CHAPTER I

The Viking's Skull

[Illustration]

The Viking's Skull

By

John R. Carling

_Author of "The Shadow of the Czar," etc., etc._

Boston

Little, Brown, and Company

1904

_Copyright, 1903, 1904_

BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

_All rights reserved_

Published March, 1904

HUBLEY PRINTING CO. L'T'D

TYPESETTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS

YORK, PA., U. S. A.

PRESSWORK BY

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER PAGE

I. "THE ENGLISH LADY" 1

II. THE RUNIC RING 11

III. A RETROSPECT 18

IV. TRAGEDY! 26

THE STORY

I. THE RAVENGARS OF RAVENHALL 44

II. THE MYSTERY OF THE RELIQUARY 57

III. IDRIS REDIVIVUS 70

IV. THE SECRET OF THE RUNIC RING 82

V. "THE SHADOW OF THE OFT-CARRIED THRONE" 92

VI. "THE FIRES OF THE ASAS!" 106

VII. "WITHIN THE LOFTY TOMB" 119

VIII. LORELIE RIVIÈRE 132

IX. IDRIS MEETS A RIVAL 150

X. A LITTLE PIECE OF STEEL 165

XI. THE LEGEND OF THE RUNIC RING 178

XII. IDRIS DECLARES HIS LOVE 197

XIII. AT LORELIE'S VILLA 209

XIV. TOLD BY THE VASE 232

XV. A PACKET OF OLD LETTERS 245

XVI. LORELIE AT RAVENHALL 264

XVII. THE SECRET OF THE FUNERAL CRYPT 277

XVIII. A CRANIOLOGICAL EXPERIMENT 300

XIX. THE VENGEANCE OF THE SKULL 318

XX. FINALE 344

List of Illustrations

"The humming sea, as if bent on securing its victims,

came foaming with threatening rapidity" _Frontispiece_

"A dagger flashed from beneath his cloak" _Page_ 33

"A cry of surprise, rather than of alarm, broke from

him, as he caught sight of a full-sized human skeleton

lying within" " 123

"'By the sacred ring of Odin, stolen by you from

Edith Breakspear, I adjure you, speak! Whose

skull is this?'" " 336

THE VIKING'S SKULL

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

"THE ENGLISH LADY"

On one of the granitic peninsulas of Western Brittany stands the

little town of Quilaix, situated in a hollow facing the sea. To the

ordinary tourist the place presents few features of interest beyond

its ivy-mantled church, whose doors bear the counterfeit presentment

of fishes carved in oak: which fact, when added to the name of the

edifice--_La Chapelle des Pêcheurs_--serves to indicate the general

occupation of the inhabitants.

For the convenience of the fisher-folk an L-shaped stone pier has been

raised in the sea. The duty of watching over this structure, whose

stability was often threatened by the fury of the Atlantic, pertained

to Paul Marais, familiarly known as "Old Pol," who, to his office of

harbour-master added likewise that of collector of the customs.

Paul Marais dwelt in the street called, perhaps by way of satire,

La Grande. His house was a quaint mixture of timber and stone, with

dormer lattices set in the red tiles of the roof. It leaned against its

neighbour for support, with every doorway and window-frame out of the

perpendicular. Yet it had stood firm during three centuries, and would

probably continue to stand during as many more.

One chill afternoon in March Old Pol was sauntering to and fro in

front of his house, thoughtfully smoking a pipe. After half an hour

spent in this pleasant idling he suddenly quickened his pace and

entered his abode, passing to the parlour with its red-tiled sanded

floor, where, around the bright polished _chaufferette_ sat Madame

Marais and three or four old dames, all busily knitting, and all

enjoying those pleasures dear to the heart of every Breton woman, to

wit, cider and gossip.

"Celestine," said Pol, "the diligence is coming."

"Paul Marais," replied his wife with tart dignity, "don't be a fool."

And Pol, expecting no other answer, whistled softly and withdrew.

To explain madame's reproof it is necessary to state that two or three

years previously a gentleman calling himself a count had visited

Quilaix, and, charmed with the old-world air of the place, had dwelt in

Pol's house for the space of six months.

The handsome profit derived by Pol on this occasion disposed him to

look forward to the coming of other visitors: but, alas! Quilaix is too

obscure to be mentioned in the ordinary manuals issued for the guidance

of tourists. The count's sojourn was an exception to the normal course

of events.

Nevertheless Pol would not abandon hope; and, day by day, he awaited

the arrival of the diligence, for the purpose of inviting the chance

stranger to his own dwelling, before any other person should have the

opportunity of appropriating him.

"Everything comes to the man who waits," muttered Pol to himself, as he

watched the distant vehicle swaying its zigzag course down the hillside

road. "This diligence is perhaps bringing me a visitor. Who can tell?"

Twilight drew on; and, as the lamplighter was preparing the

illumination of La Rue Grande by the primitive method of fixing an

oil-lantern to the middle of a rope slung across the street, the

diligence came up, but instead of going on as usual to the _auberge_ in

the little market square, the driver stopped short in front of Pol's

house, and there alighted a young lady accompanied by a little boy, a

child of two years.

"Madame Marais lives here?" she asked with an inquiring glance at Pol.

"My wife's name," replied Pol. He pocketed his pipe, doffed his

cap, and bowed profoundly. "Permit me to lead you to her.--By the

saints," he muttered to himself, "a boarder at last, or may I lose my

harbour-mastership. Now, Celestine, it is my turn to laugh at you."

The young lady, holding the child by the hand, followed Pol to the

parlour.

"God bless you all, great and small," she said, using the greeting

customary in that part of Brittany.

"Heaven bless you, too, stranger, whoever you may be," replied all, as

they rose and curtsied.

This intercourse was conducted in the Breton tongue, the guttural

voices of Madame Marais and her companions forming a marked contrast

with the sweet voice of the stranger.

"Can one have apartments here? The _voiturier_ has assured me that one

can."

Pol, about to reply with an eager affirmative, was checked by a glance

from his more cautious spouse, who was not disposed to give herself

away too easily or too cheaply.

"It is not our custom to accommodate visitors," she replied, speaking

with great dignity. "At least, not as a rule. But still with a little

trouble we might arrange. How many rooms does madame require. Would

four be----"

"That number will do. Will you let me see them?"

After a brief inspection the lady expressed her approval, being

especially pleased with the sitting-room, an apartment marked by a

charming air of antiquity. The oak flooring and pannelling were black

with age. Within the huge fireplace an ox could have been roasted

whole. Over the carved mantel was a boar's head, a trophy gained by Pol

in a hunting expedition among the Breton hills. On a dark oaken press

an ivory crucifix, browned by time, imparted a sort of solemnity to the

place.

Terms were arranged; and the lady's luggage was brought in and

deposited up-stairs by the strong arm of Pol himself.

"How long is madame likely to remain here?" asked the harbour-master's

wife, lingering with her hand on the handle of the sitting-room door.

"Months. Years, perhaps," replied the stranger with a sad smile. "That

is," she went on, "if you are willing to let me stay so long."

"And madame's name is----?"

"Edith Breakspear."

"Breakspear? Then madame is not French?" exclaimed the harbour-master's

wife, wondering to what nationality she should ascribe the name.

"No, I am English," said the lady, with a faint touch of pride in her

voice.

"Madame speaks the Breton like an angel."

"I have lived a long time in Brittany."

"Ah! madame loves Brittany," said the other, who like all Bretons was

intensely patriotic. "The climate reminds her of her own land. We

Bretons came from England. Centuries ago. And when we came we brought

the weather with us. Is it not so?"

And with these words she smiled herself out of the room, and went

down-stairs to discuss the event with her cronies.

"She is going to pay me four Napoleons a week. Think of that now! It is

more than the count ever gave. _Ah, ciel!_ but if I had been wearing my

best Sunday cap with its point lace and gold embroidery I could have

asked double. But how could one ask more with only a plain white cap

on, and a necklace of blue beads?"

As may be guessed, the coming of a stranger into the little world of

Quilaix set the tongues of all the gossips wagging. The men were as

much interested as the women, and various were the surmises of the

nightly frequenters of the _Auberge des Pêcheurs_ as to her previous

history. But of this they could learn nothing. Mrs. Breakspear let fall

no word as to her past, and even Madame Marais' keen eyes failed to

penetrate the veil of mystery that undoubtedly hung around "The English

lady."

Mrs. Breakspear had not seen more than twenty-one summers; she was

in truth so girlish in appearance that the people of Quilaix could

scarcely bring their lips to use the matronly "Madame," but more

frequently addressed her as "Mademoiselle." It was clear that some

secret sorrow was casting its shadow over her young life. Her pale

face and subdued air, the sad expression in her eyes, were the visible

tokens of a grief, too strong to be repressed or forgotten.

As she was always dressed in black the gossips concluded that she was

in mourning, the general opinion being that she had recently lost

her husband, though a few ill-natured persons sneered at the word

"husband," in spite of her gold wedding-ring.

Mrs. Breakspear made no attempt to form friendships. Firmly, yet

without hauteur, she repelled all advances, from whatever quarter they

came. She seemed to desire no other companionship than that of her

child, Idris. He was evidently the one being that reconciled her to

life.

Thus passed five years: and Mrs. Breakspear, though still as great a

mystery as ever to the people of Quilaix, ceased to occupy the chief

place in their gossip.

Idris was now seven years old, a handsome little fellow, endowed with

an intelligence beyond his years.

His education was undertaken solely by his mother, concerning whom the

opinion went, that, in the matter of learning, she was equal, if not

superior, to Monsieur le Curé, the only other person in the place with

any pretensions to scholarship.

At the back of Quilaix rises the moorland, an extensive wind-swept

region, blossoming in early summer with the beautiful broom that

furnished our first Plantagenet with his crest and surname. Over this

brown, purple-dotted expanse run two white lines intersecting each

other in the shape of the letter X. These lines indicate the only two

roads over the moor; and, just at the point of intersection, there

stands an irregular block of grey stone buildings.

