning them not to
show themselves above the gunwale till they were in safety. He next,
with his Indian knife, separated the thong which held the canoe to the
shore, intending to swim off with it till he had got far enough to
avoid observation, then get in, and paddle for the nearest place where
a landing could be effected. All this was but the work of a moment, and
he was slowly moving off from the shore, as yet unobserved by the guard,
who little expected an attack from this side. But, unfortunately, his
rifle had been left behind, and he was resolved not to part with “Old
Plumper,” as he called it, without at least one effort to recover it. He
immediately gave the captives notice of his intention, and directed them
to paddle slowly and silently out, and in going past the headland, to
approach as near as possible, and there await his coming.
The guard by this time had secreted themselves, and one of the number had
chosen the same place which Timothy himself had previously occupied, near
which he had left his old friend. He had almost got to the spot, when the
Indian discovered the rifle, grasped it, and springing upon his feet,
gave the alarm to his companions. Quick as thought, Tim was upon him,
seized the rifle, and wrenched it from him with such violence as to throw
him breathless to the ground. The rest of the Indians were alarmed, and,
sounding the war-whoop, rushed upon him.
It was a standard maxim with Timothy, that “a good soldier never runs
till he is obliged to,” and he now found that he should be under the
necessity of suiting his practice to his theory. There was no time for
deliberation; he instantly knocked down the foremost with the butt of
his rifle, and bounded away through the thicket like a startled deer.
The three remaining Indians made for the canoe in which the rifles were
deposited, already rendered harmless by the precaution of Timothy. This
gave him a good advantage, which was not altogether unnecessary, as he
was much encumbered with his wet clothes, and before he reached the goal
he could hear them snapping the dry twigs close behind him. The main body
likewise got the alarm, and were but a short distance from him when he
reached the headland. Those who were nearest he did not fear, unless they
came to close action, and he resolved to send one more of them to his
long home before he leaped from the precipice.
“It’s a burning shame to wet so much powder,” he exclaimed; “I’ll have
one more pop at the tarnal red-skins.” Tim’s position was quickly
arranged to put his threat in execution. His rifle was presented, his
eye glanced along its barrel, and the first one that showed his head
received its deadly contents. Another, and still another Indian, were
thus disposed of, and then, taking a deep breath, Timothy made the leap.
The water was deep and it seemed a long time before he came to the
surface, but in a moment he struck out for the canoe. The whole party
of Indians by this time had come up, and commenced a brisk fire upon
the fugitives. Tim stood erect in the canoe, shouting in the voice of a
stentor, “Ye’d better take care, ye’ll spile the skiff. Old Plumper’s
safe, and you’ll feel him yet, I tell ye!”
Peabody and the rescued prisoners were quickly lost in darkness, and,
taking a small circuit, effected a landing in safety. Many a man’s life
verified his last threat, and Peabody lived to a good old age, having
often related to his friends and neighbors the adventure which gave to
this place the name of “Peabody’s Leap.”
DONA MARIA’S DEFIANCE
[Philip the Second, king of Spain, murdered his own brother, Don John
of Austria. Dona Maria Dolores de Mendoza, betrothed to the slain man,
discovers that her innocent father has taken the blame upon himself for
this atrocious crime in order that his king might not be branded before
the eyes of the world. Thus the beautiful woman comes before her king
with a great purpose: First, to have her father released from prison; and
second, to express her personal hatred for the murderer of her lover. The
king is alone when she enters.]
_Philip._ Be seated, Dona Dolores. I am glad that you have come, for I
have much to say to you and some questions to ask of you. In my life I
have suffered more than most men in being bereaved of the persons to whom
I have been most sincerely attached. One after another those that I have
loved have been taken from me, until I am almost alone in the world that
is so largely mine. My sorrows have reached their crown and culmination
to-day in the death of my dear brother. I know why you have come to me;
you wish to intercede for your father. It is right that you come to me
yourself.
_Dona Dolores._ I ask justice, not mercy, sire.
_Philip._ Your father shall have both, for they are compatible.
_Dona Dolores._ He needs no mercy, for he has done no wrong. Your majesty
knows that as well as I.
_Philip._ I cannot guess what you know or do not know.
_Dona Dolores._ I know the truth.
_Philip._ I wish I did. Tell me; you may be able to help me sift it. What
do you know?
_Dona Dolores._ I was close behind the door. I heard every word. I heard
your sword drawn and I heard Don John fall, and then it was some time
before I heard my father’s voice taking the blame upon himself lest it
should be said that a king had murdered his own brother in his room
unarmed. Is that the truth, or not? I came in and found him dead. He was
unarmed, murdered without a chance for his life, and my father took the
blame to save you from the monstrous accusation. Confess that what I say
is true. I am a Spanish woman and would not see my country branded before
the world with the shame of your royal murders; and if you will confess
and save my father I will keep your secret for my country’s sake. If you
will not, by the God that made you I will tell all Spain what you are,
and the men who loved Don John of Austria will rise and take your blood
for his blood, though it be blood royal, and you shall die as you killed,
like the coward you are. You will not? Then—
_Philip._ No, No! Stay here; you must not go. What do you want me to say?
_Dona Dolores._ Say, “You have spoken the truth.”
_Philip._ Stay—yes—it is true—I did it—for Spain—For God’s mercy do not
betray me.
_Dona Dolores._ That is not all. That was for me, that I might hear the
words from your own lips.
_Philip._ What more do you want of me?
_Dona Dolores._ My father’s freedom and safety. I must have an order for
his instant release. Send for him. Let him come here at once as a free
man.
_Philip._ That is impossible. He has confessed the deed before the whole
court. He must at least have a trial. You forget to whom you are speaking.
_Dona Dolores._ I am not asking anything of your majesty. I am dictating
terms to my lover’s murderer.
_Philip._ You shall not impose your insolence on me any further. I shall
call help—
_Dona Dolores._ Call whom you will, you cannot save yourself. In ten
minutes there will be a revolution in the palace, and to-morrow all Spain
will be on fire to avenge your brother. Spain has not forgotten Don
Carlos yet. You tortured him to death. There are those alive who saw you
give Queen Isabel the draught that killed her—with your own hand. Are
you mad enough to think that no one knows these things; that your spies
who spy on others do not spy on you; that you alone of all mankind can
commit every crime with impunity?
_Philip._ Take care, girl! Take care!
_Dona Dolores._ Beware, Don Philip of Austria, King of Spain and half the
world, lest a girl’s voice be heard above yours, and a girl’s hand loosen
the foundations of your throne. Outside this door are men who guess
the truth already; who hate you as they hate Satan; and who loved your
brother as every living being loved him, except you. One moment more.
Order my father to be set free, or I will open and speak. One moment!
You will not? It is too late—you are lost.... If you ring that bell, I
will open the door. Bring the order here where I am safe. I must read it
myself before I am satisfied. [_Philip writes order._] I humbly thank
your majesty and take my leave.—This scene is arranged from the novel “In
the Palace of the King,” by Marion Crawford.
THE KING AND THE POET
[François Villon, the poet, fought and severely wounded the traitorous
Grand Constable of France, Thibaut d’Aussigny. King Louis XI, in a
whimsical mood, had the poet elevated to his opponent’s station instead
of having him cast into prison and sentenced to death. Lady Katherine,
hearing that François had fought with Thibaut d’Aussigny, whom she hates
for his many protestations of love, and knowing that the penalty was
death, pleads for the poet’s life at the feet of him whom she supposes to
be the new Grand Constable, but who after all is none other than her own
true lover.]
(_The morning after his visit to the Fircone Tavern, Louis sat in his
rose-garden, pondering upon his strange adventure of the night before.
A favorite astrologer had interpreted his dream to mean that one in
the depths, if exalted, would be of great service to him. He knew how
precarious his position was, how unpopular he was with the people, how
strong were the forces of the Duke of Burgundy, how little he could
depend upon the allegiance of the people of Paris if once the enemy set
foot within the capital city. His encounter with Villon coming upon the
heels of his strange dream, and followed by the vague prophecies of the
star-gazer, made him believe that the fantastic rhymester was sent to him
in a time of peril to be of support to his throne._
_A heavy tread behind him stirred him from his meditations. Turning, he
beheld the companion of his adventure the previous evening._)
_King._ Well, Tristan?
_Tristan._ The bird has flown, sire. Thibaut’s wound was much slighter
than we thought last night. After we carried him to his house, he made
his escape thence in disguise, and has, as I believe, fled from Paris to
join the Duke of Burgundy.
_King._ I wish the Duke joy of him. He is more dangerous to my enemy when
he is on my enemy’s side. And my rival for loyalty?
_Tristan._ Barber Oliver has charge of him. I would have hanged the rogue
out of hand.
_King._ The stars warn me that I need this rhyming ragamuffin.
_Tristan._ Are you going to let him think he is king, sire?
_King._ Not quite. When he wakes, he is to be assured that he is the
Count of Montcorbier and Grand Constable of France. His antics may
amuse me, his lucky star may serve me, and his winning tongue may help
to avenge me on a certain forward maid, who disdained me. Send me here
Oliver. [_Exit Tristan._]
[_Katherine comes slowly down one of the rose-ways._]
_King._ Where are you going, girl?
_Katherine._ To her majesty, sire, who bade me gather roses.
_King._ You are a pretty child. You might have had a king’s love. Well,
well, you were a fool. Does not Thibaut woo you?
_Katherine._ He professes to love me, sire, and I profess to hate him.
_King._ He was sorely wounded last night in a tavern scuffle.
_Katherine._ Only wounded, sire?
