At length it occurred to Madame Dupin that Aurore was thirteen, and

needed better teaching than M. Deschartres could give her, and, still

worse, that the child was running wild, that her complexion was getting

ruined, and that if she was ever to wear the thin elegant slippers worn

by other young ladies, she must grow accustomed to them before the

_sabots_, or wooden shoes worn by the peasants, had spoilt her for

everything else. She wanted, in fact, proper training, so her

grandmother was going to take her to Paris at once, and to place her in

a convent.

'And shall I see my mother?' cried Aurore.

'Yes; certainly you will see her,' replied Madame Dupin; 'and after that

you will see neither of us, but will give all your time to your

education.'

Aurore did not mind. She had not the slightest idea of the life she

would lead in the convent, but it would at any rate be something new.

So, 'without fear, or regret, or repugnance,' as she herself tells us,

she entered the 'Couvent des Anglaises,' where both Madame Dupin and her

own mother had been imprisoned during the Revolution. This, of course,

gave the convent a special interest for Aurore.

The Couvent des Anglaises was the only remaining one of three or four

British religious houses which had been founded in Paris during the time

of Cromwell, and as a school, ranked with the convents of the

Sacre-Coeur and of l'Abbaye-aux-Bois. Queen Henrietta Maria used often

to come and pray in the chapel, and this fact rendered the Couvent des

Anglaises peculiarly dear to English royalists. All the nuns were either

English, Scotch, or Irish, and nearly all the girls--at least, when

Aurore went there--were subjects of King George also. As it was strictly

forbidden during certain hours of the day to speak a word of French,

Aurore had every possible chance of learning English. She learnt, too,

something about English habits, for the nuns drank tea three times a

day, and invited the best behaved of the girls to share it with them.

All was as English as it could be made. In the chapel were the tombs

bearing English texts and epitaphs, of holy exiles who had died abroad.

On the walls of the Superior's private rooms hung the portraits of

English princes and bishops long dead, among whom Mary Queen of

Scots--counted as a saint by the nuns--held the central place. In fact,

the moment the threshold was crossed, you seemed to have crossed the

Channel also. The Mother Superior at the date of Aurore's entrance was a

certain Madame Canning, a clever woman with a large experience of the

world.

Like many children brought up at home, Aurore had read a great deal in

her own way, but was very ignorant of other subjects familiar to girls

younger than herself, who had been educated at school. This she was well

aware of, so it was no surprise to her, though a disappointment to her

grandmother, when she was confided by the Superior to the pupils of the

second class, whose ages varied from six to thirteen or fourteen.

Aurore was never shy and did not in the least mind being stared at by

thirty or forty pairs of eyes, and at once set out to explore the garden

and examine everything in company with one of the older girls, in whose

charge she had been put. When they had visited every corner, they were

called to play at 'bars,' and as Aurore could run like a hare, she soon

gained the respect of her schoolfellows.

The three years passed by Aurore in the Couvent des Anglaises were, she

tells us, happy ones for her, though almost without exception her

schoolfellows were pining, or thought they were, for their homes and

their mothers. But after the free life and country air of Nohant the

confinement and lack of change tried her, and for a while she grew weak

and languid. Twice in every month the girls were allowed to spend the

day with their friends, and on New Year's Day they might sleep at home.

Of course, in the summer there were regular holidays, but Madame Dupin

decided that Aurore had better stay at school and learn all she could,

so by that means she might finish the regular course earlier than usual,

and save money. It was then the custom of all schools both in England

and France to keep the girls under strict watch, and never permit them

to be one moment alone. The garden was very large, and Aurore at least

would have been perfectly content to remain in it, had not such

elaborate precautions been taken to prevent the girls even seeing

through the door when it was opened, into the dull street outside. These

precautions enraged the others, and only made them eager for glimpses of

a passing cab or a horse and cart, though on their days of freedom they

would walk through the most brilliant parts of Paris with their parents,

and never trouble to turn their heads. But Aurore was only amused at

what irritated them, and felt, for her part, that

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage.

It was foolish, she thought, to make so much fuss about nothing; but

after all, what did it matter?

Now both the big and little classes had divided themselves into three

camps: the 'good' girls, who would probably one day become nuns; the

'demons,' or rebels, who were always inventing some new kind of

mischief; and the 'idiots,' who were afraid to take sides. These

profoundly despised by the rest, would shake with laughter over the

pranks of the 'demons,' but put on a solemn face at the appearance of

one of the mistresses, and hastened to cry at the approach of danger:

'It was not I!' 'It was not I!' unless they went further and exclaimed,

'It was Dupin,' or 'it was G.' 'Dupin' was Aurore, and 'G.' a wild Irish

girl of eleven, tall and strong and truthful and clever, but utterly

unruly, and the terror of the 'idiots' of the younger class.

As soon as Mary G. discovered that Aurore did not mind being teased or

being thumped on the shoulder by a hand which might have felled an ox,

she felt that she had found a friend who would join in her maddest

tricks. Aurore's education in this respect was not long in beginning.

The very next day as the mistress was handing round books and slates to

the class, Mary quietly walked out, followed in two or three minutes by

Aurore. Both girls went to the empty cloister, and began to talk:

'I am glad you came,' said Mary. 'The others are always making excuses

for getting away, and declaring their noses are bleeding or they want to

practise, or some stupid old story like that. I never tell lies; it is

so cowardly. If they ask me where I have been, I don't answer. If they

punish me--well, let them! I just do as I like.'

'That would just suit me.'

'You are a demon then!'

'I should like to be.'

'As much as I am?'

'Neither more nor less.'

'Accepted,' answered Mary, giving Aurore a shake of the hand. 'Now we

will go back and behave quite properly to Mother Alippe. She is a good

old thing. We will reserve ourselves for Mother D. Ah, you don't know

her yet! Every evening outside the class-room. Do you understand?'

'No. What do you mean by "outside the class-room"?'

'Well, the games after supper under the superintendence of Mother D. are

dreadfully dull. So when we come out of the dining-room we will slip

away, and not come back till it is time for prayers. Sometimes Mother D.

does not miss us, but generally she is enchanted that we should run

away, because then she can have the pleasure of punishing us when we

come in. The punishment is to wear your nightcap all the next day, even

in chapel. In this kind of weather it is very pleasant and good for the

health, and though the nuns you meet cry 'Shame! shame!' that hurts

nobody. If in the course of a fortnight you have worn many nightcaps,

the Superior threatens not to allow you to go out on the next holiday,

but she either forgets or forgives you at the request of your parents.

When you have worn the nightcap so long that it seems to have grown on

your head, you are locked up for a day. But after all, it is better to

give up amusing yourself for a single day than to bore yourself

perpetually of your own freewill.'

Aurore quite agreed with Mary's reasoning, and found the time very long

till supper. The whole school had meals together, and then came the hour

of play before prayers and bed. The older ones went to their large and

beautiful study, but the rest had only quite a little room where there

was no space to play, so that they were thankful when the evening was

over. In leaving the refectory there was always a certain confusion, and

it was easy for both big and little demons to slip away down the

ill-lighted passages to the dark side of the cloisters.

Here Aurore, with Irish Mary for her guide, found a number of girls

assembled, each with something in her hand. One held a stick, another a

pair of tongs, a third a poker. What could they be going to do? 'Dupin'

asked herself. Something exciting, of course; but she never guessed that

it would be her favourite game of 'pretending.' For all these strange

weapons were intended for the deliverance of a prisoner who was hidden

in a dungeon somewhere under the convent.

Certainly it would have been impossible to have invented a better place

in which to hide any number of prisoners than the immense cellars and

vaults and dark holes of all sorts, that ran underneath. The building

itself was more like a village than a house, and, since its foundation,

had been constantly added to and altered, so that it was full of

irregularities and steps up and down and roofs at different heights, and

passages which once led to something but were now blocked up. On one

side of the garden, whose magnificent chestnut trees were the pride of

the nuns, stood small houses in which lived noble ladies retired from

the world, but free from vows. There was besides a very large vegetable

garden for the use of the convent, which at this time contained about a

hundred and thirty people. It was possible, if you stood on tiptoe, to

snatch a glimpse through the grating of melons or grapes or feathery

pinks, but the door was not easy to climb, and only two or three of the

bolder girls had ever managed to penetrate into the enclosure and taste

these forbidden joys.

* * * * *

The legend of the concealed prisoner had been handed on from generation

to generation of school girls, as well as the terrors which were half a

joy, that thrilled through them as they crept along the narrow passages,

ending no one knew where--perhaps in the Catacombs, perhaps in the baths

of Julian, perhaps outside Paris itself! Who could tell? Could life have

any feeling more exciting in store than the sensation that at any moment

your feet might meet the empty air, and that you might fall into one of

those terrible pits common in castles of the Middle Ages, known by the

evil name of _oubliettes_ or holes of forgetfulness? And many of these

dangers were not at all imaginary, whatever the 'prisoner' might be.

It was the knowledge of the heavy punishments that would fall on their

heads in case of discovery that made it a point of honour with the

demons to risk everything in order to explore this underground world.

Very few, however, gained an entrance to these vaults during their

school lives, and only then after years of patience and perseverance.

The memory of these heroines was kept green, and their names whispered

reverently 'to encourage the rest.'

In Aurore's day the question had come up again--the burning question of

how to get into the underground world. Not by the main door which led to

it, that was clear; for close by were the kitchens, where nuns passed

continually! But if the main door was barred, there must be a hundred

other doors or walled-up staircases, by which you could get there; and

if these failed, there was always the roof.

Now, the very last thought that would occur to most people, if they want

to penetrate into an underground passage, is to go first on to the roof;

but then they are not school girls, and have forgotten all about these

things, if, indeed, they ever knew them. To Aurore and her friends it

was a matter of everyday knowledge that 'the longest way round is the

shortest way home.' Had not Aurore sat breathless for days together over

Mrs. Radcliffe's _Mysteries of Udolpho_, and her companions lain awake

trembling at the recollections of Scotch or Irish ancestral ghosts?

Why, even in the convent, where the great dormitories were filled with

girls and the terrors of loneliness were unknown, did they not shudder

sometimes in the dark in the certainty that they caught the echo of the

sighs, the groans, the clanking of chains of the victim?

As to whether it was always the same victim who had to be rescued, or

whether in every generation a fresh victim was somehow mysteriously

supplied, nobody inquired and nobody minded.

* * * * *

On the never-to-be-forgotten evening of Aurore's initiation into the

company of the demons, she was conducted by the rest of the band into

the oldest and most irregular part of the convent. At length they found

themselves standing on a gangway with a wooden railing, ending in a

little room, from which there was no outlet. By the light of their

single taper they beheld a staircase below them, also with a wooden

railing, and protected at the top by a strong oaken door. In order to

get on to the staircase it was necessary to drop from one balustrade to

the other--and the more experienced of the explorers strongly suspected

that both of them were worm-eaten--while the staircase hung over black

depths which no eye could penetrate.

It was an adventure which required a good deal of courage, but not one

of the girls flinched. Isabelle, one of the oldest of the demons,

claimed her right to go first, and accomplished her dangerous feat with

the resolution of a heroine. Mary followed with the calm of a gymnastic

professor, the remainder as best they could, but somehow or other they

all managed to arrive safely on the staircase. At the foot was another

little hall or room, without door or window or issue of any kind; but

this, for some strange reason, caused the girls more joy than regret.

