CHAPTER XVI

A GLOOMY GOOD-BY

At that point my importance ceased. Apparently seeing that the game

was up, Mr. Camp later in the morning asked Mr. Cullen to give him an

interview, and when he was allowed to pass the sentry he came to the

steps and suggested--

"Perhaps we can arrange a compromise between the Missouri Western and

the Great Southern?"

"We can try," Mr. Cullen assented. "Come into my car." He made way for

Mr. Camp, and was about to follow him, when Madge took hold of her

father's arm, and, making him stoop, whispered something to him.

"What kind of a place?" asked Mr. Cullen, laughing.

"A good one," his daughter replied.

I thought I understood what was meant. She didn't want to rest under

an obligation, and so I was to be paid up for what I had done by

promotion. It made me grit my teeth, and if I hadn't taught myself not

to swear, because of my position, I could have given sheriff Gunton

points on cursing. I wanted to speak up right there and tell Miss

Cullen what I thought of her.

Of the interview which took place inside 218, I can speak only at

second-hand, and the world knows about as well as I how the contest

was compromised by the K. & A. being turned over to the Missouri

Western, the territory in Southern California being divided between

the California Central and the Great Southern, and a traffic

arrangement agreed upon that satisfied the G.S. That afternoon a

Missouri Western board for the K. & A. was elected without opposition,

and they in turn elected Mr. Cullen president of the K. & A.; so when

my report of the holding-up went in, he had the pleasure of reading

it. I closed it with a request for instructions, but I never received

any, and that ended the matter. I turned over the letters to the

special agent at Flagstaff, and I suppose his report is slumbering in

some pigeon-hole in Washington, for I should have known of any attempt

to bring the culprits to punishment. Mr. Cullen had taken a big risk,

but came out of it with a great lot of money, for the Missouri Western

bought all his holdings in the K. & A. and C.C. But the scare must

have taught him a lesson, for ever since then he's been conservative,

and talks about the foolishness of investors who try to get more than

five per cent, or who think of anything but good railroad bonds.

As for myself, a month after these occurrences I was appointed

superintendent of the Missouri Western, which by this deal had become

one of the largest railroad systems in the world. It was a big step

up for so young a man, and was of course pure favoritism, due to Mr.

Cullen's influence. I didn't stay in the position long, for within two

years I was offered the presidency of the Chicago & St. Paul, and

I think that was won on merit. Whether or not, I hold the position

still, and have made my road earn and pay dividends right through the

panic.

All this is getting away ahead of events, however. The election

delayed us so that we couldn't couple on to No. 4 that afternoon, and

consequently we had to lie that night at Ash Fork. I made the officers

my excuse for keeping away from the Cullens, as I wished to avoid

Madge. I did my best to be good company to the bluecoats, and had a

first-class dinner for them on my car, but I was in a pretty glum

mood, which even champagne couldn't modify. Though all necessity of a

guard ceased with the compromise, the cavalry remained till the next

morning, and, after giving them a good breakfast, about six o'clock we

shook hands, the bugle sounded, and off they rode. For the first time

I understood how a fellow disappointed in love comes to enlist.

When I turned about to go into my car, I found Madge standing on the

platform of 218 waving a handkerchief. I paid no attention to her, and

started up my steps.

"Mr. Gordon," she said--and when I looked at her I saw that she was

flushing--"what is the matter?"

I suppose most fellows would have found some excuse, but for the life

of me I couldn't. All I was able to say was--

"I would rather not say, Miss Cullen."

"How unfair you are!" she cried. "You--without the slightest reason

you suddenly go out of your way to ill-treat--insult me, and yet will

not tell me the cause."

That made me angry. "Cause?" I cried. "As if you didn't know of a

cause! What you don't know is that I overheard your conversation with

Lord Ralles night before last."

"My conversation with Lord Ralles?" exclaimed Madge, in a bewildered

way.

"Yes," I said bitterly, "keep up the acting. The practice is good,

even if it deceives no one."

"I don't understand a word you are saying," she retorted, getting

angry in turn. "You speak as if I had done wrong--as if--I don't know

what; and I have a right to know to what you allude."

"I don't see how I can be any clearer," I muttered. "I was under the

station platform, hiding from the cowboys, while you and Lord Ralles

were walking. I didn't want to be a listener, but I heard a good deal

of what you said."

"But I didn't walk with Lord Ralles," she cried, "The only person I

walked with was Captain Ackland."

That took me very much aback, for I had never questioned in my mind

that it wasn't Lord Ralles. Yet the moment she spoke, I realized how

much alike the two brothers' voices were, and how easily the blurring

of distance and planking might have misled me. For a moment I was

speechless. Then I replied coldly--

"It makes no difference with whom you were. What you said was the

essential part."

"But how could you for an instant suppose that I could say what I did

to Lord Ralles?" she demanded.

"I naturally thought he would be the one to whom you would appeal

concerning my 'insulting' conduct."

Madge looked at me for a moment as if transfixed. Then she laughed,

and cried--

"Oh, you idiot!"

While I still looked at her in equal amazement, she went on, "I beg

your pardon, but you are so ridiculous that I had to say it. Why, I

wasn't talking about you, but about Lord Ralles."

"Lord Ralles!" I cried.

"Yes."

"I don't understand," I exclaimed.

"Why, Lord Ralles has been--has been--oh, he's threatened that if I

wouldn't--that--"

"You mean he--?" I began, and then stopped, for I couldn't believe my

ears.

"Oh," she burst out, "of course you couldn't understand, and you

probably despise me already, but if you knew how I scorn myself, Mr.

Gordon, and what I have endured from that man, you would only pity

me."

Light broke on me suddenly. "Do you mean, Miss Cullen," I cried

hotly, "that he's been cad enough to force his attentions upon you by

threats?"

"Yes. First he made me endure him because he was going to help us, and

from the moment the robbery was done, he has been threatening to tell.

Oh, how I have suffered!"

Then I said a very silly thing. "Miss Cullen," I groaned, "I'd give

anything if I were only your brother." For the moment I really meant

it.

"I haven't dared to tell any of them," she explained, "because I knew

they would resent it and make Lord Ralles angry, and then he would

tell, and so ruin papa. It seemed such a little thing to bear for his

sake, but, oh, it's been--suppose you despise me!"

"I never dreamed of despising you," I said. "I only thought, of

course--seeing what I did--and--that you were fond--No--that is--I

mean--well--The beast!" I couldn't help exclaiming.

"Oh," said Madge, blushing, and stammering breathlessly, "you mustn't

think--there was really--you happened to--usually I managed to

keep with papa or my brothers, or else run away, as I did when he

interrupted my letter-writing--when you thought we had--but it was

nothing of the--I kept away just--but the night of the robbery I

forgot, and on the trail his mule blocked the path. He never--there

really wasn't--you saved me the only time he--he--that he was really

rude; and I am so grateful for it, Mr. Gordon."

I wasn't in a mood to enjoy even Miss Cullen's gratitude. Without

stopping for words, I dashed into 218, and, going straight to Albert

Cullen, I shook him out of a sound sleep, and before he could well

understand me I was alternately swearing at him and raging at Lord

Ralles.

Finally he got the truth through his head, and it was nuts to me, even

in my rage, to see how his English drawl disappeared, and how quick he

could be when he really became excited.

I left him hurrying into his clothes, and went to my car, for I didn't

dare to see the exodus of Lord Ralles, through fear that I couldn't

behave myself. Albert came into 97 in a few moments to say that the

Englishmen were going to the hotel as soon as dressed, the captain

having elected to stay by his brother.

"I wouldn't have believed it of Ralles. I feel jolly cut up, you

know," he drawled.

I had been so enraged over Lord Ralles that I hadn't stopped to reckon

in what position I stood myself toward Miss Cullen, but I didn't have

to do much thinking to know that I had behaved about as badly as was

possible for me. And the worst of it was that she could not know that

right through the whole I had never quite been able to think badly of

her. I went out on the platform of the station, and was lucky enough

to find her there alone.

"Miss Cullen," I said, "I've been ungentlemanly and suspicious, and

I'm about as ashamed of myself as a man can be and not jump into the

Grand Cañon. I've not come to you to ask your forgiveness, for I can't

forgive myself, much less expect it of you. But I want you to know how

I feel, and if there's any reparation, apology, anything, that you'd

like, I'll--"

Madge interrupted my speech there by holding out her hand.

"You don't suppose," she said, "that, after all you have done for us,

I could be angry over what was merely a mistake?"

That's what I call a trump of a girl, worth loving for a lifetime.

Well, we coupled on to No. 2 that morning and started East, this time

Mr. Cullen's car being the "ender." All on 218 were wildly jubilant,

as was natural, but I kept growing bluer and bluer. I took a farewell

dinner on their car the night we were due in Albuquerque, and

afterward Miss Cullen and I went out and sat on the back platform.

"I've had enough adventures to talk about for a year," Madge said, as

we chatted the whole thing over, "and you can no longer brag that the

K. & A. has never had a robbery, even if you didn't lose anything."

"I have lost something," I sighed sadly.

Madge looked at me quickly, started to speak, hesitated, and then

said, "Oh, Mr. Gordon, if you only could know how badly I have felt

about that, and how I appreciate the sacrifice."

I had only meant that I had lost my heart, and, for that matter,

probably my head, for it would have been ungenerous even to hint to

Miss Cullen that I had made any sacrifice of conscience for her sake,

and I would as soon have asked her to pay for it in money as have told

her.

"You mustn't think--" I began.

"I have felt," she continued, "that your wish to serve us made you do

something you never would have otherwise done, for--Well, you--any one

can see how truthful and honest--and it has made me feel so badly that

we--Oh, Mr. Gordon, no one has a right to do wrong in the world, for

it brings such sadness and danger to innocent--And you have been so

generous--"

I couldn't let this go on. "What I did," I told her, "was to fight

fire with fire, and no one is responsible for it but myself."

"I should like to think that, but I can't," she said. "I know we all

tried to do something dishonest, and while you didn't do any real

wrong, yet I don't think you would have acted as you did except for

our sake. And I'm afraid you may some day regret--"

"I sha'n't," I cried; "and, so far from meaning that I had lost my

self-respect, I was alluding to quite another thing."

"Time?" she asked.

"No."

"What?"

"Something else you have stolen."