_King._ Your solicitude is adorable. Be of cheer. He may recover. And we
have clapped hands on the assassin. He shall pay the penalty.
_Katherine._ This man should not die, sire. Thibaut d’Aussigny was a
traitor, a villain—
_King._ If this knave’s life interests you, plead for it to my lord the
Grand Constable.
_Katherine._ Thibaut is pitiless.
_King._ Thibaut is no longer in office. Try your luck with his successor.
_Katherine._ His name, sire?
_King._ He is the Count of Montcorbier. He is a stranger in our court,
but he has found a lodging in my heart. He came under safe conduct from
the south last night. I believe he will serve me well, and I am sure he
will always be lenient to loveliness. Now go, girl, or my wife and your
queen will be wanting her roses. [_Exit Katherine._]
[_Glancing up the terrace, he perceives the figure of Oliver. Behind
Oliver comes a little cluster of pages, and behind them again the king
can see a shining figure in cloth of gold._]
_King._ Here comes my mountebank as pompous as if he were born to the
purple. It would be rare sport if Mistress Katherine disdained Louis to
decline upon this beggar. He shall hang for mocking me. But he carries
himself like a king for all his tatters and patches, and he shall taste
of splendor.
[_As the little procession descends the steps into the rose-garden the
king moves swiftly to the door of the tower and enters. There is a little
grating in the door, and through this grating the king now peers with
infinite entertainment of the comedy himself had planned._]
[_Master Villon is greatly changed. The barber’s own handiwork has
cleansed and shaved his countenance. He is as sumptuously attired as if
he were a prince of the blood royal. It is plain that the tricked out
poet is in a desperate dilemma. He manages to bear himself with dignity
that consorts with his pomp._]
_Oliver._ Will your dignity deign to linger awhile in this rose-arbor?
_François._ My dignity will deign to do anything you suggest.
_Oliver._ May we take our leave, monseigneur?
_François._ You may, you may—stay one moment. You know this plaguy memory
of mine—what a forgetful fellow I am. Would you mind telling me again who
I happen to be?
_Oliver._ You are the Count of Montcorbier, monseigneur. You have just
arrived in Paris from the court of Provence, where you stood in high
favor with the king of that country, but your favor is, I believe,
greater with the king of France, for he has been pleased to make you
Grand Constable of France. It is his majesty’s wish that you contrive to
remember this.
_François._ Of course, it was most foolish of me to forget. Now, I
suppose, good master long-toes, that a person in my exalted rank has a
good deal of power, influence, authority, and what not?
_Oliver._ With the king’s favor, you are the first man in the realm.
_François._ Quite so! Good sir, will you straightway dispatch some one
you can trust with a handful of these broad pieces to the mother of
Villon, a poor old woman sorely plagued with a scapegrace son? Let him
seek her out and give her these coins that she may buy herself food,
clothes and fire.
_Oliver._ It shall be done. [_Exit all but François._]
[_As soon as Villon finds himself alone he looks cautiously around him
and tries to recall the events of the evening before, which for some
fantastic reason seems to lie centuries behind him._]
_François._ Last night I was a red-handed outlaw, sleeping on the straw
of a dungeon. To-day I wake in a royal bed and my varlets call me
_Monseigneur_. Either I am mad or I am dreaming. I do not think I am mad,
for I know in my heart that I am poor François Villon, penniless Master
of Arts, and no will-o’-the-wisp Grand Constable. Then I am dreaming,
and everything has been and is a dream. Then the king—popping up at
the last moment, like a Jack-in-the-box—a dream. These clothes, these
servants, this garden—dreams, dreams, dreams. I shall wake presently and
be devilish cold, hungry and shabby.
[_He goes to the golden flagon on the table, pours out a full cup of
Burgundy, and watches it glow in the sunlight._]
_François._ To the loveliest lady this side of heaven! By heaven, my eyes
dazzle, for I believe I see her!
[_On the terrace the fair girl leans and looks over at the garden and its
golden occupant._]
_Oliver._ My lord, there is a lady there who desires to speak with you.
_François._ I desire to speak with her.
[_Oliver enters the palace, and Katherine approaches Villon._]
_Katherine._ My lord, will you listen to a distressed lady?
_François._ She does not know me.
_Katherine._ There is a man in prison at this hour for whom I would
implore your clemency. His name is François Villon. Last night he wounded
Thibaut d’Aussigny. The penalty is death. But Thibaut was a traitor, sold
to Burgundy.
_François._ Did this Villon fight him for his treason?
_Katherine._ No! He fought for the sake of a woman.
_François._ How do you know all this?
_Katherine._ Because I was the woman. This man had seen me, thought he
loved me, sent me verses—.
_François._ How insolent!
_Katherine._ It was insolence—and yet they were beautiful verses. I was
in mortal fear of Thibaut. I went to this Villon and begged him to kill
my enemy. He backed his love-tale with his sword—and he lies in the
shadow of death. It is not just that he should suffer for my sin.
_François._ Do you by any chance love this Villon?
_Katherine._ Great ladies do not love tavern bravos. But I pity him and I
do not want him to die.
_François._ If I had stood in this rascal’s shoes, I would have done as
he did for your sake.
_Katherine._ If you think this, you should grant the poor knave his
freedom.
_François._ That brother of ballads shall go free. We will do no more
than banish him from Paris. Forget that such a slave ever came near you.
_Katherine._ I shall remember your clemency.
_François._ By Saint Venus, I envy this fellow that he should have won
your thoughts. I, too, would die to serve you!
_Katherine._ My lord, you do not know me.
_François._ Did he know you? Yet when he saw you he loved you and made
bold to tell you so.
_Katherine._ His words were of no more account than the wind in the
leaves. But you and I are peers and the words we change have meanings.
_François._ Would you pity me if I told you I love you?
_Katherine._ Heaven’s mercy, how fast your fancy gallops. I care little
to be flattered and less to be wooed, and I swear that I should be very
hard to win.
_François._ I have more to try than your tap-room bandit. I see what he
saw; I love what he loved.
_Katherine._ You are very inflammable.
_François._ My fire burns to ashes. You can no more stay me from loving
you than you can stay the flowers from loving the soft air, or true men
from loving honor, or heroes from loving glory. I would rake the moon
from heaven for you.
_Katherine._ That promise has grown rusty since Adam first made it to
Eve. There is a rhyme in my mind about moons and lovers:
Life is unstable,
Love may uphold;
Fear goes in sable,
Courage in gold.
Mystery covers
Midnight and noon,
Heroes and lovers
Cry for the moon.
_François._ What doggerel!
_Katherine._ It is divinity.
_François._ Tell me what I may do to win your favor?
_Katherine._ A trifle. Save France! Oh, that a man would come to court!
For the man who shall trail the banners of Burgundy in the dust for the
king of France to walk on I may perhaps have favors.
_François._ You are hard to please.
_Katherine._ My hero must have every virtue for his wreath, every courage
for his coronet. Farewell. [_Exit Lady Katherine._]
[_Enter King Louis._]
_King._ Good afternoon, Lord Constable. Does power taste well?
_François._ Nobly, sire! On my knees let me thank your majesty.
_King._ Nonsense, man; I’m pleasing myself. You sang yourself into
splendor. “_If François were the king of France_,” eh?
_François._ Sire, I will serve you as never king was served.
_King._ I will make you Grand Constable for a week.
_François._ A week, sire? A week—
_King._ Even so. One wonderful week, seven delirious days. The world was
made in seven days. Seven days of power, seven days of splendor, seven
days of love.
_François._ And then go back to the garret and the kennel, the tavern and
the brothel!
_King._ No, no, not exactly! You don’t taste the full force of the joke
yet. Your last task as Grand Constable will be to hang François Villon.
_François._ Sire, sire, have pity!
_King._ You may have your week of wonder if you wish, but if you do, by
my word as king, you shall swing for it.
_François._ Sire, what have I done that you should torture me thus?
_King._ You have mocked a king and maimed a minister. You can’t get off
scot free.
_François._ Heaven help me! Life, squalid, sordid, but still life, with
its tavern corners and its brute pleasures of food and drink and warm
sleep, living hands to hold, and living laughter to gladden me—or a week
of cloth of gold, of glory, of love—and then a shameful death!
_King._ One further chance, fellow. If the Count Montcorbier win the
heart of Lady Katherine within the week, he shall escape the gallows and
carry his lady love where he please.
_François._ On your word of honor, sire?
_King._ My word is my honor, Master François. Well?
_François._ Give me my week of wonders though I die a dog’s death at the
end of it. I will show France and her what lay in the heart of a poor
rhymester.
_King._ Spoken like a man! But remember, a bargain’s a bargain. If you
fail to win the lady you must keep yourself for the gallows. I give you
the moon, but I want my price for it.
[_Enter Oliver._]
_Oliver._ Sire, the Burgundian herald attends under a flag of truce with
a message for your majesty.
_King_. We will receive him here, Oliver. We need air when we hold speech
with Burgundy. [_Exit Oliver._]
_King._ Listen well to this man’s words, my Lord Constable.
[_Enter Messenger._]
_King._ Your message, sir?
_Herald._ In the name of the Duke of Burgundy and of his allies and
brothers-in-arms assembled outside the walls of Paris, I hereby summon
you, Louis of France, to surrender this city unconditionally and to yield
yourself in confidence to my master’s mercy.
_King._ And if we refuse, Sir Herald?
_Herald._ The worst disasters of war, fire and sword and famine, and no
hope for yourself.
