where a point of shingle ran out into the water. Along this I clambered,
and beyond it up to my middle. Now Magepa was being swept past me. I
caught his outstretched hand and pulled him ashore.
"The boy!" he gasped; "the boy! Is he dead?"
I severed the lashings of the mat that had cut right into the old
fellow's shoulders. Inside of it was little Sinala, spluttering out
water, but very evidently alive and unhurt, for presently he set up a
yell.
"No," I said, "he lives, and will live."
"Then all is well, Macumazahn." (_A pause._) "It _was_ a spy in the
bush, not a buck. He overheard our talk. The king's slayers came. Gita
held the door of the hut while I took the child, cut a hole through the
straw with my assegai, and crept out at the back. She was full of spears
before she died, but I got away with the boy. Till your Kaffirs found me
I lay hid in the bush, hoping to escape to Natal. Then I ran for the
river, and saw you on the further bank. _I_ might have got away, but
that child is heavy." (_A pause._) "Give him food, Macumazahn, he must
be hungry," (_A pause._) "Farewell. That was a good saying of yours--the
swift runner is outrun at last. Ah! yet I did not run in vain."
(_Another pause, the last._) Then he lifted himself upon one arm and
with the other saluted, first the boy Sinala and next me, muttering,
"Remember your promise, Macumazahn."
* * * * *
"That is how Magepa the Buck died. I never saw any one carrying weight
who could run quite so well as he," and Quatermain turned his head away
as though the memory of this incident affected him somewhat.
"What became of the child Sinala?" I asked presently.
"Oh, I sent him to an institution in Natal, and afterwards was able to
get some of his property back for him. I believe that he is being
trained as an interpreter."
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTE:
[2] For this story see the book named "Child of Storm," by H. Rider
Haggard.
[Illustration]
TRUE SPARTAN HEARTS
BY
BEATRICE HARRADEN
_Painting and Decorations by_ EDMUND DULAC
IN times of war the Spartan women used to say to their husbands and
sons, "Return with your shield, or on it," meaning that they must either
conquer or die. There was no affection or indulgence shown towards the
warriors who survived a defeat; for loyalty to the State was thought of
more account than personal loss, and he who had not died striking his
last blow for Sparta, was deemed unworthy of remembrance, and could
expect no mercy from those who had loved him and sent him to the
battlefield "to conquer or die."
So this was how the Spartans felt about their warriors; and you can
imagine their indignation as well as their dismay when, in the year 371
B.C., news reached Sparta that their army had been defeated at the
battle of Leuctra by the Boeotians, a rival Grecian State, and that
three hundred men had saved their lives in flight. The news was brought
at the moment when some great festival was being celebrated in the city.
The _Ephors_ commanded the names of the slain to be made known to their
relatives, and the women were forbidden to mourn. But the mother of
Eucrates could not at first hide her grief, and her neighbours said
among themselves:
"Why should she be sorrowful? Her son has died bravely. If he had
disgraced himself by flight, then only would she have the right to
mourn."
The old man Phidon came in to see her, and found her spinning, busily
engaged at her work, it is true, but with tears in her saddened eyes. He
was a very stern old man, a Spartan every inch of him, and he spoke
harshly to poor Ione.
"Ione," he said, "not one single tear should course down your cheeks,
not one single pang of grief should assail your heart. I it is who
should weep. I it is who should mourn. For Callias, my grandson, is not
amongst the slain. Unlike your brave son Eucrates, my Callias has not
died at his post of duty. He lives, and by living he has brought
dishonour and shame on his family. How can I meet him? What can I say to
him? Nay, I will not look upon his face. I will not vouchsafe one word
of greeting to him. His father was the glory of my life, but he is the
soul of its shame. The gods have been cruel to me in my old age; but
they have been merciful to you, Ione. For your son, death with honour.
For my Callias, life with dishonour. His father won the crown of wild
olive in the Olympic games, and earned the right of fighting by the
king's side, and died there; and I was proud of him. But woe is me that
I cannot be proud of Callias."
And, Spartan mother as she truly was, Ione knew well that here was a
grief far greater than her own loss of her beloved son. She brushed her
last tear aside, and tried to comfort old Phidon, whom she had known all
her life. Her son Eucrates and this very Callias had been friends
together ever since they were children; and in the days gone by, Phidon
and Ione's father had fought side by side for Sparta.