"I haven't," she denied.

"You have," I affirmed.

"You mean the novel?" she asked; "because I sent it in to 97

to-night."

"I don't mean the novel."

"I can't think of anything more but those pieces of petrified wood,

and those you gave me," she said demurely. "I am sure that whatever

else I have of yours you have given me without even my asking, and if

you want it back you've only got to say so."

"I suppose that would be my very best course," I groaned.

"I hate people who force a present on one," she continued, "and then,

just as one begins to like it, want it back."

Before I could speak, she asked hurriedly, "How often do you come to

Chicago?"

I took that to be a sort of command that I was to wait, and though

longing to have it settled then and there, I braked myself up and

answered her question. Now I see what a duffer I was--Madge told

me afterward that she asked only because she was so frightened and

confused that she felt she must stop my speaking for a moment.

I did my best till I heard the whistle the locomotive gives as it

runs into yard limits, and then rose. "Good-by, Miss Cullen," I said,

properly enough, though no death-bed farewell was ever more gloomily

spoken; and she responded, "Good-by, Mr. Gordon," with equal

propriety.

I held her hand, hating to let her go, and the first thing I knew, I

blurted out, "I wish I had the brass of Lord Ralles!"

"I don't," she laughed, "because, if you had, I shouldn't be willing

to let you--"

And what she was going to say, and why she didn't say it, is the

concern of no one but Mr. and Mrs. Richard Gordon.

THE RISEN DEAD

BY MAX PEMBERTON

CHAPTER I

The sun was setting on the second day of June, in the year 1701, when

Pietro Falier, the Captain of the Police of Venice, quitted his office

in the Piazzetta of St. Mark and set out, alone, for the Palace of

Frà Giovanni, the Capuchin friar, who lived over on the Island of the

Guidecca.

"I shall return in an hour," he said to his subordinate as he stepped

into the black gondola which every Venetian knew so well. "If any has

need of me, I am at the house of Frà Giovanni."

The subordinate saluted, and returned slowly toward the ducal palace.

He was thinking that his Captain went over-much just then to the house

of that strange friar who had come to Venice so mysteriously, and so

mysteriously had won the favor of the republic.

"Saint John!" he muttered to himself, "that we should dance attendance

on a shaven crown--we, who were the masters of the city a year ago!

What is the Captain thinking of? Are we all women, then, or have

women plucked our brains that it should be Frà Giovanni this and Frà

Giovanni that, and your tongue snapped off if you so much as put a

question. To the devil with all friars, say I."

The good fellow stopped a moment in his walk to lay the flat of his

sword across the shoulders of a mountebank, who had dared to remain

seated at the door of his booth while so great a person passed. Then

he returned to his office, and whispered in the ear of his colleague

the assurance that the Captain was gone again to the island of the

Jews, and that his business was with the friar.

"And look you, Michele," said he, "it is neither to you nor to me that

he comes nowadays. Not a whisper of it, as I live, except to this

friar, whom I could crush between my fingers as a glass ball out of

Murano."

His colleague shook his head.

"There have been many," said he, "who have tried to crush Frà

Giovanni. They grin between the bars of dungeons, my friend--at least,

those who have heads left to grin with. Be warned of me, and make an

ally of the man who has made an ally of Venice. The Captain knows well

what he is doing. If he has gone to the priest's house now, it is that

the priest may win rewards for us again, as he has won them already a

hundred times.

He spoke earnestly, though, in truth, his guess was not a good one.

The Captain of the Police had not gone to the Island of the Guidecca

to ask a service of the friar; he had gone, as he thought, to save the

friar's life. At the moment when his subordinates were wagging their

heads together, he himself stood in the priest's house, before the

very table at which Frà Giovanni sat busy with his papers and his

books.

"I implore you to listen to me, Prince!" he had just exclaimed very

earnestly, as he repeated the news for the second time, and stood

clamorous for the answer to his question.

The friar, who was dressed in the simple habit of the Capuchins, and

who wore his cowl over his head so that only his shining black eyes

could be seen, put down his pen when he heard himself addressed as

"Prince."

"Captain," he said sharply, "who is this person you come here to warn?

You speak of him as 'Prince.' It is some other, then, and not myself?"

The Captain bit his lip. He was one of the four in Venice who knew

something of Frà Giovanni's past.

"Your Excellency's pardon," he exclaimed very humbly; "were we not

alone, you would find me more discreet. I know well that the Prince

of Iseo is dead--in Venice at least. But to Frà Giovanni, his near

kinsman, I say beware, for there are those here who have sworn he

shall not live to say Mass again."

For an instant a strange light came into the priest's eyes. But he

gave no other sign either of surprise or of alarm.

"They have sworn it--you know their names, Captain?"

"The police do not concern themselves with names, Excellency."

"Which means that you do not know their names, Captain?"

Pietro Falier sighed. This friar never failed to humble him, he

thought. If it were not for the honors which the monk had obtained for

the police since he began his work in Venice, the Captain said that he

would not lift a hand to save him from the meanest bravo in Italy.

"You do not know their names, Captain--confess, confess," continued

the priest, raising his hand in a bantering gesture; "you come to me

with some gossip of the bed-chamber, your ears have been open in

the market-place, and this tittle-tattle is your purchase--confess,

confess."

The Captain flushed as he would have done before no other in all

Venice.

"I do not know their names, Excellency," he stammered; "it is gossip

from the _bravo's_ kitchen. They say that you are to die before Mass

to-morrow. I implore you not to leave this house to-night. We shall

know how to do the rest if you will but remain indoors."

It was an earnest entreaty, but it fell upon deaf ears. The priest

answered by taking a sheet of paper and beginning to write upon it.

"I am indebted to you, Signor Falier," said he, quietly, "and you know

that I am not the man to forget my obligations. None the less, I fear

that I must disregard your warning, for I have an appointment in the

market to-night, and my word is not so easily broken. Let me reassure

you a little. The news that you bring to me, and for which I am your

debtor, was known to me three days ago. Here upon this paper I have

written down the name of the woman and of her confederates who have

hired the _bravo_ Rocca to kill me to-night in the shadow of the

church of San Salvatore. You will read that paper and the woman's

name--when you have my permission."

Falier stepped back dumb with amazement.

"The woman's name, Excellency," he repeated, so soon as his surprise

permitted him to speak, "you know her, then?"

"Certainly, or how could I write it upon the paper?"

"But you will give that paper to me, here and now. Think, Excellency,

if she is your enemy, she is the enemy also of Venice. What forbids

that we arrest her at once? You may not be alive at dawn!"

"In which case," exclaimed the priest, satirically, "the Signori of

the Night would be well able to answer for the safety of the city. Is

it not so, Captain?"

Falier stammered an excuse.

"We have not your eyes, Excellency; we cannot work miracles--but at

least we can try to protect you from the hand of the assassin. Name

this woman to me, and she shall not live when midnight strikes."

Frà Giovanni rose from his chair and put his hand gently upon the

other's shoulder.

"Signer Falier," said he, "if I told you this woman's name here and

now as you ask, the feast of Corpus Christi might find a new Doge in

Venice."

"You say, Excellency--?"

"That the city is in danger as never she was before in her history."

"And your own life?"

"Shall be given for Venice if necessary. Listen to this: you seek to

be of service to me. Have you any plan?"

"No plan but that which posts guards at your door and keeps you within

these walls--"

"That the enemies of Venice may do their work. Is that your reason,

Signor Falier?"

"I have no other reason, Excellency, but your own safety and that of

the city."

"I am sure of it, Captain, and being sure I am putting my life in your

hands to-night--"

"To-night; we are to follow you to the Merceria, then?"

"Not at all; say rather that you are to return to the palace and to

keep these things so secret that even the Council has no word of them.

But, at ten o'clock, take twenty of your best men and let your boat

lie in the shadow of the church of San Luca until I have need of you.

You understand, Captain Falier?"

Falier nodded his head and replied vaguely. Truth to tell, he

understood very little beyond this--that the friar had been before him

once more, and that he could but follow as a child trustingly. And the

city was in danger! His heart beat quick when he heard the words.

"Excellency," he stammered, "the boat shall be there--at ten

o'clock--in the shadow of the church of San Luca. But first--"

"No," said the priest, quickly, "we have done with our firstly--and

your gondola waits, I think, signorè!"

CHAPTER II

The bells of the Chapel of St. Mark were striking the hour of eight

o'clock when, Frà Giovanni stepped from his gondola, and crossed the

great square toward that labyrinth of narrow streets and winding

alleys they call the Merceria.

The Piazza itself was then ablaze with the light of countless lamps;

dainty lanterns, colored as the rainbow, swayed to the soft breeze

between the arches of the colonnade. Nobles were seated at the doors

of the splendid cafés; the music of stringed instruments mingled with

the louder, sweeter music of the bells; women, whose jewels were as

sprays of flame, many-hued and dazzling, hung timidly upon the arms of

lovers; gallants swaggered in costly velvets and silks which were the

spoil of the generous East; even cassocked priests and monks in their

sombre habits passed to and fro amidst that glittering throng, come

out to herald the glory of a summer's night.

And clear and round, lifting themselves up through the blue haze to

the silent world of stars above, were the domes and cupolas of the

great chapel itself--the chapel which, through seven centuries, had

been the city's witness to the God who had made her great, and who

would uphold her still before the nations.

The priest passed through the crowd swiftly, seeming to look neither

to the right nor to the left. The brown habit of the Capuchins was his

dress, and his cowl was drawn so well over his head that only his eyes

were visible--those eyes which stand out so strangely in the many

portraits which are still the proud possession of Venice. Though he

knew well that an assassin waited for him in the purlieus of the

church of San Salvatore, his step was quick and brisk; he walked as

a man who goes willingly to a rendezvous, and anticipates its climax

with pleasure. When he had left the great square with its blaze of

lanterns and its babel of tongues, and had begun to thread the narrow

streets by which he would reach the bridge of the Rialto, a smile

played for a moment about his determined mouth, and he drew his capuce

still closer over his ears.

"So it is Rocca whom they send--Rocca, the poltroon! Surely there is

the hand of God in this."

