II.

S. Y. Osprey,

off Cape Town.

My dear Editor,

Many thanks for your letter and the accompanying parcel of MS. which

came to hand by the mail quite safely last week. Both Phelps and myself

render you our hearty thanks for the way in which you have performed

your task, and trust that we shall be in England in time to witness the

result. I shall, therefore, omit all news till we meet--except this.

It will interest you to know that, on our voyage out here, we went out

of our course, that we might revisit the unknown island from which we

obtained the box with the MS. To our surprise, not a trace of it was to

be discovered, though a reference to last year's log-book and a careful

noting of our position told us that one day, at about 9:30 a.m., we

passed within a quarter of a mile of where it had stood. Not a vestige

of land could be seen, though a sharp look-out was kept throughout the

search. When and how the island vanished is but a matter of conjecture;

it is certain that it no longer exists, and, probably, has returned to

the depths whence it came. Again renewing my thanks,

Believe me,

Sincerely yours,

Throgmorten.

*GENERAL BUONAPARTE.*

*FOR LOVE OF A BEDOUIN MAID*

*1ST EPOCH.*

*GENERAL BUONAPARTE.*

*CHAPTER I.*

The march of civilization has been so rapid that most people know

something of the City of Paris.

It is not, however, with the modern city that this story will deal; not

with the gay, ever moving throng of boulevardiers that crowd its

thoroughfares at night under the glare of electric light, the welcome

product of this ever inventive and luxurious nineteenth century; but

with Paris at the close of the eighteenth century; Paris before the era

of Baron Hausemann, ill-lighted, ill-paved and, at this moment,

noiseless and, for the most part, asleep. For it was the night of

December 6th, 1797. The rain was falling fast, dripping almost in

sheets from the roofs of the houses that overhung the narrow, tortuous

streets, now deep in mud. At long intervals, where they had not been

extinguished by the wind, a few oil lamps were suspended from chains,

the fitful light they gave serving only to render visible the gloom.

An unpleasant night to be abroad; so thought two foot passengers who

were standing under one of the afore mentioned lamps opposite to the

Palais de Luxembourg, at that time the residence of the Directors of the

French Republic.

"Pest on it, the night grows worse and worse," said the shorter of the

two, drawing his long cloak more closely round him and pulling his

slouch hat further over his eyes, to prevent the driving rain, that the

wind hurled along, from dashing into his face.

"It does indeed, Vipont," replied the taller and older man; "only the

importance of our errand would have made me stir forth to-night. Half

past ten, as I live," looking at his watch. "Come, let us be moving;

see, someone is approaching the Palace gate."

A lantern flickered at the moment in the court-yard of the Palace, its

light gradually growing brighter.

"The Officer of the Guard, most likely, going his rounds," remarked

Vipont, following his companion, who, without heeding the remark, was

already splashing across the space that intervened between them and the

light.

Just when they arrived at the Palace gate, the officer reached the

street.

Then one of the sentries at the gate pushed the new-comers aside,

saying, the while he presented his bayonet at their chests, "Pass on,

good folk, you cannot enter here. Pass on, whoever you may be."

Seeing that they paid no heed to his injunction, the man was about to

enforce it, when the officer came up and asked their business.

"To see Mons. Barras, the President of the Directory," was the reply.

The officer, a tall, good-looking young man with coal-black hair and

eyes, laughed somewhat contemptuously. "It is impossible," he said.

"You cannot be admitted at this hour. Come to the Levee to-morrow."

The tall man, who appeared to be the leader, Vipont not yet having

uttered a word, spoke again, and his voice was loud and masterful. "I

enter where I please, Sir. If you were not a stranger in Paris, you

would know that I am the Minister of Police."

At this announcement, the young man fell back a step; for, in those

days, to offend the Minister of Police was a dangerous proceeding, he

being, next to the chief of the State, the most powerful personage.

"Pardon, Sir," he said, "I am, as you rightly remarked, a stranger in

Paris, being an officer under General Buonaparte, at present commanding

the army in Italy. My name is St. Just."

Matters being thus explained to the satisfaction of both parties, St.

Just, first instructing a sergeant to take his place for the remainder

of the round, conducted the Police Minister and his companion across the

courtyard. As they approached the palace, sounds of hammering,

proceeding from the ground floor apartments on their left, fell on their

ears. Both the newcomers paused and looked inquiringly at their guide,

for shadows kept flitting to and fro across the curtained windows.

Noticing their surprise, St. Just replied to their unspoken question:

"The noise comes from the Chamber of Audience, which carpenters are

fitting up for the public reception of General Buonaparte on his return

to Paris, which, they say, may be expected daily."

No reply was given by St. Just's companions, nor, indeed, was there

opportunity, for, by this time, they had passed through the central

doorway and into the entrance hall. Here all was bustle, but subdued,

out of respect for the occupants of the palace--the directors.

Threading his way through the throng of soldiers and workmen, and

closely followed by his companions, the officer mounted a staircase;

then, traversing a corridor, he opened a door, that gave admittance to

the antechamber of the President's apartments. St. Just crossed the

room, and, parting the arras, knocked at a door, on the further side of

which voices could be heard in conversation.

Taking advantage of St. Just's absence, the Minister of police cast his

eye round the apartment. It was long and narrow, apparently having been

partitioned off from the room beyond. It was sparsely furnished in the

style of the late Louis Seize, the most noticeable object being a large

table in the center, on which were spread the remains of supper laid for

one, as was evident by the solitary chair, which the late occupant had

pushed back on leaving the table. At the further end, the table service

had been removed to make room for a large map of the seat of war

(Italy), Buonaparte's route being faintly traced upon it in pencil. By

the hearth, in which burned a small fire of logs, whose tongues of flame

threw dancing rays upon the floor, stood a small round table, on which

were an oil lamp and a book. Vipont picked up the latter and, reading

the title, Caesar's Commentaries, chuckled softly. "This is indeed the

age of education, when officers read Latin in their leisure moments," he

said sneeringly.

The Minister, who had drawn aside the curtains of one of the windows,

received this observation in silence, occupying himself in gazing into

the courtyard below.

At this moment St. Just returned and announced, "Mons. le President will

receive the Minister of Police."

Vipont and his companion passed into the inner room, and St. Just closed

the door behind them. Then, taking up the book which had called forth

the Police agent's contemptuous comment, he soon became absorbed in it.

*CHAPTER II.*

When they entered the apartments of the Directors of the Republic, the

first thing that met the eyes of the Police Agents was a table laid,

like that in the adjoining room, for supper. Those who had partaken of

it were three in number. He who sat at the top of the table, facing the

door, was Barras, the President of the Directory; the others were

Co-Directors. He on the right with his back to the window curtains was

Reubel, the man facing him La Reveillere. Now these three men had met

together to discuss measures for propping up the power of the Directory,

which, from various causes, one being the growing popularity of General

Buonaparte, was on the wane. They feared what actually did happen

later, though as yet few people had a suspicion of it; that General

Buonaparte, in the plenitude of his power and popularity, might seek to

oust them.