'Certainly,' they said, 'nobody would make a staircase which went

nowhere! There must be _some_ way out and we have got to find it.'

So the little taper was divided into several parts and each girl began a

careful examination of the walls, pressing the plaster, which they hoped

might conceal a ring or a button that, if touched, would reveal an

opening. What would have happened if a sudden blast had blown out their

candles, they never thought, for they had no means of lighting them

again; and, of course, none of the Sisters had the slightest idea where

they might be. Happily this did not occur, and though the surface of the

walls was perfectly smooth, Isabelle declared that when she tapped the

part under the staircase it sounded hollow.

This discovery threw the whole party into a state of wild excitement.

'We have found it at last!' they cried; 'this staircase leads down to

the cell where living victims have been buried.' They jostled each other

so as to place their ears against the wall, but strange to say, in spite

of their fervent wish, they were compelled to confess that they heard

nothing. All, that is except Isabelle, who persisted in declaring that

they must every one of them be deaf, as the sounds of groans and

clanking chains were quite plain.

'Then we must break down the wall,' said Mary, 'and the sooner we begin

the better.'

In an instant the wall was attacked by the collection of arms the girls

had brought with them. Tongs, pokers, shovels were all brought into

play, but luckily without making any impression on the stones, which

otherwise might have come rattling about their heads. Besides, the

demons dared not make _too_ much noise, for they were afraid of being

heard, as they did not know exactly in which part of the convent they

might happen to be.

Only a few pieces of plaster had fallen when the warning bell for

prayers clanged through the building. How they contrived the upward

climb from one balustrade to another, they never knew, and that they

were able to do it at all was almost a miracle. Down they dashed along

the passages, brushing the plaster from their dresses as they ran, and

arrived breathless as the two classes were forming to enter the chapel.

During the whole winter they worked at the wall, but, persevering though

they were, the obstacles encountered were so many that at length they

decided it was sheer folly to waste more time on it, and they had better

try to force an entrance by some other way.

* * * * *

There was a little room--one of many under the roof--which contained one

of the thirty pianos of the convent, and there Aurore was accustomed to

practise for an hour daily. From its window could be seen a whole world

of roofs, penthouses, sheds, and buildings of all sorts, covered with

mossy tiles, and most tempting to the adventurous. It seemed quite

reasonable that somewhere amongst the buildings should exist a staircase

leading to the underground passages, and one fine, starlight night the

demons met in the little music-room, and in a few minutes they had all

scrambled from the window on to the roof six feet below them. From there

they climbed over gables, jumped from one incline to another, and

behaved in fact as if they were cats, taking care to hide behind a

chimney or crouch in a gutter whenever they caught sight of a nun in

the garden or courtyard beneath them.

They had managed to get a long way downwards when prayer-time drew near,

and they knew they must begin their return journey. As the Latin proverb

tells you, it is easy enough to go _down_, but what about getting back

again? And to make matters worse, the demons had not the slightest idea

where they were. Still, they contrived to retrace some of their

footsteps and at last recognised to their joy the window of Sidonie

Macdonald, daughter of the general. But to reach this window it was

necessary to spring upwards a considerable distance, and the chances of

hitting exactly the right spot were very few. Aurore, at any rate,

almost lost her life in the attempt. She jumped in too great a hurry,

and very nearly fell thirty feet through a skylight into a gallery where

the little class were playing. As it was, her heel struck against the

glass, and several panes went crashing in their midst. Clinging to the

window-sill, with her knees scratched and bleeding, Aurore heard the

voice of Sister Therese below accusing Whisky, Mother Alippe's big black

cat, of fighting with his neighbours on the roof and breaking all the

windows in the convent. Mother Alippe warmly denied that her cat ever

quarrelled with anyone, and in spite of her wounds and her danger,

Aurore burst into fits of laughter at the hot dispute, in which she was

joined by Fanelly stretched in the gutter, and Mary lying in a

'spread-eagle' on the tiles, feeling about for her comb. They heard the

nuns mounting the stairs, and discovery seemed inevitable.

* * * * *

Nothing of the sort, however, occurred. The overhanging gables preserved

them from being seen, and as soon as they felt they were safe, the young

demons began to mew loudly, so that Sister Therese proved triumphantly

that she was right, and that the mischief _had_ been caused by Whisky

and his friends!

This being happily settled, the girls climbed at their leisure into the

window where Sidonie was quietly practising her scales, undisturbed by

the noise in the cat-world. She was a gentle, nervous child, who had no

sympathy with a passion for roofs, and when a procession of demons

entered her room she hid her face in her hands and screamed loudly. But

before the nuns could hurry to the spot, the girls had dispersed in all

directions, and, up to the end, the blame of the broken window was laid

upon Whisky.

_HOW AURORE LEARNT TO RIDE_

When Aurore was old enough to leave the convent she went back to Nohant

to live with her grandmother, who was failing fast and died the

following year. Aurore was sixteen now, and things looked very different

from what they did three years earlier. The trees were not so tall nor

the garden so big as she remembered them; that was disappointing, no

doubt. But on the other hand, what joy to do your hair as you liked

without being told that no nice girl ever let her temples be seen; to

wear a pink cotton frock instead of one of yellow serge, and to have as

many cakes and sweet things as you wanted! Of course it had been

terrible to part from your friends at the convent, but then at Nohant

there were all those of long ago--and the dogs almost better than any

friend! Then, too, it was delightful to be so changed that even M.

Deschartres did not know you, and to be called 'Mademoiselle' by him and

everyone else. At least it was delightful just at first, but soon it

began to be tiresome to find the girls with whom you had climbed trees

and played blind man's buff treating you very much as they treated your

grandmother. No; decidedly there were _some_ drawbacks to being 'grown

up'!

For a few days Aurore ran about the country nearly as much as she had

done in former years, but after a while she made plans for study, and

drew up a time-table. History, drawing, music, English and Italian, had

each its hour; but somehow when that hour struck there was always

something else to be done, and Aurore's books were still unopened when,

at the end of a month, Madame de Pontcarre and Pauline arrived on a

visit.

Pauline was just the same as she had always been; 'growing up' had

worked no transformation in _her_. She was pretty, pleasant, gentle as

ever, and quite as indifferent to everybody. Indeed, she was still

exactly the opposite of her mother, who had played with Aurore's father

when she was a child, and in consequence was a great favourite with

Madame Dupin. And now that Madame de Pontcarre was there, there was no

more dreaming for Aurore. Instead, they all three took walks twice a day

and studied music together. When they came in the evenings, they would

sing airs from Gluck's beautiful old operas 'Armida' and 'Iphigenia' to

Madame Dupin, whose criticisms and judgment were as good as of old. They

even acted a play or, rather, a proverb to amuse the old lady, who was

nevertheless a little shocked to see her granddaughter dressed as a boy.

After that the Pontcarres went away, and perhaps it was as well, for

Madame Dupin was getting jealous of Aurore being so much with them.

* * * * *

Aurore would have been very dull without her friends had not Hippolyte,

now a hussar, come back to spend his leave at Nohant. He was such a

splendid person, rolling his _r_'s, making fun of everybody, riding

horses which no one else would go near, that at first Aurore was quite

afraid of him. But this soon wore off, and they were speedily on the old

footing, taking long walks across country, and going off into fits of

laughter at the silliest jokes.

'Now I am going to teach you to ride,' he said one day. 'Of course, I

might give you the book of instructions that I am obliged to read to the

poor young soldiers in the barracks, who don't understand a word; but it

all comes to this--you either fall off or you don't. And as one must be

prepared for a fall, we will pick out a place for your lesson where you

can't hurt yourself much.' So saying he led the way to a field of soft

grass, mounted on General Pepe, and holding Colette by the bridle.

Pepe was a grandson of the horse which had killed Maurice Dupin, and

Colette (who was occasionally known as Mademoiselle Deschartres) had

been trained--or supposed to be--by the tutor; she had only lately been

brought into the stable, and had never yet felt a human being on her

back. Of course it was nothing short of madness on the part of Hippolyte

to dream of mounting his sister upon her, but the mare seemed very

gentle, and after taking her two or three times round the field he

declared she was all right, and swung Aurore into the saddle. Then,

without giving either mare or rider time to think what was happening, he

struck Colette a smart cut with his whip, and off she started on a wild

gallop, shying and leaping and bounding out of pure gaiety of heart.

'Sit up straight,' shouted Hippolyte. 'Hold on to her mane if you like,

but don't drop the bridle, and stick on. To fall or not to fall--that is

the whole thing.'

Aurore heard and obeyed with all her might. Five or six times she was

jerked upwards out of the saddle, but she always returned to it again,

and at the end of an hour--breathless, untidy, and intoxicated with

delight--she guided Colette to the stable, feeling that she was capable

of managing all the horses of the French Army. As to Colette, who was as

new to the business as her mistress, she also had experienced a fresh

joy, and from that day till her death she was Aurore's faithful

companion.

'Lean, big and ugly when standing,' writes Aurore, 'when moving she

became beautiful by force of grace and suppleness. I have ridden many

splendid horses admirably trained, but for cleverness and intelligence I

have never found the equal of Colette. I have had falls, of course, but

they were always the result of my own carelessness, for she never shied

nor made a false step. She would suffer nobody else to mount her, but

from the first moment she and I understood each other absolutely. At the

end of a week we jumped hedges and ditches and swam rivers, for I was

suddenly transformed into something bolder than a hussar, and more

robust than a peasant.'

Curiously enough, Madame Dupin, so little given to exercise herself, was

not in the least nervous as to Aurore's adventures, while Madame Maurice

never beheld her on a horse's back without hiding her face in her hands

and declaring she would die like her father. One day Aurore heard some

visitors inquiring why Madame Dupin allowed her granddaughter to do such

wild things, and the old lady in reply quoted with rather a sad smile

the well-known story of the sailor and the citizen.

'What, sir! Do you tell me that your father and your grandfather both

died at sea, and yet you are a sailor? In your place, I would never have

set foot in a boat!'

'And your parents, sir? How did they die?'

'In their beds, I am thankful to say!'

'Then, in your place, I would never set foot in a bed.'

* * * * *

After Hippolyte's leave was over, and he had rejoined his regiment,

Aurore was obliged to ride with M. Deschartres, which was not nearly so

amusing; still, it was a great deal better than not riding at all. And

as the months went on, the poor girl grew more and more dependent on the

hours that she and Colette spent together, for it was quite plain that

Madame Dupin's life was fast drawing to a close. She lost her memory,

and though she was never really awake, she was never really asleep

either. Her maid Julie, Aurore, or M. Deschartres were with her always,

and as Aurore did not find the four hours of sleep which fell to her

share enough to carry her through the day, she tried the plan of going

to bed every other night only, and watching her grandmother on alternate

ones. Very soon she got used to this mode of life, although sometimes

even the nights spent in bed were broken. Her grandmother would insist

on Aurore coming to assure her that it was _really_ two o'clock, as

Julie had told her, for she did not believe it; or whether the cat was

in the room, as she was sure she heard it. The girl's presence always

soothed her, and the old lady would murmur a few tender words and send

her back to bed. If this only happened once in the night it did not so

much matter; but when Madame Dupin had a restless fit, Aurore would be

summoned two or three times over. Then she gave up the idea of sleep,

and passed the night with a book by the side of her grandmother.