_King._ Great words. The Count of Montcorbier, Constable of France, is
my counselor. His voice delivers my mind. Speak, friend, and give this
messenger his answer.
_François._ As I will, sire?
_King._ Yes, go on, go on. “_If Villon were the king of France._”
_François._ Herald of Burgundy, in God’s name and the king’s, I bid you
go back to your master and say this: “Kings are great in the eyes of
their people, but the people are great in the eyes of God. The people
of Paris are not so poor of spirit that they fear the croak of the
Burgundian ravens. When we who eat are hungry, when we who drink are dry,
when we who glow are frozen, when there is neither bite on the board nor
sup in the pitcher nor spark upon the hearth, our answer to rebellious
Burgundy will be the same. You are knocking at our doors, beware lest we
open them. We give you back defiance for defiance, menace for menace,
blow for blow. This is our answer—this and the drawn sword.”
[_Enter Katherine while he is speaking._]
_Katherine._ My Lord, with my lips the women of France thank you for your
words of flame.
_King._ Mistress, what does this mean?
_Katherine._ It means, sire, that a man has come to court.—This scene is
arranged from Justin Huntly McCarthy’s novel, “If I Were King.”
THE BISHOP AND THE CONVICT
BY VICTOR HUGO
That evening, after his walk in the town, the Bishop of D— remained quite
late in his room. At eight o’clock he was still at work, writing with
some inconvenience on little slips of paper, with a large book open on
his knees, when Mme. Magloire, as usual, came in to take the silver from
the panel by the bed. A moment after, the bishop, knowing that the table
was laid, and that his sister was perhaps waiting, closed his book and
went into the dining-room.
Just as the bishop entered Mme. Magloire was speaking with some warmth.
It was a discussion on the means of fastening the front door.
It seems that while Mme. Magloire was out making provisions for supper
she had heard the news in sundry places. There was talk that an
ill-favored runaway, a suspicious vagabond, had arrived and was lurking
somewhere near the town, and that it was the part of wise people to
secure their doors thoroughly.
“Brother, do you hear what Mme. Magloire says?”
“I heard something of it indistinctly,” said the bishop. Then, turning
his chair half round, putting his hands on his knees, and raising toward
the old servant his cordial and good-humored face, which the firelight
shone upon, he said: “Well, well, what is the matter! Are we in any great
danger?”
Then Mme. Magloire began her story again, unconsciously exaggerating it
a little. It appeared that a barefooted gypsy man, a sort of dangerous
beggar, was in the town. A man with a knapsack and a rope and a
terrible-looking face.
“Indeed!” said the bishop.
“We say that this house is not safe at all; and, if monseigneur will
permit me, I will go out and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come
and put the old bolts in the door again; they are there, and it will take
but a minute. I say we must have bolts, were it only for to-night; for
I say that a door that opens with a latch on the outside to the first
comer, nothing could be more horrible; and then monseigneur has the habit
of always saying: ‘Come in’ even at midnight. But, my goodness, there is
no need to even ask leave—”
The door opened.
It opened quickly, quite wide, as if pushed by some one boldly and with
energy.
A man entered.
He came in, took one step, and paused, leaving the door open behind him.
He had his knapsack on his back, his stick in his hand, and a rough,
hard, tired, and fierce look in his eyes, as seen by the firelight. He
was hideous. It was an apparition of ill omen.
Mme. Magloire had not even the strength to scream. She stood, trembling,
with her mouth open.
Mdlle. Baptistine turned, saw the man enter, and started out half
alarmed; then, slowly turning back again toward the fire, she looked at
her brother, and her face resumed its usual calmness and serenity.
“See here! My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict; I have been nineteen
years in the galleys. Four days ago I was set free, and started for
Pontarlier, which is my destination; during these four days I have walked
from Toulon. To-day I have walked twelve leagues. When I reached this
place this evening I went to an inn, and they sent me away on account
of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the mayor’s office, as was
necessary. I went to another inn; they said: ‘Get out!’ It was the same
with one as with another; no one would have me. I went to the prison and
the turnkey would not let me in. I crept into a dog-kennel, the dog bit
me, and drove me away as if he had been a man; you would have said that
he knew who I was. I went into the fields to sleep beneath the stars;
there were no stars. I thought it would rain, and there was no good God
to stop the drops, so I came back to the town to get the shelter of some
doorway. There in the square I lay down upon a stone; a good woman showed
me your house, and said: ‘Knock there!’ I have knocked. What is this
place? Are you an inn? I have money; my savings, one hundred and nine
francs and fifteen sous, which I have earned in the galleys by my work
for nineteen years. I will pay. What do I care? I have money. I am very
tired—twelve leagues on foot—and I am so hungry. Can I stay?”
“Mme. Magloire,” said the bishop, “put on another plate.”
The man took three steps and came near the lamp which stood on the table.
“Stop,” he exclaimed, as if he had not been understood, “not that, did
you understand me? I am a galley slave—a convict—I am just from the
galleys.” He drew from his pocket a large sheet of yellow paper, which he
unfolded. “There is my passport, yellow, as you see. That is enough to
have me kicked out wherever I go. Will you read it? I know how to read,
I do. I learned in the galleys. There is a school there for those who
care for it. See, see, here is what they have put in my passport: ‘Jean
Valjean, a liberated convict, has been nineteen years in the galleys;
five years for burglary; fourteen years for having attempted four times
to escape. This man is very dangerous.’ There you have it! Everybody
has thrust me out; will you receive me? Is this an inn? Can you give me
something to eat and a place to sleep? Have you a stable?”
“Mme. Magloire,” said the bishop, “put some sheets on the bed in the
alcove.”
Mme. Magloire went out to fulfill her orders.
“Monsieur, sit down and warm yourself; we are going to take supper
presently, and your bed will be made ready while you sup.”
“True? What? You will keep me? You won’t drive me away—a convict? You
call me monsieur and don’t say, ‘Get out, dog!’ as every one else does.
I thought that you would send me away, so I told first off who I am. I
shall have a supper? A bed like other people? With mattress and sheets—a
bed? It is nineteen years that I have not slept on a bed. M. Innkeeper,
what is your name? I will pay all you say. You are an innkeeper, ain’t
you?”
“I am a priest who lives here.”
“A priest, oh, noble priest! Then you do not ask any money?”
“No, keep your money. How much have you?”
“One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous.”
“And how long did it take you to earn that?”
“Nineteen years.”
Mme. Magloire brought in a plate and set it on the table.
“Mme. Magloire, put this plate as near the fire as you can. The night
wind is raw in the Alps; you must be cold, monsieur.”
Every time he said the word monsieur with his gently solemn and heartily
hospitable voice the man’s countenance lighted up. Monsieur to a convict
is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea.
“The lamp gives a very poor light.”
Mme. Magloire understood him, and going to his bed-chamber, took from the
mantel the two silver candlesticks, lighted the candles and placed them
on the table.
“M. l’Curé, you are good; you don’t despise me. You take me into your
house; you light your candles for me, and I haven’t hid from you where I
came from, and how miserable I am.”
“You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house; it is the house
of Christ. It does not ask any comer whether he has a name, but whether
he has an affliction. You are suffering; you are hungry and thirsty; be
welcome. And do not thank me; do not tell me that I take you into my
house. This is the home of no man except him who needs an asylum. I tell
you, who are a traveler, that you are more at home here than I; whatever
is here is yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you
told me, I knew it.”
“Really? You knew my name?”
“Yes, your name is my brother. You have seen much suffering.”
“Oh, the red blouse, the ball and chain, the plank to sleep on, the heat,
the cold, the galley’s screw, the lash, the double chain for nothing,
the dungeon for a word—even when sick in bed, the chain. The dogs, the
dogs are happier! nineteen years! and I am forty-six, and now a yellow
passport. That is all.”
“Yes, you have left a place of suffering. But listen, there will be more
joy in heaven over the tears of a repentant sinner than over the white
robes of a hundred good men. If you are leaving that sorrowful place with
hate and anger against men, you are worthy of compassion; if you leave it
with good will, gentleness and peace, you are better than any of us.”
Meantime Mme. Magloire had served up supper. The bishop said the blessing
and then served. The man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the
voracity of a starving man.
After having said goodnight to his sister, the bishop took one of the
silver candlesticks from the table, handed the other to his guest, and
said to him: “Monsieur, I will show you to your room.”
The man followed him.
The house was so arranged that one could reach the alcove in the oratory
only by passing through the bishop’s sleeping-chamber. Just as they were
passing through this room Mme. Magloire was putting up the silver in the
cupboard at the head of the bed. It was the last thing she did every
night before going to bed.
The bishop left his guest wishing him a good night’s rest.
As the cathedral clock struck two, Jean Valjean awoke. He opened his eyes
and looked for a moment into the obscurity about him, then he closed them
to go to sleep again. But he could not get to sleep again, so he began to
think. He remembered noticing the six silver plates and the large ladle
that Mme. Magloire had put on the table.
Those six silver plates took possession of him. There they were within a
few steps. At the very moment that he passed through the middle room to
reach the one he was now in, the old servant was placing them in a little
cupboard at the head of the bed. He had marked that cupboard well; on the
right coming from the dining-room. They were solid and old silver. With
the big ladle they would bring at least two hundred francs; double what
he had got for nineteen years’ labor.