"May be, Phidon," she said, "the gods have spared Callias and his
comrades, so that they may yet serve Sparta, and help her to triumph
over her enemies."
But he shook his head, and would hear no word of comfort, though, as the
days went by, it seemed to ease his stern spirit to sit beside her, and
watch her at her work. And then she would speak to him of Callias, and
urge him not to be over hard on the lad when he returned.
"You must pardon him, Phidon," she said. "Perchance he will live to do
great things for Sparta."
But the old man said proudly: "Nay, Ione, never a word will I speak to
Callias again."
And it was in vain that Ione pleaded for the friend of Eucrates, always
imploring the old man to believe that the gods in their wisdom had
preserved Callias for some splendid act of service and sacrifice yet to
come.
Full of these thoughts, and haunted by Phidon's unyielding severity, she
had a strange dream one night. She dreamed that King Agesilaus was
willing to pardon all those three hundred soldiers who had fled from the
field of Leuctra; but that Phidon interposed, and standing in the Public
Assembly, gave his vote against the pardon.
"My own grandson is one of the survivors," he cried. "Sparta may pardon
him, but _I_ never will."
[Illustration: True Spartan Hearts
_Painted for
Princess Mary's Gift Book
by Edmund Dulac_]
The next day she told her dream to Phidon, and described to him how with
her mind's eye she had seen Callias standing lonely and forsaken, the
only one of the three hundred survivors who had been spurned and
unforgiven. His loneliness stabbed her to her heart, more even than the
loss of her son; and because there was no one else, she had been
impelled to stand by his side, to greet him, to encourage him, to
reassure him. And just as he lifted his head, bowed in grief and shame,
she awoke. When Phidon had heard her dream-story, his stern heart was
softened.
"I will not turn from Callias," he said. "It may be that you are right,
Ione. It may be that the gods will yet give him some great and glorious
chance. I will steel my heart to receive him."
So Ione triumphed at last. And truly her dream would seem to have been
some kind of divination, for, two or three days afterwards, a decree was
proposed by the king, and passed in the Assembly, to the effect that all
those who had fled from the field of Leuctra were to be pardoned and
received home without dishonour.
Ordinarily all survivors of a defeat were subject to penalties of civil
offence, and so this was quite an unusual proceeding; but no doubt it
was thought dangerous to take stern measures against such a large number
of Spartan citizens. Well, whatever the reason was, there were many glad
hearts in Sparta that day, and old Phidon himself owned in secret to
Ione that he longed to see Callias once more.
"For I must needs forgive him wholeheartedly," he said, "since Sparta
has forgiven him; but with my last breath I would tell you and all the
world that I would far, far rather he had fallen by the side of the
brave Eucrates. That would have been my glory."
As soon as news had come of the defeat of the Spartan army, the whole
remaining military force of Sparta was sent to the rescue, and after
some time returned to Sparta, bringing back the survivors from the
disastrous field of Leuctra.
Then Spartan hearts were softened, and mothers, wives, and sisters stood
waiting to greet those whom the gods had spared for further service. But
Ione sat at home spinning. There were no tears in her eyes now, and her
countenance was lit up by a calm pride. She had learnt to be glad that
she had no one to meet that day.
Suddenly the door opened, and Phidon came in. His manner was strangely
excited.
"Callias is not amongst us," he cried. "I have asked for him, and no one
knows. Could there have been some mistake, I wonder? Is it possible
that----"
At that moment there came a loud knock at the door, and Ione opened it
to Timotheus, a neighbour's son.
"Greetings to the mother of Eucrates," he said, as he stood before Ione.
"I am from Leuctra. I saw Eucrates fighting in the thickest of the fray.
I saw him fall; and there fell another by his side, fighting as
gallantly as he--his comrade in death as well as in life."
"And who was it that died with my brave son?" asked Ione, whose hands
were pressed together deep into her breast, and whose face was ashen,
though tearless.
"It was Callias," answered the young man. "Farewell, honoured mother of
Eucrates. I must go and seek Phidon to tell him."
But Phidon rose to his full height, and there was a smile of triumph on
his face and a new life in his bearing.