It was a sad and lonely existence for a girl not seventeen, and Aurore

soon fell into melancholy ways, and had strange fancies. The companions

she might have sought seemed years younger than herself at this time,

and she was out of tune for their gaiety. In these days she had grown to

have more sympathy with Deschartres than she could have believed

possible, and she was very grateful for his devotion to her grandmother.

So it came to pass that when one of the other maids could be spared to

help Julie, Aurore and her old tutor might be met riding on the commons

or fields that surrounded Nohant.

They were returning one afternoon after paying a visit to a sick man and

took a road which ran along the banks of the river Indre. Suddenly

Deschartres stopped.

'We must cross here,' he said. 'But be careful. The ford is very

dangerous, for if you go the least bit too much to the right, you will

find yourself in twenty feet of water. I will go first, and you must

follow me exactly.'

'I think I would rather not try it,' answered Aurore, seized with a fit

of nervousness. 'You cross by yourself, and I will take the bridge below

the mill.'

This was so unlike the Aurore he knew that Deschartres turned in his

saddle and stared at her in surprise.

'Why, when did you begin to be a coward!' asked he. 'We have been over

worse places twenty times, and you never dreamed of being frightened!

Come along! If we are not home by five we shall keep your grandmother

waiting for her dinner.'

Feeling much ashamed of herself, Aurore said no more and guided Colette

into the water. But in the very middle of the ford a sudden giddiness

attacked her: her eyes grew dim, and there was a rushing sound in her

ears. Pulling the right rein she turned Colette into the deep water,

against which Deschartres had warned her.

If Colette had plunged or struggled, nothing could have saved either of

them, but happily she was a beast who took things quietly, and at once

began to swim towards the opposite bank. Deschartres, seeing the girl's

danger, screamed loudly, and his agitation brought back Aurore's

presence of mind.

'Stay where you are! I am all right,' she cried, as he was about to put

his horse into the river for her rescue, which was the more courageous

of him, as he was a bad rider and his steed was ill-trained. He would

certainly be drowned, she knew, and in spite of her words she was not

very certain that she would not be drowned also, as it is not easy to

sit on a swimming horse. The rider is uplifted by the water, and at the

same time the animal is pressed down by his weight. Luckily Aurore was

very light, and Colette was both brave and strong, and everything went

well till they reached the opposite bank, which was very steep. Here

Deschartres in an agony of terror, was awaiting her.

'Catch hold of that branch of willow and draw yourself up,' he cried,

and she managed to do as he told her. But when she saw the frantic

efforts of Colette to obtain a footing, she forgot all about her own

danger and thought only of her friend's. She was about to drop back

again into the water, which would not have helped Colette and would have

caused her own death, when Deschartres seized her arm; and at the same

moment Colette remembered the ford and swam back to it.

* * * * *

Once they were all safe on land again, Deschartres' fright showed itself

in the abuse which he heaped upon his pupil, but Aurore understood the

reason of his anger, and threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.

When her grandmother died, as she did during that year, and Aurore went

to live with some relations, Colette went with her. They remained

together till Colette died of old age, friends to the last.

[Illustration: AURORE RESCUED BY DESCHARTRES FROM A WATERY GRAVE.]

_LAND-OTTER THE INDIAN_

On the North-West part of America, and especially near the sea, a great

many tribes of Indians are still living, each with its peculiar customs

and interesting stories handed down from one generation to another. The

story which I am going to tell you now is a tale of the Tlingit tribe

and is about 'Land-otter,' as the Indians called him, whose parents

lived on the coast of Alaska.

* * * * *

That year the crop of maize had failed all through the country, and the

people took their boats and went out to catch halibut, so that they

might not die of starvation. Among them was a certain man and his wife

who made a little house for themselves just out of reach of the high

tides, and fished harder than any of the rest; but the halibut seemed as

scarce as the maize, and the one or two fish that they caught in a week

hardly kept them alive. Then the wife used to go to the beach at low

water and look for crabs or shrimps among the pools in the rocks, but

even so they grew thinner and thinner.

One night the husband came home with only one small halibut in his big

fishing-basket. They were both very hungry and could have eaten ten

times as many, but there was no good thinking of that, and the woman put

part of the halibut in the pot which stood on the fire, and hung the

rest of it outside in a shed.

'At least, there shall be something for breakfast to-morrow,' said she.

But when to-morrow came a strange noise was heard in the shed where the

fish was lying, as if someone was throwing things about.

'What _is_ that?' asked the wife. 'Go and see who has got into the

shed.' So the man went, and beheld, to his surprise, two large

devil-fish on the floor.

'How _did_ they come up from the beach?' thought he. 'But however they

managed it, they will be very useful,' and he hurried back to his wife

and said to her:

'We are in luck! There are two devil-fish in the shed; Whoever brought

them, it was very kind of him, and now we have such good bait we will go

out in the morning and catch some halibut.' His face as he spoke was

filled with joy, but the woman's grew pale and she sat down rather

quickly.

'Do you know who brought them here?' she said at last? 'It was our son;

it is a year to-day since he was drowned, and he knows how poor we are,

so he has taken pity on us. I will listen at night, and if I hear anyone

whistle I will call him; for I know it is he.'

At dawn they got up and baited their lines with the devil-fish, and this

time they caught two halibut. As soon as it grew dark and they could see

no longer, they rowed back and pulled up their boat, and the woman went

inside and threw one of the halibut into the pot. At that moment she

heard a whistle behind the house, and her heart beat wildly.

'Come in, my son,' she said. 'We have longed for you these many months.

Fear nothing; no one is here except your father and I.' But nobody

entered; only the whistle was repeated. Then the man rose and flung open

the door and cried:

'Come in, come in, my son! You have guessed how poor we are and have

sought to help us,' and though neither the man nor his wife saw the son

enter, they felt he was somehow sitting opposite at the fire, with his

hands over his face.

'Is it you, my son?' they both asked at once, for they could not see.

Again he whistled in answer, and the three sat in silence till midnight

when the young man made some sounds as if he would speak.

'Is that you, my son?' asked the father again, and the son replied:

[Illustration: THE DEAD SON HELPS HIS PARENTS]

'Yes,' and made a sign, pointing outside the door, where more devil-fish

were lying.

'In the morning we will go out,' he said in a strange voice, as if

speaking was difficult to him, and his mother gave him a pillow and some

blankets and he slept by the fire.

* * * * *

It was still dark when he took his father by the feet and shook him,

saying 'Get up, it is time to fish,' so they fetched the line and

dragged the canoe to the water's edge. When they were seated the son

took a paddle, and he pulled so hard that they had reached the feeding

grounds of the halibut in only a few minutes. After that he baited the

hooks and fastened the end of the line to the seat.

'Put the blanket over you,' he said, turning to his father, 'and be

careful not to watch me.' But the father _did_ watch him through a hole

in the blanket, and this is what he saw.

The son got up very gently so that the boat should not move, and,

plunging into the sea, put the largest halibut he could find on the

hooks. When no more were to be had, he returned into the canoe and shook

it; his father perceiving this, stretched out his arms drowsily and

inquired if they had had any luck.

'Pull in the lines and see,' answered the son, and as they pulled, one

big halibut after another met their eyes. The canoe was soon full, and

they paddled home again.

On the way back the young man who was standing at the bow with a spear

in his hand threw it at a seal, which he dragged on board the boat, and

killed it with a blow from his fist. But as soon as they touched the

shore he looked at the sky and exclaimed that if he did not make haste

the raven might cry before he could reach a shelter, and ran off up to

the woods.

* * * * *

It took the father and mother all day to take out the halibut and cut

them in pieces and salt them, so that they should always have something

to eat. Darkness came on before they had finished, and in the evening

their son was with them again. Then the father took some of the raw

halibut and set it before him, first cutting it into small mouthfuls.

He knew that drowned men did not like cooked food, and also that they

did not like being watched. So he signed to his wife to say nothing when

the son turned his back, and began to eat very fast, for he was hungry.

In this manner things went on for a whole week, and then his parents

begged him not to go back to the woods to sleep, but to stay with them,

which he did gladly. And every day before it was light, he woke his

father and they went off to fish together, and each time the canoe came

back full, so that at length they had great stores of food laid up in

the outhouse.

At first, as we know, he was only a voice; then he would not let them

see his face, but little by little his body grew plain to them and his

features distinct, and they noticed that his hair had grown long and

reached his waist. At first, too, he could only whistle, but now he

could talk freely, and always was ready to help either his father or his

mother, and she used to go with them in the boat whenever she had time,

for she loved the fishing. Very soon, no longer fearing starvation, they

packed up their store of food and placed it in the canoe and pushed off,

for they were going back to Silka where they lived with their tribe. And

as they drew near the landing-place, the woman beheld the shadow of her

son's hands paddling, and wondered to herself, for his hands she could

not see.

'What is the matter with my son?' she asked her husband at last. 'I can

only see his shadow,' and she rose to find out if he was asleep or had

fallen into the water. But he was not in the boat, neither was there any

trace of him. Only the blanket, which had been across his knees,

remained in the bottom.

So they rowed on to Silka.

[From _Tlingit Myths and Texts_, recorded by JOHN R.

SWANTON, Smithsonian Institution, Bureau of American

Ethnology. Bulletin 39.]

_THE DISINHERITING OF A SON_

Near a large town in England there lived in the last century a gentleman

with his son and daughter. His wife died when her children were quite

young, leaving a large fortune behind her, and in a few years her

husband married again. Now, though the new lady of the manor had seemed

gentle and amiable as long as she was a girl, she soon grew jealous of

her stepson and his sister, and treated them very harshly and unkindly.

She thought that anything was good enough for them, but that the moment

she wished for anything she was to have it--quite forgetting that the

money which bought her horses and diamonds belonged of right to the

children. When she began to have babies of her own, matters grew worse,

and as soon as her husband's eldest son declared that he wished to leave

England and pass some years in foreign countries, the stepmother broke

into a furious rage, and declared that he must stop at home, for there

was no money to waste on him.

The young man saw that no help was to be expected from his father, who

was always afraid of his wife's temper, so he said no more, but wrote at

once to his own mother's brother to beg his assistance. This was at once

given, and thus it came about that very soon Alexander started off to

see the world.

In the beginning, the allowance which his father had agreed to make him

was paid regularly, and as regularly the son wrote home to tell where he

was and what he was doing. Then gradually the payments were delayed, for

the stepmother had always some good reason why the money could not be

forthcoming at that particular date, and at length they ceased

altogether. And when the payments ceased, the letters ceased also.

For four years things remained in this state, but the stepmother was not

idle. She intended in one way or another to work upon her husband till

she had forced him to do as she wished, and this was to leave the estate

to her own son, 'as it was quite certain,' she went on, 'that Alexander

must be dead, or by this time they would have heard something about

him.'