He raised his eyes for a moment to the starlit heaven, and then

continued his brisk walk. His way lay through winding alleys; over

bridges so narrow that two men could not pass abreast; through

passages where rogues lurked, and repulsive faces were thrust grinning

into his own. But he knew the city as one who had lived there all his

life; and for the others, the thieves and scum of Venice, he had

no thought. Not until he came out before the church of Santa Maria

Formosa did he once halt or look behind him. The mystery of the night

was a joy to him. Even in the shadow of the church, his rest was but

for a moment; and, as he rested, the meaning smile hovered again upon

his wan face.

"The play begins," he muttered, while he loosened slightly the girdle

of his habit and thrust his right hand inside it; "the God of Venice

give me courage."

A man was following him now--he was sure of it. He had seen him as

he turned to cross the bridge which would set him on the way to the

church of San Salvatore--a short, squat man, masked and dressed from

head to foot in black. Quick as the movements of the fellow were,

dexterous his dives into porches and the patches of shadow which

the eaves cast, the priest's trained eye followed his every turn,

numbered, as it were, the very steps he took. And the smile upon Frà

Giovanni's face was fitful no more. He walked as a man who has a great

jest for his company.

"Rocca the fool, and alone! They pay me a poor compliment, those new

friends of mine; but we shall repay, and the debt will be heavy."

He withdrew his hand from his habit, where it had rested upon the hilt

of a dagger, for he knew that he had no need of any weapon. His gait

was quick and careless; he stopped often to peer into some windowless

shop where a sickly lamp burned before the picture of a saint; and

wares, which had not tempted a dead generation, appealed unavailingly

to a living one. The idea that his very merriment might cost him his

life never entered his head. He played with the assassin as a cat

with a mouse, now tempting him to approach, now turning suddenly, and

sending him helter-skelter into the door of a shop or the shadow of a

bridge. He was sure of his man, and that certainty was a delight to

him.

"If it had been any other but Rocca the clown!" he said to himself,

his thoughts ever upon the jest; "surely we shall know what to say to

him."

He had come almost to the church of San Salvatore by this time. His

walk had carried him out to the bank of a narrow, winding canal, at

whose quays once-splendid gondolas were rotting in neglect. It seemed

to him that here was the place where his tactics might well be changed

and the _rôle_ of the hunted put aside for that of the hunter. Quick

to act, he stepped suddenly behind one of the great wooden piles

driven into the quay for the warping of barges. The _bravo_, who did

not perceive that he had been detected, and who could not account for

the sudden disappearance of his prey, came straight on, his cloak

wrapped about his face, his naked sword in his hand. The wage would be

earned easily that night, he was telling himself. No one would miss a

beggarly monk--and he, Rocca, must live. A single blow, struck to the

right side of the back, and then--and then--

This pleasant anticipation was cut short abruptly by the total

disappearance of the man whose death was a preliminary to the wage he

anticipated so greedily. Mystified beyond measure, he let his cloak

fall back again, and began to peer into the shadows as though some

miracle had been wrought and the priest carried suddenly from earth to

that heaven whither he had meant to send him so unceremoniously.

"Blood of Paul!" he exclaimed angrily, turning about and about again,

"am I losing my eyes? A plague upon the place and the shadows."

He stamped his foot impotently, and was about to run back by the way

he had come when a voice spoke in the shadows; and at the sound of the

voice, the sword fell from the man's hand and he reeled back as from a

blow.

"Rocca Zicani, the Prince is waiting for you."

The assassin staggered against the door of a house, and stood there as

one paralyzed. He had heard those words once before in the dungeons of

Naples. They had been spoken by the Inquisitors who came to Italy with

one of the Spanish princes. Instantly he recalled the scene where

first he had listened to them--the dungeon draped in black--the

white-hot irons which had seared his flesh; the rack which had maimed

his limbs, the masked men who had tortured him.

"Great God!" he moaned, "not that--not that--"

The priest stepped from the shadows and stood in a place where the

feeble light of an oil lamp could fall upon his face. The laugh

hovered still about his lips. He regarded the trembling man with a

contempt he would not conceal.

"Upon my word, Signer Rocca," he exclaimed, "this is a poor welcome to

an old friend."

The _bravo_, who had fallen on his knees, for he believed that a trick

had again delivered him into the hands of his enemies, looked up at

the words, and stared at the monk as at an apparition.

"Holy Virgin!" he cried, "it is the Prince of Iseo."

The priest continued in the jester's tone:

"As you say, old comrade, the Prince of Iseo. Glory to God for the

good fortune which puts you in my path to-night! Oh, you are very glad

to see me, Signor Rocca, I'll swear to that. What, the fellow whom my

hands snatched from the rack in the house of the Duke of Naples--has

he no word for me? And he carries his naked sword in his hand; he has

the face of a woman and his knees tremble. What means this?"

He had seemed to speak in jest, but while the cowed man was still

kneeling before him, he, of a sudden, struck the sword aside, and,

stooping, he gripped the _bravo_ by the throat and dragged him from

the shelter of the porch to the water's edge. As iron were the

relentless hands; the man's eyes started from his head, the very

breath seemed to be crushed out of him in the grip of the terrible

priest.

"Signor Rocca, what means this?" the friar repeated. "A naked sword in

your hand and sweat upon your brow. Oh, oh! a tale, indeed! Shall I

read it to you, or shall I raise my voice and fetch those who will

read it for me--those who have the irons heated, and the boot so made

for your leg that no last in Italy shall better it. Speak, rascal,

shall I read you the tale?"

"Mercy, Prince, for the love of God!"

The priest released the pressure of his hands and let the other sink

at his feet.

"Who sent you, rogue?" he asked. "Who pays your wage?"

"I dare not tell you, Excellency."

"Dare not! _you_ dare not--you, whom a word will put to torture

greater than any you have dreamed of in your worst agonies; _you_ dare

not."

"Excellency, the Countess of Treviso; I am her servant."

"And the man who sent her to the work--his name?"

"Andrea, Count of Pisa, Excellency."

The priest stepped back as one whose curiosity was entirely satisfied.

"Ah! I thought so. And the price they paid you, knave?"

"Forty silver ducats, Excellency,"

"Ho, ho! so that is the price of a friar in Venice."

The _bravo_ sought to join in the jest.

"Had they known it was the Prince of Iseo, it had been a hundred

thousand, Excellency."

Frà Giovanni did not listen to him. His quick brain was solving a

strange problem--the problem of the price that these people, in their

turn, should pay to Venice. When he had solved it, he turned to the

cringing figure at his feet.

"Signor Rocca," he said, "do you know of what I am thinking?"

"Of mercy, Excellency; of mercy for one who has not deserved it."

"But who can deserve it?"

"Excellency, hearken to me. I swear by all the saints--"

"In whose name you blaspheme, rascal. Have I not heard your oath in

Naples when the irons seared your flesh? Shall I listen again when the

fire is being made ready, and there is burning coal beneath the bed

you will lie upon to-night, Signor Rocca?"

"Oh! for God's sake, Excellency!"

"Not so; for the sake of Venice, rather."

"I will be your slave--I swear it on the cross--I will give my life--"

"Your precious life, Signor Rocca!--nay, what a profligate you are!"

Frà Giovanni's tone, perhaps, betrayed him. The trembling man began to

take heart a little.

"Prove me Excellency," he whined; "prove me here and now."

The friar made a pretence of debating it. After a little spell of

silence he bade the other rise.

"Come," he said, "your legs catch cold, my friend, and will burn

slowly. Stretch them here upon the Campo while I ask you some

questions. And remember, for every lie you tell me there shall be

another wedge in the boot you are about to wear. You understand that,

signorè?"

"Excellency, the man that could lie to the Prince of Iseo has yet to

be born."

It was a compliment spoken from the very heart; but the priest ignored

it.

"Let us not speak of others, but of you and your friends. And,

firstly, of the woman who sent you. She is now--"

"In the Palazzo Pisani waiting news of you."

"You were to carry that news to her?"

"And to receive my wage, Excellency. But I did not know what work it

was--Holy God, I would not have come for--"

Frà Giovanni cut him short with a gesture of impatience.

"Tell me," he exclaimed, "the Count of Pisa, is he not the woman's

lover?"

"They say so, signorè."

"And he is at her house to-night?"

The man shook his head.

"Before Heaven, I do not know, Excellency. An hour ago, he sat at a

café in the great square."

"And the woman--was she alone when you left her?"

"There were three with her to sup."

The priest nodded his head.

"It is good!" he said; "we shall even presume to sup with her."

"To sup with her--but they will kill you, Excellency!"

"Ho, ho! see how this assassin is concerned for my life.

"Certainly I am. Have you not given me mine twice? I implore you not

to go to the house--"

He would have said more, but the splash of an oar in the narrow

canal by which they walked cut short his entreaties. A gondola was

approaching them; the cry of the gondolier, awakening echoes beneath

the eaves of the old houses, gave to Frà Giovanni that inspiration he

had been seeking now for some minutes.

"Rocca Zicani," he exclaimed, standing suddenly as the warning cry,

"_Stalè_," became more distinct, "I am going to put your professions

to the proof."

"Excellency, I will do anything--"

"Then, if you would wake to-morrow with a head upon your shoulders,

enter that gondola, and go back to those who sent you. Demand your

wage of them--"

"But, Excellency--"

"Demand your wage of them," persisted the priest, sternly, "and say

that the man who was their enemy lies dead before the church of San

Salvatore. You understand me?"

A curious look came into the _bravo's_ eyes.

"Saint John!" he cried, "that I should have followed such a one as

you, Excellency!"

But the priest continued warningly:

"As you obey, so hope for the mercy of Venice. You deal with those who

know how to reward their friends and to punish their enemies. Betray

us, and I swear that no death in all Italy shall be such a death as

you will die at dawn to-morrow."

He raised his voice, and summoned the gondolier to the steps of the

quay. The _bravo_ threw himself down upon the velvet cushions with the

threat still ringing in his ears.

"Excellency," he said, "I understand. They shall hear that you are

dead."

CHAPTER III

Frà Giovanni stepped from his gondola, and stood at the door of the

Palazzo Pisani exactly at a quarter to ten o'clock. Thirty minutes had

passed since he had talked with the _bravo_, Rocca, and had put him

to the proof. The time was enough, he said; the tale would have been

told, the glad news of his own death already enjoyed by those who

would have killed him.