On the entry of the untimely visitors, Barras half rose from his chair,

and, turning, addressed the Police Minister. "Sotin, you have brought

news of importance?" Then he paused and glanced curiously at Vipont,

who, abashed at the magnificence of his surroundings and the princely

air and toilet of the speaker, shifted, uneasily, on his feet.

"Gentlemen," replied Sotin, "the President is right; nothing but the

importance of my news would have brought me here at such an hour; I have

it on the authority of my agent from Rastadt, on whom I can implicitly

rely, and whom I here present to you," here he pointed to Vipont, "that

it is the intention of General Buonaparte to quit Rastadt on November

15th and to arrive in Paris to-morrow night."

"Impossible," burst from the three directors in a breath, and rising to

their feet, they crowded round Vipont and showered incessant questions

on him, all speaking at one time.

So engrossed were they in questioning the agent, who, disconcerted at

the novelty of his position, could only stammer his replies; that they

failed to notice that the door was ajar, and that, without, hidden by

the arras, was an unseen listener. St. Just, for he it was, had been

attracted by the voices of the speakers. In their excitement and

forgetful of the thinness of the wall that separated them from the

antechamber, they had exclaimed, "Buonaparte in Paris to-morrow?

Impossible!"

Anxious to hear more, St. Just had moved cautiously to the door, which,

being imperfectly latched, had yielded at his touch. He had sprung back

frightened, but, finding himself undiscovered, had crept forward again

and now stood there listening.

"You say," continued Barras, who was the first to recover some measure

of composure, "that Buonaparte is to leave Rastadt on the 15th November?

How did you learn this?" addressing Vipont.

"By questioning indirectly the servants of the General," was Vipont's

reply.

"If it is true," resumed Barras, turning to Sotin, "by what gate do you

expect the general to arrive?"

"By the Porte St. Antoine," was the confident reply.

There was a dead silence for a moment; then Barras spoke again, and this

time his voice was hoarse, as with emotion.

"It must be prevented; General Buonaparte must not enter Paris."

Again there was a moment's silence, followed by a sort of click. In his

agitation at hearing these words, the unseen listener (St. Just) had

touched the handle of his sword. Instantly he moved back noiselessly and

stood within the window curtains out of sight. Those in the inner

chamber started at the sound and, half drawing their swords, turned

their eyes towards the door, with guilty fear.

Sotin was the first to speak. "See, the door in unlatched; perhaps the

officer...." Then, seizing the door, he flung it open and peered forth.

The lamp dimly burning left the outer room in gloom, but he crossed the

floor and, going to the doorway opening on the corridor, looked up and

down the passage. Nothing met his gaze, and all was silent, save for

the distant murmuring of voices in the hall below. He drew back into

the antechamber; then proceeded to one of the windows, the curtains of

which he pulled aside. The light of the moon, for the night had

cleared, streamed into the room, but no one was to be seen.

"Bah! it was my fancy," he muttered; then, shaking his head as though

still doubtful of what had caused the noise, he returned to the inner

room. "The wind, I suppose," he said, at the same time closing the

door.

Once more St. Just breathed freely. "If he had moved this curtain," was

his thought, "France might have lost her General."

Again he moved forward and placed his ear against the partition. The

act was futile. Cautioned by their recent fright, the directors lowered

their voices, so that only scraps of the conversation reached St.

Just:--

"A band of men .... Kill post boys .... witnesses dangerous .... Above

all .... Buonaparte .... Highwaymen ... common thing .... who's to know?

... Sad .... great loss ... Public funeral .... Minister of police ....

Hand bills .... No success .... Make certain...."

At this point their further words became inaudible. Then the sound of a

carriage entering the courtyard caught his ears, and he moved rapidly,

but noiselessly, to the window, and looked out. Below him was a post

chaise drawn by four horses. He stood for a moment wondering. Who on

earth could have arrived at this unseasonable hour: Carnot, the

Director? Augereau, his general?

The next instant he had left the window and passed through the doorway

and downstairs. At the foot of the staircase the soldiers in the hall

had been drawn up in line. Two or three servants, with torches in their

hands, were standing on the steps, while a soldier was opening the

carriage door. The postillions were covered with mud, the horses also,

and reeking and steaming with sweat; and the whole appearance of the

carriage showed it to have traveled far and fast. A slight, short man,

with pale face and long, auburn hair, and with eyes, that, without

appearing to do so, took in the whole scene at a glance, alighted from

the carriage. His dress was plain and simple; white breeches thrust

into top boots, and a long, dark blue coat with a high collar. Round

his waist was a tricolored sash and, suspended from a belt beneath it,

was a sword. He wore a cocked hat which, after he had returned the

salute of the soldiers, he removed.

The moment the light from the torches fell upon his features, all was

bustle and excitement.

"Vive le General!" was the cry, "Vive le Petit Corporal!"

At these signs of recognition, a smile of pleasure flitted across the

usually cold, impassive features; the next moment it died away, and, in

a harsh, stern voice, he addressed St. Just who, with the others, had

saluted him; "Officer of the Guard, conduct me to the President of the

Directors."

At these words everybody present drew himself up into the stiffest of

military attitudes; the soldiers presented arms, and, preceded by

servants with torches, and escorted by St. Just, the newcomer entered

the Palace.

Meanwhile, his arrival had been noted in the room above. Reubel from his

seat by the window had, like St. Just, heard the approaching carriage.

Nervously he peered from the window, which was sufficiently near the

entrance of the palace for him to see the features of the person who had

alighted. As one spell-bound, he gazed speechlessly upon the scene

below. His companions, wondering at his silence, approached and joined

him at the window. Even Sotin, at the sight of the figure, which he

recognized at once, seemed perturbed; but only for an instant. Even

while Buonaparte, escorted by St. Just, was disappearing through the

doorway, he had made up his mind how to act. He turned to the others,

and said rapidly:

"Mons. Vipont and myself will hide behind the curtain. Mons. Reubel had

better remain seated where he is. When the visitor is preparing to

depart, if President Barras will detain him in the hall, Mons. Vipont

and I will dismiss the General's carriage, thus obliging him to walk

home--which he will never reach. He will die on his way, as surely as

if he were outside, instead of inside Paris."

"How?" asked Vipont.

"Cochon!" replied Sotin, "are there not footpads in the streets, and do

they not commit murders nightly? Besides, shall we not be two to one?

Hush, he is here."

Forthwith the two police agents glided behind the curtain. Hardly had

they done so, when the door of the room beyond was opened, and footsteps

were heard crossing the antechamber.

Dangerous as the movement was, Sotin's head was thrust out from the

curtain long enough for him to whisper, "Messieurs, appear to be

supping."

Even while he spoke, the door was opened, and St. Just entered and

announced--

"General Buonaparte."