"Phidon has heard the news," he said, "and he thanks the gods for this
crowning mercy. For though in his inmost heart he would fain have seen
the face of his grandson once more, there was something dearer to him
than the face of Callias--it was the honour of Callias."
Then, turning to Ione, he said: "Now we can think of them together, and
share our pride in them, Ione."
For one fleeting moment Ione saw a vision of her young, fair son falling
before the foe, but her voice never faltered as she said: "Yes, we can
share our pride in them."
That was the true Spartan tribute to the heroes of Leuctra.
* * * * *
You see, the Spartans would not admit of despair in their lives; they
believed that while there was yet strength in the body, there must needs
be hope in the heart that the victory would be won. And so it was the
duty of a true Spartan to fight and conquer and live, or to die,
striving to conquer to the very last, with no thought of any possibility
of failure.
What do you think about this grand old Spartan code of honour? Do you
not think that we ourselves, each in our own way, young and old, man and
woman, boy and girl, may find something helpful in it to bring to the
service of our country?
[Illustration
[Illustration]
BIG STEAMERS
BY RUDYARD KIPLING
_Painting and Drawings by_ NORMAN WILKINSON, R.I.
"OH, where are you going to, all you Big Steamers,
With England's own coal, up and down the salt seas?"
"We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter,
Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples, and cheese."
"And where will you fetch it from, all you Big Steamers,
And where shall I write you when you are away?"
"We fetch it from Melbourne, Quebec, and Vancouver,
Address us at Hobart, Hong-kong, and Bombay."
[Illustration]
"But if anything happened to all you Big Steamers,
And suppose you were wrecked up and down the salt sea?"
"Why, you'd have no coffee or bacon for breakfast,
And you'd have no muffins or toast for your tea."
"Then I'll pray for fine weather for all you Big Steamers,
For little blue billows and breezes so soft."
"Oh, billows and breezes don't bother Big Steamers,
For we're iron below and steel-rigging aloft."
"Then I'll build a new lighthouse for all you Big Steamers,
With plenty wise pilots to pilot you through."
"Oh, the Channel's as bright as a ball-room already,
And pilots are thicker than pilchards at Looe."
"Then what can I do for you, all you Big Steamers,
Oh, what can I do for your comfort and good?"
"Send out your big warships to watch your big waters,
That no one may stop us from bringing you food.
"_For the bread that you eat and the biscuits you nibble,
The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve,
They are brought to you daily by all us Big Steamers,
And if any one hinders our coming you'll starve!_"
Copyright in the U.S.A. by Rudyard Kipling.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Big Steamers
_Painted for
Princess Mary's Gift Book
by Norman Wilkinson, R.I._
[Illustration]
A TRUE STORY FROM CAMP
BY THE BISHOP OF LONDON
_Drawings by_ JOSEPH SIMPSON, R.B.A.
YOU boys and girls must picture a huge common, and four groups of
khaki-clad soldiers standing at attention in different parts of it. They
are about to be reviewed by the Commander-in-Chief of the Home Forces.
The men had given up a great deal to come and join the Territorial
Forces, but it had not yet thoroughly dawned on them any more than on
the rest of England, how great was the crisis, and none of the
battalions had come out in sufficient strength to be sent out on foreign
service.
The inspection by the great General took a long time, and when the order
came for rank after rank to lie down, they did so with obvious relief.
At last the inspection was over, and all the battalions were asked to
converge on one point. At this point a waggon was placed, and all the
five thousand men lay down round it, the Generals and their staffs lying
behind it. It was a fine sight from the waggon to see those five
thousand fine fellows lying there in the light of the setting sun, but
was it possible to rouse them to see the country's urgent need?
I began by painting the beauty and the glory of England, the loveliest
place in the world, for you may go all over the world, children, and you
will never find anything so glorious or welcome on your return as the
white cliffs of Dover, and the railway run through the hop gardens of
Kent.
[Illustration]
But what touched them most was the thought of what England stood for in
the life of the world. It always has been, and always will be, the _Home
of Freedom_. Let a slave once reach a British man-of-war--he is free.
Britannia's daughters are rallying to her now because she has given
them _Freedom_, for they see that she is the champion in this war of
the Freedom of the World against a universal Tyranny.
Then I turned to what they themselves owed to England, their homes,
their faith, their security to work, their happy friendships, and their
love of wife, mother, and children. What they had not realised up to now
was that _all this was in deadly peril for the first time for a hundred
years_!