Other men, perhaps, standing there upon the threshold of so daring an

emprise, would have known some temptation of fear or hesitation in

such a fateful moment; but the great Capuchin friar neither paused nor

hesitated. That strange confidence in his own mission, his belief

that God had called him to the protection of Venice, perchance even a

personal conceit in his own skill as a swordsman, sent him hurrying to

the work. It was a draught of life to him to see men tremble at his

word; the knowledge which treachery poured into his ear was a study

finer than that of all the manuscripts in all the libraries of Italy.

And he knew that he was going to the Palazzo Pisani to humble one of

the greatest in the city--to bring the sons of Princes on their knees

before him.

There were many lights in the upper stories of the great house, but

the ground floor, with its barred windows and cell-like chambers, was

unlighted. The priest saw horrid faces grinning through the bars; the

faces of fugitives, fleeing the justice of Venice, outcasts of the

city, murderers. But these outcasts, in their turn, were silent when

they saw who came to the house, and they spoke of the strange guest in

muted exclamations of surprise and wonder.

"Blood of Paul! do you see that? It is the Capuchin himself and alone.

Surely there will be work to do anon."

"Ay, but does he come alone? Saint John! I would sooner slit a hundred

throats than have his shadow fall on me. Was it not he that hanged

Orso and the twelve! A curse upon the day he came to Venice."

So they talked in whispers, but the priest had passed already into the

great hall of the palace and was speaking to a lackey there.

"My friend," he said, "I come in the name of the Signori. If you would

not hear from them to-morrow, announce me to none."

The lackey drew back, quailing before the threat.

"Excellency," he exclaimed, "I am but a servant--"

"And shall find a better place as you serve Venice faithfully."

He passed on with noiseless steps, mounting the splendid marble

staircase upon which the masterpieces of Titian and of Paolo Veronese

looked down. At the head of the stairs, there was a painted door,

which he had but to open to find himself face to face with those who

were still telling each other that he was dead.

For an instant, perhaps, a sense of the danger of his mission

possessed him. He knew well that one false step, one word

undeliberated, would be paid for with his own blood. But even in the

face of this reckoning he did not hesitate. He was there to save

Venice from her enemies; the God of Venice would protect him. And

so without word or warning, he opened the door and stood, bold and

unflinching, before those he had come to accuse.

There were four at table, and one was a woman. The priest knew

her well. She had been called the most beautiful woman in

Venice--Catherine, Countess of Treviso. Still young, with a face which

spoke of ambition and of love, her white neck glittered with the

jewels it carried, her dress of blue velvet was such a dress as only a

noblewoman of Venice could wear. A queenly figure, the friar said, yet

one he would so humble presently that never should she hold up her

head again.

As for the others, the men who had cloaked conspiracy with a woman's

smile, he would know how to deal with them. Indeed, when he scanned

their faces and began to remember the circumstances under which he had

met them before, his courage was strengthened, and he forgot that he

had ever reasoned with it.

He stood in the shadows; but the four, close in talk, and thinking

that a lackey had entered the room, did not observe him. They were

laughing merrily at some jest, and filling the long goblets with the

golden wine of Cyprus, when at last he strode out into the light and

spoke to them. His heart beat quickly; he knew that this might be the

hour of his death, yet never had his voice been more sonorous or more

sure.

"Countess," he exclaimed, as he stepped boldly to the table and

confronted them, "I bring you a message from Andrea, the lord of

Pisa!"

He had expected that the woman would cry out, or that the men would

leap to their feet and draw their swords; but the supreme moment

passed and no one spoke. A curious silence reigned in the place. From

without there floated up the gay notes of a gondolier's carol. The

splash of oars was heard, and the low murmur of voices. But within the

room you could have counted the tick of a watch--almost the beating of

a man's heart. And the woman was the first to find her tongue. She had

looked at the friar as she would have looked at the risen dead; but,

suddenly, with an effort which brought back the blood to her cheeks,

she rose from her seat and began to speak.

"Who are you?" she asked; "and why do you come to this house?"

Frà Giovanni advanced to the table so that they could see his face.

"Signora," he said, "the reason of my coming to this house I have

already told you. As to your other question, I am the Capuchin friar,

Giovanni, whom you desired your servant Rocca to kill at the church of

San Salvatore an hour ago."

The woman sank back into the chair; the blood left her face; she would

have swooned had not curiosity proved stronger than her terror.

"The judgment of God!" she cried.

Again, for a spell, there was silence in the room. The priest stood at

the end of the table telling himself that he must hold these four

in talk until the bells of San Luca struck ten o'clock, or pay for

failure with his life. The men, in their turn, were asking themselves

if he were alone.

"You are the Capuchin friar, Giovanni," exclaimed one of them

presently, taking courage of the silence, "what, then, is your message

from the Count of Pisa?"

"My message, signorè, is this--that at ten o'clock to-night, the Count

of Pisa will have ceased to live."

A strange cry, terrible in its pathos, escaped the woman's lips. All

had risen to their feet again. The swords of the three leaped from

their scabbards. The instant of the priest's death seemed at hand. But

he stood, resolute, before them.

"At ten o'clock," he repeated sternly, "the Count of Pisa will have

ceased to live. That is his message, signori, to one in this house.

And to you, the Marquis of Cittadella, there is another message."

He turned to one of the three who had begun to rail at him, and raised

his hand as in warning. So great was the curiosity to hear his words

that the swords were lowered again, and again there could be heard the

ticking of a clock in the great room.

"For me--a message! Surely I am favored, signorè."

"Of that you shall be the judge, since, at dawn to-morrow, your head

will lie on the marble slab between the columns of the Piazzetta."

They greeted him with shouts of ridicule.

"A prophet--a prophet!"

"A prophet indeed," he answered quietly, "who has yet a word to speak

to you, Andrea Foscari."

"To me!" exclaimed the man addressed, who was older than the others,

and who wore the stola of the nobility.

"Ay, to you, who are about to become a fugitive from the justice of

Venice. Midnight shall see you hunted in the hills, my lord; no house

shall dare to shelter you; no hand shall give you bread. When you

return to the city you would have betrayed, the very children shall

mock you for a beggar."

Foscari answered with an oath, and drew back. The third of the men, a

youth who wore a suit of white velvet, and whose vest was ablaze with

gold and jewels, now advanced jestingly.

"And for me, most excellent friar?"

"For you, Gian Mocenigo, a pardon in the name of that Prince of Venice

whose house you have dishonored."

Again they replied to him with angry gibes.

"A proof--a proof--we will put you to the proof, friar--here and now,

or, by God, a prophet shall pay with his life."

He saw that they were driven to the last point. While the woman stood

as a figure of stone at the table, the three advanced toward him and

drove him back before their threatening swords. The new silence was

the silence of his death anticipated. He thought that his last word

was spoken in vain. Ten o'clock would never strike, he said. Yet even

as hope seemed to fail him, and he told himself that the end had come,

the bells of the city began to strike the hour, and the glorious music

of their echoes floated over the sleeping waters.

"A proof, you ask me for a proof, signori," he exclaimed triumphantly.

"Surely, the proof lies in yonder room, where all the world may see

it."

He pointed to a door opening in the wall of mirrors, and giving access

to a smaller chamber. Curiosity drove the men thither. They threw open

the door; they entered the room; they reeled back drunk with their own

terror.

For the body of Andrea, lord of Pisa, lay, still warm, upon the marble

pavement of the chamber, and the dagger with which he had been stabbed

was yet in his heart.

"A proof--have I not given you a proof?" the priest cried again, while

the woman's terrible cry rang through the house, and the three stood

close together, as men upon whom a judgment has fallen.

"Man or devil--who are you?" they asked in hushed whispers.

He answered them by letting his monk's robe slip from his shoulders.

As the robe fell, they beheld a figure clad in crimson velvet and

corselet of burnished gold; the figure of a man whose superb limbs had

been the envy of the swordsmen of Italy; whose face, lighted now with

a sense of power and of victory, was a face for which women had given

their lives.

"It is the Prince of Iseo," they cried, and, saying it, fled from the

house of doom.

At that hour, those whose gondolas were passing the Palazzo Pisani

observed a strange spectacle. A priest stood upon the balcony of the

house holding a silver lamp in his hand; and as he waited, a boat

emerged from the shadows about the church of San Luca and came swiftly

toward him.

"The Signori of the Night," the loiterers exclaimed in hushed

whispers, and went on their way quickly.

* * * * *

Very early next morning, a rumor of strange events, which had happened

in Venice during the hours of darkness, drew a great throng of the

people to the square before the ducal palace.

"Have you not heard it," man cried to man--"the Palazzo Pisani lacks

a mistress to-day? The police make their toilet in the boudoir of my

lady. And they say that the lord of Pisa is dead."

"Worse than that, my friends," a gondolier protested, "Andrea Foscari

crossed to Maestre last night, and the dogs are even now on his

heels."

"Your news grows stale," croaked a hag who was passing; "go to the

Piazzetta and you shall see the head of one who prayed before the

altar ten minutes ago."

They trooped off, eager for the spectacle. When they reached the

Piazzetta, the hag was justified. The head of a man lay bleeding upon

the marble slab between the columns. It was the head of the Marquis of

Cittadella.

In the palace of the police, meanwhile, Pietro Falier, the Captain,

was busy with his complaints.

"The lord of Pisa is dead," he said, "the woman has gone to the

Convent of Murano; there is a head between the columns; Andrea Foscari

will die of hunger in the hills--yet Gian Mocenigo goes free. Who is

this friar that he shall have the gift of life or death in Venice?"

His subordinate answered--

"This friar, Captain, is one whom Venice, surely, will make the

greatest of her nobles to-day."

COWARDICE COURT

BY GEO.B. McCUTCHEON

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH A YOUNG MAN TRESPASSES

"He's just an infernal dude, your lordship, and I'll throw him in the

river if he says a word too much."

"He has already said too much, Tompkins, confound him, don't you

know."

"Then I'm to throw him in whether he says anything or not, sir?"

"Have you seen him?"

"No, your lordship, but James has. James says he wears a red coat

and--"

"Never mind, Tompkins. He had no right to fish on this side of that

log. The insufferable ass may own the land on the opposite side, but

confound his impertinence, I own it on this side."