To all appearance, the General had broken in upon a friendly supper

party. Barras, at the head of the table, was on his feet, a glass in

his hand, as though about to toast the company. Reubel had pushed his

chair far back, as if to give his legs more room, for he had crossed one

knee over the other; La Reveillere, was peeling an orange and apparently

awaiting Barras' toast, for a decanter, from which he had but that

instant filled his glass, stood at his right hand.

"Gentlemen," exclaimed Barras, at the moment the General was announced,

"I give you the conqueror of Italy!"

Then, when Buonaparte advanced into the room, Barras sprang forward to

welcome him, his movement loosening his hold on the glass, which fell

from his hand and smashed to pieces on the floor.

Reubel, either accidentally, or, perhaps, purposely, let fall the napkin

from across his knees and stooped for it, so that he was prevented from

rising simultaneously with his fellow directors to greet the General.

As for La Reveillere, for one instant the thought crossed his mind to

kill both the General and St. Just then and there--they were five to

two--but it was as quickly put away; for, looking up, he encountered St.

Just's gaze, sternly fixed upon him. Additionally, without, through the

half open door, he saw the gleam of bayonets and instantly surmised the

truth. Without his knowing or suspecting it, Buonaparte was guarded by

two files of soldiers, who waited without in the antechamber, stern and

motionless. Men who had fought under Buonaparte in Italy, and were in

consequence devoted to him. They were, in fact, some of those whom

Buonaparte had despatched under Augereau to guard the Directors in the

recent revolt of the eighteenth Fructidor. Men, therefore (of whom St.

Just was one), whom he knew that he could trust.

For his part, Buonaparte advanced not a step, but stood just inside the

door of the apartment. Barras, on the contrary, rushed forward and

effusively embraced him, shaking him by the hand and saying, "Welcome,

General! welcome to France! You bring us glad tidings of glory upon

glory!"

At this point St. Just left the room.

Buonaparte replied but coldly to Barras' fulsome greeting; then, merely

nodding to the other two directors, he took a chair, seating himself

with his back to the door, his face half turned away.

Barras and La Reveillere pressed him to sup. "Eat, General, eat; you

must be hungry; you have journeyed far. Eat first, and let us have your

news afterwards."

Buonaparte, thus invited, drew the nearest dish to him, and, as was his

habit, began to eat rapidly, and, regardless of conventionality, passing

from a conserve of prunes to meat, then back to a different kind of

sweet, eating much in the aggregate and yet little of each dish, and

hardly allowing one mouthful to be swallowed before taking the next. In

fact, to put it shortly, he ate like a dog. Then, pouring himself out a

tumblerful of wine, he swallowed it at a draught. Finally, he pushed

the things from him and began to speak.

"Messieurs, the army has been again successful; the treaty of Campo

Formio has been signed; liberty has been given to the people of nineteen

different departments; French troops garrison Mentz, and the interests

of France are secured by the congress of Rastadt." He paused for a

moment; then resumed, in an heroic sort of manner, "Why should I declaim

the glories of France? Why tell of the deeds her soldiers have achieved

for her? Will they not proclaim themselves? Do not nineteen States

speak for them? There," he concluded, throwing down a thick mass of

papers roughly tied with scarlet tape, "There are the records."

There was a momentary silence; then the president, Barras, spoke. "I

pray you, General, keep these papers in your possession till a few days

shall have passed; for it is our intention to give you a fairer welcome

than your present one, and to receive in a public and a more befitting

manner, the man whom France desires to honor."

This he said for a double reason. Imprimis, should General Buonaparte's

body be found in the gray light of the corning dawn, it could easily be

arranged that to rifle his pockets should be the supposed object of the

murder, and that the directors should in reality possess the papers

about which a great outcry for their loss should be made. In the second

place, should the plan fail, Buonaparte would be unlikely to suspect the

members of the Directory of complicity in the attack on him, when they

had but just expressed their satisfaction with him and had proposed to

reward him for his services.

Buonaparte's reply to Barras' flattering remarks was merely to bow.

Then he proceeded to discuss with them the attitude of England and the

projected invasion of that country, and other matters affecting the

welfare of France; matters, however, in no way concerning the actors in

the present narrative.

Their business concluded, Buonaparte rose to his feet and, bowing coldly

to the three directors, made his way towards the door. But, before he

had reached it, Barras officiously sprang forward, saying, "Permit me,

General, to accompany you to your carriage."

To this Buonaparte replied laconically, and almost rudely, "If you

wish," and, opening the door, passed into the antechamber.

Motionless as statues, for two long hours the soldiers had stood, and

now when the General--for it was to him more than to Barras that the

honor was paid--passed between their lines, they presented arms. The

scene was an impressive one, for every fifth soldier was holding aloft a

torch, and, as the General moved down the room, the torch-bearers

followed. Barras, who was almost as crafty as Satan himself, made St.

Just, who was close to the top of the staircase, precede them, and

engaged Buonaparte in conversation about his wife--whom Barras had met

in former days--with the view of distracting his attention from those

behind them, for he knew that his brother directors would follow with

Sotin and Vipont, whom, of course, Buonaparte had not seen. They walked

arm in arm, each with a director, Sotin with Reubel and Vipont with La

Reveillere, their cloaks well wrapped around them. Meantime they

discussed in subdued tones, so as not to reach Buonaparte's ears,

incidents of the Italian campaign just told them by the General; their

object being to make those present believe that they had accompanied

Buonaparte. Thus, hoping to be mistaken for aides-de-camp, Sotin and

Vipont crossed the ante-chamber and descended the staircase behind the

others. At the foot of it, Barras persuaded the General to see for

himself the alterations that were being made to prepare the Chamber of

Audience for his reception. This gave Sotin and Vipont the opportunity

of mingling with the crowd and subsequently gaining the doorway, whence

they made their way to the General's carriage.

Meanwhile, St. Just had, by Barras' orders, accompanied General

Buonaparte himself to the Hall of Audience. Here all was bustle and

apparent confusion; carpenters armed with tools were rushing from one

place to another. In one corner might be seen a group supporting a

trophy of flags, whose battered appearance showed that they had recently

arrived from the seat of war; they were now being placed at the back of

a dais for the Directors, that other groups of men were erecting and

decorating at the far end of the room. In other corners temporary seats

were being fitted up for the accommodation of the Members of the Council

of Five Hundred and for delegates from various public bodies,

ambassadors, etc.

Barras dragged Buonaparte hither and thither by the arm, talking

incessantly; St. Just, who, in his capacity of officer of the guard,

stood in the doorway, followed the two figures with his eyes and

meditated on the course he ought to pursue about the conversation he had

overheard between Barras and his fellow-conspirators. Obviously, he

ought to see the General privately before he left the Palace, and warn

him that his life was in danger. He knew, by having been at the

entrance of the palace on the general's arrival, that Buonaparte was

alone, and he suspected that, if a chance were given, the police agents

would carry out the instructions of Barras. Unfortunately, he could not

get near Buonaparte, who was never for a moment left alone.

Then St. Just reflected that he could warn Buonaparte's postillions; but

here again he was frustrated, as will appear forthwith.