At first her husband would not listen to her, and many and frequent were

their quarrels; but, as we know, 'the dropping of water wears away a

stone,' and in the end he showed signs of giving way. His wife noticed

it, and redoubled her efforts. 'If Alexander were alive,' she declared,

'it was unpardonable of him to have treated his father in such a manner,

and that fact alone would make him worthy of disinheritance; and if he

were dead, then, of course, her boy was the proper heir to the estate.'

Still, in spite of all her arguments, she could not entirely bend her

husband to her will; and the utmost she could get from him was a promise

that if he did not hear from his son in four years he would agree to her

plan.

For the moment the wife felt that no more could be gained, but soon she

began her grumblings afresh, and worried him so perpetually that at last

he consented to reduce the time of waiting from four years to one. This

was not done very easily, and many angry words passed between them, till

one day the wife burst out in a passion that she hoped his son's ghost

would appear to him and tell his father that he was dead, and that

justice ought to be done to his other children.

'And I,' cried the father, 'only wish his ghost would appear before the

year is up, and tell us that he is alive.'

* * * * *

It happened not long after that they were sitting one summer evening in

the parlour, disputing over the same subject--for nowadays they never

talked about anything else--when suddenly the wife became silent and

started up.

'Did you see that hand at the window?' she cried. 'There must be thieves

in the garden!'

'Thieves!' he exclaimed, and rushed to the door, but he quickly

returned, saying:

'You have made a mistake; there is nobody in the garden.'

'But there _must_ be,' she answered.

'It was a ghost, then,' he replied, 'for no one could have got over the

walls without my seeing him.'

'I am certain,' persisted the wife, 'that I saw a man put up his hand to

the window, and if it _was_ a ghost, it was the ghost of your son, who

came to tell you that he is dead.'

'If it _was_ my son,' said the husband, 'he is come to tell us he is

alive, I warrant you, and to ask how you can be so wicked as to wish to

disinherit him. Alexander! Alexander!' he cried, looking towards the

window. 'If you are alive, show yourself, and don't let me be vexed

daily with tales of your death.'

As he spoke, the window flew open, and Alexander looked in. He stared

angrily at his stepmother, who shrieked and fainted; and uttering the

word 'Here' in a clear voice, the young man vanished.

Immediately her husband rushed outside and tried the doors leading from

the garden into the stables and some fields, but found them all barred.

Then he inquired of some men if anyone had passed, but they had seen no

one.

After that he returned to the parlour, and seated himself in his chair,

waiting till his wife had recovered herself.

'What was it?' she asked as soon as she could speak.

'Alexander, without a doubt,' answered he, and she fainted a second

time, and was in bed for several days afterwards.

* * * * *

The husband hoped that the fright his wife had undergone would have put

an end to her schemes, but as time went on she forgot her scare, and

began to tease as of old. This so enraged the poor man that he

threatened to summon Alexander again, to which the furious woman

retorted by calling him a magician. Finally the quarrel was ended by the

resolve to refer the dispute to some friends and to beg them to judge

between them. The friends, when they had listened to what had passed,

laughed at the wife, and said that all they could make of it was that

her husband had cried out his son's name, and that someone had answered

'Here.' In their opinion, that was all there was in the affair, and they

advised the two to be reconciled to each other as soon as possible.

Of course, if the husband had possessed any sense he would have turned

his wife's fright to good account, but he was very weak and terribly

afraid of her. He agreed after much arguing to sign the deed she wanted

in the presence of two witnesses, saying as he delivered it to her:

'You have worried me into this by your horrible temper, but I have

signed it against justice and my conscience, and depend upon it, I shall

never perform it, as I am satisfied in my mind that my son is alive.'

When four months had passed, and the year was up, the woman told her

husband that the time was come to perform his promise about the estate,

and to have the new deeds executed to settle it upon her son. Therefore

she had invited the two friends who had helped them before, to dine with

them the next night, and they would see that everything was done

properly.

The following evening they were all seated round a table, which was

covered with papers. The new deeds handing over the estate to the second

wife's son on the death of his father were read out and signed, and the

wife took up the old deeds which had appointed Alexander heir to his own

mother's property, and tore off the seal. At that instant an icy,

whistling wind rushed through the room, as if someone had entered from

the hall and passed out by the garden door, which was shut.

Nothing was seen, but they all shivered. The wife turned pale, but,

recovering herself, asked her husband what tricks he was playing now, to

which he answered angrily that he knew no more about it than anybody

else.

'When did you last hear from your son?' asked one of the gentlemen

present.

'Five years ago,' replied the father.

'And have you not written to him about this business?' continued the

gentleman.

'No; for I did not know where to write to.'

'Sir,' said his friend earnestly, 'I never saw a ghost in my life, nor

believed in them; and even now I have seen nothing. But that _something_

passed through the room just now was quite clear. I heard it

distinctly.'

'And I _felt_ the wind it made as it passed by me,' remarked another

witness.

'Pray, sir,' said the first, addressing himself to the father; 'have

_you_ seen anything at any time, or heard voices or noises, or dreamed

anything about this matter?'

'Many times I have dreamed that my son was alive, and that I had spoken

with him, and once that I had asked him why he had not written to me for

so long, seeing that I had it in my power to disinherit him.'

'And what answer did he make to that?'

'I never dreamt on so long as to have his answer.'

'And what do you think yourself? Do you believe he is dead?'

'No; I do not. I believe he is alive, and that if I disinherit him I

shall commit a sin.'

'Truly,' said the second witness; 'it begins to shock me. I will meddle

with it no further.' But at these words the wife, who had recovered her

courage, exclaimed:

'What is the use of talking like that? Everything is settled. Why else

are we here? _I_ am not frightened, if _you_ are,' and again she took up

one of the old deeds, in order to tear off the seal.

Then the window flew open and the shadow of a body was seen standing

outside, with its face looking straight at her face.

'Here,' said a voice, and the spectre vanished.

In spite of her boasted courage, the wife shrieked and fell in

hysterics, and the two witnesses took up the deeds.

'We will have no more to do with this business,' cried they, and, taking

up the new deeds which they had signed, they tore off their names, and

by so doing these deeds became of no value, and the elder son was still

heir to the property.

* * * * *

Four or five months later the young man arrived from India, where he had

gone from Portugal soon after leaving home. The two gentlemen who had

been concerned in the matter of the deeds, as well as his father, put

many questions to him as to whether he on _his_ side had seen visions or

heard voices which warned him of the plots going on against him. But

Alexander denied having received warning of any sort, 'unless,' he

added, 'you can so call a dream I once had--which was indeed what sent

me home--that my father had written me a very angry letter, threatening

me, if I stayed away any longer, to deprive me of my inheritance. But

why do you want to know?'

[Illustration: 'HERE,' SAID A VOICE]

_THE SIEGE OF RHODES_

When you are reading the history of the sixteenth century, you will

notice that in Europe nearly the whole of that period was occupied by

two struggles: the struggle of the Reformed religion against the

Catholic Church, and that of the Christian world with the Sultans of

Turkey.

When the century began, the Turks had been lords of Constantinople for

fifty years, and were for a while busy with establishing themselves

firmly in the capital of the Emperors of the East. Then, as in the days

of Mahomet's successors nine hundred years before, they proceeded to

look about for fresh worlds to conquer, when the Crescent should trample

underfoot the Cross. In 1521, Solyman, accompanied by a vast host,

marched northwards to Hungary, and after a two months' siege captured

the town of Belgrade. This expedition was undertaken by the Sultan in

obedience to the wishes of his father, who died before he could march

there himself; but what the young man really longed to possess was the

beautiful Island of Rhodes lying at a short distance from the coast of

Asia Minor.

His councillors shook their heads when he told them of his plan. The

city of Rhodes was the stronghold of the Brotherhood of St. John of

Jerusalem and the Knights had seen to its fortifications. It _might_ be

taken, of course; still the loss of life was sure to be tremendous and

the Sultan possessed other islands as lovely and fertile as Rhodes. No

doubt he did; but it was Rhodes he wanted, so Solyman turned from his

old councillors and listened to the advice of his brother-in-law,

Mustafa Pasha.

The first step was to discover something about the town and its

defences: how many men could be mustered on the walls, and what means

the Knights had of providing against a long siege. For this purpose he

despatched a Jewish physician greatly trusted by his father, to the

island, with orders to pretend himself ready to become a Christian so as

to find favour with the Grand Master of the Knights of St. John, and to

lose no opportunity of making friends with the people by trying to cure

their sick. These instructions were faithfully carried out by the Jew,

who sent word to the Sultan that an important part of one of the city

walls was being rebuilt, and that if an army could be landed before the

work could be completed, the men would easily be able to enter the

breach.

Now the Jew, of course, was fulfilling the task given him, and was

risking his own neck in the accomplishment of it. But what can be said

of the treachery of one of the Knights themselves who out of jealousy

had bidden Solyman to besiege the town? This man, Sir Andrew de Merall,

was a Portuguese and so highly thought of among his fellows that he had

been named Chancellor of the Order. He expected, however, to be the next

Grand Master, and when, on the death of Fabrice of Cacetto, Sir Philip

de Villiers was chosen in his place, de Merall's rage at being passed

over was such that he could not control himself. The Knights did not pay

much heed to his words; it was natural, they thought, that he should be

disappointed, but he would soon calm down again. And so de Merall did,

to all outward appearance, and no one guessed how black were his

thoughts.

A pretext for his treason was soon found: it was easy for him to send

over a Turkish prisoner to Constantinople, on the plea of the man

raising money for his ransom, and instructing the Turk beforehand

exactly what he was to tell the Sultan as to the condition of the city.

'He will never find a better time,' said the traitor, 'seeing that the

wall is now partly down and there is mischief among some Italian

Knights. As to help from without, the Christian princes are busy warring

each upon the other, and, if this should last, the town will be his

without fail,' which thing came to pass.

The Sultan took the counsel given him, and assembled a great fleet in

all haste to bear his army through the AEgean Sea. In order to keep

everything as secret as possible, he forbade his subjects to enter

Rhodes on any pretence whatever. But the return of the Turkish spy and

his friendship with de Merall was noted by all, and the Grand Master's

own men reported that a large army was being assembled in Turkey. Yet,

in spite of these rumours, Sir Philip de Villiers did not disquiet

himself. No Turkish host had ever captured Rhodes, and when the wall was

repaired the defences would be stronger than before. And it was far more

likely that the fleet was intended for the Adriatic, and meant either to

attack Venice herself or some of her dependencies on the opposite coast.

Still, in order not to be caught unawares, the Grand Master heightened

the walls and deepened the trenches beyond them while he filled the

storehouses with food, and the magazines with powder.

His precautions were received with scorn by the larger number of his

Knights and most of the citizens. 'Why, the town was already provisioned

for a year or more,' they said, 'and no siege would last as long as

that.' But the day came when they lamented that the granaries had not

been twice the size, and the magazines three times bigger, for a month

before the surrender of the town food was hardly to be had, and

ammunition had almost failed them.

* * * * *

Though no help was to be expected from the great nations of Christendom,

and the Governor of Candia or Crete forbade his men to serve under the

Grand Master of the Knights in Rhodes, Sir Philip de Villiers contrived

by his energy to get in a large quantity of wine from the island.