This concluding assertion of the usually placid but now irate Lord

Bazelhurst was not quite as momentous as it sounded. As a matter of

fact, the title to the land was vested entirely in his young American

wife; his sole possession, according to report, being a title much

less substantial but a great deal more picturesque than the large,

much-handled piece of paper down in the safety deposit vault--lying

close and crumpled among a million sordid, homely little slips called

coupons.

It requires no great stretch of imagination to understand that Lord

Bazelhurst had an undesirable neighbor. That neighbor was young Mr.

Shaw--Randolph Shaw, heir to the Randolph fortune. It may be fair to

state that Mr. Shaw also considered himself to be possessed of an

odious neighbor. In other words, although neither had seen the other,

there was a feud between the owners of the two estates that had all

the earmarks of an ancient romance.

Lady Bazelhurst was the daughter of a New York millionaire; she was

young, beautiful, and arrogant. Nature gave her youth and beauty;

marriage gave her the remaining quality. Was she not Lady Bazelhurst?

What odds if Lord Bazelhurst happened to be a middle-aged, addle-pated

ass? So much the better. Bazelhurst castle and the Bazelhurst estates

(heavily encumbered before her father came to the rescue) were among

the oldest and most coveted in the English market. Her mother noted,

with unctuous joy, that the present Lady Bazelhurst in babyhood had

extreme difficulty in mastering the eighth letter of the alphabet,

certainly a most flattering sign of natal superiority, notwithstanding

the fact that her father was plain old John Banks (deceased), formerly

of Jersey City, more latterly of Wall street and St. Thomas's.

Bazelhurst was a great catch, but Banks was a good name to conjure

with, so he capitulated with a willingness that savored somewhat of

suspended animation (so fearful was he that he might do something to

disturb the dream before it came true). That was two years ago. With

exquisite irony, Lady Bazelhurst decided to have a country-place in

America. Her agents discovered a glorious section of woodland in the

Adirondacks, teeming with trout streams, game haunts, unparalleled

scenery; her ladyship instructed them to buy without delay. It was

just here that young Mr. Shaw came into prominence.

His grandfather had left him a fortune and he was looking about for

ways in which to spend a portion of it. College, travel, and society

having palled on him, he hied himself into the big hills west of Lake

Champlain, searching for beauty, solitude, and life as he imagined it

should be lived. He found and bought five hundred acres of the most

beautiful bit of wilderness in the mountains.

The same streams coursed through his hills and dales that ran through

those of Lady Bazelhurst, the only distinction being that his portion

was the more desirable. When her ladyship's agents came leisurely up

to close their deal, they discovered that Mr. Shaw had snatched up

this choice five hundred acres of the original tract intended for

their client. At least one thousand acres were left for the young

lady, but she was petulant enough to covet all of it.

Overtures were made to Mr. Shaw, but he would not sell. He was

preparing to erect a handsome country-place, and he did not want to

alter his plans. Courteously at first, then somewhat scathingly he

declined to discuss the proposition with her agents. After two months

of pressure of the most tiresome persistency, he lost his temper

and sent a message to his inquisitors that suddenly terminated all

negotiations. Afterward, when he learned that heir client was a

lady, he wrote a conditional note of apology, but, if he expected

a response, he was disappointed. A year went by, and now, with the

beginning of this narrative, two newly completed country homes

glowered at each other from separate hillsides, one envious and

spiteful, the other defiant and a bit satirical.

Bazelhurst Villa looks across the valley and sees Shaw's Cottage

commanding the most beautiful view in the hills; the very eaves of

her ladyship's house seem to have wrinkled into a constant scowl

of annoyance. Shaw's long, low cottage seems to smile back with

tantalizing security, serene in its more lofty altitude, in its more

gorgeous raiment of nature. The brooks laugh with the glitter of

trout, the trees chuckle with the flight of birds, the hillsides

frolic in their abundance of game, but the acres are growling like

dogs of war. "Love thy neighbor as thyself" is not printed on the

boards that line the borders of the two estates. In bold black letters

the sign-boards laconically say: "No trespassing on these grounds.

Keep off!"

"Yes, I fancy you'd better put him off the place if he comes down here

again to fish, Tompkins," said his lordship, in conclusion. Then he

touched whip to his horse and bobbed off through the shady lane in a

most painfully upright fashion, his thin legs sticking straight out,

his breath coming in agonized little jerks with each succeeding return

of his person to the saddle.

"By Jove, Evelyn, it's most annoying about that confounded Shaw chap,"

he remarked to his wife as he mounted the broad steps leading to the

gallery half an hour later, walking with the primness which suggests

pain. Lady Bazelhurst looked up from her book, her fine aristocratic

young face clouding with ready belligerence.

"What has he done, Cecil dear?"

"Been fishing on our property again, that's all. Tompkins says he

laughed at him when he told him to get off. I say, do you know, I

think I'll have to adopt rough methods with that chap. Hang it all,

what right has he to catch our fish?"

"Oh, how I hate that man!" exclaimed her ladyship petulantly.

"But I've given Tompkins final instructions."

"And what are they?"

"To throw him in the river next time."

"Oh, if he only _could_!" rapturously.

"_Could_? My dear, Tompkins is an American. He can handle these chaps

in their own way. At any rate, I told Tompkins if his nerve failed

him at the last minute to come and notify me. _I'll_ attend to this

confounded popinjay!"

"Good for you, Cecil!" called out another young woman from, the broad

hammock in which she had been dawdling with half-alert ears through

the foregoing conversation. "Spoken like a true Briton. What is this

popinjay like?"

"Hullo, sister. Hang it all, what's he like? He's like an ass, that's

all. I've never seen him, but if I'm ever called upon to--but you

don't care to listen to details. You remember the big log that lies

out in the river up at the bend? Well, it marks the property line. One

half of its stump belongs to the Shaw man, the other half to m--to

us, Evelyn. He shan't fish below that log--no, sir!" His lordship

glared fiercely through his monocle in the direction of the far-away

log, his watery blue eyes blinking as malevolently as possible, his

long, aristocratic nose wrinkling at its base in fine disdain. His

five feet four of stature quivered with illy-subdued emotion, but

whether it was rage or the sudden recollection of the dog-trot through

the woods, it is beyond me to suggest.

"But suppose our fish venture into his waters, Cecil; what then? Isn't

that trespass?" demanded the Honorable Penelope Drake, youngest and

most cherished sister of his lordship.

"Now, don't he silly, Pen," cried her sister-in-law. "Of course we

can't regulate the fish."

"But I daresay his fish will come below the log, so what's the odds?"

said his lordship quickly. "A trout's a lawless brute at best."

"Is he big?" asked the Honorable Penelope lazily.

"They vary, my dear girl."

"I mean Mr. Shaw."

"Oh, I thought you meant the--but I don't know. What difference does

that make? Big or little, he has to stay off my grounds." Was it a

look of pride that his tall young wife bestowed upon him as he drew

himself proudly erect or was it akin to pity? At any rate, her gay

young American head was inches above his own when she arose and

suggested that they go inside and prepare for the housing of the

guests who were to come over from the evening train.

"The drag has gone over to the station, Cecil, and it should be here

by seven o'clock."

"Confound his impudence, I'll show him," grumbled his lordship as he

followed her, stiff-legged, toward the door.

"What's up, Cecil, with your legs?" called his sister. "Are you

getting old?" This suggestion always irritated him.

"Old? Silly question. You know how old I am. No; it's that beastly

American horse. Evelyn, I told you they have no decent horses in this

beastly country. They jiggle the life out of one--" but he was obliged

to unbend himself perceptibly in order to keep pace with her as she

hurried through the door.

The Honorable Penelope allowed her indolent gaze to follow them. A

perplexed pucker finally developed on her fair brow and her thought

was almost expressed aloud: "By Jove, I wonder if she really loves

him." Penelope was very pretty and very bright. She was visiting

America for the first time and she was learning rapidly. "Cecil's a

good sort, you know, even--" but she was loyal enough to send her

thoughts into other channels.

Nightfall brought half a dozen guests to Bazelhurst Villa. They were

fashionable to the point where ennui is the chief characteristic, and

they came only for bridge and sleep. There was a duke among them and

also a French count, besides the bored New Yorkers; they wanted brandy

and soda as soon as they got into the house, and they went to bed

early because it was so much easier to sleep lying down than sitting

up.

All were up by noon next day, more bored than ever, fondly praying

that nothing might happen before bedtime. The duke was making

desultory love to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. De Peyton was leading him

aimlessly toward the shadier and more secluded nooks in the park

surrounding the Villa. Penelope, fresh and full of the purpose of

life, was off alone for a long stroll. By this means she avoided the

attentions of the duke, who wanted to marry her; those of the count

who also said he wanted to marry her but couldn't because his wife

would not consent; those of one New Yorker, who liked her because she

was English; and the pallid chatter of the women who bored her with

their conjugal cynicisms.

"What the deuce is this coming down the road?" queried the duke,

returning from the secluded nook at luncheon time.

"Some one has been hurt," exclaimed his companion. Others were looking

down the leafy road from the gallery.

"By Jove, it's Penelope, don't you know," ejaculated the duke,

dropping his monocle and blinking his eye as if to rest it for the

time being.

"But she's not hurt. She's helping to support one of those men."

"Hey!" shouted his lordship from the gallery, as Penelope and two

dilapidated male companions abruptly started to cut across the park

in the direction of the stables. "What's up?" Penelope waved her hand

aimlessly, but did not change her course. Whereupon the entire house

party sallied forth in more or less trepidation to intercept the

strange party.

"Who are these men?" demanded Lady Bazelhurst, as they came up to the

fast-breathing young Englishwoman.

"Don't bother me, please. We must get him to bed at once. He'll have

pneumonia," replied Penelope.

Both men were dripping wet and the one in the middle limped painfully,

probably because both eyes were swollen tight and his nose was

bleeding. Penelope's face was beaming with excitement and interest.

"Who are you?" demanded his lordship planting himself in front of the

shivering twain.

"Tompkins," murmured the blind one feebly, tears starting from the

blue slits and rolling down his cheeks.

"James, sir," answered the other, touching his damp forelock.

"Are they drunk?" asked Mrs. De Peyton, with fresh enthusiasm.

"No, they are not, poor fellows," cried Penelope. "They have taken

nothing but water."

"By Jove, deuced clever that," drawled the duke. "Eh?" to the New

Yorker.