The General, having finished the inspection, returned in company with

Barms to the doorway, and thence, preceded by St. Just, he made his way

to the entrance hall of the palace. Lounging by the fireplace were La

Reveillere and Reubel, to all appearance engaged in an animated

conversation; but St. Just quickly noted that Vipont and Sotin had

disappeared.

Suddenly, without deigning to notice any one, Buonaparte strode to the

entrance door and called for his carriage. But there was no sound of

wheels in answer to his shouts; plainly the carriage was not there.

To explain its absence, it will be necessary to follow the movements of

Sotin and Vipont. The moment Barras and Buonaparte turned aside to the

Audience chamber, they, wrapped in their cloaks, passed rapidly and

quietly through the doorway of the palace and made their way towards

Buonaparte's post-chaise, which had been drawn into an angle of the

building, with the postillions curled up inside and sleeping soundly,

tired out by the distance they had traversed.

Sotin cautiously advanced and peeped into the vehicle; then, satisfied

as to the personality of its occupants, threw open the door, at the same

time loudly and authoritatively calling to Vipont, "Show a light,

sergeant."

Vipont, taking his cue, advanced with one of the carriage lamps and,

throwing the light into the carriage in such a manner that it shone upon

the sleepers' faces, while those of himself and his companion were left

in shadow, shook the nearest by his arm. The young postillion started

up and rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"Awake," said Vipont, "Mons. le Capitaine de la Garde de Mons. le

President du directoire would speak with you."

"Depechez-vous, Sergent; Mons. le General waits," added Sotin behind

him.

Soon the boy became thoroughly awake, and, in turn roused his companion.

In a gruff voice Sotin then told them they might go whither they would,

for that Mons. Buonaparte was detained; but they were to return to the

palace at noon the next day for their hire and attendant expenses.

The postillions grumbled slightly at having been kept waiting two hours

for nothing; but their discontent was considerably mollified by the

"pourboire" Sotin gave them.

They went to the heads of their horses and turned them and the carriage

round; then mounted, and were preparing to start, when Sotin told them

to wait. Advancing to the door, he flung it open and, followed by

Vipont, who had rapidly comprehended the manoeuvre, got in, telling the

postillions to drive to the gate and, if challenged, to say, "General

Buonaparte's carriage." Once outside, they were to turn to the right

and drive out of sight of the palace; then to stop.

Acting on their orders, and assuming that they emanated from the

General, who did not wish it to be known that he was still at the

Luxembourg, they passed through the gates without challenge, the

carriage being recognized as Buonaparte's. Arrived at a corner of the

street about four hundred yards away, they drew up, when Sotin and

Vipont alighted. Then the carriage drove on, the two police agents

remaining where they were, till it had vanished out of sight. Then,

crossing the road, they retraced their steps to the lamp near which they

were introduced to the reader; continuing their way, they arrived at a

doorway of a house at right angles to the palace gates. There they

ensconced themselves and watched and waited.

Meanwhile General Buonaparte was standing on the steps of the palace,

surrounded by the Directors, all fulsomely apologizing and tendering

suggestions. Barras at once offered to have his own carriage made

ready, but the General declined it.

"Say no more, gentlemen," he said, "there is a stand for public vehicles

close by, and the short walk will do me good. I am stiff from sitting so

long."

At this point, St. Just, fearing for Buonaparte's safety, said in a loud

whisper to Barras, "Will it be wise for General Buonaparte to walk the

streets of Paris unattended? There are many abroad at this hour who

would do evil." And he fixed his eyes searchingly on the Director's

face.

Barras bore the scrutiny well, but, if looks could kill, St. Just would

have died that instant.

Unfortunately for St. Just, Buonaparte, overhearing what was said, took

the sentence to imply that St. Just thought he, Buonaparte, was afraid

of walking alone at such an hour. So he turned to Barras with the

words, "Mons. le Directeur would do well to teach his soldiers silence

in the presence of their superiors."

Completely reassured, Barras addressed St. Just with the order, "get to

your duties; we have no further use for you."

With that, the party moved to the gate, through which they passed,

leaving St. Just standing in the courtyard. For a moment or so he

remained undecided; then turned on his heel and went back rapidly

towards the door of the palace. Passing through the hall and taking

care that those who were still loitering there, should note his

presence, he turned down a passage to the left. Opening a door on the

right of this, he entered a guard room, and, by the faint light which

shone into it, he selected a pair of pistols and a long cloak, which he

flung round him; then retraced his steps to the hall and thence to the

doorway, through which he passed. Wheeling round to the right of the

building, he unlocked a door in the wall, and was about to step forth

into the street, when he heard voices and footsteps near him.

Immediately he recognized the voice of Reubel, though the moaning of the

wind prevented him from catching all that was said. "Gone.... the other

two.... on the opposite side.... will catch him at the turn of the road

in the...."

St. Just waited for no more, but wrenched the door open, and dashed down

the road at the top of his speed. Luckily for him, but unluckily for

the two men lying in wait, the rain had ceased and the wind had cleared

the clouds, so that the moon now shone brightly overhead, illuminating

the street; for all that, once or twice he stumbled and nearly fell, so

badly were the roads repaired.

On and on he ran, but still saw no signs of those he sought. At last he

came to a large square, and here he paused for breath, and to consider

his next step. It was evident he had missed the two police agents whom

he believed to be following General Buonaparte. Then doubts began to

assail him. Was he following the right road? that most likely to be

taken by the General to gain his own house, which was situated, as St.

Just knew, in the Rue Chantereine (afterwards Rue de la Victoire). For

a moment he stood thinking and panting; then, anxious to lose no time,

he was about to retrace his steps, when he heard a faint sound, like the

cry of some one in distress, proceeding from a narrow court on his left.

Impulsively, half hoping, half fearing it might proceed from those he

sought, he dashed into the court, fear for Buonaparte, and excitement

making his breath come short and fast.

This was what had happened. Vipont or Sotin, one of the two, creeping

behind Buonaparte, had flung his cloak over the General's head and

dragged him by his superior strength away from the street and partly up

the court. His companion was, at the time, a few yards behind, and the

General's frantic struggles to release himself from the strange bondage

had necessitated the exercise of all his assailant's force to retain him

in his grasp and force him out of the main street. No attempt had yet

been made to kill him. But, at the moment when St. Just ran up, the man

was shortening his sword to plunge it into Buonaparte's back; St. Just

raised his arm; the crack of a pistol shot rang out upon the night; and

the would-be assassin staggered forward and dropped upon the footpath,

with a bullet in him. But so nearly had he achieved his purpose, that

his sword, when he fell, made a long gash in Buonaparte's cloak.

The other, who had been coming up to help, seeing his comrade fall, and,

with that, the failure of their plot, did not hesitate a moment, but

made a rush for the narrow court, knocking down St. Just, who attempted

to bar his passage; and, plunging into the darkness, disappeared.

When St. Just came to himself, which he did quickly, though the breath

had been knocked out of him, he found Buonaparte bending over him and

binding with a scarf a slight wound in his head.