The part of the moorland immediately above the town was the usual

place of study, that is, whenever the day was warm and sunny. Then,

mother and son would climb to some high point, and seat themselves on

the grass; and while the boy, with the breeze of heaven lifting the

curls from his temples, would endeavour to fix his eyes on his books,

Mrs. Breakspear would fix hers on the grey stone building. Nothing

else on land or sea seemed to have any interest for her. The distant

and beautiful hills would often change their colour from grey to

violet beneath the alternation of sunshine and cloud: ships with their

fair sails set would glide daily from the haven of Quilaix; bands of

Catholic pilgrims, bound for some local shrine, would occasionally

cross the moorland, carrying banners and singing hymns: sea-gulls would

wheel their screaming flight aloft: trout leap and gleam in the brook

at her feet. But Mrs. Breakspear had eyes for none of these things. Her

attention, when not given to Idris and his book, was set upon the lone,

dun edifice.

On certain days human figures, dwarfed by the distance, would issue

from the building, spreading themselves in little groups over the

landscape; and, after remaining out some hours, would return upon the

firing of a gun. At such times Mrs. Breakspear would clasp her hands

and gaze wistfully on the distant moving figures.

One day her emotion was too great to escape the boy's notice: and,

following the direction of her eyes, he said, speaking in English, the

language used by them when alone:--

"Mother, what are those men doing?"

"They are quarrying stone."

"What for?"

"Well, to make churches with, for one thing," replied the mother, with

a curious smile.

"What! churches like that?"

And Idris pointed to the _Chapelle des Pêcheurs_, which glowed in the

setting sunlight like sculptured bronze.

"Yes: they quarry the stone and shape it into blocks, which are then

sent to Nantes, or Paris, or wherever wanted, and fitted together."

Idris was silent for a few moments, turning the information over in his

mind.

"They must be good men to make churches," he presently remarked.

"On the contrary, they are bad men."

Idris was puzzled at this, being evidently of opinion that the

character of the work sanctified the workers.

"Then why do they cut stone for churches?"

"Because they are made to do so by other men who watch to see that the

work is done."

Idris becoming more puzzled at this compulsory state of labour,

returned to the moral character of the workers.

"Are they _all_ bad--every one?"

"No; not all," exclaimed his mother, with an energy that quite

surprised the little fellow. "There is one there who is the best, the

truest, the noblest of men."

Her eyes sparkled, and a beautiful colour burned on her cheek. She sat

with a proud air as if defying the world to say the contrary.

"Is he as good as father was?"

"About the same," replied Mrs. Breakspear, her features softening into

a smile.

"Why, you have said that no one was ever so good as father."

"Have I? Well, this man is. There is no difference between them."

"If he is so good, why has he to work among all those bad men?"

"Some day, child, you shall know," replied his mother, folding him

within her arms. "Don't ask any more questions, Idie."

"Why doesn't he run away?" persisted the little fellow.

"Because soldiers are there, who would shoot him down if he tried to

escape," said Mrs. Breakspear with a shudder. "Come, let us be going.

It is growing cold. See how the mist is rising!"

The boom of a distant gun was rolling faintly over the moorland. A fog

creeping up from the sea curtained the prison from view as they turned

to descend the slope that led to Quilaix.

It was market-day. Buying and selling had now come to an end, but many

persons still lingered in the square, chiefly natives from remote

districts. "Robinson Crusoes," Idris called them, nor was the name

inappropriate. Clad in garments of goatskin with the hairy side

turned outwards, and with long tresses hanging like manes from beneath

their broad-brimmed hats, they might have been taken for wild men of

the woods: a wildness that was in appearance only, for no one is more

tender-hearted than the Breton peasant.

Suddenly there was a movement among them, and it could be seen

that they were forming a circle around a man who had just made his

appearance. The maidens, who were beating and washing clothes in the

stream that flowed along one side of the square, ceased their work and

came running up to the circle, their wooden sabots sounding upon the

stone pavement.

The cause of all this commotion was a man belonging to a class,

formerly more common in Brittany than nowadays, the class called Kloers

or itinerant minstrels, who recite verses of their own composing upon

any topic that happens to be uppermost in the public mind, accompanying

their rude improvisation upon the three-stringed rebec.

"It is André the Kloer," cried Idris gleefully, who had caught a

glimpse of the minstrel. "Let us listen. He will tell us some fine

stories."

The Kloer having glanced towards the ground at his hat, which contained

several sous, said:--

"For your help, friends, many thanks. I will now recite '_The Ballad of

the Ring_,' a ballad dealing with a murder that happened some years ago

at Nantes."

The minstrel spoke in the language of the province, a language which

Idris understood as well as any Breton boy of his own age. The word

"murder" gave promise of something exciting. He glanced up at his

mother, supposing that she, too, would be equally interested in the

coming story: but, to his surprise, he saw that her face had become

whiter than usual--that it wore a strange look, a look of fear, a look

he had never before seen. The hand that held his own was trembling,

and, in a voice so changed from its ordinary tone as to be scarcely

recognizable, she said:--

"Home, Idie, let us go home."

Suddenly the Kloer paused in the midst of his speaking. A tender

expression came over his face; a gentle light shone from his eyes, and

with hand solemnly uplifted, he said:--

"Christian brethren, ere we go further let us all say a _Pater_ and a

_De Profundis_ for the assassin as well as for his victim."

In a moment his hearers with spontaneous and genuine piety were

kneeling upon the pavement, their heads bowed, their hats doffed, while

the Kloer, after making the sign of the cross, began to say the prayers.

As Idris and his mother alone remained standing the attention of the

minstrel was naturally drawn to them. No sooner did his eyes fall upon

Mrs. Breakspear than a change came over him. His look of solemnity was

succeeded by one of wonderment, and after stammering out a few broken

phrases, which, though intended as pious petitions to Heaven, conveyed

scarcely any meaning to his hearers, he brought his prayer to an abrupt

conclusion.

"Good folk," he cried, "I will not give you '_The Ballad of the Ring_.'

It is too mournful. It would sadden the hearts of some who are present."

Mrs. Breakspear tightened her grasp on the wrist of Idris, and, much to

his grief, drew him away from the presence of the Kloer, and hurried

him onward to Pol's house.

CHAPTER II

THE RUNIC RING

That same evening Idris lay reading on the hearth-rug before a bright

fire. Since their return from the moorland he had found his mother

unusually quiet, and he had therefore turned for companionship to his

favourite book, "_The Life of King Alfred_." Having reared the volume

against a footstool he rested his elbows upon the floor, and his chin

upon his hands, and in this attitude was soon absorbed in the doings of

the Saxon hero.

Suddenly he looked up and addressed his mother, who was sitting in an

armchair watching him.

"Mother, what are runes?"

What was there in this simple question to startle Mrs. Breakspear, for

startled she certainly was?

"Why do you wish to know? Who has been talking to you about runes?"

"This book says that the Vikings used to carve runes on the prows of

their galleys. What _are_ runes?"

The mother's face lost its look of alarm, yet it was with some

hesitancy that she replied, "They were letters used in olden times by

the nations of the north."

"But how could letters carved on the prow protect the vessel?"

What a pair of earnest dark eyes were those fixed that moment upon the

mother's face!

"Well, as a matter of fact, they couldn't. But men fancied that they

could. They were very superstitious in those days."

As Idris showed a desire for further knowledge, his mother

continued:--"The old Norsemen believed that these letters when

pronounced in a certain order would have a magical effect. Some runes

would stop the course of the wind: others would cause an enemy's sword

to break. Some would make the captive's chains fall off: and others

again would cause the dead to come forth from the tomb and speak. But

you know, dear Idie, all this is not true. The runic letters have no

such power. But the old Norse people believed so much in the virtue

of these characters that they engraved them on the walls of their

dwellings, on their armour, on their ships, on anything, in fact, which

they wished to protect."

"Were these letters like ours in shape?"

"Very different. You would like to see some Norse runes?"

Mrs. Breakspear rose, and going to an oak press produced a small ebony

casket, whose exterior was decorated with miniature carvings of Norse

warriors engaged in combat.

Seating herself upon the hearth-rug beside the little fellow she

unlocked the casket and lifted the lid. Within, upon the blue satin

lining, there lay a silver ring, measuring about eight inches in

circumference, and obviously of antique workmanship.

"This," said Mrs. Breakspear, "is a very old runic ring."

"How old?"

"More than two thousand years old. Tradition says that it was made by

Odin himself. Do you know who he was, Idie?"

"The book calls him an imaginary deity. What does that mean?"

"It means a god who never lived."

"Then how can the ring have been made by Odin if there never was an

Odin?"

"Odin, the god, is, of course, a fable; but Odin, the man, may have

had a real existence. He was, so the wise tell us, a warrior, priest,

and king of the North, who after death was worshipped as a deity.

The legend states that, having made up his mind to die, Odin gave to

himself nine wounds in the form of a circle, guiding the point of his

spear by this ring, which was laid on his breast for that purpose. The

ring thus became sacred in the eyes of his children and descendants:

and they showed their reverence for it by using it as an altar-ring in

their religious ceremonies. Guthrum, the famous Danish warrior, was of

Odin's race, and this is said to have been the identical holy ring,

celebrated in history, upon which he and his Vikings swore to quit the

kingdom of Alfred."

Idris listened with breathless interest. Guthrum! Alfred! Odin! To

think that his mother should possess a ring that had once belonged to

these exalted characters! It was wonderful! If the relic were gifted

with memory and speech what an interesting story it might unfold!

He turned the ring over in his hands. How massive it was! None of your

modern, hollow bangles, but solid and weighty. The ancient silversmith

had not been sparing of the metal.

"Oh, couldn't we make a lot of franc-pieces out of it!" cried Idris.

The outer perimeter of the ring was enamelled with purple, and

decorated with a four-line inscription of tiny runic letters in gold,

so clear and distinct in outline, that a runologist would have had no

difficulty in reading them; though whether the characters, when read,

would have yielded any meaning, is a different matter.