"Deuced," from the Knickerbocker.

"Well, well, what's it all about?" demanded Bazelhurst.

"Mr. Shaw, sir," said James.

"Good Lord, couldn't you rescue him?" in horror.

"He rescued us, sir," mumbled Tompkins.

"You mean--"

"He throwed us in and then had to jump in and pull us out, sir.

Beggin' your pardon, sir, but _damn_ him!"

"And you didn't throw him in, after all? By Jove, extraordinary!"

"Do you mean to tell us that he threw you great hulking creatures into

the river? Single-handed?" cried Lady Bazelhurst, aghast.

"He did, Evelyn," inserted Penelope. "I met them coming home, and poor

Tompkins was out of his senses. I don't know how it happened, but--"

"It was this way, your ladyship," put in James, the groom. "Tompkins

and me could see him from the point there, sir, afishin' below the

log. So we says to each other 'Come on,' and up we went to where he

was afishin'. Tompkins, bein' the game warden, says he to him 'Hi

there!' He was plainly on our property, sir, afishin' from a boat for

bass, sir. 'Hello, boys,' says he back to us. 'Get off our land,' says

Tompkins. 'I am,' says he; 'it's water out here where I am.' Then--"

"You're wrong," broke in Tompkins. "He said 'it's wet out here where I

am.'"

"You're right. It was wet. Then Tompkins called him a vile name, your

lordship--shall I repeat it, sir?"

"No, no!" cried four feminine voices.

"Yes, do," muttered the duke.

"He didn't wait after that, sir. He rowed to shore in a flash and

landed on our land. 'What do you mean by that?' he said, mad-like. 'My

orders is to put you off this property,' says Tompkins, 'or to throw

you in the river.' 'Who gave these orders?' asked Mr. Shaw. 'Lord

Bazelhurst, sir, damn you--' beg pardon, sir; it slipped out. 'And who

the devil is Lord Bazelhurst?' said he. 'Hurst,' said Tompkins.

'He owns this ground. Can't you see the mottoes on the trees--No

Trespassin'?'--but Mr. Shaw said: 'Well, why don't you throw me in the

river?' He kinder smiled when he said it. 'I will,' says Tompkins, and

made a rush for him. I don't just remember why I started in to help

Tompkins, but I did. Somehow, sir, Mr. Shaw got--"

"Don't call him _Mr_. Shaw. Just Shaw; he's no gentleman," exploded

Lord Bazelhurst.

"But he told us both to call him 'Mister,' sir, as long as we lived.

I kinder got in the habit of it, your lordship, up there. That is,

that's what he told us after he got through with us. Well, anyhow, he

got the start of us an'--there's Tompkins' eyes, sir, and look at my

ear. Then he pitched us both in the river."

"Good Lord!" gasped the duke.

"Diable!" sputtered the count.

"Splendid!" cried Penelope, her eyes sparkling.

"Hang it all, Pen, don't interrupt the count," snorted Bazelhurst, for

want of something better to say and perhaps hoping that Deveaux might

say in French what could not be uttered in English.

"Don't say it in French, count," said little Miss Folsom. "It deserves

English."

"Go on, James," sternly, from Lady Bazelhurst.

"Well, neither of us can swim, your ladyship, an' we'd 'a' drowned if

Mr.--if Shaw hadn't jumped in himself an' pulled us out. As it was,

sir, Tompkins was unconscious. We rolled him on a log, sir, an' got a

keg of water out of him. Then Mr.--er--Shaw told us to go 'ome and get

in bed, sir."

"He sent a message to you, sir," added Tompkins, shivering mightily.

"Well, I'll have one for him, never fear," said his lordship, glancing

about bravely. "I won't permit any man to assault my servants and

brutally maltreat them. No, sir! He shall hear from me--or my

attorney."

"He told us to tell you, sir, that if he ever caught anybody from this

place on his land he'd serve him worse than he did us," said Tompkins.

"He says, 'I don't want no Bazelhursts on my place,'" added James in

finality.

"Go to bed, both of you!" roared his lordship.

"Very good, sir," in unison.

"They can get to bed without your help, I daresay, Pen," added his

lordship caustically, as she started away with them. Penelope with a

rare blush and--well, one party went to luncheon while the other went

to bed.

"I should like to see this terrible Mr. Shaw," observed Penelope at

table. "He's a sort of Jack-the-Giant-Killer, I fancy."

"He is the sort one _has_ to meet in America," lamented her ladyship.

"Oh, I say now," expostulated the New York young man, wryly.

"I don't mean in good society," she corrected, with unconscious irony.

"Oh," said he, very much relieved.

"He's a demmed cad," Said his lordship conclusively.

"Because he chucked your men into the river?" asked Penelope sweetly.

"She's dooced pretty, eh?" whispered the duke to Mrs. De Peyton

without taking his eyes from his young countrywoman's face.

"Who?" asked Mrs. De Peyton. Then he relinquished his gaze and turned

his monocle blankly upon the American beside him.

"I shall send him a warning that he'll have to respect, cad or no

cad," said Bazelhurst, absently spreading butter upon his fingers

instead of the roll.

"_Send_ him a warning?" asked his queenly wife. "Aren't you going to

see him personally? You can't trust the servants, it seems."

"My dear, I can't afford to lose my temper and engage in a row with

that bounder, and there's no end of trouble I might get into--"

"I shall see him myself, if you won't," said her ladyship firmly.

There was frigid silence at the table for a full minute, relieved only

when his lordship's monocle dropped into the glass of water he was

trying to convey to his lips. He thought best to treat the subject

lightly, so he laughed in his most jovial way.

"You'd better take a mackintosh with you, my dear," he said. "Remember

what he told Tompkins and James."

"He will not throw _me_ into the river. It might be different if you

went. Therefore I think--"

"Throw me in, would he?" and Bazelhurst laughed loudly. "I'm no groom,

my dear. You forget that it _is_ possible for Mr. Shaw to be soused."

"He was good enough to souse himself this morning," volunteered

Penelope. "I rather like him."

"By Jove, Cecil, you're not afraid to meet him, are you?" asked the

duke with tantalizing coolness. "You know, if you are, I'll go over

and talk to the fellow."

"Afraid? Now, hang it all, Barminster, that's rather a shabby thing to

suggest. You forget India."

"I'm trying to. Demmed miserable time I had out there. But this fellow

fights. That's more than the beastly natives did when we were out

there. Marching isn't fighting, you know."

"Confound it, you forget the time--"

"Mon Dieu, are we to compare ze Hindoo harem wiz ze American feest

slugger?" cried the count, with a wry face.

"What's that?" demanded two noblemen in one voice. The count

apologized for his English.

"No one but a coward would permit this disagreeable Shaw creature to

run affairs in such a high-handed way," said her ladyship. "Of course

Cecil is not a coward."

"Thank you, my dear. Never fear, ladies and gentlemen; I shall attend

to this person. He won't soon forget what I have to say to him,"

promised Lord Bazelhurst, mentally estimating the number of brandies

and soda it would require in preparation.

"This afternoon?" asked his wife, with cruel insistence.

"Yes, Evelyn--if I can find him."

And so it was that shortly after four o'clock, Lord Bazelhurst,

unattended at his own request, rode forth like a Lochinvar, his steed

headed bravely toward Shaw's domain, his back facing his own home with

a military indifference that won applause from the assembled house

party.

"I'll face him alone," he had said, a trifle thickly, for some unknown

reason, when the duke offered to accompany him. It also might have

been noticed as he cantered down the drive that his legs did not stick

out so stiffly, nor did his person bob so exactingly as on previous

but peaceful expeditions.

In fact, he seemed a bit limp. But his face was set determinedly for

the border line and Shaw.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH A YOUNG WOMAN TRESPASSES

Mr. Shaw was a tall young man of thirty or thereabouts, smooth-faced,

good-looking and athletic. It was quite true that he wore a red

coat when tramping through his woods and vales, not because it was

fashionable, but because he had a vague horror of being shot at by

some near-sighted nimrod from Manhattan. A crowd of old college

friends had just left him alone in the hills after spending several

weeks at his place, and his sole occupation these days, aside from

directing the affair's about the house and grounds, lay in the efforts

to commune with nature by means of a shotgun and a fishing-rod. His

most constant companion was a pipe, his most loyal follower a dog.

As he sauntered slowly down the river road that afternoon, smiling

retrospectively from time to time as he looked into the swift, narrow

stream that had welcomed his adversaries of the morning, he little

thought of the encounter in store for him. The little mountain stream

was called a river by courtesy because it was yards wider than the

brooks that struggled impotently to surpass it during the rainy

season. But it was deep and turbulent in places and it had a roar at

times that commanded the respect of the foolhardy.

"The poor devils might have drowned, eh, Bonaparte?" he mused,

addressing the dog at his side. "Confounded nuisance, getting wet

after all, though. Lord Bazelhurst wants war, does he? That log down

there is the dividing line in our river, eh? And I have to stay on

this side of it. By George, he's a mean-spirited person. And it's his

wife's land, too. I wonder what she's like. It's a pity a fellow can't

have a quiet, decent summer up here in the hills. Still"--lighting his

pipe--"I daresay I can give as well as I take. If I stay off his land,

they'll have to keep off of mine. Hullo, who's that? A man, by George,

but he looks like a partridge. As I live, Bonaparte is pointing. Ha,

ha, that's one on you, Bony." Mr. Shaw stepped into the brush at the

side of the path and watched the movements of the man at the "log,"

now less than one hundred yards away.

Lord Bazelhurst, attired in his brown corduroys and his tan waistcoat,

certainly suggested the partridge as he hopped nimbly about in the

distant foreground, cocking his ears from time to time with all the

aloofness of that wily bird. He was, strange to relate, some little

distance from Bazelhurst territory, an actual if not a confident

trespasser upon Shaw's domain. His horse, however, was tethered to

a sapling on the safe side of the log, comfortably browsing on

Bazelhurst grass. Randolph Shaw, an unseen observer, was considerably

mystified by the actions of his unusual visitor.

His lordship paced back and forth with a stride that grew firmer as

time brought forth no hostile impediments. His monocle ever and anon

was directed both high and low in search of Shaw or his henchmen,

while his face was rapidly resolving itself into a bloom of rage.