His mind wavered a whole hour and a long one, in fluctuation and in
struggle. The clock struck three. He opened his eyes, rose up hastily in
bed, reached out his arm and felt his knapsack, which he had put into
the corner of the alcove, then he thrust out his legs and put his feet
on the floor and found himself, he knew not how, seated on his bed. All
at once he stooped down, took off his shoes and put them softly upon the
mat in front of the bed, then he resumed his thinking posture and was
still again. Then he rose to his feet, hesitated for a moment longer and
listened; all was still in the house; he walked straight and cautiously
toward the window which he could discern. The night was very dark, there
was a full moon. On reaching the window, Jean Valjean examined it. It
had no bars, opened into the garden, and was fastened with only a little
wedge. He took his club in his right hand, and, holding his breath, with
stealthy steps he moved toward the door of the next room, which was the
bishop’s, as we know. On reaching the door he found it unlatched. The
bishop had not closed it.
Jean Valjean listened. Not a sound.
He pushed the door. A rusty hinge suddenly sent out into the darkness a
harsh and prolonged creak.
Jean Valjean shivered. He took one step and was in the room. At the
moment when he passed the bed, a cloud broke, as if purposely, and a ray
of moonlight crossing the high window, suddenly lighted up the bishop’s
pale face. He slept tranquilly. His entire countenance was lit up with a
vague expression of content, hope and happiness. It was more than a smile
and almost a radiance.
Jean Valjean was in the shadow with the iron drill in his hand, erect,
motionless, terrified at this radiant figure. He had never seen anything
comparable to it. This confidence filled him with fear. He did not remove
his eyes from the old man. He appeared ready either to cleave his skull
or to kiss his hand.
In a few moments he raised his left hand slowly to his forehead and took
off his hat; then letting his hand fall with the same slowness, Jean
Valjean resumed his contemplations, his cap in his left hand, his club in
his right, and his hair bristling on his fierce-looking head.
Under this frightful gaze the bishop still slept in profoundest peace.
The crucifix above the mantel-piece was dimly visible in the moonlight,
apparently extending its arms toward both, with a benediction for one and
a pardon for the other.
Suddenly Jean Valjean put on his cap, then passed quickly, without
looking at the bishop, along the bed, straight to the cupboard which he
perceived near its head; he raised the drill to force the lock; the key
was in it; he opened it; the first thing he saw was the basket of silver;
he took it, crossed the room with hasty stride, careless of noise,
reached the door, entered the oratory, took his stick, stepped out, put
the silver in his knapsack, threw away the basket, ran across the garden,
leaped over the wall like a tiger and fled.
The next day at sunrise the bishop was walking in the garden. Mme.
Magloire ran toward him quite beside herself.
“Monseigneur, the man has gone! The silver is stolen. The abominable
fellow! He has stolen our silver!”
The bishop was silent for a moment then, raising his serious eyes, he
said mildly to Mme. Magloire: “Now, first, did this silver belong to us?
Mme. Magloire, I have for a long time withheld this silver; it belonged
to the poor. Who was this man? A poor man evidently.”
“Alas! Alas!” returned Mme. Magloire. “It is not on my account
or mademoiselle’s; it is all the same to us. But it is on yours,
monseigneur. What is monsieur going to eat from now?”
The bishop looked at her in amazement.
“How so! have we no tin plates?”
Just as the brother and sister were rising from their breakfast there was
a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said the bishop.
The door opened. A strange, fierce group appeared on the threshold. Three
men were holding a fourth by the collar. The three men were gendarmes;
the fourth, Jean Valjean.
In the meantime the bishop had approached as quickly as his great age
permitted. “Ah, there you are!” said he, looking toward Jean Valjean.
“I am glad to see you. But I gave you the candlesticks also, which are
silver like the rest, and would bring two hundred francs. Why did you not
take them along with your plates?”
Jean Valjean opened his eyes and looked at the bishop with an expression
no human tongue could describe.
“Monseigneur,” said the brigadier, “then what this man said was true? We
met him. He was going like a man who was running away and we arrested him
in order to see. He had this silver.”
“And he told you that it had been given him by a good old priest with
whom he had passed the night. I see it all. And you brought him back
here? It is all a mistake.”
“If that is so,” said the brigadier, “we can let him go.”
“Certainly,” replied the bishop, “you may retire.”
The gendarmes released Jean Valjean, who shrank back.
“My friend, before you go away here are the candlesticks; take them.”
Jean Valjean was trembling in every limb. He took the two candlesticks
mechanically and with a wild appearance.
“Now go in peace. By the way, my friend, when you come again you need not
come through the garden. You can always come in and go out by the front
door. It is closed only with a latch, day or night. Forget not, never
forget that you have promised me to use this silver to become an honest
man.
“Jean Valjean, my brother, you belong no longer to evil, but to good. It
is your soul that I am buying for you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts
and from the spirit of perdition and I give it to God!”—Arranged from
“Les Miserables.”
A DESERT TRAGEDY
BY FRANK NORRIS
One day, a fortnight after McTeague’s flight from San Francisco, Marcus
rode into Modoc, to find a group of men gathered about a notice affixed
to the outside of the Wells-Fargo office. It was an offer of reward for
the arrest and apprehension of a murderer. The crime had been committed
in San Francisco, but the man wanted had been traced as far as the
western portion of Inyo County, and was believed at that time to be in
hiding in either the Pinto or Panamint hills in the vicinity of Keeler.
Marcus reached Keeler on the afternoon of that same day. Half a mile from
the town his pony fell and died from exhaustion. Marcus did not stop even
to remove the saddle. He arrived in the barroom of the hotel in Keeler
just after the posse had been made up. The sheriff, who had come down
from Independence that morning, at first refused his offer of assistance.
He had enough men already—too many, in fact. The country traveled through
would be hard, and it would be difficult to find water for so many men
and horses.
“But none of you fellers have ever seen um,” vociferated Marcus,
quivering with excitement and wrath. “I know um well. I could pick um
out in a million. I can identify um, and you fellers can’t. And I knew—I
knew—good God! I knew that girl—his wife—in Frisco. She’s a cousin of
mine, she is—she was—I thought once of—. This thing’s a personal matter
of mine—an’ that money he got away with, that five thousand, belongs to
me by rights. Oh, never mind, I’m going along. Do you hear?” he shouted,
his fists raised, “I’m going along, I tell you. There ain’t a man of you
big enough to stop me. Let’s see you try and stop me going. Let’s see you
once, any two of you.” He filled the barroom with his clamor.
“Lord love you, come along, then,” said the sheriff.
The posse rode out of Keeler that same night. The keeper of the general
merchandise store, from whom Marcus had borrowed a second pony, had
informed them that Cribbens and his partner, whose description tallied
exactly with that given in the notice of reward, had outfitted at his
place with a view to prospecting in the Panamint hills. The posse
trailed them at once to their first camp at the head of the valley. It
was an easy matter. It was only necessary to inquire of the cowboys and
range-riders of the valley if they had seen and noted the passage of two
men, one of whom carried a bird-cage.
Beyond this first camp the trail was lost, and a week was wasted in a
bootless search around the mine at Gold Gulch, whither it seemed probable
the partners had gone. Then a traveling peddler, who included Gold Gulch
in his route, brought in the news of a wonderful strike of gold-bearing
quartz some ten miles to the south on the western slope of the range. Two
men from Keeler had made a strike, the peddler had said, and added the
curious detail that one of the men had a canary bird in a cage with him.
The posse made Cribbens’ camp three days after the unaccountable
disappearance of his partner. Their man was gone, but the narrow
hoof-prints of a mule, mixed with those of huge hob-nailed boots, could
be plainly followed in the sand. Here they picked up the trail and held
to it steadily till the point was reached where, instead of tending
southward, it swerved abruptly to the east. The men could hardly believe
their eyes.
“It ain’t reason,” exclaimed the sheriff. “What in thunder is he up to?
This beats me! Cutting out into Death Valley at this time of year!”
“He’s heading for Gold Mountain over in the Armagosa, sure.”
The men decided that this conjecture was true. It was the only inhabited
locality in that direction. A discussion began as to the further
movements of the posse.
“I don’t figure on going into that alkali sink with no eight men and
horses,” declared the sheriff. “One man can’t carry enough water to take
him and his mount across, let alone eight. No, sir. Four couldn’t do it.
No, three couldn’t. We’ve got to make a circuit round the valley and come
up on the other side and head him off at Gold Mountain. That’s what we
got to do, and ride like blazes to do it, too.”
But Marcus protested with all the strength of his lungs against
abandoning the trail now that they had found it. He argued that they
were now but a day and a half behind their man. There was no possibility
of their missing the trail—as distinct in the white alkali as in snow.
They could make a dash into the valley, secure their man, and return
long before their water failed them. He, for one, would not give up the
pursuit, now that they were so close. In the haste of the departure from
Keeler the sheriff had neglected to swear him in. He was under no orders.
He would do as he pleased.
“Go on, then, you darn fool,” answered the sheriff. “We’ll cut on round
the valley, for all that. It’s a gamble he’ll be at Gold Mountain before
you’re half-way across. But if you catch him, here”—he tossed Marcus a
pair of handcuffs—“put ’em on him and bring him back to Keeler.”
Two days after he had left the posse, and when he was already far out
in the desert, Marcus’s horse gave out. In the fury of his impatience
he had spurred mercilessly forward on the trail, and on the morning of
the third day found that his horse was unable to move. The joints of his
legs seemed locked rigidly. He would go his own length, stumbling and
interfering, then collapse helplessly upon the ground with a pitiful
groan. He was used up.
Marcus believed himself to be close upon McTeague now. The ashes at his
last camp had still been smoldering. Marcus took what supplies of food
and water he could carry, and hurried on. But McTeague was farther ahead
than he had guessed, and by evening of his third day upon the desert
Marcus, raging with thirst, had drunk his last mouthful of water and had
flung away the empty canteen.