"Are these the runes?" asked Idris, pointing to them. "What funny

looking things! Here is one like an arrow, and here it is again, and

again. Why, some of them _are_ like our letters. Here is one like a B,

and here is an R, and an X. What does all this writing mean, mother?"

"No one has ever yet been able to interpret it. When you are older,

Idie, you shall study runes, and then perhaps you will be able to

explain the meaning."

Idris knitted his little brows over the inscription as if desirous of

solving the enigma there and then, without waiting till manhood's days.

"Did Odin engrave these letters?" he asked.

"He may have done so. He is said to have been the inventor of runes,

you know."

As Idris turned the ring around in his hand his eye became attracted by

a broad, black stain on the inner perimeter.

"What is this dark mark?"

His mother hesitated ere replying:--

"It is perhaps a blood-stain."

"Why isn't it red like blood?"

"A blood-stain soon turns black. I have said that this was an

altar-ring. Let me tell you what is meant by that. You know if you go

into _La Chapelle des Pêcheurs_ you will see upon the altar a--what,

Idie?"

"A crucifix," was the prompt reply.

"Well, if you had gone into any temple of the Northmen--and their

temples were often nothing more than a circle of tall stones in the

depth of a forest--you would have seen on their altar a large silver

ring. And just as Catholics nowadays kiss a crucifix and swear to speak

the truth, so in old Norse times men employed a ring for the same

purpose. Before they took the oath the ring was dipped in the blood of

the sacrifice. Then if a man broke his word it was believed that the

god to whom the sacrifice had been offered would most surely punish

him."

The book that Idris had been reading contained an account of the Norse

mode of sacrificing: and so with his eye still on the dark stain, he

said:--

"Mother, didn't the old Norsemen sometimes offer up men on their

altars?"

"Sometimes they did."

"Then this stain may be a man's blood?"

"It is very likely."

"Perhaps the very blood of Odin, made when he gave himself the nine

wounds," said Idris, in a tone of glee, and fascinated by the ring, as

children often are fascinated by things gruesome. "What a long time the

stain has lasted! But it can't be Odin's blood," he continued, with

an air of mournfulness: "the stain would have worn off long ago.--I

_would_ like to know whose blood it is!"

"Hush! Hush! We do not yet know that it _is_ human blood. Come, you

must not talk any more about such dreadful things."

And sensible that the conversation had taken a turn not at all suited

to a tender mind, Mrs. Breakspear tried to divert his thoughts. Putting

away the altar-ring, she seated herself beside him, and drawing

him partly within her embrace, she said, "Now what shall I talk

about?"--which was her usual preface when beginning his instruction in

history, geography, and the like.

"Tell me about Vikings--_all_ about them," he replied with the air of

one capable of taking in the whole cycle of Scandinavian lore.

As Mrs. Breakspear had made a study of Northern history, she was able

to gratify her little son's request by regaling him with a variety of

tales drawn from Icelandic sagas and early Saxon chronicles. For more

than two hours Idris sat entranced, listening to the doings, good and

bad, of the famous sea-kings of old.

"I wish," he cried, when his mother had finished her stories for the

night, "I wish _I_ were a Viking, like _Mr._ Rollo and _Mr_. Eric the

Red. It would be fine."

For several days Idris would listen to no history that did not relate

to Vikings. He took likewise to drawing Norse galleys from his

mother's description of them, giving to every vessel the orthodox

raven-standard, dragon-prow, and a row of shields hung all around above

the water-line. And he somewhat startled the good Curé of Quilaix, who

had made a morning-call upon Mrs. Breakspear: for when told to hand the

reverend gentleman a glass of wine, he held the drink aloft with the

cry of "Skoal to the Northland, skoal!" adding immediately afterwards,

"Runes! runes! I wish some one would teach me how to read runes. Won't

you, monsieur?"

Runes! Monsieur le Curé had had a reputation for scholarship once

upon a time: but thirty years incessantly spent in doing good among

the people of his parish had left him so little time for study that

he could now read his Greek Testament only by the aid of the French

translation.

"And why do you wish to learn runes, my little man?" he said, patting

the boy on the head.

"Because--because----" began Idris; but, observing that his mother was

pressing her finger upon her lip as a sign for him to be silent, he

stopped short, and Mrs. Breakspear adroitly turned the conversation to

other matters. After the departure of the Curé, she said:--

"Idie, you must never let any one know that we have that runic ring in

our possession."

"Why not?" he asked in surprise.

"Because there are men who desire to lay their hands upon it, and if

they learn that it is in this house they may try to steal it; nay, will

perhaps kill us in order to obtain it. The ring has been the cause of

one murder, and if you speak of it out of doors it may be the cause

of another. Remember, then, you must not mention the ring to any one.

Remember, remember!"

CHAPTER III

A RETROSPECT

Idris slept in a room the window of which, being a dormer one,

overlooked the roofs of the other houses, and gave him an interrupted

view of the sea.

One morning, as soon as he had drawn the curtain, he came running to

his mother's room with the news:--

"Oh, mother, come and look. There's a pretty little ship in the bay."

So, to please him, Mrs. Breakspear stepped from her _lit clos_, or

cupboard bed, and stole, even as she was, in her night-robe, to take a

view of the vessel.

"See, there it is," cried Idris, excitedly pointing it out. "Is it a

Viking ship, mother?"

"There are no Vikings nowadays," was the reply, a reply which Idris

took as a proof of the degeneracy of the times. "It is a yacht."

As this term conveyed no more enlightenment to Idris' mind than if she

had said that it was a quinquereme, he naturally asked, "What is a

yacht?"

The explanation was deferred till breakfast-time, when his mother

entered into the meaning of the term. Idris made a somewhat hasty meal,

being eager to run off to the quay for the purpose of taking a nearer

view of the newly-arrived vessel.

Dancing down the stairs of the old house into the street he made for

the end of the stone pier, and sitting down at the head of the steps

he took a long survey of the yacht, wondering whether it equalled in

point of swiftness and beauty the famous _Long Serpent_ of Olaf, built

by that master-shipwright, Thorberg.

A boat was rapidly making its way from the vessel to the harbour. Idris

recognized it as the revenue-cutter, at the tiller of which sat Old Pol

himself.

"Ha! Master Idris," he said, as soon as he had mounted the stairs,

"what a pity you were not out an hour earlier! You could then have gone

with us to yon vessel." And then, turning to those who had accompanied

him, he remarked: "So Captain Rochefort is the owner of that yacht.

Well, everybody has heard of him: one of the bravest in the Emperor's

service, and an officer of the Legion of Honour. Nothing wrong with

that craft, eh, Baptiste?"

"Humph!" growled the man addressed, a grizzled old coastguard with a

saturnine cast of countenance. "So they have put Captain Rochefort

ashore at Port St. Remé, and he is coming on foot to Quilaix. But if

the Captain wants to visit Quilaix, why does he not come with the

yacht, instead of walking over the moorland?"

"Why, Baptiste, you talk like one who is suspicious," remarked Pol in

surprise.

"And I _am_ suspicious. There's something wrong in the wind.

Harbour-master, listen to me. As everybody in Quilaix is going to the

Pardon to-day the town will be deserted until a late hour. The night

will be dark, as this is the time of no moon. Captain Rochefort has

been put ashore in order to signal the favourable moment. They are

going to run a cargo."

This statement was received by Pol with a burst of laughter.

"Baptiste, you talk like a fool. What cargo can such a small craft

carry? Besides, they have no cargo. Did we not overhaul her thoroughly?

Captain Rochefort a contrabandist! A military officer hazard his

reputation in a smuggling venture! Impossible! He would have

everything to lose and nothing to gain by such a course."

Baptiste, by a shake of his head, implied that he was not to be moved

from his opinion.

"Very well, Baptiste, since you are so suspicious, we had better put

you on the watch for the next twenty-four hours."

"I intend to watch, whether put on or not. And by the key of Saint

Tugean I shall have discovered something before to-morrow morning

comes."

"Undoubtedly. You will discover that you would have acted more wisely

by going with us to the Pardon to-day. That's the ticket for me. Life

is sad: then let us not miss any of its gaieties. And in all Finistère

there are no pancakes and cider like those of St. Remé."

The rest of the coastguard, murmuring their approval of these

sentiments, dispersed in order to prepare for the Pardon, or

church-festival, to be held that day in a distant village; of which

festival the harbour-master's wife had, on the previous evening, drawn

so pleasant a forecast in the hearing of Idris, that the little fellow

had felt great disappointment on learning that his mother intended to

take no part in the celebration.

Madame Marais had been somewhat troubled by the question as to how

her tenant's meals were to be prepared during her absence, but Mrs.

Breakspear had solved this difficulty by offering to arrange for

herself.

Meantime Idris, still at the head of the pier-steps, continued his

survey of the vessel.

A piece of canvas hanging over the taffrail was suddenly drawn up by a

sailor on board, an act that enabled Idris to see the name of the yacht

painted in big black letters.

_N-E-M-E-S-I-S._

_Nemesis!_ This was a word new to him. He had known sailors call

their boats _Marie_, _Isabelle_, _Jeanne_, and the like, with various

epithets prefixed, as _jolie_, _belle_, and _petite_, but never

_Nemesis_. He could not tell whether it was the name of man or woman:

so, on returning home, he sought enlightenment of his mother.

"It's a curious name to give to a ship," commented the little fellow

thoughtfully, after Mrs. Breakspear had tried to explain the meaning of

the term. "Why do they call it that? Are they going to take vengeance

on somebody?"

Shortly afterwards Madame Marais came out of her house, wearing

the wonderful lace cap that had descended to her through several

generations. Leaning upon the arm of Old Pol, who was likewise

gorgeously arrayed, she moved off in great state to take her place in

the line of the procession which, under the direction of Monsieur le

Curé, was slowly forming before the porch of _La Chapelle des Pêcheurs_.

When all preliminaries had been satisfactorily completed, the

simple-hearted peasants, with flags flying and pipes playing, set off

on their pilgrimage, walking at a somewhat leisurely pace, for your

true Breton is seldom in a hurry.