One mistake of our Fleets, one crushing defeat in France, and the foe
would be upon us; the fate of Belgium would be the fate of England!
What more glorious than to follow the example of those who had fought
and died for England?
"Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence
Who goes to join the men of Agincourt."
[Illustration]
In spite of the presence of the Generals a great cheer broke from the
five thousand men when I said, "I would rather die than see England a
German province"; but finding that they were allowed to cheer, as deep a
cheer followed the statement that, if it came to the last Waterloo, it
was far better to slip across the silver streak and fight it on the
other side than let an invaders foot _for the first time for a thousand
years_ stain our native land.
In the evening all the four battalions present volunteered for foreign
service, and as four more at the neighbouring Camp had volunteered the
day before in answer to a similar appeal, eight battalions were added to
the fighting strength abroad of the British Army.
[Illustration]
THE EBONY BOX
BY A. E. W. MASON
_Painting and Drawings_ by W. B. WOLLEN, R.I.
_Copyright in the U.S.A. by A. E. W. Mason_
"NO, no," said Colonel von Altrock abruptly. "It is not always true."
The conversation died away at once, and every one about that dinner
table in the Rue St. Florentin looked at him expectantly. He played
nervously with the stem of his wineglass for a few moments, as though
the complete silence distressed him. Then he resumed with a more
diffident air:
"War no doubt inspires noble actions and brings out great qualities in
men from whom you expected nothing. But there is another side to it
which becomes apparent, not at once, but after a few months of
campaigning. Your nerves get overstrained, fatigue and danger tell their
tale. You lose your manners, sometimes you degenerate into a brute. I
happen to know. Thirty years have passed since the siege of Paris, yet
even to-day there is no part of my life which I regret so much as the
hours between eleven and twelve o'clock of Christmas night in the year
'seventy. I will tell you about it if you like, although the story may
make us late for the opera."
"It will not matter if we are a little late," said his hostess, the
Baroness Hammerstein, and her guests agreed with her.
"It is permitted to smoke?" asked the Colonel. For a moment the flame of
a match lit up and exaggerated the hollows and the lines upon his lean,
rugged face. Then, drawing in his chair to the table, he told his story.
* * * * *
I was a lieutenant of the fifth company of the second battalion of the
103rd Regiment, which belonged to the 23rd Infantry Division. It is as
well to be exact. That division was part of the 12th Army Corps under
the Crown Prince of Saxony, and in the month of December formed the
south-eastern segment of our circle about Paris. On Christmas night I
happened to be on duty at a forepost in advance of Noisy-le-Grand. The
Centigrade thermometer was down to twelve degrees below zero, and our
little wooden hut with the sloping roof, which served us at once as
kitchen, mess-room, and dormitory, seemed to us all a comfortable
shelter. Outside its door the country glimmered away into darkness, a
great white silent plain of snow. Inside, the camp-bedsteads were neatly
ranged along the wall where the roof was lowest. A long table covered
with a white cloth--for we were luxurious on Christmas night--occupied
the middle of the floor; in a corner stood a fine big barrel of Bavarian
beer which had arrived that morning as a Christmas present from my
mother at Leipzig. We were none of us anxious to turn out into the
bitter cold, I can tell you. But we were not colonels in those days, and
while the Hauptmann was proposing my mother's health the door was thrust
open and an orderly muffled up to the eyes stood on the threshold at the
salute.
"The Herr Oberst wishes to see the Herr Lieutenant von Altrock," said
he, and before I had time even to grumble he turned on his heels and
marched away.
I took down my great-coat, drew the cape over my head, and went out of
the hut. There was no wind, nor was the snow falling, but the cold was
terrible, and to me who had come straight from the noise of my
companions the night seemed unnaturally still. I plodded away through
the darkness. Behind me in the hut the Hauptmann struck up a song, and
the words came to me quite clearly and very plaintively across the snow:
Ich hatte einen Kamaraden
Einen besseren findest du nicht.
I wondered whether in the morning, like that comrade, I should be a man
to be mentioned in the past tense. For more than once a sentinel had
been found frozen dead at his post, and I foresaw a long night's work
before me. My Colonel had acquired a habit of choosing me for special
services, and indeed to his kindness in this respect I owed my
commission.