"Confound him," his lordship was muttering, looking at his timepiece

with stern disapproval; "he can't expect me to wait here all day. I'm

on his land and I'll stay here as long as I like." (At this juncture

he involuntarily measured the distance between himself and the log.)

"I knew it was all a bluff, his threat to put me off. Hang it all,

where is the fellow? I won't go up to his beastly house. I won't

gratify him by going up there even to give him his orders. Demmed cad,

blowhard! Five o'clock, confound him! I daresay he's seen me and has

crawled off into the underbrush. He's afraid of me; he's a coward. It

is as I feared. I can't see the rascal. There's only one thing left

for me to do. I'll pin a note to this tree. Confound him, he shall

hear from me; he'll _have_ to read it."

Whereupon his lordship drew forth a large envelope from his pocket and

proceeded to fasten it to the trunk of a big tree which grew in the

middle of the road, an act of premeditation which showed strange

powers of prophecy. How could he, except by means of clairvoyance,

have known before leaving home that he was not to meet his enemy face

to face?

As Mr. Shaw afterward read the note and tossed it into the river, it

is only fair that the world should know its contents while it hung

unfolded to the bark of the tall tree. It said, in a very scrawling

hand: "Mr. Shaw, I have looked all over this end of your land for you

this afternoon. You doubtless choose to avoid me. So be it. Let me

state, once and for all, that your conduct is despicable. I came here

personally to tell you to keep off my land, henceforth and forever. I

will not repeat this warning, but will instead, if you persist, take

such summary measures as would befit a person of your instincts.

I trust you will feel the importance of keeping off." To this his

lordship bravely signed himself.

"There," he muttered, again holding his watch and fob up for close

inspection. "He'll not soon overlook what I've said in that letter,

confound him."

He had not observed the approach of Randolph Shaw, who now stood, pipe

in hand, some twenty paces behind him in the road.

"What the devil are you doing?" demanded a strong bass voice. It had

the effect of a cannon shot.

His lordship leaped half out of his corduroys, turned with agonizing

abruptness toward the tall young man, and gasped "Oh!" so shrilly that

his horse looked up with a start. The next instant his watch dropped

forgotten from his fingers and his nimble little legs scurried

for territory beyond the log. Nor did he pause upon reaching that

supposedly safe ground. The swift glance he gave the nearby river was

significant as well as apprehensive. It moved him to increased but

unpolished haste.

He leaped frantically for the saddle, scorning the stirrups landing

broadside but with sufficient nervous energy in reserve to scramble

on and upward into the seat. Once there, he kicked the animal in the

flanks with both heels, clutching with his knees and reaching for the

bridle rein in the same motion. The horse plunged obediently, but came

to a stop with a jerk that almost unseated the rider; the sapling

swayed; the good but forgotten rein held firm.

"Ha!" gasped his lordship as the horrid truth became clear to him.

"Charge, Bonaparte!" shouted the man in the road.

"Soldiers?" cried the rider with a wild look among the trees.

"My dog," called back the other. "He charges at the word."

"Well, you know, I saw service in the army," apologized his lordship,

with a pale smile. "Get ep!" to the horse.

"What's your hurry?" asked Shaw, grinning broadly as he came up to the

log.

"Don't--don't you dare to step over that log," shouted Bazelhurst.

"All right. I see. But, after all, what's the rush?" The other was

puzzled for the moment.

"I'm practising, sir," he said unsteadily. "How to mount on a run,

demmit. Can't you see?"

"In case of fire, I imagine. Well, you made excellent time. By the

way, what has this envelope to do with it?"

"Who are you, sir?"

"Shaw. And you?"

"You'll learn when you read that document. Take it home with you."

"Ah, yes, I see it's for me. Why don't you untie that hitch rein?

And what the dickens do you mean by having a hitch rein, anyway? No

rider--"

"Confound your impudence, sir, I did not come here to receive

instructions from you, dem you," cried his lordship defiantly. He had

succeeded at that moment in surreptitiously slashing the hitch rein in

two with his pocket-knife. There was nothing now to prevent him

from giving the obtrusive young man a defiant farewell. "I am Lord

Bazelhurst. Good day, sir!"

"Just a minute, your lordship," called Shaw. "No doubt you were timing

yourself a bit ago, but that's no reason why you should leave your

watch on my land. Of course, I've nothing against the watch, and,

while I promise you faithfully that any human being from your side of

the log who ventures over on my side shall be ejected in one way or

another, it would seem senseless for me to kick this timepiece into

the middle of next week."

"Don't you dare kick that watch. It's a hundred years old."

"Far be it from me to take advantage of anything so old. Don't you

want it any longer?"

"Certainly, sir. I wouldn't part from it."

"Then why don't you come over and get it? Do you expect me to break

the rule by coming over on to your land to hand it to you?"

"I shouldn't call _that_ trespassing, don't you know," began his

lordship.

"Ah? Nevertheless, if you want this watch you'll have to come over and

get it."

"By Jove, now, that's a demmed mean trick. I'm mounted. Beastly

annoying. I say, would you mind _tossing_ it up to me?"

"I wouldn't touch it for ten dollars. By the way, I'll just read this

note of yours." Lord Bazelhurst nervously watched him as he read; his

heart lightened perceptibly as he saw a good-humored smile struggle to

the tall young man's face. It was, however, with some misgiving that

he studied the broad shoulders and powerful frame of the erstwhile

poacher. "Very good of you, I'm sure, to warn me."

"Good of me? It was imperative, let me tell you, sir. No man can abuse

my servants and trample all over my land and disturb my fish--"

"Excuse me, but I haven't time to listen to all that. The note's

sufficient. You've been practising the running mount until it looks

well nigh perfect to me, so I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll step back

thirty paces and then you come over and get the watch--if you're not

afraid of me--and I'll promise--"

"Afraid? Demmit, sir, didn't I say I was Lord Bazelhurst? Of the

Guards, sir, and the Seventy-first? Conf--"

"You come over and get the watch and then see if you can get back to

the horse and mount before I get to the log. If I beat you there, you

lose. How's that?"

"I decline to make a fool of myself. Either you will restore my watch

to me, or I shall instantly go before the authorities and take out

a warrant. I came to see you on business, sir, not folly. Lady

Bazelhurst herself would have come had I been otherwise occupied,

and I want to assure you of her contempt. You are a disgrace to her

countrymen. If you ever put foot on our land I shall have you thrown

into the river. Demmit, sir, it's no laughing matter. My watch, sir."

"Come and get it."

"Scalawag!"

"By George, do you know if you get too personal I _will_ come over

there." Randolph Shaw advanced with a threatening scowl.

"Ha, ha!" laughed his lordship shrilly; "I dare you!" He turned his

horse's head for home and moved off a yard or more. "Whoa! Curse you!

This is the demdest horse to manage I've ever owned. Stand still,

confound you! Whoa!"

"He'll stand if you stop licking him."

"Halloa! Hey, Bazelhurst!" came a far distant voice. The adversaries

glanced down the road and beheld two horsemen approaching from

Bazelhurst Villa--the duke and the count.

"By Jove!" muttered his lordship, suddenly deciding that it would not

be convenient for them to appear on the scene at its present stage.

"My friends are calling me. Her ladyship doubtless is near at hand.

She rides, you know--I mean dem you! Wouldn't have her see you for

a fortune. Not another word, sir! You have my orders. Stay off or

I'll--throw you off!" This last threat was almost shrieked and was

plainly heard by the two horsemen.

"By Jove, he's facing the fellow," said the duke to the count.

"Ees eet Shaw? Parbleu!"

"I'll send some one for that watch. Don't you dare to touch it," said

his lordship in tones barely audible. Then he loped off to meet his

friends and turn them back before they came too close for comfort.

Randolph Shaw laughed heartily as he watched the retreat. Seeing the

newcomers halt and then turn abruptly back into their tracks he picked

up the watch and strolled off into the woods, taking a short out for

the dirt road which led up to his house.

"I had him begging for mercy," explained his lordship as he rode

along. "I was on his land for half an hour before he would come within

speaking distance. Come along. I need a drink."

Young Mr. Shaw came to the road in due time and paused, after his

climb, to rest on a stone at the wayside. He was still a mile from

home and in the loneliest part of his domain. The Bazelhurst line was

scarcely a quarter of a mile behind him. Trees and underbrush grew

thick and impenetrable alongside the narrow, winding road; the light

of heaven found it difficult to struggle through to the highway below.

Picturesque but lonely and sombre indeed were his surroundings.

"Some one coming?" he said aloud, as Bonaparte pricked up his ears and

looked up the road. A moment later a horse and rider turned the bend a

hundred yards away and came slowly toward him. He started to his feet

with an exclamation. The rider was a woman and she was making her way

leisurely toward the Bazelhurst lands. "Lady Bazelhurst, I'll bet my

hat," thought he with a quiet whistle. "By George, this is awkward. My

first trespasser is in petticoats. I say, she's a beauty--a ripping

beauty. Lord, Lord, what do such women mean by giving themselves to

little rats like Bazelhurst? Oh, the shame of it! Well, it's up to

me! If I expect to 'make good,' I've just got to fire her off these

grounds."

Naturally he expected to be very polite about it--instinctively so; he

could not have been otherwise. The horsewoman saw him step into the

middle of the road, smiling oddly, but deferentially; her slim figure

straightened, her color rose, and there was a--yes, there was a

relieved gleam in her eyes. As she drew near he advanced, hat in hand,

his face uplifted in his most winning smile--savoring more of welcome

than of repellence.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "doubtless you are not aware that this

is proscribed land."

"Then you _are_ Mr. Shaw?" she asked, checking her horse with

premeditated surprise and an emphasis that puzzled him.

"Yes, madam," he responded gravely, "the hated Shaw. Permit me," and

he politely grasped the bridle rein. To her amazement he deliberately

turned and began to lead her horse, willy nilly, down the road, very

much as if she were a child taking her first riding lesson.

"What are you doing, sir?" she exclaimed sharply. There was a queer

flutter of helplessness in her voice.

"Putting you off," he answered laconically. She laughed in delight and

he looked up with a relieved smile. "I'm glad you don't mind. I have

to do it. These feuds are such beastly things, you know. One has to

live up to them whether he likes it or not."

"So you are putting me off your place? Oh, how lovely!"