Idris, regretting that he could not accompany them, clambered to an

eminence on the moorland, where, aided by his mother's opera-glasses,

he watched the course of the procession till it faded from view.

Nearly everybody in Quilaix had gone off to this Pardon. All the shops

were closed, and the town was as silent as on a Sunday morning during

the time of high mass. A few of the fishermen and of the coastguard

had indeed remained behind, but these were slumbering in the shadow of

the sardine-boats drawn high up on the beach. From these slumberers

must be excepted old Baptiste Malet, who throughout the day glided to

and fro along the shore, now and then dropping behind a rock to take

a scrutiny of the yacht by the aid of a telescope nearly as long as

himself.

The _Nemesis_ still remained at the point where the anchor had first

been cast. She was certainly a mysterious vessel; none of her occupants

had come ashore: none could be seen on deck. It was quite clear that

for some reason or other the crew shrank from the observation of those

on land.

A gala-day it may have been for others, but for Idris it proved a

somewhat dull time. His mother seemed too much preoccupied to set him

his regular lessons: or perhaps she did not deem it fair to put him to

study while others were festively engaged. She sat during the greater

part of the day turning over the leaves of a large scrapbook filled

with newspaper cuttings--a book which Idris was never permitted to see,

Mrs. Breakspear being accustomed, as soon as her readings were ended,

to lock the volume within a drawer of the old oak press. She had read

these extracts so often as to be able to recite the greater part of

them by heart: nevertheless, she continued to con them daily, as if

they were quite new to her, though their perusal must have given her

pain.

The first of these newspaper extracts was a long article from the

journal _L'Étoile de la Bretagne_, worded as follows:--

"Let us review the facts of this remarkable case.

"Eric Marville is a gentleman of English birth who settled at Nantes in

the spring of 1866. Of handsome person and polished manners, speaking

our language with the ease of a native, and recently married to a rich

and beautiful wife, M. Marville soon became a favourite in the higher

circles of Nantes society. The Armorique Club, the most fashionable

of its kind, admitted him to membership. It would have been well had

M. Marville never entered the salons of this establishment, since it

was here that he first met Henri Duchesne. The latter by all accounts

was a professional gamester, though up to the present time nothing

dishonourable has been proved in connection with his play.

"From the very first these two men, Eric Marville and Henri Duchesne,

for some unknown reason, appear to have been in a state of secret

hostility to each other, hostility which finally developed into open

rupture. A remark uttered by Marville one evening, and doubtless

uttered with no ill intent, on the wonderful luck attending M. Duchesne

at cards, was interpreted by the latter as a reflection upon his mode

of playing, and he immediately challenged the other to a duel. M.

Marville merely shrugged his shoulders with the words:--'It is not the

fashion of my countrymen, monsieur, to fight a duel over trifles.' 'Do

you call the honour of my name a trifle?' exclaimed Duchesne, at the

same time contemptuously flinging a glass of wine in Marville's face.

"In a moment the club was in an uproar, the friends of each striving

to keep the two men apart, an object successfully accomplished. All

efforts, however, to effect a reconciliation failed, and the two men

left the club avowedly enemies.

"The next evening M. Marville was again present at the Amorique Club,

but, confining himself to the newspapers and political gossip, took no

part in the play that went on. M. Duchesne was likewise present, and

entered the lists against M. Montagne, a young lieutenant of Chasseurs.

The usual good fortune attended Duchesne, and his opponent having lost

all the money upon his person, said:--'I have one more stake, if M.

Duchesne does not object to play against it.' And with these words

Montagne drew forth a large silver circlet having every appearance,

according to an antiquary who was present, of being an altar-ring, such

as was used in the religious rites of ancient Scandinavia.

"M. Marville, happening to set eyes upon this circlet, became

singularly agitated; and, stepping up to the table where the two men

were at play, he said, addressing Montagne: 'How came you by that

ring?' M. Montagne, absorbed in the play, or perhaps deeming the

question an impertinent one, made no reply. The play resulted in the

transference of the ring to the pockets of M. Duchesne, who shortly

afterwards took his departure. Five minutes later M. Marville likewise

quitted the club, and, on being asked by a friend why he left earlier

than usual, replied:--'To recover my ring.'

"Two hours afterwards, a _sergent-de-ville_, going his accustomed

round, heard cries for help coming from the Place Graslin, and on

running to the spot found M. Duchesne lying on the pavement with blood

flowing from a wound in the breast. M. Marville was kneeling beside him

and calling for help.

"The injured man was at once removed to the adjacent surgery of M.

Rosaire, who, upon examination, found that life had fled.

"The body was conveyed to the Préfecture, accompanied by M. Marville,

who gave evidence as to the finding of it. His statement amounted to no

more than that in walking homewards he had come by accident upon the

body of the fallen man.

"The high position held by M. Marville, and his plausible explanation

of the situation in which he had been found by the _sergent-de-ville_,

prevented the authorities from attaching suspicion to him, and on

giving his recognizances to appear when required, M. Marville was

allowed to depart.

"But the investigations carried on next day gave a different turn to

the affair. The quarrel at the Armorique Club and the threatening

language of the two men were recalled. Marville's remark on leaving

the club in the wake of M. Duchesne to the effect that he was going

to recover the ring seemed to supply an additional motive for the

deed, especially when taken in conjunction with the fact that though

M. Duchesne's money and jewellery were untouched the ring itself was

missing.

"But the most significant circumstance of all was the finding of the

dagger with which the murder had been effected. Shown to M. Lenoir,

the well-known dealer in antiquities, whose establishment is in the

Rue Crébillon, he identified it as one that had been purchased from

him by M. Marville on the morning of the day on which the crime took

place. The weapon is an Italian stiletto, one warranted to have

belonged originally to the famous bravo, Michele Pezza, better known

to frequenters of the opera as Fra Diavolo. M. Lenoir mentioned this

circumstance as he handed the weapon to the purchaser, adding:--'It is

a dagger that has shed the blood of Frenchmen.'--'And may do so again,'

was the singular reply of M. Marville.

"These circumstances seem to justify the arrest of M. Marville, who now

stands charged with the murder of M. Duchesne.

"A peculiar feature of the case is the vanishing of the altar-ring. The

prisoner declines to make any statement respecting it, and though his

house has been searched no trace of it can be discovered."

* * * * * *

Mrs. Breakspear put away the book with a heavy sigh.

"Ah, Eric!" she murmured. "Will your innocence ever be established?"

CHAPTER IV

TRAGEDY!

Mrs. Breakspear sat by the open casement enjoying the deep beauty of

the evening. The air was still and clear, and over the bay hung one

star sparkling in a sapphire sky.

Idris, seated with her, had eyes for nothing but the yacht _Nemesis_,

which still lay out in the offing, rising and falling with the motion

of the tide, and showing a tiny light at the stern.

"Look, mother!" he cried suddenly. "They are putting out a boat."

By the faint starlight they could see in the boat seven men, one of

whom steered while the rest rowed. Their garb was that of ordinary

French seamen, but Mrs. Breakspear noticed with surprise that each was

armed with cutlass and pistol.

"Why are they not coming to the harbour?" asked Idris, a question which

found an echo in his mother's mind.

The boat glided smoothly on, and finally vanished behind the cliffs to

the east of the town.

"I wonder whether old Baptiste is watching them?" said Idris. "He said

that the men in the yacht were smugglers, and that they would come

ashore this evening. And sure enough they've come."

"If the men in that boat are smugglers, don't you think, Idie, that

they would wait till it is much darker?"

Idris was forced to admit the reasonableness of this remark.

"Why are they all wearing swords? Perhaps they _are_ Vikings, after

all?" he went on, loth to believe that such heroes had vanished from

the earth.

His mother shook her head in mild protest, not knowing that there was

a good deal of latter-day Vikingism in the enterprise that was taking

these seven men ashore.

Now as Mrs. Breakspear sat in the silence and solemnity of the

deepening twilight she became subject to a feeling the like of which

she had never before experienced. A vague awe, a presentiment of coming

ill, stole over her; and, yielding to its influence, she resolved,

before it should be too late, to carry out a purpose she had long had

in mind.

"Idie," she said, closing the casement and moving to the fireplace,

"come and sit here. I have something to tell you."

Wondering much at her grave manner the little fellow obeyed.

"Idie," she began, "you have been taught to believe that your father

died when you were an infant. I have told you this, thinking it right

that you should know nothing of his sad history. But, sooner or later,

you are sure to hear it from others: told, too, in a way that I would

not have you believe. Therefore it is better that you should hear

the story from me: and remember to take these words of mine for your

guidance in all future years: and if men should speak ill of your

father, do not believe them: for who should know him better than I, his

wife?"

She paused for a moment: and Idris, new to this sort of language, made

no reply.

"Idie, your father is _not_ dead."

Idris' eyes became big with wonder.

"Then why doesn't he live with us?" he asked.

"Because," replied his mother, sinking her voice to a whisper, "because

he is in prison."

As prison is a place usually associated with crime, Idris naturally

received a shock, which his mother was not slow to perceive.

"Idie, you know something of history, and therefore you know that many

a good man has found himself in prison before to-day."

"O yes: there was Sir Walter Raleigh, and that Earl of Surrey who was

a poet: and--and--I can't think of any more at present, but I can find

them in the book."

"Well, your father, like many others in history, is suffering unjustly."

"What do they say he did?"

"They say," replied his mother, once more sinking her voice to a

whisper, "they say he committed murder. But he did not: he did not:

he did not. I have his word that he is innocent. I will set his word

against all the rest of the world."

"How long is he to remain in prison?"

"He is never to come out," replied Mrs. Breakspear; and, unable to

control her emotion, she burst into a fit of sobbing.

Idris, touched by the sight of his mother's grief, began to cry also.

Now for the first time he understood why his mother so often wept in

secret. How could men be so cruel as to take his father away from her

and to shut him up in prison for a crime he had not committed?