“If he ain’t got water with um,” he said to himself, as he pushed on, “if
he ain’t got water with um, I’ll be in a bad way. I will, for a fact.”
* * * * *
At Marcus’s shout McTeague looked up and around him. For the instant
he saw no one. The white glare of alkali was still unbroken. Then his
swiftly rolling eyes lighted upon a head and shoulder that protruded
above the low crest of the break directly in front of him. A man
was there, lying at full length upon the ground, covering him with
a revolver. For a few seconds McTeague looked at the man stupidly,
bewildered, confused, as yet without definite thought. Then he noticed
that the man was singularly like Marcus Schouler. It was Marcus Schouler.
How in the world did Marcus Schouler happen to be in that desert? What
did he mean by pointing a pistol at him that way? He’d best look out or
the pistol would go off. Then his thoughts readjusted themselves with a
swiftness born of a vivid sense of danger. Here was the enemy at last,
the tracker he had felt upon his footsteps. Now at length he had “come
on” and shown himself, after all those days of skulking. McTeague was
glad of it. He’d show him now. They two would have it out right then and
there. His rifle! He had thrown it away long since. He was helpless.
Marcus had ordered him to put up his hands. If he did not, Marcus would
kill him. He had the drop on him. McTeague stared, scowling fiercely at
the leveled pistol. He did not move.
“Hands up!” shouted Marcus a second time. “I’ll give you three to do it
in. One, two—” Instinctively McTeague put his hands above his head.
Marcus rose and came towards him over the break.
“Keep ’em up,” he cried. “If you move ’em once I’ll kill you, sure.”
He came up to McTeague and searched him, going through his pockets; but
McTeague had no revolver; not even a hunting knife.
“What did you do with that money, with that five thousand dollars?”
“It’s on the mule,” answered McTeague, sullenly.
Marcus grunted, and cast a glance at the mule, who was standing some
distance away, snorting nervously, and from time to time flattening his
long ears.
“Is that it there on the horn of the saddle, there in that canvas sack?”
Marcus demanded.
“Yes, that’s it.”
A gleam of satisfaction came into Marcus’s eyes, and under his breath he
muttered: “Got it at last.”
He was singularly puzzled to know what next to do. He had got McTeague.
There he stood at length, with his big hands over his head, scowling at
him sullenly. Marcus had caught his enemy, had run down the man for whom
every officer in the state had been looking. What should he do with him
now? He couldn’t keep him standing there forever with his hands over his
head.
“Got any water?” he demanded.
“There’s a canteen of water on the mule.”
Marcus moved toward the mule and made as if to reach the bridle-rein.
The mule squealed, threw up his head, and galloped to a little distance,
rolling his eyes and flattening his ears.
Marcus swore wrathfully.
“He acted that way once before,” explained McTeague, his hands still in
the air. “He ate some loco-weed back in the hills before I started.”
For a moment Marcus hesitated. While he was catching the mule McTeague
might get away. But where to, in heaven’s name? A rat could not hide on
the surface of that glistening alkali, and besides, all McTeague’s store
of provisions and his priceless supply of water were on the mule. Marcus
ran after the mule, revolver in hand, shouting and cursing. But the mule
would not be caught. He acted as if possessed, squealing, lashing out,
and galloping in wide circles, his head high in the air.
“Come on,” shouted Marcus, furious, turning back to McTeague. “Come on,
help me catch him. We got to catch him. All the water we got is on the
saddle.”
McTeague came up.
“He’s eatun some loco-weed,” he repeated. “He went kinda crazy before.”
“If he should take it into his head to bolt and keep on running—”
Marcus did not finish. A sudden great fear seemed to widen around and
inclose the two men. Once their water gone, the end would not be long.
“We can catch him all right,” said the dentist. “I caught him once
before.”
“Oh, I guess we can catch him,” answered Marcus, reassuringly.
Already the sense of enmity between the two had weakened in the face of a
common peril. Marcus let down the hammer of his revolver and slid it back
into the holster.
The mule was trotting on ahead, snorting and throwing up great clouds
of alkali dust. At every step the canvas sack jingled, and McTeague’s
bird-cage, still wrapped in the flour bags, bumped against the
saddle-pads. By and by the mule stopped, blowing out his nostrils
excitedly.
“He’s clean crazy,” fumed Marcus, panting and swearing.
“We ought to come up on him quiet,” observed McTeague.
“I’ll try and sneak up,” said Marcus; “two of us would scare him again.
You stay here.”
Marcus went forward a step at a time. He was almost within arm’s length
of the bridle when the mule shied from him abruptly and galloped away.
Marcus danced with rage, shaking his fists, and swearing horribly. Some
hundred yards away the mule paused and began blowing and snuffing in the
alkali as though in search of food. Then, for no reason, he shied again,
and started off on a jog trot toward the east.
“We’ve _got_ to follow him,” exclaimed Marcus, as McTeague came up.
“There’s no water within seventy miles of here.”
Then began an interminable pursuit. Mile after mile, under the terrible
heat of the desert sun, the two men followed the mule, racked with a
thirst that grew fiercer every hour. A dozen times they could almost
touch the canteen of water, and as often the distraught animal shied away
and fled before them. At length Marcus cried:
“It’s no use, we can’t catch him, and we’re killing ourselves with
thirst. We got to take our chances.” He drew his revolver from its
holster, cocked it, and crept forward.
“Steady now,” said McTeague; “it won’t do to shoot through the canteen.”
Within twenty yards Marcus paused, made a rest of his left forearm and
fired.
“You got him,” cried McTeague. “No, he’s up again. Shoot him again. He’s
going to bolt.”
Marcus ran on, firing as he went. The mule, one foreleg trailing,
scrambled along, squealing and snorting. Marcus fired his last shot. The
mule pitched forward upon his head, then, rolling sideways, fell upon the
canteen, bursting it open and spilling its entire contents into the sand.
Marcus and McTeague ran up, and Marcus snatched the battered canteen from
under the reeking, bloody hide. There was no water left. Marcus flung the
canteen from him and stood up, facing McTeague. There was a pause.
“We’re dead men,” said Marcus.
McTeague looked from him out over the desert. Chaotic desolation
stretched from them on either hand, flaming and glaring with the
afternoon heat. There was the brazen sky and the leagues upon leagues of
alkali, leper white. There was nothing more. They were in the heart of
Death Valley.
“Not a drop of water,” muttered McTeague; “not a drop of water.”
“We can drink the mule’s blood,” said Marcus. “It’s been done before.
But—but—” he looked down at the quivering, gory body “—but I ain’t
thirsty enough for that yet.”
“Where’s the nearest water?”
“Well, it’s about a hundred miles or more back of us in the Panamint
hills,” returned Marcus, doggedly. “We’d be crazy long before we reached
it. I tell you we’re _done_ for. We ain’t ever going to get outa here.”
“Done for?” murmured the other, looking about stupidly. “Done for, that’s
the word. Done for? Yes, I guess we’re done for.”
“What are we going to do _now_?” exclaimed Marcus, sharply, after a while.
“Well, let’s be moving along—somewhere.”
“_Where_, I’d like to know? What’s the good of moving on?”
“Wat’s the good of stopping here?”
There was a silence.
“Lord, it’s hot,” said the dentist, finally, wiping his forehead with the
back of his hand. Marcus ground his teeth.
“Done for,” he muttered; “done for.”
“I never was so thirsty,” continued McTeague. “I’m that dry I can hear my
tongue rubbing against the roof of my mouth.”
“Well, we can’t stop here,” said Marcus, finally; “we got to go
somewhere. We’ll try and get back, but it ain’t no manner of use.
Anything we want to take along with us from the mule? We can—”
Suddenly he paused. In an instant the eyes of the two doomed men had met
as the same thought simultaneously rose in their minds. The canvas sack
with its five thousand dollars was still tied to the horn of the saddle.
Marcus had emptied his revolver at the mule, and though he still wore his
cartridge belt, he was for the moment as unarmed as McTeague.
“I guess,” began McTeague, coming forward a step, “I guess even if we are
done for, I’ll take—some of my truck along.”
“Hold on,” exclaimed Marcus, with rising aggressiveness. “Let’s talk
about that. I ain’t so sure about who that—who that money belongs to.”
“Well, I _am_, you see,” growled the dentist.
The old enmity between the two men, their ancient hate, was flaming up
again.
“Don’t try an’ load that gun either,” cried McTeague, fixing Marcus with
his little eyes.
“Then don’t lay your finger on that sack,” shouted the other. “You’re
my prisoner, do you understand? You’ll do as I say.” Marcus had drawn
the handcuffs from his pocket, and stood ready with his revolver held as
a club. “You soldiered me out of that money once, and played me for a
sucker, an’ it’s _my_ turn now. Don’t you lay your finger on that sack.”
Marcus barred McTeague’s way, white with passion. McTeague did not
answer. His eyes drew to two fine, twinkling points, and his enormous
hands knotted themselves into fists, hard as wooden mallets. He moved a
step nearer to Marcus, then another.
Suddenly the men grappled, and in another instant were rolling and
struggling upon the hot, white ground. McTeague thrust Marcus backward
until he tripped and fell over the body of the dead mule. The little
bird-cage broke from the saddle with the violence of their fall, and
rolled out upon the ground, the flour-bags slipping from it. McTeague
tore the revolver from Marcus’s grip and struck out with it blindly.
Clouds of alkali dust, fine and pungent, enveloped the two fighting men,
all but strangling them.