"It isn't far, you know--just down by those big rocks. Your line is

there. Of course," he went on politely, "you know that there _is_ a

feud."

"Oh, yes; I've heard you discussed. Besides, I met Tompkins and James

this morning. Pardon me, Mr. Shaw, but I fancy I can get on without

being led. Would you mind--"

"My dear madam, there is no alternative. I have taken a solemn vow

personally to eject all Bazelhurst trespassers from my place. You

forget that I am, by your orders, to be thrown into the river and all

that. Don't be alarmed! I don't mean to throw you into the river."

"By my orders? It seems to me that you have confused me with Lord

Bazelhurst."

"Heaven has given me keener perception, your ladyship. I have seen his

lordship."

"Ah, may I inquire whether he was particularly rough with afternoon?"

"I trust I am too chivalrous to answer that question."

"You are quite dry."

"Thank you. I deserve the rebuke, all right."

"Oh, I mean you haven't been in the river."

"Not since morning. Am I walking too fast for you?"

"Not at all. One couldn't ask to be put off more considerately."

"By Jove," he said involuntarily, his admiration getting the hotter of

him.

"I beg your pardon," with the slightly elevated eyebrows.

"Do you know, you're not at all what I imagined you'd be."

"Oh? And I fancy I'm not at all _whom_ you imagined me to be."

"Heavens! Am I ejecting an innocent bystander? You _are_ Lady

Bazelhurst?"

"I am Penelope Drake. But"--she added quickly--"I _am_ an enemy. I am

Lord Bazelhurst's sister."

"You--you don't mean it?"

"Are you disappointed? I'm sorry."

"I am staggered and--a bit skeptical. There is no resemblance."

"I _am_ a bit taller," she admitted carefully. "It isn't dreadfully

immodest, is it, for one to hold converse with her captor? I am in

your power, you see."

"On the contrary, it is quite the thing. The heroine always converses

with the villain in books. She tells him what she thinks of him."

"But this isn't a book and I'm not a heroine. I am the adventuress.

Will you permit me to explain my presence on your land?"

"No excuse is necessary. You were caught red-handed and you don't have

to say anything to incriminate yourself further."

"But it is scarcely a hundred feet to our line. In a very few minutes

I shall be hurled relentlessly from your land and may never have

another chance to tell why I dared to venture over here. You see, you

have a haunted house on your land and I--" She hesitated.

"I see. The old Renwood cottage on the hill. Been deserted for years.

Renwood brought his wife up here in the mountains long ago and

murdered her. She comes back occasionally, they say; mysterious noises

and lights and all that. Well?"

"Well, I'm very much interested in spooks. In spite of the feud I rode

over here for a peep at the house. Dear me, it's a desolate looking

place. I didn't go inside, of course. Why don't you tear it down?"

"And deprive the ghost of house and home? That would be heartless.

Besides, it serves as an attraction to bring visitors to my otherwise

unalluring place. I'm terribly sorry the fortunes of war prevent me

from offering to take you through the house. But as long as you remain

a Bazelhurst I can't neglect my vow. Of course, I don't mean to say

that you _can't_ come and do what you please over here, but you shall

be recognized and treated as a trespasser."

"Oh, that's just splendid! Perhaps I'll come to-morrow."

"I shall be obliged to escort you from the grounds, you know."

"Yes, I know," she said agreeably. He looked dazed and delighted. "Of

course, I shall come with stealth and darkly. Not even my brother

shall know of my plans."

"Certainly not," he said with alacrity. (They were nearing the line.)

"Depend on me."

"Depend on you? Your only duty is to scare me off the place."

"That's what I mean. I'll keep sharp watch for you up at the haunted

house."

"It's more than a mile from the line," she advised him.

"Yes, I know," said he, with his friendliest smile. "Oh, by the way,

would you mind doing your brother a favor, Miss Drake? Give him this

watch. He--er--he must have dropped it while pursuing me."

"You _ran_?" she accepted the watch with surprise and unbelief.

"Here is the line, Miss Drake," he evaded. "Consider yourself

ignominiously ejected. Have I been unnecessarily rough and

expeditious?"

"You have had a long and tiresome walk," she said, settling herself

for a merry clip. "Please don't step on our side." He released the

bridle rein and doffed his hat.

"I shall bring my horse to-morrow," he remarked significantly.

"I may bring the duke," she said sweetly.

"In that case I shall have to bring an extra man to lead his horse. It

won't matter."

"So this rock is the dividing line?"

"Yes; you are on the safe side now--and so am I, for that matter. The

line is here," and he drew a broad line in the dust from one side of

the road to the other. "My orders are that you are not to ride across

that line, at your peril."

"And you are not to cross it either, at _your_ peril."

"Do you dare me?" with an eager step forward.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye! I say, are you sure you can find the Kenwood cottage?" he

called after her. The answer came back through the clatter of hoofs,

accompanied by a smile that seduced his self-possession.

"I shall find it in time."

For a long time he stood watching her as she raced down the road.

"At my peril," he mused, shaking his head with a queer smile. "By

George, that's fair warning enough. She's beautiful."

At dinner that night the Honorable Penelope restored the watch to her

brother, much to his embarrassment, for he had told the duke it was

being repaired in town.

"It wasn't this watch that I meant, old chap," he announced,

irrelevantly, to the duke, quite red in the face. "Where did you find

it, Pen?" She caught the plea in his eye and responded loyally.

"You dropped it, I daresay, in pursuing Mr. Shaw."

The positive radiance which followed dismay in his watery eyes

convinced her beyond all doubt that her brother's encounter with

the tall Mr. Shaw was not quite creditable to Bazelhurst arms. She

listened with pensive indifference to the oft-repeated story of how

he had routed the "insufferable cad," encouraged by the support of

champagne and the solicited approval of two eye-witnesses. She could

not repress the mixed feelings of scorn, shame, and pity, as she

surveyed the array of men who so mercilessly flayed the healthy,

fair-faced young man with the gentle strength.

The house party had been augmented during the day by the arrival of

half a dozen men and women from, the city brain-fagged, listless, and

smart. The big cottage now was full, the company complete for

three weeks at least. She looked ahead, this fresh, vigorous young

Englishwoman, and wondered how she was to endure the staleness of

life.

There was some relief in the thought that the men would make love

to the good-looking young married women--at least part of the

time--and--but it depressed her in turn to think of the left-over

husbands who would make love to her.

"Why is it that Evelyn doesn't have real men here--like this Mr.

Shaw?" she found herself wondering vaguely as the night wore on.

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH A DOG TRESPASSES

Penelope was a perverse and calculating young person. She was her own

mistress and privileged to ride as often as she pleased, but it seemed

rather odd--although splendidly decorous--that she did not venture

upon Mr. Shaw's estate for more than a week after her first encounter

with the feudal baron. If she found a peculiarly feminine satisfaction

in speculating on his disappointment, it is not to be wondered at.

Womanly insight told her that Randolph Shaw rode forth each day and

watched with hawk-like vigilance for the promised trespasser. In his

imagination, she could almost hear him curse the luck that was helping

her to evade the patrol.

One morning, after a rain, she rode with the duke to the spot where

Shaw had drawn his line in the road. She felt a thrill of something

she could not define on discovering that the wet soil on the opposite

side of the line was disfigured by a mass of fresh hoof-prints. She

rejoiced to find that his vigil was incessant and worthy of the

respect it imposed. The desire to visit the haunted house was growing

more and more irresistible, but she turned it aside with all the

relentless perverseness of a woman who feels it worth while to

procrastinate.

Truth to tell, Randolph Shaw was going hollow-eyed and faint in his

ceaseless, racking watch for trespassers.

Penelope laughed aloud as she gazed upon the tangle of hoof-print. The

duke looked as surprised as it was possible for him to look after the

wear of the past night.

"Hang it all, Penelope," he said. "I didn't say anything, don't you

know."

"I was just thinking," she said hastily, "what fun it would be for us

to explore the haunted house."

"Oh, I say, Pen, that's going out of the way for a little fun, isn't

it? My word, it's a filthy old house with rats and mice and all

that--no place for a ghost, much less a nice little human being like

you. They're all like that."

"I think you are afraid to go," said she.

"Afraid of ghosts? Pshaw!" sniffed the duke, sticking out his chest.

"Yes, Shaw! That's whom you're afraid of."

"Now, see here, Pen, you shouldn't say that. Shaw's a d----, a cad.

See what Cecil did to him. Remember that? Well, pooh! What would _I_

do to him?" Penelope looked him over critically.

"I'll admit that you're larger and younger than Cecil," she confessed

grudgingly. "But they say Mr. Shaw is a giant-killer." The duke

dropped his monocle and guffawed loudly.

"Good!" he cried in the ecstasy of pride. His worn, dissipated face

lighted up with unwonted interest. "I say, Pen, that's the nicest

thing you've said to me in a week. You've been so deuced cold of late.

I don't understand. I'm not such a bad lot, you know."

"Tell that to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. Corwith. They're looking for the

good in everything."

"By Jove, I believe you're jealous! This is the proudest moment of my

life."

"Don't be silly! And don't try to make love to me any more. Wait until

I'm married," she added with a laugh, the irony of which escaped him.

"But, hang it all, suppose you should marry some one else and not me."

"That's what I mean."

"Oh!" he said, perplexed. Then, as if his stupidity called for an

explanation: "I had a beastly night. Didn't go to bed till four. But,

I say, why can't I have the same privilege as these other chaps?

Corwith makes love to you and so does Odwell, and, hang it, they're

both married. It's rotten mean of--"

"Their wives are accountable for their manners, not I. But, come; will

you go to Renwood's with me?"

"I'd rather talk to you in that nice little corner of the

billiard-room, at home, if you--"

"But I don't need a brandy and soda. Oh!" This exclamation came with

the discovery of an approaching horseman. "It's Mr. Shaw--I'm sure."

Randolph Shaw, loyal to his feudal promise, appeared in the road a

couple of hundred yards away. He drew rein and from that distance

surveyed the two who were so near to encroaching upon his preserves.

He sat straight and forbidding in the saddle. For a full minute

the two factions stared at each other. Then, without a sign of

recognition, Shaw turned and rode rapidly away.

"He rides like a gentleman," commented Miss Drake, after reflection.

"Indian blood in him," remarked her companion.