"Why didn't they put him under the guillotine?" he asked, when his fit

of crying was over.

A natural question, but one that caused his mother to shiver.

"Do not use that awful word," she said. "He was condemned to death, but

the sentence was afterwards changed."

Certain past events were now seen by Idris in a new light.

"Mother, I know in what prison father is. It is the one on the moorland

over there," he exclaimed, indicating the direction with his hand.

"You are right, Idie: and now you know why I live at Quilaix. It is

that I may be near your father. I am happier here--if indeed I may use

the word happy in speaking of myself--than in any other place. I have a

beautiful house at Nantes, but I cannot live there in ease and luxury

while your father is deprived of everything that makes life bright. Now

listen, Idie, for I am going to require of you a solemn promise. Since

your father did not commit the murder it is certain that some one else

did. I want you to find that man."

"I, mother?"

"Of course I do not mean now. In after years. When you are a man."

"But supposing the murderer should be dead?"

"You must find him, living or dead: if living, you must bring him to

justice: if dead, you must show to the world that your father was

guiltless of the deed. He himself, confined as he is within prison

walls, can do nothing to establish his innocence: and as for me, I have

the feeling that I shall not live long. Grief is shortening my days. To

you, then, I leave this task: to it you must devote your whole life.

You will be spared the necessity of having to earn your living, since

you are well provided for. But though health, strength, and fortune

be yours, you will find these advantages embittered by the constant

thought, 'Men think me the son of a murderer!' Will you let the world

do you this injustice? Will you not try to clear your father's memory?

Will you not ever bear in mind your mother's dearest wish?"

Moved by her earnestness Idris gave the required promise, consoling

himself over the present difficulty of the problem by the thought that

it would perhaps seem easier in the days to come.

"You have not forgotten the story we read the other day," continued

his mother, "of the great Hannibal; how, when he was a boy his father,

leading him to the altar, made him swear to be the lifelong enemy of

Rome? You, too, must make a similar oath. Bring me the Bible."

Idris brought it, and at his mother's command laid his hand upon a page

of the open Book, and repeated after her the following words:--

"I swear on reaching manhood to do my best to establish my father's

innocence. May God help me to keep this oath!"

"Say it again, Idie."

Idris accordingly repeated the vow, feeling somewhat proud in thus

imitating the Carthaginian hero.

His mother brushed back the curls from his forehead and looked

earnestly into his eyes.

"Little Idris! little Idris!" she murmured. "Am I acting foolishly? I

am forgetting that you are only seven years of age--scarcely old enough

to understand the meaning of what you have just uttered. No matter:

when you are older, if you are a true son, as I feel sure you will be,

you will not require the memory of this oath to teach you your duty.

And now I will tell you the story of the murder, and why your father

came to be suspected of---- Ha! what is that?" she gasped, breaking off

abruptly. "Listen! O, Idie, who is it?"

They had believed themselves to be alone in the house. Mrs. Breakspear,

before retiring to this sitting-room, had made fast the outer doors as

well as the lower windows. In such circumstances, therefore, it was

alarming to hear footsteps ascending the staircase--footsteps which

Mrs. Breakspear instinctively felt to be those of a man, and not of a

woman; footsteps, not of Old Pol, but of a stranger! How had he gained

access to the house, and what was his object?

The unknown visitor had mounted to the head of the staircase and was

now advancing along the passage leading to the room in which Mrs.

Breakspear sat. Unable to speak from surprise and fear mother and son

gazed at the door with dilated eyes as if expecting to see some awful

vision.

The door was pushed open, and Mrs. Breakspear could scarcely suppress a

scream at sight of the man who entered, for his face was hidden behind

a black silk vizard, such as might be worn at a _bal masqué_, and

through the holes of the vizard two eyes could be seen sparkling, so it

seemed to Mrs. Breakspear, with a sinister expression. A low-crowned

soft hat covered his head; and a cloak, reaching to his heels,

completely concealed his person.

He came forward a few paces, glancing round the room as he did so,

and seeming to derive satisfaction from the fact that it contained no

persons more formidable than a woman and a child.

"You are alarmed, madame, but without reason," he began. "It is not

my purpose to do you hurt--" he paused for a moment, and then added,

"unless your obstinacy should call for it."

The man's voice was altogether strange to Mrs. Breakspear. He spoke in

French, but with an accent that somehow impressed her with the belief

that he was an Englishman: one, too, accustomed to move in good society.

"The first fact I would impress upon your mind is this," continued the

stranger, "that you are alone, unprotected, in my power absolutely. If

you raise your voice there is no one either in the house or in the

street to hear you. The town is practically deserted. All are gone

to the Pardon, a fact I have taken into my calculations. If you will

reflect upon this, it may facilitate my errand."

These words, and the tone in which they were spoken, did not tend to

allay Mrs. Breakspear's fears. With difficulty she gathered voice to

speak.

"Who are you?"

A smile appeared beneath the fringe of the silken vizard.

"This mask is sufficient proof that I wish to conceal my identity."

"What do you want?"

"A more sensible question than your first, since it brings us to the

point at once. I require, nay, I demand of you, the Norse altar-ring

now in your keeping."

"What reason have you for supposing that it is here?" said Mrs.

Breakspear, growing bolder.

"Do not equivocate." The eyes in the mask flashed like polished steel.

"I know it to be in your possession. Do you deny it?" Mrs. Breakspear

was silent. "You do not deny it? Good! The ring being here, I demand

it."

"Why do you want it?"

"I decline to be catechised. Give me the ring."

"You are evidently a gentleman by education, if not by birth." The

stranger gave a start at this. "And yet you seek to act the part of a

common thief, a part you would not dare act," she cried with spirit,

"were I a man, and not a defenceless woman."

The man shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"I did not come to listen to moral vapourings, but to receive the ring."

"And what if I refuse to comply with your demand?"

[Illustration]

"You are alone, let me repeat, and absolutely at my mercy."

A dagger flashed from beneath his cloak. With a cry Mrs. Breakspear

clasped Idris in her arms to shield him from a possible attack. Yet

even amid her fear it did not escape her notice that the hand which

held the weapon was small, white, and decorated with a diamond ring.

"Listen to the voice of prudence," continued the stranger. "It is

within my power to despatch you both, and to search these apartments

for the ring which you admit is somewhere here. I am quite prepared to

go to that extreme rather than return without it. You will, therefore,

see the wisdom of surrendering the ring: you thus save your life and

that of your child: I save time and trouble--an arrangement mutually

advantageous."

Something in his tone convinced Mrs. Breakspear that he was quite

capable of carrying out his threat.

"You will find the ring in an ebony case in the top drawer of that

cabinet. Take it: and if it should bring upon you the curse which it

has brought upon me and mine, you will live to rue this day."

The man smiled, put up his weapon, walked towards the oak press, and in

a moment more the casket was in his hands.

"Yes, this is it," he murmured in a tone of satisfaction, as he drew

the ring from the case, and scrutinized the runic inscription.

"May one ask," he continued, concealing the relic upon his person, "how

you came to deny all knowledge of it at the trial of your husband?"

"I spoke truly," she answered, "being unaware at the time that my

husband had secretly entrusted it to the care of his friend, Captain

Rochefort."

"After stealing it from the body of his victim," added the stranger.

"His victim? There you err," cried Mrs. Breakspear with flashing eyes,

loathing to answer the stranger, yet eager to vindicate her husband.

"When my husband left the Armorique Club on that fatal evening he

overtook M. Duchesne on his way home, and upon the latter's expressing

regret for his violence of the preceding night a reconciliation took

place. As a pledge of amity M. Duchesne, remembering the interest my

husband had shown in the ring, made him a present of it: in return

my husband insisted that Duchesne should accept the antique poniard

purchased by him that morning. Thus they parted: the one with the

ring, the other with the dagger. The assassin, whoever he was, that

attacked Duchesne, must, during the struggle, have become possessed of

the dagger, and with it he inflicted the fatal wound. Next morning, my

husband, foreseeing that he might be accused of the murder, and aware

that his possession of the ring would seem a suspicious circumstance,

handed it to Captain Rochefort, enjoining him, very unwisely as I now

perceive, to keep silent on the matter."

"And so," commented the stranger, "Captain Rochefort conspired to

defeat the ends of justice."

"The word justice comes with an ill grace from the lips of a coward and

a thief," retorted Mrs. Breakspear, her spirit rising, as it always

rose, whenever her husband's innocence was put to the doubt. "Say,

rather, that in concealing the ring Captain Rochefort was seeking to

prevent the Law from drawing an erroneous conclusion."

"He failed, however," sneered the stranger, "for the Law pronounced

your husband guilty--greatly to my interests. A pity they didn't

guillotine him! Still, he is in prison: there let him rot! and---- Ah!"

he muttered in a hoarse voice, breaking off abruptly. "In the name of

hell, what's that?"

He could not have been a very brave man, Idris thought, for he seemed

unable to keep his hand which rested on the table from shaking.

All three were silent, listening for a renewal of the sound. It soon

came--a dull boom slowly rolling through the air like distant thunder.

With the air of one mad the stranger dashed to the window, and flinging

wide the casement looked out into the night, a night of glory and

beauty, such as is seldom seen in misty Brittany. The air from horizon

to zenith was alive with countless stars that seemed to float like

silver dust in the blue depth. Their faint light falling over a wide

expanse of rippling sea, and on a long arc of yellow sand terminated at

each end by dark cliffs, formed a picture that would have charmed the

eye of an artist.

Idris, his curiosity getting the better of his fear, slipped from his

mother's embrace, and, stealing to a second casement, looked through

its latticed panes.

On the water was the boat he had noticed earlier in the evening, the

boat that had been put out from the yacht. If its occupants had gone

ashore for the purpose of taking some one aboard they had failed in

their object, since the boat contained the same seven sailors. They

were evidently in a state of perplexity: for, without any apparent

motive, they were rowing backwards and forwards in a line parallel with

the shore, the steersman now and then standing up and sweeping the

coast with a night-glass.