"It is nothing, sir," he said, staggering to his feet, and feeling

somewhat giddy. Buonaparte had asked him whether he was seriously hurt.

"One gets harder knocks on the battlefield and marches; on--"

"You are a soldier, I see," interrupted the General, "and surely we have

met before. Is it not so?"

"We have, General," was the prompt reply, and St. Just straightened

himself and saluted. "I was with you through most of the Italian

campaign. In General Augereau's division. I accompanied the corps

home, when you ordered him to Paris. Lieutenant St. Just, at your

service, General."

"You have seen service then, young man," was Buonaparte's sharp answer.

Then, looking searchingly in the other's face. "Did I not see you at

the Luxembourg; but now?"

"You did, sir, as officer for the day of the Guard of the Directors."

"And how comes it that you were so opportunely present when I was in

such peril?"

"From certain words I accidentally overheard, I feared there were

designs against your life, and I followed you. It was I who escorted you

to the Directors on your arrival. When I heard you say that you would

walk alone, I tried to warn you; you may recollect it, Sir, and that I

was dismissed to my duties by the President of the Directors."

"I remember. I remember also that the President's words were prompted

by my own. Lieutenant St. Just, I owe you an apology; more, my life.

You shall not find me ungenerous or ungrateful."

"To have saved the life of the most illustrious soldier of France,

General, is its own reward."

Buonaparte loved flattery, though he affected to despise it. "Your

reward shall not stop at that," he laughed, "Walk with me now; we can

talk of this attack upon me, on our way. One moment, though," and he

kicked Vipont's unconscious body carelessly with his foot. "What are we

to do with this carrion?"

"I will care for him; Voila!" And so saying, St. Just dragged Vipont to

the nearest doorway and, covering him with his cloak, left him. The

body of a wounded--even of a murdered man--was at that time a common

sight in the early morning in the streets of Paris.

St. Just leaning on Buonaparte's arm, they quitted the narrow passage

and made their way back to the main thoroughfare. Here they were lucky

enough to find a passing coach. This Buonaparte hailed. Then he told

St. Just to get in and accompany him to his house in the Rue

Chantereine.

During the drive, St. Just placed the General in the possession of

affairs (so far as he knew them) at the Directoire. Buonaparte listened

intently to every word that fell from St. Just's lips, and, though the

faintness of the light prevented St. Just from seeing much more than the

outline of his companion's figure, he knew from the tone of the other's

replies that every word he uttered was being carefully weighed. He had

hardly finished his relation, before the carriage drew up at

Buonaparte's house. A few moments later, St. Just found himself

following his host into a room in which sat Buonaparte's wife.

Josephine sprang to her feet with a cry of joy. "My husband!" she

exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. "I was beginning to think

you were never coming. Bourrienne was here quite early in the evening

and told me you would come to me immediately." Both Buonaparte and his

wife were so taken up with one another that, for some moments, St. Just

remained unnoticed. But presently Buonaparte remembered him and

introduced him to his wife, to whom he made St. Just tell his story of

the night's adventures.

When the young officer had finished, there was a momentary silence,

during which Josephine and St. Just were thinking as was natural, one of

the other, "how handsome he (she) is."

Josephine was the first to break the silence. Turning to St. Just with

a smile, she said: "Sir, I thank you for your bravery and adroitness in

delivering my husband from his peril. In return, if you have anything

at heart that we can forward, I am sure I express both his sentiments

and my own when I say that we will do so."

"Madame," St. Just replied, "I am content in that I have been the humble

means of saving your husband's life; of preserving a husband for you,

but also her greatest General for France. Permit me to say in answer to

your kindness that all I ask is, to be near the General in his campaigns

now and always, in order that, while my life lasts, I may devote it to

him."

Buonaparte rose to his feet and, crossing to St. Just, held out his

hand. "Sir," he said, "you have earned from me to-night, not only my

gratitude, but also my esteem, which I do not lightly confer, or, when

conferred, withdraw. You have spoken like a soldier, and your

sentiments do you honor. Your request to accompany me in the next

campaign is granted."

Then Madame Buonaparte advanced to him.

"Mons. St. Just," she said, in her gracious manner, "to offer money to a

soldier were an insult; for bravery and a sense of duty are beyond all

price. But you may, at least, accept this little gift, as a memento of

this night, and also as my witness to my husband's promise; for," she

continued laughingly, tapping Buonaparte on the shoulder, "men, when

they rise to power, are apt to forget those not so fortunate."

With that, she handed to St. Just a golden chain formed of a hand

holding a heart suspended to it by a chain.

Bowing deeply, St. Just kissed the hand that held it out to him, as

though she were already an Empress, instead of but a General's wife.

The action, theatrical as it was, delighted her.

Then Buonaparte interposed. "Mons. St. Just," he said, "in return for

what you have done for me, I promise to do you three services, even to

the sparing of your life, should you do aught to forfeit it; the promise

to begin from now, and to remain in force till the end of my life."

St. Just bowed and thanked the General. Then he rose to go. Buonaparte

pressed him to remain for that night, at least, in his house, urging as

one reason St. Just's wound. At this the young soldier laughed. He had

made light of this wound, removed the bandage before arriving at the

house--so soon in fact as the bleeding had ceased.

"No, I must return to----my duties," he replied; "though, if the

Minister of Police recognizes me, it will be a case of an underground

cell in the Temple and then--" he paused.

"What?" asked Buonaparte smiling.

"Death," replied St. Just. "It was partly the thought of that, that

made me ask you to let me be with you on your next campaign."

"But," said Buonaparte, "that may not be for months."

"No, no, sir," rejoined St. Just, "scarcely that, since you are about to

inspect the forces for the invasion of England, in accordance with the

plans of the Directoire."

"I had not thought of that," said Buonaparte. "In any case be assured

of my protection; I will watch over you."

"And yourself, General. See that you do that, for Barras will not be

gratified at his failure."

"I will take care of myself; but my time of danger is not yet. To-day

is the 6th, is it not?"

"The 7th, sir," replied St. Just, glancing at a clock whose hand pointed

to the hour of three. "We did not leave the Luxembourg till after

midnight."

"True," said Buonaparte, smiling; "and the Directoire are to receive me

publicly on the 10th, is it not?"

"That is so," said St. Just.

"Bien, I myself will tell Barras of the adventure that befell me; and I

will watch the effect of my intelligence upon him. Till then, adieu."

St. Just shook hands, first with Josephine, then with the General and,

bowing, left them.

A quarter to four sounded when he reached his bedroom in the Luxembourg,

tired out and suffering considerably from his wound.

*CHAPTER III.*

Towards the end of April in the following year, a trooper rode into the

courtyard of the palace. St. Just was standing at the main entrance.

The man advanced to meet him and saluted.

"Lieutenant St. Just?" he said inquiringly.

"I am he," replied St. Just.

"I am instructed to deliver this, Lieutenant."

At the same time, he handed a packet to St. Just. Then, once more

saluting, the man wheeled his charger round and trotted off.