Besides this, he was greatly cheered by the kindness of a private

gentleman from Venice, who not only brought over a ship laden with 700

butts of wine for their use, instead of selling his cargo at

Constantinople as he had meant to do, but stayed and fought for them

himself, and put all he had at their disposal. Night and day the Grand

Master worked; he seemed to be everywhere at once, and to think of

everything. Now he was in the powder magazine watching the officers

serving out ammunition to the soldiers; now he was on the walls testing

the strength of the repairs; now he was in the fields examining the corn

and deciding what was ripe enough to be cut and brought in. When this

was done he gathered into the city the people of the neighbouring

villages.

Hardly was this accomplished when news arrived that the Turks were near

at hand. Then the Grand Master ordered a muster of all the men capable

of bearing arms, and began with the Knights, the flower of many races;

and a splendid sight they were, in their scarlet tunics with a large

white cross on the breast. To each he appointed his place, with his

special duties, and next proceeded to the citizens and the strangers,

giving them separate colours and mottoes, and forming them into

companies. But at the most the defenders did not number more than 6,000,

and who could tell how many the Turks might be?

On June 18, 1522, the Turkish fleet was sighted, and for the next

fortnight it moved from place to place in the neighbourhood of Rhodes,

till it finally cast anchor about six miles from the town and remained

there till the end of the siege. Four hundred ships, large and small,

were said to be assembled, and for a fortnight some of the galleys went

to and from the mainland, returning with fresh supplies and more

soldiers. Meanwhile the Grand Master left his palace and took up his

abode near the part of the walls where he expected the fight to be

fiercest. He had need of vigilance; for more to be dreaded than the

enemy without were the traitors within, though as yet none suspected de

Merall of treason. But many of the women slaves serving in the houses of

the rich were Turks, who sought to help their countrymen. This was to be

done by setting fire to their masters' houses at the moment of the first

assault, in order to tempt the soldiers to leave their posts at the

defences, to put out the flames. Luckily the plot was betrayed and the

leader executed before any harm was done. The Turkish male slaves, on

the contrary, were faithful throughout, and as they numbered 1,500 were

of great importance, working hard in the trenches. The walls were

divided into different portions, called sometimes after the kingdoms and

sometimes after provinces of countries. There was the 'gate of Italy,'

the 'gate of Almaine' or Germany, the 'gate of Auvergne,' the 'gate of

Provence,' the 'Walls of England and Spain'; and it was at these two

walls that the first assault was directed. The Turks shot huge stones

from their guns, and their engines cast them upwards into the air, so

that they fell down with tremendous force into the street, but strangely

enough they did little damage to anyone. Soon there arrived in Rhodes,

from Candia, Captain Gabriel Martinengo and two other captains, all

skilled in war, while the following day the young Sultan himself joined

his fleet.

His presence inspired the army with fresh energy. The soldiers now began

to take aim with harquebuses and 'hand-guns', and to erect mounds nearer

the town as cover for their marksmen. They worked under a heavy fire

from the besieged, and though many of them were slain, the hill they

made grew steadily higher till at length it overtopped the wall of Spain

and the gate of Auvergne by ten or twelve feet. The Christians, in their

turn, rebuilt the walls with boards and trenches for cover, but not

before numbers who could ill be spared had fallen victims to the fire of

the Turks.

In spite of the hosts encamped before them, the courage of the defenders

never failed, and for a time it seemed as if their strength would never

fail either. Vainly did the besiegers build screens or 'mantelets' of

wood or stones, behind which their soldiers could shoot in safety; a

well-directed fire beat on them with such persistence that at length

they got weary of constantly repairing, and moved their mantelets away

to some other place. But though the Knights had won the day here, the

number of the Turks was beginning to tell, as it was bound to do in the

long run. It did not matter to them how many were killed, there were

always plenty more to take their places, and at the end of a month the

wall of England was cast down, and a breach was made in the wall of

Spain. Gabriel Martinengo did his utmost to make use of these disasters

and his guns fired through the breaches into the trenches, while he

stationed men with harquebuses on the roofs of the houses. To this the

enemy answered by throwing hollow stones into the town filled with that

terrible Greek fire which it was said could only be put out by burying

it under earth. Some of the wooden buildings caught, but on the whole,

not much harm was done.

So passed August, and September brought a new terror to the besieged.

The Turks were undermining the town, and countermines had to be

prepared. The mine under the wall of England, however, was so well laid

with gunpowder that when it exploded all the town felt the shock, and

part of the wall fell into the trench, whereat the Turks leaped into the

breach waving their banners and poured forth an incessant fire from

their hand-guns. For three hours the battle raged; then the victory

remained with the Grand Master, and the enemy retired, leaving a

thousand dead upon the ground.

Again and again the assault was renewed upon one or other of the walls

and gates. The fire of the besieged was so fierce that, brave as they

were, the Turks often recoiled before it and had literally to be driven

forward by their officers. Their loss was always much greater than that

of the Christians, as must invariably happen in a siege; but, on the

other hand, some of the best and most useful of the Christian Knights

were killed by the enemy.

Throughout September the mining continued, and explosions were frequent.

Sixty thousand Turks were now in the trenches all well armed, and it was

easy for them to attack the walls in various places at once. On the 24th

the famous Turkish band of Janizaries, led by their chief, fought their

way into the bulwark of Spain, and planted their standards on the top.

It seemed as if the capture of the town was inevitable, but the Grand

Master on hearing of the peril hastened from his post at the gate of

England, and put himself at the head of the combatants at the bulwark of

Spain. The struggle lasted for hours, but at length the Turks gave way,

and so many of them lay dead that you could not see the ground for the

corpses.

From his tent Solyman had watched it all, and 'was very sore

displeased, and half in despair.' He laid the whole blame of defeat on

Mustafa Pasha, his brother-in-law, because, he declared, without his

advice the siege would never have been undertaken. The Sultan even

wished in his anger to put the unfortunate man to death, but was

dissuaded from his purpose by the other pashas, on the ground that 'it

would comfort their enemies and give them courage.' So Mustafa's life

was spared, and 'that he might do something to please the Turk, as well

for his honour as for to save his person, he was marvellously diligent

to make mines at the bulwark of England.'

[Illustration: DISCOVERING THE TRAITOR.]

* * * * *

Had it not been for the traitors in the town who sent letters to the

Sultan showing that it was impossible for the defenders to hold out much

longer the siege would now have been raised. After three months of

almost hand-to-hand warfare, in spite of mines that threw down the

houses and breaches that had been made in the walls, the Turks did not

seem any nearer their end. Even the Janizaries declared they would fight

no more, and from the walls the Christians noted bodies of stragglers

making their way towards the Turkish fleet.

Then one night an Albanian captive stole out to the enemy's camp,

bearing letters from de Merall and the other betrayers of their land and

their religion, and the next morning the fire of the enemy was hotter

than ever.

Early in October three successive assaults were made on the bulwark of

England, but were beaten back at the cost of many lives, the Turkish

soldiers vowing at last that no one, not the Sultan himself, should

induce them to make another attack on a place so obstinately defended.

Indeed, a mutiny nearly broke out among the troops. Some of all this was

perceived by the Christians, and their hearts beat with joy. By command

of the Grand Master a body of men went outside the walls while the guns

above played upon the enemy, and cleared away the earth from the ditch

beyond, bringing it back into the town where they flung it down inside

the wall. And this, though they did not guess it, proved later one of

the causes of their undoing. So busy were they, that they did not

perceive that the Turks, having covered their trenches with boards,

worked hard at boring a passage which came out on the other side of the

wall under the barbican--a sort of small fortification--by which means

they were able to gain the foot of the wall.

Therefore now, on October 17, the fighting began on the inside. In vain

the Christians tried by every means to drive the Turks from the

barbican; they could never be dislodged. Then Sir Gabriel Martinengo

ordered, as a last resource, that the wall should be broken down so that

these might be reached face to face, but when this was done the

Christians were no nearer success. Three days after, the Turks fastened

strong ropes, weighted with anchors, to the walls which had already been

undermined; but the artillery, placed on the bulwark of Auvergne, cut

the ropes and sent away the besiegers.

By this time all the slaves in the Christian army and many of the

soldiers had fallen, and there was hardly anyone left to do the repairs

or to carry the wounded to the Hospital within the city. It was evident

to everyone that the end was not far off, and it was then, when things

could scarcely be worse, that the sorest blow of all was dealt to the

courage of the Grand Master. Hitherto the treachery of Sir Andrew de

Merall had been totally unsuspected by him, but one day a servant of the

Portuguese Knight was caught in the act of firing a cross-bow into the

Turkish camp, with a letter tied to the shaft. Taken before the Grand

Master the man confessed that it was not the first occasion by many

that, at the command of his master, he had in like manner sent the enemy

information of the condition of the town, warning them not to leave, as

men, powder, and provisions were rapidly failing.

But cut to the heart though he was, the Grand Master had no leisure as

yet to attend to de Merall; he ordered the servant to be locked up

securely, and went back to the walls, which he scarcely ever left. The

bulwark of England was now in the hands of the Turks, who were arranging

a fierce assault on the wall of Spain. The last great battle took place

on November 29, and for the last time the Christians were victorious.

* * * * *

A few days after this a native of Genoa--probably a prisoner--came out

of the Turkish camp to the gate of Auvergne and demanded to speak with

someone in authority. When his request was granted, he inquired why the

town, which could hold out no longer, was not surrendered, while there

was yet time to get good terms from the Sultan. Thrice he made attempts

to prevail on the Knights to listen to his proposals, but they would

not, preferring rather to die at their posts. The townspeople, however,

thought otherwise, and whispered together secretly at first, and then

openly, that they would fain save their own lives and that of their

children, seeing there was no further hope of driving away the enemy.

And these murmurings soon came to the ears of the council, who laid them

before the Grand Master.

While the assembled lords were talking over this weighty matter, some of

the citizens knocked at the door of the chamber and, being admitted,

'meekly besought the said reverend lord the Grand Master to consider the

piteous and sorrowful state the town was in', and to pray that if he

would not surrender it, at least to send away their wives and children,

or otherwise they would become slaves or be slain. 'And the conclusion

was, that if the said lord would not purvey, they would purvey for it

themselves. That is, they would see to the placing in safety of their

wives and children.'

The Grand Master heard them with a gloomy face, and dismissed them,

saying, they should know shortly what was in the minds of the council to

do. He then inquired of the Knight who had charge of the gunpowder how

much there was left, and received for answer 'not more than was needed

to withstand two assaults.' At that the Grand Master turned to Sir

Gabriel Martinengo, who was Captain of the soldiers, and asked if the

town might hold out or not, or if there were any means to save it.

'Scarcely are there folk enough to move a piece of artillery from one

place to another,' answered he, 'and it is impossible without folk to

set up the repairs which every day are broken and crushed by the great,

furious, and continual shot of the enemy.'

Very unwillingly the Grand Master was convinced that his cause was

hopeless and that, as it was the wish of the people and of many of the

lords also, a treaty must be made with the Sultan. 'He took it most

heavily and was more sorrowful than any of the others,' writes the old

chronicler, 'for the business belonged very near to him.'