Turning his eyes upon the yacht Idris saw jets of black smoke issuing

from the funnel. The engineer was evidently getting up steam.

Here, thought Idris, was the explanation of the booming sound. The

yacht was about to weigh anchor, and had fired a gun as a signal of

departure.

The masked man, however, did not seem to think that the sound came from

the yacht. With his body half out of the window he was staring at the

plateau of brown moorland with its faint silvery crown--staring as if

behind that white mist some exciting event were happening that he would

fain witness.

Once more came the dull, rolling reverberation, and at that sound the

man reeled from the window as if buffeted by a giant hand.

"Damnation! he has escaped," he hissed between his set teeth. "Is this

their vigilance, after being warned of the plot? But my enemy shall not

escape. I'll join in the chase myself. That gun invites pursuit. It is

lawful," and here a sinister smile appeared beneath the fringe of his

mask, "it is lawful to shoot a fugitive convict."

With that he darted from the room and dashed down the staircase: the

slamming of a door followed, and the next moment his tread could be

heard going up the street in the direction of the moorland prison.

The indignation felt by Mrs. Breakspear at the theft of the ring became

lost in a new emotion. A convict had escaped, and the stranger's words

seemed almost to imply that the fugitive was--her husband! She strove

to banish this idea as a wild fancy, as a too daring hope on her part,

but it would persist in forcing itself upon her. With her hand pressed

to her side she sat, powerless to speak, trembling at the thought that

at that very moment Eric Marville might be fleeing over the misty

moorland with armed warders in close pursuit eager to bring him down

with a carbine shot.

"Hark! there goes another gun," cried Idris. "Who is it that is firing,

and why are they doing it?"

Something else besides the gun was now heard. Along the lonely and

usually silent road that led down from the moorland to Quilaix came a

sound, which, at first faint and undistinguishable in character, became

gradually more distinct, and finally developed into the thud-thud of

horse-hoofs, accompanied by the noise of wheels rattling madly forward

as if speed were a matter of life and death to the driver of the

vehicle.

Louder and ever louder grew the sound of the galloping horse-hoofs;

they descended the moorland: they reached the outskirts of the town:

they came plunging up the Rue Grande, and at last the wild race was

brought to a sudden standstill in front of the harbour-master's door.

Idris, looking from the window, saw in the street below a light gig,

and in it a man of soldierly aspect, who was holding the reins with

a tight hand and using his best endeavours to keep the panting and

steaming mare steady in order to facilitate the descent of a second man.

"For God's sake, Eric, make haste," cried the one in the gig, with a

backward glance. "They can't be far behind us."

The man to whom these words were spoken delivered a succession of

knocks at the street-door, the loud, imperative knocks of one whose

errand will brook no delay.

Without waiting for his mother's bidding Idris flew down the stairs

eager to learn the meaning of this strange summons.

On opening the door he found on the threshold a man draped from neck to

ankles in a grey ulster, a man who acted in a very strange way, for he

lifted Idris completely off his feet and kissed him several times.

Now Idris, though not at all averse to the kisses of his mother or of

the fishermen's daughters, had an objection to the kisses of a man, and

especially of a strange man, and he struggled to be free.

"Where's your mother?" cried the stranger, setting Idris down.

"She's up there," answered Idris, indicating the staircase. "But you'd

better not kiss her. She won't like it."

The man gave a joyous laugh.

"Won't she? Well, let us see," was his answer, and he darted swiftly up

the staircase, first calling out to the man in the gig:--

"See to the boy, Noel."

"Now, my little man," said the military gentleman, "jump up here. You

are going for a sail in that pretty ship yonder in the bay."

Idris' eyes sparkled at this enchanting prospect.

"But I can't go without my mother."

"Oh, she's coming too; your father as well."

"My father?" laughed Idris. "Why, my father is in----"

He checked the word "prison" upon his lips, and substituted for it the

euphemism, "Over there."

"By God! that's where he'll be again, unless he hurries," cried the

military gentleman. "That's your father who has just run up-stairs."

His father up-stairs! The day had been a succession of surprises to

Idris, and this was the climax of them all. He had never known such an

exciting time. Deaf to the gentleman's command to ascend the vehicle he

turned and scampered hastily up to his mother's sitting-room, where he

beheld a sight that struck him dumb.

The stranger was standing in the middle of the room with Mrs.

Breakspear in his arms, her cheek pillowed on his breast.

"Eric, O, Eric!" she murmured: and the pure joy of that moment

transfigured her face with the light and beauty of an angel's.

"Edith, my sweet wife!" cried the man pressing her lips to his. "This

kiss is a compensation for all I have suffered. There! you mustn't

faint. Why, here's our boy. What a fine fellow he is becoming! Well,

Idris, what do you think of your father and his court dress?"

Idris' face fell as he surveyed the newcomer. This man with his

close-cropped head, grimy visage, stubbly beard, and half-savage air,

his father! Beneath the grey ulster there peeped out the prison livery,

clad in which garb divine Apollo himself would lose all grace and

majesty.

Eric Marville was not slow to read the thoughts of his little son, and

he smiled grimly.

"Upon my word, he stares as if I were some wild animal. I verily

believe I am: prison life grinds every trace of the godlike out of a

man.--But come, Edith, we haven't a moment to lose. You can hear that

they have discovered my escape," he continued, as another boom rolled

over the moorland. "Rochefort was for hurrying me on board his yacht at

once, but it wasn't likely that I would leave you and the boy behind,

when you were so close at hand. Come, Edith and Idris, wife and son,

come! Away to a new life in a new land!"

At that moment there came from without the warning voice of Captain

Rochefort.

"Marville! Marville," he roared. "Look to yourself. They're here."

As he spoke quick footsteps came clattering over the pavement of

the Rue Grande, and the ping-ping of carbine shots rang out on the

night-air. The bullets were intended for the Captain, but missed their

mark; and the mare taking fright at the report set off at a gallop,

followed by the pursuers, who were on foot.

"Halt!" shouted an authoritative voice. "Let the car go; that's not the

quarry. Our man's in here; this is his wife's abode. Through the house,

two of you, and guard the rear. Two of you watch the front. Leave the

rest to me. I'll unearth him."

The man who gave these commands rushed through the doorway of the

harbour-master's dwelling, and, as if guided by instinct, neglected

the lower storey and made his way up the staircase.

All this took place so quickly that Marville was for the moment

paralyzed with surprise, and stood motionless and silent, with his

scared wife clinging to him.

"Don't make any resistance, Eric, dearest," she pleaded. "It will be

better not."

Springing from his lethargy Marville put aside the arms of his wife and

made for the open window, only to perceive two watchful gendarmes in

the street below, who instantly levelled their carbines at sight of the

convict's face.

The only other outlet from the room was through the doorway: but there,

framed within the entrance and pistol in hand, stood a grey-haired,

fine looking veteran, clad in military uniform, Duclair, governor of

the prison, who, alive to his responsibility, had himself joined in the

chase.

"Run to earth," he said, with a grim smile. "You're fairly cornered.

It's no use resisting."

"We'll see about that," muttered Marville, pulling forth a revolver--a

recent gift of Rochefort's--with the intention of forcing his way over

the disabled or dead body of the governor.

"Drop that, or by----" and Duclair punctuated the sentence with the

significant raising of his own weapon.

Seeing the pistol levelled Mrs. Breakspear, with uplifted arms, flung

herself forward to shield her husband.

Simultaneously with her movement came a deadly click from Marville's

weapon, followed instantly by a loud bang. The report was accompanied

by a cry of "Ah! Eric!" and by the fall of a body--sounds that sent a

cold thrill to the hearts of those who heard them.

There, amid faint wreaths of bluish smoke, lay Mrs. Breakspear,

prostrate on the carpet, her forehead disfigured by a spot from which

came the slow ooze of blood.

"O, you have shot my mother!" wailed Idris, casting a look of anguish

at his father.

The little fellow dropped on his knees beside her, but it was only a

piece of clay upon which he now gazed: his mother was gone forever: was

as much a part of the past as the dead Cæsars of history. Dread change,

and all the work of a moment!

"Edith! my wife! O God, I have killed her!"

Dropping the weapon Eric Marville staggered forward to lift up the dead

form and implore forgiveness from her who was beyond power to grant it,

but ere he could reach the fallen figure, strong hands were laid upon

him, and a pair of steel manacles was clasped upon his wrists.

"_Mon Dieu!_ who has done this?" cried one of the gendarmes, appalled

at the sight.

"The prisoner," responded the governor. "Take notice, all of you, that

my weapon is undischarged."

The gendarmes lifted the silent form and laid it upon a couch, and

there Idris knelt, sobbing bitterly and calling upon his mother to

speak.

"My poor boy," said the governor, after a brief inspection of the body,

"she will never speak again.--We ought," he added, turning to address

his men, "we ought to send for a doctor, though he can do no good, for

she is stone dead."

There was but one doctor in Quilaix, and he, Idris explained amid his

tears, had gone with the procession to the Pardon.

"We must have some woman to attend to the body," continued Duclair. "We

can't return to Valàgenêt leaving the boy alone with a corpse. Surely

all the women folk haven't gone to this cursed Pardon?"

Idris, as well as his grief would let him, explained where a woman was

likely to be found, and a gendarme was at once despatched to fetch her.

The man who had done the deed offered now no resistance to his captors.

His desire for liberty had fled. Overwhelmed by the awful result of his

own act he had sunk into a stupor, staring with glassy eyes at that

which but a few minutes before had been a living woman.

Touched by the spectacle of his grief they allowed him to sit beside

her; and, as he showed a desire to clasp her hand, the governor made a

sign to one of the party to remove the manacles.

This done, he sat holding the limp fingers within his own, pressing

them as if expecting the pressure to be returned.

The gendarmes stood aloof in pitying silence. Not even the governor

spoke, feeling the emptiness of any attempt at consolation.

As for Idris, he shrank, not unnaturally, from the man who had killed

his mother. Once he addressed to him a piteous reproach:--"Oh, why did

you come here?--Oh, mother, mother, speak to me!"