McTeague did not know how he killed his enemy, but all at once Marcus
grew still beneath his blows. Then there was a sudden last return of
energy. McTeague’s right wrist was caught, something clicked upon it,
then the struggling body fell limp and motionless with a long breath.
As McTeague rose to his feet, he felt a pull at his right wrist;
something held it fast. Looking down, he saw that Marcus in that last
struggle had found strength to handcuff their right wrists together.
Marcus was dead now; McTeague was locked to the body. All about him,
vast, interminable, stretched the measureless leagues of Death Valley.
McTeague remained stupidly looking around him, now at the distant
horizon, now at the ground, now at the half-dead canary chittering
feebly in its little gilt prison.—Arranged from “McTeague.” Copyright by
_Doubleday, Page & Co._, New York, and used by kind permission.
MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR
BY JULES VERNE
The door of the imperial cabinet was opened and General Kissoff was
announced.
“The courier?” inquired the Czar eagerly.
“He is here, sire,” replied General Kissoff.
“Let him come in,” said the Czar.
In a few moments Michael Strogoff, the courier, entered. The Czar fixed a
penetrating look upon him without uttering a word. Then in an abrupt tone—
“Thy name?”
“Michael Strogoff, sire.”
“Thy rank?”
“Captain in the corps of Couriers to the Czar.”
“Thou dost know Siberia?”
“I am a Siberian.”
“A native of—?”
“Omsk, sire.”
“Hast thou relations there?”
“Yes, sire, my aged mother.”
The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter
which he held in his hand:
“Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into
the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no one but him.”
“I will deliver it, sire.”
“The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious
country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this
letter.”
“I will traverse it.”
“Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet
thee on the way.”
“I will beware of him.”
“Wilt thou pass through Omsk?”
“Sire, that is my route.”
“If thou dost see thy mother, there will be the risk of being recognized.
Thou must not see her!”
Michael Strogoff hesitated a moment, and then said:
“I will not see her.”
“Swear to me that nothing will make thee acknowledge who thou art, nor
whither thou art going.”
“I swear it.”
“Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all
Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke.”
“This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke.”
“Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your native land.”
The courier saluted his sovereign and that very night set out to fulfill
his perilous mission. All went well until he reached Omsk. Compelled
to stop here for food and a change of horses, he was about to leave
the posting house to continue his journey when suddenly a cry made him
tremble—a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul—and these two
words rushed into his ear: “My son!”
His mother, the old woman, Marfa, was before him! Trembling, she smiled
upon him and stretched forth her arms to him. Michael Strogoff stepped
forward; he was about to throw himself—when the thought of duty, the
serious danger to himself, and his mother, in this unfortunate meeting,
stopped him, and so great was his self-command that not a muscle of
his face moved. There were twenty people in the public room, and among
them perhaps spies, and was it not known that the son of Marfa Strogoff
belonged to the corps of Couriers to the Czar? Michael Strogoff did not
move.
“Michael!” cried his mother.
“Who are you, my good woman?”
“Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?”
“You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you.”
Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said: “Art thou
not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?”
Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms.
But if he yielded now it was all over with him, with her, with his
mission, with his oath. Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes
that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother.
“I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman.”
“Michael!”
“My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Kopanoff, a
merchant of Irkutsk.”
And suddenly he left the room, while for the last time the words echoed
in his ears,—
“My son! My son!”
Michael Strogoff by a desperate effort had gone. He did not heed his
old mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate on a bench. But when
the postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself.
Suddenly the thought occurred to her: She denied by her own son. It was
impossible! As for being deceived, it was equally impossible. It was
certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not recognized
her it was because he had some strong reason for acting thus. And then,
her mother-feelings arising within her, she had only one thought: Can I
unwittingly have ruined him?
“I am mad,” she said to her interrogators. “This young man was not my
son; he had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall
end in finding him everywhere.”
This scene, however, was immediately reported to Ivan Ogareff, who was
stationed in the town. He at once arrested Michael Strogoff, and then
had Marfa brought before him. Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew
herself up, crossed her arms on her breast, and waited. “You are Marfa
Strogoff?” asked Ogareff.
“Yes.”
“Do you retract what you said a few hours ago?”
“No.”
“Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, Courier to the
Czar, has passed through Omsk?”
“I do not know it.”
“And the man whom you thought you recognized as your son was not your
son?”
“He was not my son.”
“And since then, you have seen him among the prisoners?”
“No.”
“If he were pointed out to you, would you recognize him?”
“No.”
“Listen! Your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to me.”
“No.”
“All these men will file before you, and if you do not show me Michael
Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows from the knout as men shall
have passed before you.”
On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one by one past Marfa,
who was immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect
indifference. Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms of
his hands bled under the nails which were pressed into the flesh.
Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. Her
dress torn off left her back bare. A saber was placed before her breast
at a few inches’ distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings, her breast
would be pierced by the sharp steel. The Tartar drew himself up and
waited.
“Begin,” said Ogareff.
The whip whistled through the air, but, before it fell, a powerful hand
stopped the Tartar’s arm. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.
“Michael Strogoff!” cried he.
“Himself!” said Michael, and raising the knout, he struck Ogareff a blow
across the face.
“Blow for blow!” said he.
Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and in another instant he
would have been slain, but Ogareff stopped them.
“This man is reserved for the Emir’s judgment. Search him.”
The letter bearing the imperial arms was found in Michael’s bosom; he had
not time to destroy it. It was handed to Ogareff. Michael was then led
before the Emir.
“Your forehead to the ground!” exclaimed Ogareff.
“No!”
Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were themselves laid on the
ground by a blow from Michael’s fist.
“Who is this prisoner?” asked the Emir.
“A Russian spy,” answered Ogareff.
In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be
terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then
he pointed to the Koran, which was brought to him. He opened the sacred
book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in a loud voice a
verse ending in these words: “And he shall no more see the things of this
earth.”
“Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp;
then look while you may! You have seen for the last time. In an instant
your eyes will be for ever shut to the light of day.”
Michael’s fate was to be not death, but blindness. He was going to be
blinded in the Tartar fashion, with a hot saber-blade passed before his
eyes.
The Emir’s orders executed, Ivan Ogareff approached Michael, drew from
his pocket the Imperial letter, opened it and held it up before the face
of the Czar’s courier, saying with supreme irony:
“Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and repeat at Irkutsk what you
have read. The true Courier of the Czar is henceforth Ivan Ogareff.”
The Emir retired with his train. Ivan followed after, and sightless
Michael was left alone to his fate. One thought possessed him. He must
somehow arrive at Irkutsk before the traitor and warn the Grand Duke of
the intended deception.
Some months later Michael Strogoff had reached his journey’s end! He was
in Irkutsk. Hastening to the governor’s palace to see the Grand Duke, he
meets in a waiting-room Ivan Ogareff, the traitor. The latter must act
quickly. Ogareff arose, and thinking he had an immeasureable advantage
over the blind man threw himself upon him. But with one hand Michael
grasps the arm of his enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers
himself together like a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word.
The noise of his footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from
the blind man. At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast
at Michael’s breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man’s knife
turns aside the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second
attack. Cold drops stand on Ogareff’s brow; he draws back a step and
again leaps forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael’s
knife has parried the blow from the traitor’s useless sword. Mad with
rage and terror, he gazes into the wide-open eyes of the blind man. Those
eyes which seem to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which do not,
cannot, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him.
Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: “He sees! He sees!”
“Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes
saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor and
coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your life!
It is a duel I offer you! My knife against your sword!”
Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but, mustering up all his courage,
he springs forward. The two blades cross, but at a touch from Michael’s
knife the sword flies in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart,
falls lifeless to the ground.
At the same moment the door is thrown open, and the Grand Duke,
accompanied by some of his officers, enters. The Grand Duke advances. In
the body lying on the ground he recognizes the man whom he believes to be
the Czar’s Courier. Then in threatening voice:
“Who killed this man?”
“I,” answered Michael.
“Thy name? Who dares kill the servant of my brother, the Czar’s Courier?”
“That man, your highness, is not a Courier of the Czar! He is Ivan
Ogareff!”
“Ivan Ogareff!”
“Yes, Ivan the traitor.”
“But who are you, then?”
“Michael Strogoff.”
THE TIGER’S CAVE
AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS OF QUITO
On leaving the Indian village, we continued to wind round Chimborazo’s
wide base; but its snow-crowned head no longer shone above us in clear
brilliancy, for a dense fog was gathering gradually around it. Our guides
looked anxiously towards it, and announced their apprehensions of a
violent storm. We soon found that their fears were well founded. The fog
rapidly covered and obscured the whole of the mountain; the atmosphere
was suffocating, and yet so humid that the steelwork of our watches
was covered with rust, and the watches stopped. The river beside which
we were traveling rushed down with still greater impetuosity; and from
the clefts of the rocks which lay on the left of our path were suddenly
precipitated small rivulets that bore the roots of trees and innumerable
serpents along with them. These rivulets often came down so suddenly and
violently that we had great difficulty in preserving our footing. The
thunder at length began to roll, and resounded through the mountainous
passes with the most terrific grandeur. Then came the vivid lightning,
flash following flash—above, around, beneath—everywhere a sea of fire.
We sought a momentary shelter in a cleft of the rocks, while one of our
guides hastened forward to seek a more secure asylum. In a short time he
returned, and informed us that he had discovered a spacious cavern, which
would afford us sufficient protection from the elements. We proceeded
thither immediately, and with great difficulty, and not a little danger,
at last got into it.