So a 'sign' was set upon the tower of the abbey outside the walls, and

the two Turks who came from the camp in answer bore with them a letter

from Solyman to the Grand Master, offering, in case of surrender, to let

all the Knights and the people leave the town with their 'goods and

jewels without fear of harm or displeasure of his folks. But that if the

Grand Master would not accept the treaty none of the city should think

to escape, but they all, unto the cats, should pass by the edge of the

sword.'

The die had been cast by the council, yet even so the Grand Master could

not bear to deliver up his trust, and seems to have sought to delay

matters. Therefore he sent two of his Knights into the Turkish camp to

beg an audience of the Sultan and to ascertain without a doubt that

faith would be kept with the Christians.

The ambassadors were received courteously by two high Turkish officials,

and a truce of three days was agreed upon, during which 'the enemies

came to our repairs and spake with our folk, and drank with one

another,' as enemies should after the battle is over. When the Christian

Knights saw the Sultan, he repeated his terms, and informed them that at

the end of the truce he must have an answer. He then dismissed them,

giving each a garment of velvet and cloth of gold as a present.

* * * * *

Thus all was arranged for the yielding up of the city, when a most

unexpected thing happened. Some of the very citizens who had been most

urgent for the surrender now appeared before the Grand Master and the

council, and declared that as _they_ had not been consulted they would

not consent to ceding the town, and they might as well die while

defending it, for they were sure to be put to death anyhow.

In fact, they behaved more like a set of pettish children than like men,

whose lives were at stake.

However much these words of the citizens may have chimed in with his

secret wishes, the Grand Master's reason told him that he had no right

to take advantage of their folly, and all he would agree to was to send

two fresh ambassadors to the Turkish camp, begging the Sultan once more

to repeat his conditions and give them renewed guarantees.

Not unnaturally Solyman declined to be played with like this, and his

only answer was to order an attack to be sounded at once. Refreshed by

the three days' truce the Turks fought harder than ever, and hour by

hour pressed nearer into the town. Then the Grand Master summoned the

citizens who had prevented the surrender, and said that as they were

willing to die he was well content to die with them, and that a

proclamation would be made throughout the town that every man should be

at his post at the gates day and night, and that, if he left, instant

death would be the penalty.

For a day or two the Rhodians were most zealous at the walls--especially

after one had been hanged for desertion--but soon their hearts failed;

they slunk away, and as it was not possible to hang everybody the

Knights were left to defend the walls themselves. At length the Grand

Master sent to inquire of the citizens why they had broken their word

and abandoned their duty, to which they made answer that 'when they had

gainsaid the surrender of the town, they had been wrongly informed of

many things. But that now the Grand Master might do whatever seemed good

to him, only they prayed him to grant them the favour of sending two

among them as ambassadors to the Great Turk.'

This time the negotiations took longer than before, and after rejecting

the excellent terms Solyman had offered them in the first instance, the

Christians were not in a position to demand anything more than their

lives. The Sultan, however, was generous, and though his soldiers

cannot be said to have kept completely to the conditions of the treaty,

they confined themselves to pillaging the town, and offered violence to

nobody.

Thus ended on Christmas Day 1522 the famous Siege of Rhodes, after it

had lasted six months.

_THE PRINCESS OF BABYLON_

Belus, King of Babylon, thought himself the greatest man in all the

earth, for his subjects were continually telling him so and he had no

difficulty in believing them. It was very absurd, of course, but there

is this to be said in his excuse, that though his ancestors had built

Babylon thirty thousand years before, it owed its chief beauties to him.

Belus it was who constructed the vast palace with its famous 'hanging

gardens,' and planted with fruit-trees the park stretching from the

Euphrates to the Tigris, everything being kept fresh and cool in that

burning heat by means of canals and fountains which scattered their

waters around.

But though Babylon contained much that was beautiful, the palace itself

held the most beautiful and precious thing of all, the king's only

child, the Princess Formosante; and her father was prouder of her than

of his whole empire put together. Still, with all his delight in his

daughter's presence, he knew his duty, and that now she was eighteen it

was needful to find her a suitable husband. Yet, who was worthy of such

a prize? One by one Belus passed the kings of the earth in judgment

before him, and could not answer this question. Then he remembered that

the oracle which had been consulted at Formosante's birth had declared

that only he who could bend the iron bow of Nimrod, the mighty hunter,

should win the hand of the princess.

Well, since that was the decision of the oracle--which, of course, must

be obeyed--matters became in one way a little easier. But, could Belus

be mistaken? Had not the oracle said something else? Oh, yes! he

recollected now that the arm which could draw the bow must overcome also

the largest and fiercest lion ever seen in Babylon, and be the best,

the cleverest, and the most splendid of men, and possess the rarest

object in the whole universe.

And as one by one Belus recalled these conditions he sighed aloud, for

where should he look for a son-in-law like that?

* * * * *

King Belus need not have been so anxious as regards suitors for the

princess, for as an old song says:

'Where maidens are fair, many lovers will come,'

and Formosante was very fair indeed. The fame of her beauty had spread

far and wide, and soon the Court of Babylon received notice that the

Pharaoh of Egypt, the Shah of India, and the Khan of Scythia--such were

the names these nations gave to their rulers--were on their way to

Babylon to ask the hand of Formosante.

Preparations for the great event had to be made instantly, and that very

day the place was marked out in the park for the erection of a marble

amphitheatre capable of holding five hundred thousand persons. Opposite

the amphitheatre was a high throne for King Belus and his daughter, and

on each side, but a step lower, were those for the princes and nobles

who might wish to see the contest. The seats for the three foreign kings

were set a little apart.

The first to arrive was the King of Egypt, mounted on the bull Apis and

followed by a train of eight thousand attendants; and scarcely had Belus

bidden him welcome than the sound of trumpets announced the approach of

the King of India, lying upon cushions in a gorgeous litter drawn by

twelve elephants, and attended by a still more numerous company. The

last to appear was the King of Scythia, riding a tiger as tall as the

biggest horse from Persia. He had with him only a few picked warriors,

magnificent men armed with bows and arrows; but the king himself was

more imposing than any of his soldiers, and the Babylonians, as they

looked at him, said to themselves: 'Ah! there is no doubt who will win

the princess.'

[Illustration: How The Stranger on the Unicorn arrived on the scene.]

When they were all assembled, the three monarchs fell on their faces

before the king and his daughter, and then offered the gifts they had

brought with them. The present of the Pharaoh consisted of two of the

finest crocodiles that could be caught in the Nile, two hippopotamuses,

two rats, and two mummies, all of which caused the princess to shudder

at their ugliness. In his hands he held the Book of Hermes, which his

magicians assured him was the rarest treasure on earth.

The Shah of India brought a hundred elephants and a document written by

the hand of Xaca himself; while the Khan of Scythia, who could neither

read nor write, signed to his warriors to bring forward a hundred horses

covered with skins of black fox fur.

As soon as the offerings had been made, Formosante bowed modestly, but

did not raise her eyes or speak, for that was never expected of a

princess.

'Ah, why have I not three daughters!' exclaimed King Belus, as he

conducted his guests to their thrones; 'then I could have made six

people happy! Now here is the golden basin holding the lots which you

must draw. The one who draws the longest, first pulls the bow.'

It was the Pharaoh who was the lucky man, and the master of the

ceremonies stepped forward with the long golden case, bearing the bow of

Nimrod. The Pharaoh was about to take it from him, when there suddenly

appeared at the barrier which had been erected in front of the royal

seats a young man mounted on a unicorn, with a bird upon his wrist,

accompanied by a single attendant also riding on a unicorn. His face was

fair and his hair shone like the sun, and altogether he was so different

from the dwellers in Babylon that the five hundred thousand spectators

in the amphitheatre rose to their feet in order to stare at him better;

and suddenly they shouted with one voice: 'He is the only man on earth

handsome enough for the princess.'

Formosante heard and glanced up at him; then looked hastily down. The

kings heard too, and grew pale.

At this moment the ushers approached the stranger and inquired if he

was a king. The young man replied that he did not have that honour, but

that he had travelled far to see whether the suitors who were to present

themselves were worthy of Formosante, whose renown had reached even his

distant country. By the King of Babylon's orders, places were found for

him and his attendant in the front row of the amphitheatre: his bird

perched on his shoulder, and the two unicorns crouched at his feet.

Now all was ready: the master of the ceremonies, who had during this

time been holding the case, took the bow from it to the sound of

trumpets, and presented it to the King of Egypt. The Pharaoh, who had

not the slightest doubt that the prize would fall to him, laid it for a

moment on the head of the sacred bull Apis and stepped into the middle

of the arena. The bow, though made of iron, _looked_ flexible, and he

fitted an arrow to the string with a light heart. But try as he would,

he could not bend it; again and again he put forth all his strength,

making such dreadful faces the while that shouts of laughter rang

through the amphitheatre, and even the well-brought-up Formosante could

not resist a smile.

Deeply hurt at his master's failure, the Grand Almoner of Egypt hastened

to his side.

'Let not your Majesty,' he said, 'struggle further for this empty

honour, which is after all only a matter of muscles and sinews. In the

other tests you are sure to be victor. You will conquer the lion, for

have you not the sabre of the god Osiris? The Princess of Babylon is to

be the prize of the king who has given proofs of the greatest

intelligence; and numerous are the riddles which you have guessed. Her

husband must be the most virtuous of princes. Well, were you not the

favourite pupil of the Egyptian priesthood? And do you not possess the

two rarest objects in the world, the bull Apis and the book of Hermes?

No; you are quite safe. There is no one to dispute with you the hand of

the Princess Formosante.'

'You are right,' answered the king, and seated himself on his throne.

The bow was next delivered to the King of India, who spent fifteen days

in vainly trying to draw it, and when he failed as hopelessly as the

King of Egypt had done before him, consoled himself with thinking that

the King of Scythia would fare no better than they.

But he was wrong. The King of Scythia had passed his whole life in

shooting with bows and arrows, whereas the other two kings had only

begun to practise when they heard of the conditions to be fulfilled by

the husband of Formosante. When therefore the Scythian monarch grasped

the bow, there was an eager rustle amongst the five hundred thousand in

the amphitheatre. They leaned forward with straining eyes, and held

their breath like one man, as they perceived a slight movement of the

bow. The king's heart beat high as he felt it quiver under his hands,

but, pull as hard as he might, he could not bend it further. A sigh of

disappointment swept through the audience, partly for him and partly for

the princess.

'At this rate she will never be married,' they groaned.

Then the young stranger left his seat and went up to the King of

Scythia.

'Do not be surprised,' he said, 'if your Majesty has not been entirely

successful. These bows are made in my country, and there is a certain

knack in drawing them. You have won a greater triumph in bending it even

a little than I should have done in drawing it altogether.'

As he spoke he picked up an arrow and, fitting it into the string of the

bow, drew, without any apparent effort, the cord to his ear, and the

arrow flew out of sight beyond the barrier.

At this spectacle a shout broke from half a million throats. The walls

of Babylon rang with cries of joy, and the women murmured:

'What a comfort that such a handsome young man should have so much

strength!' and waited with great interest to see what would happen next.

Well, this happened which nobody expected at all. The young man took

from the folds of his turban an ivory tablet, on which he wrote some

lines addressed to the princess, with a golden needle, telling her how

jealous the rest of the world would be of the man who carried off the

prize for which so many were striving.