With trembling hands and his mind strongly agitated, St. Just opened the

despatch. His most ardent hopes were fulfilled. The document contained

his formal discharge from his present duties and his appointment as

aide-de-camp on General Buonaparte's staff. He was instructed to wait

on the General at head-quarters for orders at three o'clock that

afternoon.

To say that St. Just was overjoyed, would scarcely do justice to his

feelings; he was mad with delight, and could scarce contain himself. By

way of relief to his emotions, he indulged in a loud hurrah and threw

his cap up into the air, for all the world as though he were only a

common soldier. Then, recollecting where he was, and the extraordinary

figure he must be cutting before his men, he replaced his cap on his

head, straightened himself and made his way, as steadily as his

exuberance would allow, into the palace, to hand over his command to the

sub-lieutenant, preparatory to taking his departure.

With a soldier's regard for punctuality, at the stroke of three he

presented himself at General Buonaparte's quarters, and was almost

immediately admitted to his presence. The General was standing with his

back to St. Just in front of a temporary table supported on trestles,

and bending over a large scale map of Egypt and the surrounding country.

Other maps and documents were spread about. He had a pair of compasses

in his hand, and with it he was taking off the distances between the

various places he had marked out as his route. At St. Just's entrance

he turned round.

"Ah! Lieutenant," he exclaimed. "You are glad then to go with me to

Egypt?"

"So glad, General, and so grateful, that I scarce know how to express my

thanks. I--"

"Do not try then," interrupted Buonaparte abruptly; "nor are any due.

Your appointment on my staff has not been made from personal motives,

but solely in the interests of France, who has need of those of her sons

who are distinguished for bravery and promptitude of action. From the

circumstances of our introduction, I believe you to possess both.

Further, I have made inquiries of General Augereau concerning you, and

his report is eminently favorable. Your appointment, therefore, is the

consequence of your own merit. But, if you still think any thanks are

due to me, let them be expressed by deeds; by obedience, fidelity,

courage, coolness and promptness in emergency; in a word, by unswerving

devotion to France--and to me."

He shot a piercing glance at St. Just, as though to emphasize his words;

a glance so keen and stern that the young officer felt that he trembled

under it. But he replied, "General, you shall have no cause to regret

your confidence in me. To my country I have dedicated myself body and

soul. She possesses my unshared allegiance. I have no father or

mother, no brothers or sisters. France stands for all these to me. To

make her respected--aye feared--among the nations; to add to her glory,

so far as my humble efforts can avail, is my sole ambition. If she

demand my life, it shall be willingly laid down."

"Your sentiments do you honor, sir," said Buonaparte. "See that you live

up to them. Now go, and make your preparations for departure. Present

yourself here at daybreak on the third day from this--the 3rd of

May--when we shall march out of Paris. Your horses will be provided for

you. Till then, farewell." The General waved his hand towards him in

token of dismissal, and St. Just saluted and took his leave.

When the young officer left General Buonaparte, he strode onward with a

rapid, springy step, treading on air, as the saying is. At last, he

thought, he had his opportunity; his fortune was secured. He was

resolute to earn distinction in the career he had adopted; and, with the

sanguine exuberance of youth and strength, he already saw himself

mounting with nimble steps the successive rungs of the military

ladder--Captain, Major, Colonel, Brigadier, General of Division; until

he had attained the summit and found himself in command of an army,

smiting the enemies of France--perhaps even rivalling the great Captain

under whom he was about to serve. Such was the mental vision that

gradually unfolded itself to his excited gaze. At this moment he had

the most unbounded enthusiasm for the successful general whose marvelous

achievements were the theme of Europe; the most absolute devotion to

him. Later events will show how far these sentiments were destined to

be lasting; for the present they were paramount.

St. Just had few preparations to make; having no near relatives, and

being heart whole, there were no painful leavetakings; only a farewell

dinner to his friends and intimate brother officers, the payment of a

few bills, the purchase of sundry necessary articles, and he was ready.

At daybreak, on the 3rd of May he reported himself at General

Buonaparte's headquarters, and, a few hours later, Buonaparte began the

march that the great General hoped and believed would result in the

adding of the land of the Pharaohs to the possessions of France. The

advance guard had already preceded the main body.

The movement of troops through their own country--except when that

country is in the partial occupation of the enemy--is seldom fruitful of

adventure, and, in the present instance, it was wholly uneventful. St.

Just had the opportunity, to a limited degree, of improving his

knowledge of Buonaparte, also of becoming acquainted with some of his

entourage. To his annoyance, however, almost immediately on their

quitting Paris, a feeling of weakness and lassitude began to overtake

him, despite his most strenuous efforts to shake it off. Day by day it

grew upon him, until, by the time the army had reached Toulon, which

they made on the 8th of May, he felt so prostrated as to be almost unfit

for duty.

But he fought hard against his weakness; for all that, it was only by

the exercise of unflinching determination to conceal how ill he felt,

that he was not left behind invalided. He managed to hold up until the

19th of May, when, with Buonaparte, he embarked on board the Admiral's

ship, L'Orient. Then, he broke down altogether, and was carried below.

The army surgeons pronounced him to be suffering from low fever, and

feared the worst. The efforts he had made to hide the real state of his

health had aggravated his condition, so that his vitality was at the

lowest ebb.

For more than a fortnight he lay oscillating between life and death;

then a change for the better set in, and, from that moment, he began

rapidly to improve, so that, at the end of another fortnight, he was

able to set foot on the quarter deck, and breathe the pure, fresh air of

the Mediterranean. Oh! in the relief, after inhaling the stifling

atmosphere below deck, to drink in deep draughts of the ozone laden

breezes that swept over the broad expanse of water! His spirits

revived, and, once more, he felt that he had it in him to emulate his

chief.

Wafted by favorable breezes, the gallant fleet sped on its way, until,

on the morning of the first of July, the Admiral's ship sighted, in the

far distance, the domes and minarets of Alexandria.

So the fleet was headed for the land. After beating along the coast for

several hours in the teeth of a rising gale, in search of a suitable

landing place, Marabou was selected, and at one o'clock in the morning

of the second of July the disembarkation was begun. The spot was three

leagues to the west of Alexandria.

The landing was accomplished with great difficulty, caused, not only by

the roughness of the sea, but also by the attacks of the Bedouin Arabs,

great swarthy fellows, who appeared in swarms. They showed marvelous

horsemanship, circling round the French and making repeated dashes upon

the right flank, and picking off many stragglers.

At three in the morning the march upon Alexandria began. The divisions

of Bon, Kleber, and Morand heading the advance.

At the moment when the order to march was given, Buonaparte, who was

mounted on a white horse--one of the six given him in Italy--turned to

Kleber, and, pointing upwards to the sky, where a few stars still

lingered before the advent of the dawn, as though loth to have their

brightness veiled, said, "See yonder stars scintillate in token of our

coming success; foretelling glory out of the clouds of trouble."