Absorbed in his own grief, however, the man did not hear, or, at least,

did not reply to this plaint. It was a melancholy scene, and the men

awaited with secret impatience the coming of the woman to end the

oppressive spell.

The silence was broken by the prisoner himself. All bent forward to

listen, but the words spoken conveyed no intelligible meaning to his

hearers. For, in a cold, mechanical voice, that sounded like the

monotone of a mournful bell, he murmured over and over again:--

"The curse of the runic ring! The curse of the runic ring!"

* * * * * *

Next day the Minister of the Interior received the following telegram

from the Governor of Valàgenêt Prison:--

"Regret to state that convict, Eric Marville, escaped last night,

by connivance of warder, bribed by Captain Noel Rochefort, who,

with light vehicle, waited at prearranged time near prison. Owing

to mist, two men some time in meeting, thus enabling pursuers to

overtake them at 6, Rue Grande, Quilaix. Here Marville, resisting

capture, accidentally shot his wife dead. Prisoner conveyed back

to Valàgenêt under guard of four gendarmes. On lonely part of moor

escort assailed by Rochefort and six men. Suddenness of attack

and numerical superiority enabled assailants to effect rescue.

Prisoner carried off, presumably, on board _Nemesis_, as she

steamed off immediately afterwards."

END OF PROLOGUE

THE STORY

CHAPTER I

THE RAVENGARS OF RAVENHALL

The Ravengars of Ormsby-on-Sea, a town on the Northumbrian coast, come

of an ancient stock; for, as students of the Gospel according to St.

Burke are aware, the original Ravengar antedates by two centuries that

Ultima Thule of heraldry, the Norman Conquest.

Yet, though so ancient a race, one, moreover, that has taken part in

all the great events of English History, it was not until the days of

the Merry Monarch that the Ravengars entered the charmed and charming

circle of the peerage.

At the battle of Naseby that gallant and loyal cavalier, Lancelot

Ravengar, contrived to disfigure the face of the great Protector by a

sword-cut that left behind it a scar for life. So valuable a service to

the State merited right royal recognition. "Something must be done for

Ravengar," said the courtiers of the Restoration. That something took

the shape of a patent of nobility, a favour the more readily granted by

the Monarch, inasmuch as it cost him nothing. So the heretofore plain

Lancelot Ravengar became the noble Viscount Walden, and at a later

date was advanced to the Earldom of Ormsby, a title derived from the

Northumbrian sea-town, whose rents and leases supplied him with the

wealth requisite to maintain his dignity.

This Lancelot Ravengar deserves mention, as being not only the first

peer of the family, but likewise the originator of a very curious

funeral rite instituted by his testamentary authority.

When the Civil War broke out in Charles's days, Ravenhall, the seat

of the Ravengars, shared the fate of many other historic mansions: it

was besieged by the Puritan soldiery, and notwithstanding a gallant

defence, was forced to yield to the foe. Its owner, Lancelot, however,

was fortunate enough to escape to a secret subterranean chamber,

specially made for such emergencies, where, in addition to the family

heirlooms, provisions for many weeks had been stored. The Roundheads,

not finding the Cavalier after a long and careful search, concluded

that he had fled.

For several days the victors remained at Ravenhall feasting and

drinking; and then, larder and wine cellar failing them, they proceeded

to plunder and dismantle the place "for the glory of the Lord," and so

took their departure.

Now, during this period of hiding, Lancelot, with no companion but

a Bible, had ample leisure for meditation. The seclusion became the

turning-point in his spiritual life: from that time the hitherto

careless Cavalier developed religious tendencies which were not to be

shaken by all the gibes of the Merry Monarch.

The place of his conversion naturally became invested with more than

ordinary interest in the eyes of Lancelot Ravengar: he spent much

of his time there in contemplation and prayer, becoming at last so

attached to the spot as to desire it for his place of sepulture.

Accordingly, his last will and testament enjoined that not only his own

body, but the bodies likewise of his successors in the earldom should

be buried in the secret vault. This rite constituted the condition

of an entail, inasmuch as neglect on the part of the next of kin to

inter his predecessor in this chamber necessitated the forfeiture of

the inheritance. The will furthermore directed that the secret ingress

to this crypt should not be made known to more than four persons at a

time, viz: the then earl, his heir-apparent, the family lawyer, and

any fourth person whom these three should choose to take into their

confidence.

When an Earl of Ormsby died his body was carried to the mortuary chapel

on the estate, where the burial service of the Anglican Church was

read. The coffin was then carried back to Ravenhall: all the servants,

without exception, were dismissed for the day, and the four executors

proceeded to remove the body to the secret crypt.

Such was the singular testament of Lancelot Ravengar, first Earl

of Ormsby, and its injunctions were faithfully observed by all his

successors in the title.

Some years prior to the events related in the prologue of this story,

the dignity of the family was represented by Urien Ravengar, the tenth

peer. He was the father of Olave, Viscount Walden, who, as being the

only son, and heir to the title and estates, was naturally the object

of his father's affection. The old earl did not keep a steward, being

content to leave his affairs in the hands of the young viscount, who

consequently managed his father's correspondence, all letters addressed

to the earl being freely opened by the son.

Then came a memorable day in the annals of the House of Ravengar.

A letter arrived for the Earl bearing the postmark of a town in Kent.

Olave, who was passing through the entrance-hall at the time of its

delivery, took it from the servant, and, following his usual practice

in regard to his father's letters, opened it.

As he read he was observed to change colour, and to become strangely

agitated.

Taking the letter with him he went at once to his father's study.

What passed there no one ever learned, save that there were high words

between the two. That in itself was nothing new, the Ravengars being

noted for their proud spirit. In the end the study-door was flung open

by the earl who, with a face flaming with anger, cried:--

"Leave the house."

Olave, with a scornful glance at his father, obeyed.

He went forth, saying nothing to any one as to the cause of the

rupture, making no mention of his destination or plans. Without a word

of farewell he disappeared from Ormsby. To all who had known him he

became as one dead.

Every Sunday the earl, while at Ormsby, attended the parish church with

commendable regularity, but vainly did he try to assume a brave air:

it was clear to all that he felt the loss of his son, and that he was

aging in consequence.

Five--seven--ten years rolled away, and now the old earl lay dying in

his grand bedchamber at Ravenhall. A wild evening had set in, and the

herring-fishers, on the point of sailing for the Dogger Bank, put off

their expedition for more propitious weather.

The dying man moaned uneasily. His mind was wandering, and he

frequently murmured the name of the absent Olave.

Louder and ever louder grew the wind, till at length it arose to a

gale. The gloom of night was illumined by vivid lightning-flashes

accompanied by peals of thunder. The distant roar of the sea could be

plainly heard at Ravenhall. News came that a yacht, supposed to be

French, was foundering upon the rocks of Ormsby Race in full sight

of hundreds of spectators on the beach, who were powerless to give

help. None of the servants at Ravenhall, however, felt disposed to go

and view the wreck: their master's death, which was hourly expected,

affected them far more than the drowning of a hundred strangers.

They clustered in the entrance-hall, waiting for the fatal news, and

conversing in hushed tones.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, there stalked into the entrance-hall a

lofty figure, drenched to the skin, without hat or cloak, his long hair

lying wet and lank on his pale cheek.

He looked neither to right nor left, asked no question of the startled

servants, but passed quickly up the grand staircase with the air of one

to whom the way was familiar, with the air of one, too, who had the

right to do as he did. Like the electric flash, he had come and gone in

a moment.

"Lord save us!" gasped the butler, a lifelong servitor of the family.

"Here's Master Olave come back after all these years!"

Olave it was. He had evidently received some intimation of his father's

condition, for he walked to the bedroom where the earl lay dying. To

the three persons at the bedside, physician, nurse, and rector, he was

a stranger, but his likeness to the patient was sufficiently striking

to apprise them at once of the relationship.

The viscount, keeping in the background, addressed himself to the

physician.

"How is he?"

"Sinking fast."

"Is his mind clear?"

"Now it is. He wandered earlier in the evening."

"Then leave us, please."

There was something so authoritative in the viscount's manner that the

three watchers were constrained to obey.

What took place in their absence was never known. The interview was

of short duration, and ended in a cry from the earl, which brought

physician and nurse hurrying into the apartment.

"He is dead," said Olave.

There was no trace of sorrow in his voice, nor, in justice be it added,

of satisfaction: a quiet, impassive utterance.

He stood with folded arms till his words had been endorsed by the

physician, and then, without so little as a glance at the dead earl,

the living earl strode from the apartment.

The nurse closed the eyes of her charge, shuddering as she did so, for

the countenance of the dead man was marked by a ferocity of expression

which showed that his last feelings were those of hatred.

A rumour soon arose that the old earl had died in the very act of

cursing his son. The rumour may have been false, but certain it is that

the new earl took no pains to contradict it.

Urien, tenth Earl of Ormsby, was interred according to the rite

instituted by the first peer: and the returned Olave, after giving the

family solicitor sufficient proof of his identity, assumed his station

as master of Ravenhall.

Where he had spent the previous ten years was a mystery to everybody

except, perhaps, his lawyer. The earl maintained absolute reticence as

to this part of his career, and the sternness of his manner when the

question was once put to him by an indiscreet lady, checked all further

attempts on the part of the inquisitive.

He somewhat scandalised the good folk of Ormsby by marrying within two

months of his father's death the daughter of a neighbouring baronet.

His wedded life did not last long. Within a year his wife died, leaving

an infant son named Ivar.

Henceforth the earl remained single.

He had sadly changed from the lively youth whose pranks had been a

constant source of merriment to the people of Ormsby.

His long absence had developed a cold and unsympathetic temperament

which led him to avoid society; and though he did not refrain from

giving an occasional dinner or ball, he was evidently bored by these

social offices. He found his greatest pleasure in the seclusion of the

magnificent library at Ravenhall. He withdrew himself more and more

from the world of men to the world of books.