To us who read them, they do not seem perhaps to fulfil the second of

the conditions imposed, but the oracle knew that to the person whose

eyes fell on them for the first time, they would appear to contain all

the wit and wisdom of the world. So when the princess glanced at the

tablet held out to her at the end of the bow, she felt that nothing more

beautiful had ever been written, and the three kings looking on were

rooted to the ground in astonishment and disgust.

Meanwhile King Belus, having consulted his magicians, declared that

although neither of the three kings could bend the bow, his daughter

must nevertheless be married, and that they would now go on to the next

test, which was the slaying of the lion. The Pharaoh, who had been

educated in all the learning of his country, replied that it really was

too ridiculous to expect a king to expose himself to the fury of wild

beasts in order to obtain a bride, and that though no one had a greater

admiration for the princess Formosante than he, yet if he were slain by

the lion, he would not be able to marry her any the more. This was quite

true, and the King of India entirely agreed with him. Indeed, they went

so far as to say that King Belus was making a jest of them, and that it

would be necessary to bring large armies from their respective kingdoms

in order to punish him. When between them they had dethroned him, they

could then draw lots for Formosante.

Thus grumbling, they each sent off a messenger ordering a levy of three

hundred thousand men to be raised without delay.

* * * * *

The King of Scythia, however, gave utterance to no complaints, but

descended into the arena, a curved sword in his hand. Not that he was

desperately in love with the beautiful Formosante; it was a passion for

glory and for no woman which had brought him to Babylon, and when he saw

that his two rivals had no intention of fighting the lion, he was filled

with delight. He was not afraid of any lion that trod the earth; of

course, he might not be able to kill it, and it might even kill him, but

after all, a man could only die once.

The lion, when he rushed out from his cage, looked capable of swallowing

all three kings at one mouthful, so large and fierce was he. But the

King of Scythia stood firm and plunged his sword at the beast's throat.

Unluckily the point of it hit against his teeth and broke into

splinters, and the lion, with a roar which shook the amphitheatre to its

foundation, buried his claws deep in the thighs of his enemy. Another

minute and all would have been over, had not the young stranger leapt to

the king's side, and, seizing a sword from the belt of an attendant, cut

off the lion's head at a single blow. He next produced a little box of

ointment, which he begged the king to rub into his wounds.

'It was only an accident,' he said, 'that prevented you from vanquishing

the lion, and your courage is still as untarnished as if he lay dead at

your feet.'

These words pleased the king even more than the ointment which was to

cure his hurts; and full of gratitude he returned to his tent.

* * * * *

Left alone in the arena, the stranger turned to his attendant, and bade

him wash the lion's head in the stream that ran below the amphitheatre,

and, when that was done, to take out the teeth of the beast, and put in

their place diamonds of the same size, which he produced from his sash.

As soon as all was ready the young man said to the bird which had

remained perched on his shoulder: 'Fair bird, I wish you to carry the

head of this lion, and lay it at the feet of Formosante.'

So the bird carried the lion's head, bowing himself low before her as he

placed it on the ground, and the diamonds in the mouth shone so brightly

that the whole court was dazzled with their brilliance. Indeed, the bird

itself was hardly less wonderful, with his beak of coral and his claws

of silver mixed with purple. No peacock possessed so splendid a tail,

and though his size was that of an eagle, his eyes were gentle as well

as piercing. The ladies crowded round him to pat his head and stroke his

golden feathers, but though he was polite to them all, he would not be

tempted away from the princess. Everyone agreed that they had never

beheld anything like the grace with which he received the biscuits and

pistachio nuts offered him by Formosante, or the elegant gestures with

which he conveyed them to his beak.

Meanwhile Belus had been considering attentively the diamonds in the

lion's mouth and had made up his mind about the young stranger.

'It is plain,' he said, 'that he is the son either of the King of China,

or of that part of the world known as Europe, or of Africa, which is, I

am told, on the borders of Egypt. At any rate, let a magnificent feast

be prepared for him.' At the same time, he ordered his equerry to ask

the unknown, with all possible respect, who he was.

The stranger was about to answer, when there suddenly arrived on the

scene a third unicorn ridden by a man very plainly dressed. He quickly

dismounted and, addressing the victor, told him that Ocmar, his father,

had only a short time to live and that they must start at once if his

son wished to see him alive.

'Let us go then,' replied the young stranger; then turning to the king

he added: 'Deign, sire, to permit the princess to accept the bird which

I am leaving behind me. They are both of them unique.' He bowed to the

king and to the spectators, and went down the marble steps to where his

unicorn was waiting, but not before the equerry had obtained the

information desired by Belus, and learned that the dying Ocmar was an

old shepherd much respected in the neighbourhood of his home.

Nothing could equal the surprise of Belus and his daughter on hearing

this news. In fact, the king refused to believe it, and desired the

equerry to ride after the stranger at once, and find out more about him.

But the unicorns went like the wind, and no traces could be seen of

them, even from the platform of the highest towers.

* * * * *

Although the equerry had taken care that his words should be overheard

by nobody but the king and the princess, yet somehow the news that the

man who had fulfilled all the oracle's conditions was only a shepherd's

son, speedily leaked out. For a long while no one talked of anything

else, as is the way of courts--and other places--and it was generally

held that it was a bad joke of the attendant's, who ought to have known

better. One of the ladies-in-waiting went so far as to explain that the

word 'shepherd' might actually mean a king, because kings were set to

guard their flocks; but she found no one to agree with her. As to

Formosante, she never said anything at all, but sat silently stroking

her bird.

King Belus did not know what to do, and as always happened on these

occasions he summoned his council, though he never paid any attention to

what they said, or would have said, had they not known it to be useless.

He talked to them for some time and at length decided that he would at

once go and consult the oracle as to his best course, and return to tell

them the result.

When he entered the council chamber after a very short absence, he

looked puzzled and crestfallen.

'The oracle declares that my daughter will never be married till she has

travelled all over the world,' said he. 'But how can a princess of

Babylon, who never has stepped beyond the bounds of the park, "travel

over the world"? It is absurd! indeed, if it were not sacrilege to utter

such things of an oracle, I should say it was impertinent. Really, the

oracle has not a spark of common-sense!' and the council was of opinion

that it certainly had not.

* * * * *

Although there was no triumphant bridegroom to grace the feast commanded

by King Belus, it was held, as arranged, in the great hall where the

turning roof, painted with stars, caused you to feel as if you were

dining under the sky. Everything was on a scale of splendour never

before seen in Babylon during the thirty thousand years of its

existence; but perhaps the feast could hardly be considered a success,

for the guests neither spoke nor ate, so absorbed were they in watching

the incomparable manner in which the bird flew about from one to

another, bearing the choicest dishes in his beak. At least, the only

people who did speak were the King of Scythia and the Princess Aldee,

the cousin of Formosante and scarcely less beautiful than she. To him,

Aldee confided that it was she who, by law, should have been Queen of

Babylon, but that on the death of her grandfather his younger son had

usurped her father's rights.

'However,' she ended, in answer to a question put by the King of

Scythia; 'I prefer Scythia with you to Babylon's crown without you.'

There never was any mistaking what Aldee meant.

'But I will avenge your father,' cried the king. 'In two days from now

you shall fly with me back to Scythia, and when I return it will be at

the head of three hundred thousand men.' And so it was settled.

* * * * *

Everyone was glad to go to bed early after the fatigues of the day, and

all slept soundly, except Formosante. She had carried the bird with her,

and placed him on an orange-tree which stood on a silver tub in her

room, and bidden him good-night. But tired as she was she could not

close her eyes, for the scenes she had witnessed in the arena passed one

by one before her. At length she could bear it no longer:

'He will never come back! Never!' she cried, sobbing.

'Yes, he will, Princess,' answered the bird from the orange-tree. 'Who,

that has once seen you, could live without seeing you again?'

Formosante was so astonished to hear the bird speak--and in the very

best Chaldaean--that she ceased weeping and drew the curtains.

'Are you a magician or one of the gods in the shape of a bird?' asked

she. 'Oh! if you are more than man, send him back to me!'

'I am only the bird I seem,' answered the voice; 'but I was born in the

days when birds and beasts of all sorts talked familiarly with men. I

held my peace before the court because I feared they would take me for a

magician.'

'But how old are you?' she inquired in amazement.

'Twenty-seven thousand nine hundred years and six months,' replied

the bird. 'Exactly the same age as the change that takes place in the

heavens known as the "precession of the equinoxes," but there are many

creatures now existing on the earth far older than I. It is about

twenty-two thousand years since I learned Chaldaean. I have always had a

taste for it. But in this part of the world the other animals gave up

speaking when men formed the habit of eating them.'

[Illustration: THE PRINCESS OF BABYLON AND THE PHOENIX]

'I never knew they did speak,' replied the Princess, deeply interested

in spite of her woes.

'Not know that they spoke? Why, the earliest fables all begin with the

words "Once upon a time when beasts talked," but that is long ago! Of

course, many women still talk to their dogs, but the dogs determined not

to answer them; they were so angry at being forced by whips to go and

hunt their brothers.

'There are besides many stories which allude to conversations with

horses, and their drivers still speak to them, as you know, but so very

rudely that the horses which once loved men, now hate the whole race.'

Formosante nodded her head; she had sometimes been shocked at the

language of the Babylonian charioteers.

'The land where dwells my master,' continued the bird, 'is perhaps the

only one in the world where animals are treated with proper respect, and

where, therefore, they consent to live happily with man.'

'And where is that?' asked the Princess eagerly.

'It is in the country of the Gangarids beyond the Ganges that Amazan my

master was born. He is no king--indeed I hardly think he would

condescend to be one--and, like his countrymen, he is a shepherd. But

you must not suppose him to be one of the shepherds such as those you

know, whose sheep are usually far better dressed than themselves. The

shepherds of the Gangarids own immense flocks, for it is considered one

of the blackest crimes to kill a sheep--and their wool, as fine as silk,

is sought after all over the East. The soil is so rich that corn and

fruits grow for the asking, while diamonds can be chipped from every

rock. They have no army and need none, for a hundred unicorns can put

to flight the largest host that ever was assembled.

'And now, Princess, if you are to travel as the oracle desires, will you

not give me the happiness of guiding you thither?'

'Oh ... really, I ...,' answered the Princess.

* * * * *

The sun was already rising when the king entered his daughter's room,

and after receiving the respectful greetings of the bird sat down on her

bed. He did not seem quite at his ease, but at length he informed her

that as, greatly to his sorrow, the oracle had decreed that she was to

go on a journey before her marriage, he had arranged for her to make a

pilgrimage to Araby the Blest in company with numerous attendants.

To the princess, who had never been beyond either the Euphrates or the

Tigris, the thought of a journey was enchanting. She could not sit

still, and wandered out into the gardens with her bird upon her

shoulder. The bird, for his part, was scarcely less happy than she, and

flew from tree to tree in an ecstasy of delight.