"Yet," rejoined Kleber, "they must pale before the glory of the rising

sun." And he pointed Eastward to where a faint light showed the

approaching dawn.

When Buonaparte appeared, the whole army set up a tremendous shout;

cheer after cheer went up and, amidst them, the march began that all

hoped and believed would result in the conquest of Egypt, but which to

thousands of the sons of France meant but their grave.

After some hours marching under a dropping fire of musketry from the

Arabs hovering around, and under a blazing sun, they arrived within

gunshot of Alexandria. There was only a show of opposition to the French

advance, for what took place was more of a skirmish before the gates

than a battle. A few shots were fired, and then the Arabs fled into the

city, followed by the French, some scaling the walls, and others making

their way through gaps where the walls had been broken down, and through

the gates.

Soon after their entrance, Buonaparte, who was attended by St. Just and

accompanied by an escort of guides, had a near escape of being killed.

The party was going along a narrow street, that but just allowed two

persons to ride abreast; it was bounded at the end by a tall house.

Those within were watching the approach of Buonaparte and his escort,

apparently with friendly interest, when, all of a sudden, the party

being about a hundred yards from the house, a musket shot was fired from

one of the windows, and a bullet carried away the plume of Buonaparte's

hat.

Instantly St. Just, followed by a sergeant of the Guides, enraged at the

murderous attempt, galloped to the house, threw himself from his horse,

scaled a staircase and rushed forward.

Two shots were fired at him by a woman who tried to bar his progress,

one passing over his left shoulder and lodging in the arm of the guide

behind him. Smarting with the wound, before St. Just could interpose,

he cut her down. The other shot went through the metal ornament of St.

Just's sabre-tache, and, striking on a button of his tunic, made him

think for a moment that he was wounded. The shock made him stagger, and

gave others of the Guides, who had followed, the opportunity of rushing

past. Their blood was up and they were intent on revenging themselves

for the shots fired on their officer and their comrade, and were in no

mood to grant quarter. So that, when St. Just came up to them, he had

the greatest difficulty in saving the life of a young Arab, who had been

knocked down with the butt of a musket and was on the point of being

sabered.

At some risk, St. Just interposed his own person, at the same time

striking up the sword raised to slay the young man, who was then taken

prisoner and bound.

Meantime the other persons in the house, recognizing the futility of

attempting a stand, took to their heels with speed, and succeeded in

making their escape from the back of the building.

So soon as, after a thorough search, St. Just had satisfied himself that

the house was empty, he returned to General Buonaparte with their

prisoner.

Buonaparte questioned the young fellow through an interpreter. At first

he maintained a sullen silence, but, after a time, when he was reminded

that his life had been spared, and was assured that the French had come

solely to deliver the people from the tyranny of their rulers, and would

reward and protect those who chose to give them information, his reserve

and fear began to melt away and he became communicative.

He maintained that it was not he who had fired the shot at General

Buonaparte nor, indeed, any shot. It appeared that the house belonged

to one Islam Bey, the leader of a corps of Mamelukes. Gaining

confidence, the lad went on to warn General Buonaparte against Islam

Bey, saying that this Sheik had sworn by the beard of the Prophet to

take his life before six months had passed.

In the end, the General not only gave the lad his liberty, but appointed

him to be his body servant, and afterwards, took him to Paris. The

young fellow became a great favorite with everybody. His name was Ali.

Buonaparte stayed six days in Alexandria, issuing conciliatory edicts to

the people and holding many conferences with the chief Sheiks of the

city, many of whom had submitted to him. This was on account of the

good conduct of the French troops. A few men of the first detachment,

doubtless, began to plunder; but, the moment it was discovered such

severe punishment was meted out as effectually to check it for the

remainder of the French occupation.

On the evening of the third day after the French entry, St. Just

received orders to take a detachment of five Guides and a native who

knew the track to be traversed, and to start at day-break and make all

speed to Damanhour, with despatches for General Dessaix, who was

proceeding thither with an advance guard of nearly five thousand men.

*CHAPTER IV.*

At early dawn, therefore, on the morning of the fourth day after

Buonaparte's arrival in Alexandria, St. Just and his escort saddled and

set out. They were accompanied by some Arabs belonging to a friendly

tribe, whose chief was in the city and had offered his services to

General Buonaparte. The force was small and both men and horses were

picked so that they might ride fast and overtake Dessaix, who was

already well on his way to Damanhour. At the last moment they were

joined by a young subaltern of infantry in charge of a foraging party

sent out in requisition of stores. The stores were to be carried by

mules and it was the young subaltern's duty to convoy them and their

drivers. St. Just found the young officer, whose name, he ascertained,

was Garraud, a pleasant companion; and his men, who were infantry,

fraternized with St. Just's troopers, the whole party for the first few

miles marching along gayly, whistling and singing and chattering, as

French soldiers will; but their chief topic of conversation was the shot

that had been fired at the General on his entry into Alexandria.

Garraud and his men had not yet been in Alexandria; so he asked St. Just

for a full account of the affair; and St. Just gave it him.

As the sun rose higher in the heavens, conversation began to flag, both

between the two officers and the men; for, although the march had begun

in excellent spirits, the heat of the sun, which would shortly be at its

zenith, made talking a fatigue, and movement alone sufficiently

exhausting.

The Arabs only, mounted on their trusty ships of the desert, as they are

wont to call their camels, seemed to be unconscious of the heat, as well

as indifferent to two other evils the French severely felt, namely flies

and thirst; to say nothing of the sand, which made marching horribly

arduous. "Not good, honest ordinary sand," as an old veteran of Italy

exclaimed, "but sand that penetrated through one's shoes and clothes,

and made walking painful and tedious."

There was silence now for the most part among them all. It had lasted

longer than usual, when St. Just, at last, broke it by inquiring in

French of their chief guide how far they were to proceed before they

halted. The old man turned his grizzly head round and gazed backwards,

as though mentally measuring the distance they had already traversed;

then up to the sky, as if seeking inspiration from this source. Finally

he said briefly, "A league to the water, then three to the village,

where my Masters sleep."

And so they plodded on.

At last, after crawling along in the boiling sun for two hours, they

reached one of the stopping places indicated by their guide. There was

a small pool of brackish water and there were a number of rocks standing

out of the sand nine feet or more, behind which they could shelter

themselves from the sun. Here St. Just called a halt. The men

dismounted and tethered their horses; then gave them food and water.

Afterwards they attended to their own wants and ate and drank.

Referring to the water, one of the veterans, with the recollection of

the luxuries of sunny Italy before his mind, remarked that one must

march through the desert under a burning sun for hours before one would

drink from such a hole as that before them; a pool that, in ordinary

circumstances, one would not even put one's feet into.

Their inner man refreshed, they rested for a short time, and the Arabs

and a few of the French began to smoke. St. Just was among these, for he

had picked up this, at that time, uncommon habit from some Gipsies he

had come across in Italy.