The noise and raging of the storm continued with so much violence that
we could not hear the sound of our voices. I had placed myself near
the entrance of the cave, and could observe, through the opening,
which was straight and narrow, the singular scene without. The highest
cedar-trees were struck down, or bent like reeds; monkeys and parrots
lay strewed upon the ground, killed by the falling branches; the water
had collected in the path we had just passed, and hurried along it like
a mountain stream. From everything I saw I thought it extremely probable
that we should be obliged to pass some days in this cavern. When the
storm, however, had somewhat abated, our guides ventured out in order to
ascertain if it were possible to continue our journey. The cave in which
we had taken refuge was extremely dark, so that if we moved a few paces
from the entrance we could see no more than an inch before us; and we
were debating as to the propriety of leaving it, even before the Indians
came back, when we suddenly heard a singular rumbling or growling at
the farther end of the cavern, which instantly fixed all our attention.
Wharton and myself listened anxiously, but our daring and inconsiderate
young friend Lincoln, together with my huntsman, crept about upon their
hands and knees, and endeavored to discover, by groping, from whence the
sound proceeded. They had not advanced far into the cavern before we
heard them utter an exclamation of surprise; and they returned to us,
each carrying in his arms an animal singularly marked, and about the
size of a cat, seemingly of great strength and power, and furnished with
immense fangs. The eyes were of a green color; strong claws were upon
their feet; and a blood-red tongue hung out of their mouths. Wharton had
scarcely glanced at them, when he exclaimed, in consternation, “Good God!
we have come into the den of a—.” He was interrupted by a fearful cry
of dismay from our guides, who came rushing precipitately towards us,
calling out, “A tiger! a tiger!” and at the same time, with extraordinary
rapidity, they climbed up a cedar-tree, which stood at the entrance of
the cave, and hid themselves among the branches.
After the first sensation of horror and surprise, which rendered me
motionless for a moment, had subsided, I grasped my firearms. Wharton
had already regained his composure and self-possession; and he called to
us to assist him instantly in blocking up the mouth of the cave with an
immense stone, which fortunately lay near it. The sense of approaching
danger augmented our strength, for we now distinctly heard the growl of
the ferocious animal, and we were lost beyond redemption if it reached
the entrance before we could get it closed. Ere this was done, we could
distinctly see the tiger bounding towards the spot and stooping in order
to creep into his den by the narrow opening. At this fearful moment
our exertions were successful, and the great stone kept the wild beast
at bay. There was a small open space, however, left between the top of
the entrance and the stone, through which we could see the head of the
animal, illuminated by its glowing eyes, which rolled, glaring with
fury, upon us. Its frightful roaring, too, penetrated to the depths of
the cavern, and was answered by the hoarse growling of the cubs, which
Lincoln and Frank had now tossed from them. Our ferocious enemy attempted
first to remove the stone with his powerful claws, and then to push it
with his head from its place; and these efforts, proving abortive, served
only to increase his wrath. He uttered a tremendous, heart-piercing howl,
and his flaming eyes darted light into the darkness of our retreat.
“Now is the time to fire at him,” said Wharton, with his usual calmness;
“aim at his eyes; the ball will go through his brain, and we shall then
have a chance to get rid of him.”
Frank seized his double-barreled gun, and Lincoln his pistols; the
former placed the muzzle within a few inches of the tiger, and Lincoln
did the same. At Wharton’s command, they both drew the triggers at the
same moment, but no shot followed. The tiger, who seemed aware that the
flash indicated an attack upon him, sprang growling from the entrance,
but, feeling himself unhurt, immediately turned back again, and stationed
himself in his former place. The powder in both pieces was wet. Frank and
Lincoln, therefore, proceeded to draw the useless charges while Wharton
and myself hastened to seek our powder-flask. It was so extremely dark
that we were obliged to grope about the cave; and, at last, coming in
contact with the cubs, we heard a rustling noise, as if they were playing
with some metal substance, which we soon discovered was the cannister we
were looking for. Most unfortunately, however, the animals had pushed off
the lid with their claws, and the powder had been strewed over the damp
earth and rendered entirely useless. This fearful discovery excited the
greatest consternation.
“All is now over,” said Wharton. “We have only now to choose whether we
shall die of hunger, together with these animals who are shut up along
with us, or open the entrance to the blood-thirsty monster without, and
so make a quicker end of the matter.”
So saying, he placed himself close beside the stone, which, for the
moment, defended us, and looked undauntedly upon the lightning eyes of
the tiger.
Lincoln raved and swore; and Frank took a piece of strong cord from his
pocket and hastened to the farther end of the cave—I knew not with what
design. We soon, however, heard a low, stifled groaning; and the tiger,
who had heard it also, became more restless and disturbed than ever. He
went backwards and forwards before the entrance of the cave, in the most
wild, impetuous manner, then stood still, and stretching out his neck in
the direction of the forest, broke forth into a deafening howl. Our two
Indian guides took advantage of this opportunity to discharge several
arrows from the tree. The animal was struck more than once, but the light
weapons bounded back harmless from his thick skin. At length, however,
one of them struck him near the eye, and the arrow remained sticking in
the wound. He now broke anew into the wildest fury, and sprang at the
tree, and tore it with his claws, as if he would have dragged it to the
ground. But, having at length succeeded in getting rid of the arrow,
became more calm, and laid himself down as before in front of the cave.
Frank now returned from the lower end of the den, and a glance showed
us what he had been doing. In each hand, and dangling from the end of
a string, were the two cubs. He had strangled them, and before we were
aware what he intended, he threw them through the opening to the tiger.
No sooner did the animal perceive them, than he gazed earnestly upon
them, and began to examine them closely, turning them cautiously from
side to side. As soon as he became aware that they were dead, he uttered
so piercing a howl of sorrow that we were obliged to put our hands to our
ears. When I upbraided my huntsman for the cruel action he had so rashly
committed, I perceived by his blunt and abrupt answers that he also had
lost all hope of rescue from our impending fate, and, that, under these
circumstances, the ties between master and servant were dissolved. For
my own part, without knowing why, I could not help believing that some
unexpected assistance would yet rescue us from so horrible a fate. Alas!
I little anticipated the sacrifice that my rescue was to cost.
The thunder had now ceased, and the storm had sunk to a gentle gale;
the songs of the birds were again heard in the neighboring forest, and
the sunbeams sparkled in the drops that hung from the leaves. We saw
through the aperture that all nature was reviving after the wild war of
elements which had so recently taken place; but the contrast only made
our situation the more terrible. We were in a grave from which there
was no deliverance; and a monster, worse than the fabled Cerberus, kept
watch over us. The tiger had laid himself down beside his whelps. He
was a beautiful animal, of great size and strength, and his limbs being
stretched out at their full length, displayed his immense power of
muscle. A double row of great teeth stood far enough apart to show his
large red tongue, from which the white foam fell in large drops. All at
once, another roar was heard at a distance, and the tiger immediately
rose and answered it with a mournful howl. At the same instant, our
Indians uttered a shriek, which announced that some new danger threatened
us. A few moments confirmed our worst fears, for another tiger, not quite
so large as the former, came rapidly towards the spot where we were.
“This enemy will prove more cruel than the other,” said Wharton; “for
this is the female, and she knows no pity for those who deprive her of
her young.”
The howls which the tigress gave when she had examined the bodies of
her cubs, surpassed everything of the horrible that we had yet heard;
and the tiger mingled his mournful cries with hers. Suddenly her roaring
was lowered to a hoarse growling, and we saw her anxiously stretch out
her head, extend her wide and smoking nostrils, and look as if she were
determined to discover immediately the murderers of her young. Her eyes
quickly fell upon us, and she made a spring forward with the intention of
penetrating to our place of refuge. Perhaps she might have been enabled
by her immense strength to push away the stone, had we not, with all our
united power, held it against her. When she found that all her efforts
were fruitless she rejoined the tiger, who lay stretched beside his cubs,
and he arose and added his howls to her hollow roarings. They stood
together for a few moments, as if in consultation, and then suddenly went
off at a rapid pace, and disappeared from our sight. Their howling died
away in the distance, and then entirely ceased. We now began to entertain
better hopes of our condition; but Wharton shook his head.
“Do not flatter yourselves,” said he, “with the belief that these animals
will let us escape out of their sight till they have had their revenge.
The hours we have to live are numbered.”
Nevertheless, there still appeared a chance for our rescue, for, to our
surprise, we saw both our Indians standing before the entrance, and heard
them call to us to seize the only possibility of our yet saving ourselves
by instant flight, for that the tigers had only gone round the height to
seek another inlet to the cave, with which they were no doubt acquainted.
In the greatest haste the stone was pushed aside, and we stepped forth
from what we had considered a living grave. Wharton was the last who left
it; he was unwilling to lose his double-barreled gun, and stopped to take
it up; the rest of us only thought of making our escape. We now heard
once more the roaring of the tigers, though at a distance; and, following
the example of our guides, we precipitately struck into a sidepath.
From the number of roots and branches of trees with which the storm had
strewed our way, and the slipperiness of the road, our flight was slow
and difficult. Wharton, though an active seaman, had a heavy step, and
had great difficulty in keeping pace with us, and we were often obliged
to slacken our own on his account.
We had proceeded thus for about a quarter of an hour, when we found that
our way led along the edge of a rocky cliff, with innumerable fissures.