[Illustration]
I found him sitting at a little table drawn close to the fire in a bare,
dimly-lighted room. A lamp stood on the table, and he was peering at a
crumpled scrap of paper and smoothing out its creases. So engrossed was
he, indeed, in his scrutiny that it was some minutes before he raised
his head and saw me waiting for his commands.
"Lieutenant von Altrock," he said, "you must ride to Raincy."
Raincy was only five miles distant, as the crow flies. Yes, but the
French had made a sortie on the 21st, they had pushed back our lines,
and they now held Ville Evrart and Maison Blanche between Raincy and
Noisy-le-Grand. I should have to make a circuit; my five miles became
ten. I did not like the prospect at all. I liked it still less when the
Colonel added:
"You must be careful. More than one German soldier has of late been
killed upon that road. There are _francs-tireurs_ about. And you _must_
reach Raincy."
It was a verbal message which he gave me, and I was to deliver it in
person to the commandant of the battery at Raincy.
"There is a horse ready for you at the stables," said the Colonel, and
with a nod he turned again to his scrap of paper. I saluted and walked
to the door. As my hand was on the knob he called me back.
"What do you make of it?" he asked, holding the paper out to me. "It was
picked out of the Marne in a sealed wine-bottle."
I took the paper, and saw that a single sentence was written upon it in
a round and laborious hand with the words misspelt. The meaning of the
sentence seemed simple enough. It was apparently a message from a M.
Bonnet to his son in the Mobiles at Paris, and it stated that the big
black cat had had five kittens.
"What do you make of it?" repeated the Colonel.
"Why, that M. Bonnet's black cat has kittens," said I.
I handed the paper back. The Colonel looked at it again, shrugged his
shoulders, and laughed.
"Well, after all, perhaps it does mean no more than that," said he.
But for the Colonel's suspicions I should not have given another thought
to that misspelt scrawl. M. Bonnet was probably some little peasant
engrossed in domestic affairs, who thought that no message could be more
consoling to his son locked up in Paris than this great news about the
black cat.
[Illustration]
The wildest rumours were flying about our camp at that time, as I think
will always happen when you have a large body of men living under a
great strain of cold and privation and peril. They perplexed the
seasoned officers and they were readily swallowed by the youngsters, of
whom I was one. Now, this scrap of paper happened to fit in with the
rumour which most of all exercised our imaginations.
It was known that in spite of all our precautions news was continually
leaking into Paris which we did not think it good for the Parisians to
have. On that very Christmas Day they already knew that General
Faidherbe, at Pont Noyelles, had repulsed a portion of our first army
under General Manteuffel. How did they know? We were not satisfied that
pigeons and balloons completely explained the mystery. No, we believed
that the news passed somewhere through our lines on the south-east of
Paris--news in cipher which was passed on and on to a house close to our
lines, whence, as occasion served, it was carried into Paris.
That was the rumour. There may have been truth in it, or it may have
been entirely false. But, at all events, it had just the necessary
element of fancy to appeal to the imagination of a very young man, and
as I walked to the stables and mounted the horse which the Colonel had
lent me, I kept wondering whether this message, so simple in appearance,
had travelled so, and was covering its last stage between the
undiscovered chateau and Paris in the sealed wine-bottle. I tried to
make out what the black cat stood for in the cipher, and whose identity
was concealed under the pseudonym of M. Bonnet. So I rode down the slope
of Noisy-le-Grand.
But at the bottom of the slope these speculations passed entirely from
my mind. In front, hidden away in the darkness, lay the dangers of Ville
Evrart and Maison Blanche. German soldiers had ridden along this path
and had not returned; the _francs-tireurs_ were abroad. Yet I must reach
Raincy. Moreover, in my own mind, I was equally convinced that I must
return. I saw the little beds against the wall of the hut under the
sloping roof. I rode warily, determined to sleep in one of them that
night, determined to keep my life if it could be kept.
I crossed the Marne and turned off the road into a forest path. Ville
Evrart with its French garrison lay now upon my left behind the screen
of trees. Fortunately there was no moon that night and a mist hung in
the air. The snow, too, deadened the sound of my horse's hoofs. But I
rode, nevertheless, very gently and with every sense alert. Each moment
I expected the challenge of a sentinel in French.
[Illustration]