Unluckily, the King of Egypt was strolling about the gardens likewise,

shooting with bow and arrows at everything within his reach. He was the

worst marksman on the banks of the Nile, and though he never by any

chance hit what he aimed at, he was none the less dangerous for that, as

he usually hit something else. In this way a stray shot pierced the

heart of the flying bird, who fell, all bloody, into the arms of the

princess.

'Burn my body,' whispered the bird, 'and see that you bear my ashes to

Araby the Blest. To the east of the town of Aden spread them out in the

sun, on a bed of cinnamon and cloves.'

So saying he breathed his last sigh, leaving Formosante fainting from

grief.

On seeing his daughter's condition, King Belus was filled with anger

against the King of Egypt, and, not knowing if the death of the bird

might not be a bad omen, hurried as usual to consult the oracle. For

answer, the voice to which he looked for guidance, declared:

'Mixture of everything; living death; loss and gain; infidelity and

constancy; disasters and happiness.' Neither he nor his council could

make any sense of it, but he was satisfied with having done his duty.

Formosante, meanwhile, had burned the body of the bird, as he had

desired, and put his ashes in a golden vase from which she never parted.

Her next step was to order the strange beasts brought by the King of

Egypt to be put to death, and the mummies thrown into the river, and if

she could have thrown their master after them she would have received

some consolation! When the Egyptian monarch heard how she had treated

his offering he was deeply offended, and retired to Egypt to collect an

army of three hundred thousand men, with which to return and avenge the

insult. The King of India promised to do likewise, and the King of

Scythia (who had ridden off early that morning with Princess Aldee)

might be expected back about the same time with another army of equal

size, to regain his wife's lost inheritance.

Thus when the King of Babylon awoke the following morning, he found the

palace quite empty. This he would not have minded for he was tired of

feasting, but his fury was great at the news that the Princess Aldee had

vanished also. Without losing a moment he called together his council

and consulted his oracle, but he only could extract the following words,

which have since become famous throughout the world:

'If you don't marry your daughters, they will marry themselves.'

* * * * *

Now when the Egyptian king quitted the court of Babylon he left some

spies behind him, with orders to let him know the road taken by the

princess to reach Araby the Blest. Therefore, when after three days'

travelling she stopped at a rest-house for a little repose, she beheld,

to her dismay, the King of Egypt following her. And worse than that: in

a few minutes he had placed guards before every door, so that it was

useless for her to attempt to escape him. For small though her

experience of the world might be, Formosante was well aware that the

Pharaoh's vanity had been deeply wounded by his failure in the matter of

the bow, and she knew she could expect no mercy.

Therefore, on receiving the king's message that he craved an interview

with her, the princess saw that her only chance lay in cunning, and, as

soon as he began to speak to her, she knew she had guessed rightly. He

addressed her very roughly, and told her that she was in his power; that

he intended to marry her that evening after supper, and that it was

useless for her to object as he had now got the upper hand.

Formosante pretended to be quite overcome by his kindness, and assured

him that in secret he had been the lover she had always preferred,

although she was afraid to say so. And she added, with her head hanging

modestly down, that she would sup with him that evening with all the

pleasure in life, and hoped he would deign to invite his Grand Almoner

also, as he had appeared to her in Babylon to be a man full of wisdom

and learning. Further, that she had with her some of the rare and

precious wine of Shiraz which, she trusted, she might be permitted to

bring for his Majesty's use.

So well did she act that the Pharaoh was completely deceived, and when

the hour for supper arrived, he sat down to the table with his wounded

vanity soothed and his good temper restored.

* * * * *

Anyone acquainted with the ways of princesses will not need to be told

that Formosante not only drugged the wine set aside for the king and the

almoner, but also the bottles which her maid distributed amongst the

guards. The powder had been given her long ago by a magician in Babylon,

with directions how to use it. 'If,' he said, 'you wish it to take

effect at once, put in two pinches. If in an hour, one; if the next

morning, a quarter of a pinch. Remember what I tell you; some day your

life may depend on it.'

For reasons of her own, Formosante thought it better to get through part

of the supper before the king and his guest became unconscious. The

Pharaoh was just then well pleased with himself and everyone else, and

after paying her compliments on her beauty which grew more ardent as

time wore on, begged permission to give her a kiss.

[Illustration: FORMOSANTE'S DRUG WORKS]

'Certainly, your Majesty,' answered the princess, though it was the last

thing she desired. But as she bent her forehead towards him, the drug

did its work; the king fell back heavily on his chair, the almoner sank

sideways to the ground, and a blackbird, which unnoticed by all had been

perched in a corner, flew out through the window.

Then the princess rose calmly from her seat, summoned her maid, and

mounting two horses which were saddled in readiness, they rode straight

to Araby the Blest.

As soon as she and her maid Irla beheld the town of Aden lying before

them, they got down and prepared, as the bird had bidden them, his

funeral pyre of cinnamon and cloves. But what was the surprise of the

princess when, on scattering the ashes on the little pyre, a flame

suddenly broke forth! In the midst of the fire lay an egg, and out of

the egg came her bird, more brilliant and beautiful than ever!

'Take me to the country of the Gangarids,' she gasped when she was able

to speak, 'and let us find Amazan.'

Fortunately for the princess the bird was able to satisfy her.

'Two of my best friends among the griffins,' he said, 'live not far from

here. A pigeon shall start at once with a message, and they can be with

us by night.' And so they were; and the princess and Irla did not lose a

moment in mounting a small car which was attached to them, and in

setting out for the land of the Gangarids.

'I wish to speak to Amazan,' cried the phoenix, as soon as the

griffins halted before his house. And it was as well that the bird was

there, for between joy and hope and fatigue the princess's heart was

fluttering to such a degree that she could have said nothing.

'Amazan!' replied the man whose crook betokened him to be a shepherd

also; 'he went away three hours ago----.'

'Ah, that is what I feared!' exclaimed the phoenix, while the princess

sank back upon her cushions nearly fainting with disappointment. 'Those

three hours you passed in the rest-house, may have cost you the

happiness of your life. But I will try if anything can be done to repair

the mischief. We must see his mother at once,' he added, and Formosante,

with hope springing anew within her, followed him into a large room

where the air was filled with song, which proceeded from the throats not

only of a thousand different birds, but of shepherds and shepherdesses.

The voices seemed to chime in with the melancholy of the princess, who

rose, trembling, as the mother of Amazan entered.

'Ah, give him back to me!' she cried; 'for his sake I have quitted the

most brilliant court in the world, and have braved all kinds of dangers.

I have escaped the snares of the King of Egypt--and now I find he has

fled from me.'

'Princess,' answered the lady, 'did you not happen to notice while you

were at supper with the King of Egypt a blackbird flying about the

room?'

'Ah, now you say so, I _do_ recollect one!' rejoined the princess; 'and

I remember that when the king bent forward to give me a kiss, the bird

disappeared through the window with a cry of anguish.'

'You are right, alas!' replied the lady, 'and from that moment all our

troubles can be dated. That blackbird had been sent by my son to bring

him news of your health, as he meant as soon as the burial ceremonies

for his father had been completed to return and throw himself at your

feet. For when a Gangarid is in love, he _is_ in love. But as soon as he

was told how gay you seemed, above all, as soon as he heard of you ready

to accept the kiss of the monarch who had killed the phoenix, despair

filled his soul, and that in the very moment in which he had learned

that he was your cousin and that therefore the King of Babylon might be

induced to listen to his suit.'

'My cousin! But how?'

'Never mind that now. He _is_ your cousin! But I feared he would never

survive the news of the kiss which you had given to the King of Egypt.'

'Oh, my aunt, if you could only understand!' cried the princess,

wringing her hands. 'I dared not excite the king's suspicions or I

should never have escaped! I swear it by the ashes and the soul of the

phoenix which were then in my pocket! Tell her, Bird of Wisdom, that

what I say is true.'

'It is! It is!' exclaimed the phoenix eagerly. 'But now what we have

to do is to go in search of Amazan. I will despatch unicorns in all

directions, and I hope before many hours to be able to tell you where he

is.'

The phoenix was as good as his word. At length one of the unicorns

learned that Amazan was in China. Without losing a moment they set out,

and arrived, travelling through the air, in the short space of eight

days, but only to find that they had again missed him by a few hours.

The emperor would gladly have kept Formosante to show her the wonders of

his country, but as soon as he heard her story and how all this misery

had its root in a kiss given out of pure fidelity, he saw that the one

thing he could do for the princess was to discover for her the road

which Amazan had taken.

* * * * *

From that day began a series of journeys such as no Babylonish princess

had ever gone through during the thirty thousand years of the monarchy.

There was not a kingdom either in Asia or in Europe that Formosante did

not visit, and in spite of the fact that she had no room in her mind for

any thought except the finding of Amazan (who had invariably left but a

few hours before), she was forced to pick up some new ideas on the way.

Strange things she saw which her father, King Belus, would never have

believed to exist: a country in which the young king had made an

agreement with his subjects that the farmer and the noble might sit side

by side and make their own laws; another kingdom in which one man had

power to prevent any law from being passed by the rest of the assembly;

a third in which the will of one queen had changed the face of the world

as if by magic, though, perhaps, if the princess had returned for a

second visit, she might not have felt so certain that the changes would

last. Once it was only a thick fog off an island called Albion which

prevented her vessel from meeting the one containing Amazan, but at

length they both found themselves in a province bordering on the

Mediterranean, where Formosante, driven to despair by a rumour that

Amazan was faithless to her, was looking out for a ship that might take

her to Babylon.

As usual, she trusted to the phoenix to make all her arrangements, and

the people in whose house she was living having overheard the bird

speaking to her, at once imagined she was a witch and locked her and her

maid Irla in their rooms. They would have seized the phoenix also, but

at the sound of the key being turned he quickly flew out of the window

and started in search of Amazan. After these long months of wandering

the bird and its master met on the road which runs from north to south,

and at first their joy was such that even the princess was forgotten.

But not for long.

'And Formosante, where is she?'

'A prisoner, alas! on suspicion of being a witch, and you know what that

means,' answered the phoenix, with tears in his eyes.

Amazan _did_ know, and for an instant was frozen with horror as the

vision flashed across his mind of Formosante tied to a stake and the

flames gathering round her. Then he aroused himself, and gave the

phoenix some orders. In two hours help came, and Amazan was kneeling

at the feet of the princess.

So, united at last, we will leave them.

_THE ADVENTURES OF FIRE-DRILL'S SON_

Here is another story of the Tlingit Indians, and in these stories you

will often find the Raven playing the part of friend and helper, just as

the Fox does in Japan, and Brer Rabbit in 'Uncle Remus.' The Raven is

always kinder than anybody else, besides being cleverer, and those who

take his advice can never go wrong.

One day the Raven was flying about, and he saw a girl sitting with her

baby in the woods, and he stopped to talk to her.

'That is a fine little boy of yours,' he said, cocking his head on one

side.

'Yes, he is,' replied the girl; 'but I wish he was old enough to get

food for us. It is so many years to wait.'

'That is easily cured,' said the Raven. 'You have only to bathe him

every day in the cold spring at the back of these rocks, and you have no

idea how quickly he will grow up.' So the girl bathed him every morning

in the pool and let the water from the rock pour over him, and it was

surprising how soon he was able to help her in work of all kinds as well

as to shoot with his bow and arrows.

* * * * *