We had just entered upon it, when suddenly the Indians, who were before
us, uttered one of their piercing shrieks, and we immediately became
aware that the tigers were in pursuit of us. Urged by despair, we rushed
towards the breaks, or gulfs, in our way, over which was thrown a bridge
of reeds, that sprang up and down at every step, and could be trodden
with safety by the light foot of the Indians alone. Deep in the hollow
below rushed an impetuous stream, and a thousand pointed and jagged rocks
threatened destruction on every side. Lincoln, my huntsman, and myself,
passed over the chasm in safety; but Wharton was still in the middle
of the waving bridge, and endeavoring to steady himself, when both the
tigers were seen to issue from the adjoining forest; and, the moment they
descried us they bounded towards us with dreadful roarings. Meanwhile,
Wharton had nearly gained the safe side of the gulf, and we were all
clambering the rocky cliff, except Lincoln, who remained at the reedy
bridge to assist his friend to step upon firm ground. Wharton, though the
ferocious animals were close upon him, never lost his courage or presence
of mind.
As soon as he had gained the edge of the cliff, he knelt down, and, with
the edge of his sword, divided the fastenings by which the bridge was
attached to the rock. He expected an effectual barrier would thus be put
to the farther progress of our pursuers; but he was mistaken; for he had
scarcely accomplished his task, when the tigress, without a moment’s
pause, rushed towards the chasm, and attempted to bound over. It was a
fearful sight to see the mighty animal, suspended for a moment in the
air above the abyss; but the scene passed like a flash of lightning.
Her strength was not equal to the distance; she fell into the gulf,
and before she reached the bottom, was torn into a thousand pieces by
the jagged points of the rocks. Her fate did not in the least dismay
her companion; he followed her with an immense spring, and reached the
opposite side, but only with his fore-claws, and thus he clung to the
edge of the precipice, endeavoring to gain a footing. The Indians again
uttered a wild shriek, as if all hope had been lost. But Wharton, who
was nearest to the edge of the rock, advanced courageously towards the
tiger, and struck his sword into the animal’s breast. Enraged beyond all
measure, the wild beast collected all his strength, and with a violent
effort, fixing one of his hind-legs upon the edge of the cliff, he seized
Wharton by the thigh. The heroic man still preserved his fortitude; he
grasped the trunk of à tree with his left hand, to steady and support
himself, while with his right he wrenched and violently turned the sword
that was still in the breast of the tiger.
All this was the work of an instant. The Indians, Frank, and myself
hastened to his assistance; but Lincoln, who was already at his side,
had seized Wharton’s gun, which lay near by, upon the ground, and struck
so powerful a blow with the butt-end upon the head of the tiger, that the
animal, stunned and overpowered, let go his hold and fell back into the
abyss. All would have been well, had it ended thus; but the unfortunate
Lincoln had not calculated upon the force of his blow; he staggered
forward, reeled upon the edge of the precipice, extended his hand to
seize upon anything to save himself—but in vain. His foot slipped; for an
instant he hovered over the gulf, and then was plunged into it to rise no
more!—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._
WHALE HUNTING
BY J. ROSS BROWNE
“There she blows!” was sung out from the mast-head.
“Where away?” demanded the captain.
“Three points off the lee bow, sir.”
“Raise up your wheel. Steady!”
“Steady, sir.”
“Mast-head, ahoy! Do you see that whale now?”
“Aye, aye, sir! A school of sperm whales! There she blows! There she
breaches!”
“Sing out! Sing out every time!”
“Aye, aye, sir! There she blows! There—there—thar’ she
blows—blowes—blo-o-o-s!”
“How far off!”
“Two miles and a half!”
“Thunder and lightning! so near! Call all hands! Clew up the
fore-t’gallant-sail—there! belay! Hard down your wheel! Haul aback the
main yard! Get your tubs in your boats! Bear a hand! Clear your falls!
Stand by all to lower! All ready?”
“All ready, sir!”
“Lower away!”
Down went the boats with a splash. Each boat’s crew sprang over the rail,
and in an instant the larboard, starboard and waist boats were manned.
There was great rivalry in getting the start. The waist-boat got off in
pretty good time; and away went all three, dashing the water high over
their bows. Nothing could be more exciting than the chase.
The larboard boat, commanded by the mate, and the waist-boat, by the
second mate, were head and head.
“Give way, my lads, give way!” shouted our headsman; “we gain on them;
give way! A long, steady stroke! That’s the way to tell it!”
“Aye, aye!” cried Tabor, our boat-steerer. “What d’ye say, boys? Shall we
lick ’em?”
“Pull! pull like vengeance!” echoed the crew; and we danced over the
waves, scarcely seeming to touch them.
The chase was now truly soul-stirring. Sometimes the larboard, then the
starboard, then the waist-boat took the lead. It was a severe trial of
skill and muscle. After we had run two miles at this rate, the whales
turned flukes, going dead to windward.
“Now for it, my lads!” cried our headsman. “We’ll have them the next
rising. Now pile it on! a long, steady pull! That’s it! Don’t give out!
Half an hour more, and they’re our whales!”
The other boats had veered off at either side of us, and continued the
chase with renewed ardor. In about half an hour we lay on our oars to
look around for the whales.
“There she blows! right ahead!” shouted Tabor, fairly dancing with
delight.
“There she blows! There she blows!”
“Oh, Lord, boys, spring!” cried our headsman.
“Spring it is! What d’ye say, now, chummies? Shall we take those whales?”
To this general appeal every man replied by putting his weight on his
oar, and exerting his utmost strength. The boat flew through the water
with incredible swiftness, scarcely rising to the waves.
A large bull whale lay about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, lazily
rolling in the trough of the sea. The larboard and starboard boats were
far to leeward of us, tugging hard to get a chance at the other whales,
which were now blowing in every direction.
“Give way! give way, my hearties!” cried our headsman, putting his weight
against the aft oar. “Do you love gin? A bottle of gin to the best man!
Oh, pile it on while you have breath! pile it on!”
“On with the beef, chummies! Smash every oar! double ’em up, or break
’em!”
“Every devil’s imp of you, pull! No talking; lay back to it; now or
never!”
On dashed the boat, cleaving its way through the rough sea as if the
briny element were blue smoke. The whale, however, turned flukes before
we could reach him. When he appeared again above the surface of the
water, it was evident that he had milled while down, by which maneuver
he gained on us nearly a mile. The chase was now almost hopeless, as he
was making to windward rapidly. A heavy, black cloud was on the horizon,
portending an approaching squall, and the barque was fast fading from
sight. Still we were not to be baffled by discouraging circumstances of
this kind, and we braced our sinews for a grand and final effort.
“Never give up, my lads!” said the headsman, in a cheering voice. “Mark
my words, we’ll have that whale yet. Only think he’s ours, and there’s no
mistake about it, he will be ours. Now for a hard, steady pull! Give way!”
“Give way, sir! Give way, all!”
“There she blows! Oh, pull my lively lads! Only a mile off! There she
blows!”
The wind by this time had increased almost to a gale, and the heavy black
clouds were scattering over us far and wide. Part of the squall had
passed off to leeward and entirely concealed the barque. Our situation
was rather unpleasant: in a rough sea, the other boats out of sight, and
each moment the wind increasing.
We continued to strain every muscle till we were hard upon the whale.
Tabor sprang to the bow, and stood by with the harpoon.
“Softly, softly, my lads,” said the headsman.
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Hush-h-h! softly. Now’s your time, Tabor!”
Tabor let fly the harpoon, and buried the iron.
“Give him another!”
“Aye, aye! Stern all!”
“Stern all!” thundered the headsman.
“Stern all!”
And, as we rapidly backed from the whale, he flung his tremendous flukes
high in the air, covering us with a cloud of spray. He then sounded,
making the line whiz as it passed through the chocks. When he rose to the
surface again, we hauled up, and the second mate stood ready in the bow
to dispatch him with lances.
“Spouting blood!” said Tabor. “He’s a dead whale! He won’t need much
lancing.”
It was true enough; for, before the officer could get within dart of him,
he commenced his dying struggles. The sea was crimsoned with his blood.
By the time we had reached him, he was belly up. We lay upon our oars
a moment to witness his last throes, and, when he had turned his head
toward the sun, a loud, simultaneous cheer burst from every lip.
A low, rumbling sound, like the roar of a distant waterfall, now reached
our ears. Each moment it grew louder.
The whole expansive arch of the heavens became dark with clouds tossing,
flying, swelling, and whirling over and over, like the surges of an angry
sea. A white cloud, gleaming against the black mass behind it, came
sweeping toward us, stretching forth its long, white arms, as if to grasp
us in its fatal embrace. Louder and still louder it growled; yet the
air was still and heavy around us. Now the white cloud spread, whirled
over, and lost its hoary head; now it wore the mane and forefeet of a
lion; now the heads of a dragon, with their tremendous jaws extended.
Writhing, hissing, roaring, it swept toward us. The demon of wrath could
not have assumed a more frightful form. The whole face of the ocean was
hidden in utter darkness, save within a circle of a few hundred yards.
Our little boat floated on a sea almost unruffled by a breath of wind.
The heavy swell rolled lazily past us; yet a death-like calmness reigned
in the air. Beyond the circle all was strife; within, all peace. We
gazed anxiously in each other’s faces; but not a word was spoken. Even
the veteran harpooner looked upon the clouds with a face of unusual
solemnity, as we lay upon our oars, awed to silence by the sublimity of
the scene. The ominous stillness of everything within the circle became
painful. For many long minutes the surface of the water remained nearly
smooth. We dreaded, but longed for a change. This state of suspense was
growing intolerable. I could hear the deep, long-drawn respirations
of those around me; I saw the quick, anxious glances they turned to
windward; and I almost fancied I could read every thought that passed
within their breasts.