More than two decades went by, and the mystery which overhung the earl,

became a thing of the past, was forgotten by the people of Ormsby, or

at least was rarely recalled. Gossip occupied itself chiefly with the

doings of the earl's only son, Ivar, or to give him his courtesy title,

Viscount Walden, who was now in his twentieth year.

To this son the earl appeared much attached: he designed him, so it was

rumoured, for the diplomatic service: and to this end Ivar, accompanied

by a tutor, was supposed to be travelling on the continent, perfecting

himself in foreign languages, and studying on the spot the workings of

the various European constitutions.

All the collateral branches of the Ravengars had died out with the

exception of one family, and even this was limited to a single

person--Beatrice, daughter of Victor Ravengar. This Victor, the earl's

cousin in the sixth degree, had taken as his wife a widow with one son,

Godfrey by name. Beatrice was the sole issue of this marriage.

The earl was naturally much interested in this little maiden as being

next in succession after his son: and accordingly when Beatrice became

an orphan at the age of sixteen (her parents having died within a month

of each other), the earl invited her and her half-brother, Godfrey

Rothwell--her senior by seven years--to take up their residence at

Ravenhall, offering to settle a handsome annuity upon each.

But to the earl's surprise the favour was declined both by brother and

sister. It had happened that Mrs. Victor Ravengar had never been a very

welcome visitor at Ravenhall, the marriage having been regarded by the

earl as a mésalliance: and though Beatrice was of a forgiving nature,

she could not entirely forget sundry slights put upon her mother.

Godfrey was determined not to eat the bread of dependency, and

Beatrice, who was devoted to her half-brother, sympathized with him

in this feeling, and refused to live apart from him. He had applied

himself to the study of medicine, and had lately set up in practice

at Ormsby. In Beatrice, Godfrey found a ready assistant. She helped

him in his surgery, often accompanied him when visiting his patients,

and never hesitated to take upon herself the duty of nurse if occasion

required. Hence she was all but worshipped by the people of Ormsby; the

earl might take their rents, but Beatrice possessed their hearts, and

often was regret expressed that it should be Viscount Walden, and not

Beatrice Ravengar, who must succeed to the fair demesne of Ravenhall.

"Absolutely no more patients to visit," remarked Godfrey Rothwell,

returning home one afternoon to his neat little villa, called Wave

Crest.

"Charming!" said Beatrice, clapping her hands. "It is so long since we

had an evening together."

"Humph!" muttered Godfrey, lugubriously. "But we are doomed not to

spend it together. We have received an invitation to dine this evening

at Ravenhall, where a small and select company is assembling to welcome

Master Ivar home. He returns to-night from the continent. The earl's

carriage will call for us at six, so we can't very well decline."

Beatrice pouted her pretty lips. Simple in her tastes, unconventional

in her habits, she disliked the stately banquets, the funereal

grandeur, of Ravenhall. She would not, however, oppose her brother, and

that same night found them both within the drawing-room of Ravenhall,

conversing with their distant kinsman, the Earl of Ormsby.

He was a man verging upon sixty; his hair and moustache were of an iron

grey; his eyes somewhat dimmed by long study; his features fine and

striking, but marked by an air of profound melancholy.

He received Godfrey kindly, and made inquiries as to his medical

practice, but it was clear to all that his interest centred chiefly in

Beatrice, whom he kissed with an old-fashioned courtesy.

Beatrice's figure was small and graceful, and her features, if not

precisely regular, were nevertheless very pretty, and rendered more

attractive by the sparkling colour and the vivacious expression

that played over them. She wore an evening dress of white silk with

a cluster of violets at her breast, a diamond star gleaming in her

bronzed hair, which was tied in a knot behind in antique Greek fashion.

In Godfrey's opinion his sister had never looked more charming than on

this evening.

"You have the fairest face in all the county," said the old earl,

tenderly stroking her hair. "I wish that Ivar would think so," he added

significantly.

It was not the first time that he had given expression to this wish in

the presence of Beatrice.

"Did you notice what he said, Trixie," said Godfrey, when he had found

an opportunity of whispering to her. "He wants to see you married to

Ivar."

But Beatrice Ravengar tossed her head in scorn.

"No one who has sneered at you, as Ivar has, shall ever be husband of

mine, though he bring with him title and lands. It will require some

one a good deal better than Ivar to separate you and me, Godfrey," she

said, pressing his arm affectionately.

Godfrey felt justly proud of his sister's attachment. How many women,

he thought, would willingly have thrown over a poor struggling medico

of a brother, and have become wild with joy at the idea of obtaining a

coronet and the stately towers of Ravenhall?

Godfrey wondered, and not for the first time, why the earl should

desire this match, since Beatrice was portionless, and, therefore, from

a worldly point of view, no very desirable alliance for the heir of

the Ravengars. Godfrey had never quite taken to the earl: in fact, he

had a secret distrust of him, he could not tell why: and he refused to

believe that that peer's attitude towards Beatrice was dictated by pure

disinterestedness, though it was difficult to see how either the earl

or Ivar would be advantaged by the match.

While Godfrey was occupied with these thoughts, the butler appeared

with the message that the keeper of the lodge had announced by

telephone the arrival of the viscount's carriage at the park-gates.

"Let us give the heir of Ravenhall a welcome at his own portal," said

Lord Ormsby, rising; and without delay the company made their way

to the grand entrance-hall, where the butler, the housekeeper, and

the rest of the servants, were assembled to do honour to the young

viscount's return.

On the panelled wall within the Gothic doorway, and suspended by a

silver chain, was a bugle of ivory, wrought with gold, and decorated

with runic letters.

It was a relic of ancient days, credited to have belonged originally to

the old Norse chieftain who had founded the House of Ravengar. Owing to

the peculiar construction of this bugle some practice was required by

those desirous of blowing it. Indeed, it was a family tradition that

in former times the only persons gifted with the power of sounding it

were the lord of Ravenhall and his immediate heir, all others essaying

the feat being foredoomed to failure. Hence, in mediæval times, when

the lords of Ravenhall returned from a Crusade, or some other equally

protracted war, it was their practice to sound this horn as a guarantee

of the legitimacy of their title.

"We will greet the heir in the ancient fashion of our house," cried the

earl, a great upholder of the traditional usages of his family. "Pass

me the bugle. Jocelyn, the wine!"

The butler, who was standing by, holding a silver tray with a decanter

on it, poured some port into the broad funnel-shaped end of the horn,

the tight-fitting silver cap over the mouthpiece preventing the

emission of the liquid.

"Custom enjoins that a lady should hand the bugle to the returning

heir, and wish him welcome," said Lord Ormsby, fixing his eyes on

Beatrice.

With some reluctance she accepted the bugle from the hand of the earl,

who briefly instructed her--Beatrice being not very well versed in

the Ravengar traditions--as to the form of words to be used in this

ceremony.

The rattle of wheels was now heard coming along the avenue of

chestnuts, and amid murmurs of "Here he is!" from those assembled at

the porch, a brougham rolled up. When it had stopped, there alighted

a figure, fair, slight, and, though youthful, of decidedly _blasé_

appearance. He was dressed in a light travelling ulster, and held a

cigar between his fingers, throwing it away, however, as soon as he

beheld the company.

"Welcome, Ivar," said the earl, warmly returning the clasp of his

son's hand: and then, waving him towards Beatrice, he continued, "But

one moment: we must not neglect the ancient custom of our house. Now,

Beatrice, you know the words."

And Beatrice, holding aloft the horn of wine, in an attitude that

displayed all the grace of her figure, approached the young viscount.

"Is it peace, O heir of Ravenhall?"

"It is peace, O lady fair," replied the viscount, using the words of

the traditional formula.

"Then drink of thine own, O heir of Ravenhall," continued Beatrice,

extending the bugle to him.

"To the souls of the departed warriors," replied Ivar, tossing off the

contents at one draught. "Hum! port. Very good liquor for boys; but, I

confess, I like my _aliquid amari_ stronger."

This last sentence formed no part of the Ravengar ritual, and the earl,

who liked everything _en régle_, frowned slightly.

"Now prove thy title, heir of Ravenhall."

"Prove it? Ay, with a blast that shall rival that of the immortal

Roland."

Removing the silver cap from the narrow end of the bugle, and placing

the mouthpiece to his lips, Ivar blew with all his might. But no sound

issued from the horn other than that of a faint soughing. The viscount,

surprised at this result, removed the bugle from his mouth, and eyed it

curiously. Then, thinking he had perhaps employed too much force, he

blew again, but this time more gently.

The bugle continued silent. The company looked at each other in

surprise, tinged with amusement. The earl, however, seemed to take it

much amiss. Beatrice found his eyes set upon her, and upon her only,

with a look that made her feel uncomfortable, for it somehow conveyed

to her mind the idea that he was mentally blaming _her_ for his son's

failure!

"This is a very serious matter, you know," said the viscount, looking

round upon the company with an air of mock gravity. "The ancestral

bugle refuses--positively refuses--to acknowledge me as the heir of

Ravenhall."

"Try again, Ivar," said the earl.

"Not I. Devil take the bugle," exclaimed Ivar laughing. "Let us read

a parable in my failure. In days of old the blast of the horn was the

sign of battle; its silence implies that we Ravengars have no longer

to vindicate our title by arms. But it permits me to drink, thereby

symbolizing that peace and festivity are now to be our lot. Have I not

said?" he added, theatrically, turning to his father. "And now, this

fantasia being over---- Why? what? is this little Trixie?"

Till that moment he had not recognized Beatrice, so much did she differ

from her appearance when last seen by him; but now that recognition

came, he stopped short in surprise at her loveliness.

"Trixie!" he repeated.

He bent forward as if to kiss her, but, with quiet dignity, Beatrice

drew back, offering her hand.

"What, and must we dispense with the sweet greeting of old days? Nay,

then."

And with this he seized her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers

in kisses of a distinctly vinous flavour.

"How dare you?" exclaimed Beatrice, breaking breathlessly and

indignantly from his embrace.