After an hour's repose, early in the afternoon the little company

resumed its march; it was but a repetition of the morning's tramp; more

heat, more flies, more sand, with thirst that seemed intensified, rather

than appeased, by drinking the tepid, brackish water from the soldiers'

water bottles.

By way of contrast, when the sun set, cold cutting winds sprang up that

pierced them through.

It was late and quite dark when the party came in sight of the so-called

village--a collection of mud-huts--which was to form their resting place

for the night.

The advance guard under Dessaix had recently passed through the place,

for everywhere there were signs of the presence of the French; but of

inhabitants there were none. Worse still, half the huts were

dismantled. Many portions of them had been torn away for fire-wood; but

one was found after a careful search, large enough to shelter the whole

party, with some crowding.

One man was posted as a sentry outside, and relieved every two hours.

His duties were not only to give notice of the approach of enemies, but

also to keep an eye on the Arab guides, who remained outside and who St.

Just felt were not to be trusted.

The night passed without adventure or alarm, and the rest of the men in

the hut was unbroken, so that they rose in the early morn in excellent

spirits and with bodies refreshed. While the sky was still clothed in

its gray mantle, and the sun had scarce given signs of his approach, St.

Just and his escort recommenced their march, leaving the young

subaltern, Garraud, and his convoy party to make their further way

alone.

On the afternoon of the same day, they overtook General Dessaix at Beda.

It was fortunate they had started so early as they did; for, otherwise,

they would have been overwhelmed in a terrific sandstorm, which spent

itself behind them and which they escaped by only one hour.

On handing in his despatches to Dessaix, St. Just received from him a

sorry report of his command. Short as had been their stay in the

country, the men were always murmuring; the heat, the sand, the flies,

the scarcity and badness of the water had made them so discontented that

the General had the utmost difficulty in keeping them in hand. They were

mutinous, unruly, continually complaining of their lost luxuries. Even

the officers complained. After a few days' rest, St. Just set out to

return to Buonaparte, who, with the main body of the army, was to have

left Alexandria on the 6th. Being anxious to join them with all speed,

St. Just decided to travel all night. After marching for some hours and

when darkness was setting in, St. Just, to his alarm, was informed by an

Arab scout he had sent ahead, but who now rode back, that a large body

of desert horsemen was advancing in their direction somewhat to the

right of them. This was most unwelcome news. To wheel round and make

an effort to escape, St. Just felt would be useless. Their only chance

seemed to be to halt and wait until the enemy were close upon them; then

to make a dash for it and try to cut their way through, and thus, aided

by the darkness, to get clear away.

With this view, St. Just drew up his men as close together as they could

stand. This mode of formation surprised the Arab guides, it being the

custom of their countrymen to fight in a crescent-shaped wedge, a mode

of formation Buonaparte found a strong one, when cavalry is massed in

successive crescents one behind another.

Breathless, silent and motionless, the little troop remained drawn up,

their ears on the alert for the first sounds of the approaching

horsemen. Soon the tread of horses' hoofs, muffled by the sand, was

heard, and the jangling of bridles and accoutrements. Nearer and nearer

came the sounds. St. Just had given his men orders to make for the

left, so as, so far as possible, to skirt the enemy, rather than meet

them face to face; they were not to seek encounters, and only cut down

those who barred their way; the main thing they were to keep before them

was that they were to gallop for all that they were worth.

On came the Arabs. They had not yet discovered the French. A few

seconds passed; then there was a shout, and the desert horsemen put

their horses to the gallop and bore down upon the Frenchmen. Instantly

St. Just gave the order, and from its scabbard flashed every sword;

spurs were dug into the horses' sides, and they went off at the charge,

meeting the fringe only of their opponents.

This was St. Just's first experience of a cavalry skirmish, his sole

experience of warfare having been gained in an infantry regiment during

the Italian campaign. But his horse was an old stager and used to the

business; and he communicated his excitement to his rider, who felt

himself borne madly onward with the others, without seeing which way he

was going. There was a crash of opposing forces, a melee of Frenchmen

and swarthy Arabs, all slashing, stabbing and hacking at each other, and

parrying the blows dealt at them, as well as the dimness of the light

permitted; and then St. Just felt his horse pause in its career and

begin to stagger; at once he knew it had been badly wounded. In a moment

he saw what had happened. An Arab, facing him alongside, so close that

St. Just could have touched him, had come at him full tilt with his

lance pointed dead at him. But, either by miscalculation of aim, or by

an involuntary swerving on the part of one of the horses, the weapon had

missed St. Just and buried itself deep in the flank of his charger, the

point even protruding through the buttock. Quick as thought, St. Just

realized that, if once he were unhorsed in the darkness and in the midst

of all this crowd, the life would speedily be trampled out of him.

Possessed of great muscular strength, to which his perilous position

gave added energy, he raised himself in his stirrups, flashed his sword

high in the air, then brought it down with all his force upon the

turbaned skull of his opponent. The blade was sharp and trusty and it

was wielded by a powerful arm. It struck the Arab's head a little to

the left of his crown, and, cutting its way in a slanting direction,

came out below the right ear, slicing off more than half the skull. But

the force of the blow was not yet spent. Continuing its course, St.

Just's sabre entered his adversary's right shoulder and, in a twinkling,

had lopped off the arm that held the spear whose point and a good

portion of its shaft were still fixed in the French officer's horse.

Then, feeling his charger sinking beneath him, St. Just drew his feet

from the stirrups and threw himself on the Arab's horse, the collision

sending the lifeless body of the rider to the ground. With the man's

warm blood gushing over him, he realized something of the horrors of

war. But this was no time for sentiment. Settling his feet in the

stirrups of the strange horse, at the moment he saw his own poor steed

sink to the ground, St. Just seized the reins of his new mount, wheeled

him round with the powerful Arab bit, struck his spurs into his sides,

and, finding no one immediately opposing him, dashed off at full gallop;

whither he knew not, except that he was going west of his proper route.

St. Just traversed a few miles on the same course, and then, satisfied

that he was not being pursued, he reined in his recently appropriated

horse and dismounted, intending to remain where he was, until day should

break. The docile creature seemed to know what was expected of it, and,

with very little trouble, St. Just got it to lie down; then, passing his

arm through the reins, he laid himself down beside the animal, which

thus helped to keep him warm. The young officer tried his hardest to

keep his eyes open; but, spite of his efforts, after a time, he dropped

asleep. He was exhausted with the heat and his exertions.

How long he had slept he did not know, but when he awoke, feeling cold

and stiff, the day was breaking, for in the East he noticed a faint

gleam of light.

At first he was puzzled to account for his whereabouts. But, when

thoroughly awakened and in full possession of his senses, the

occurrences of the previous night came back to him, and he remembered he

had almost miraculously broken away from a horde of Bedouins, after

cutting down the rider of the horse he had seized.

But what had become of his escort--French and Arab? Carefully he made

the circuit of the horizon with his eye, but not a sign of a human

being, friend or foe, was to be seen. Nor, further within the field of

his vision, turn which way he would, was a single object, animate or

inanimate, visible: not a tree, not a shrub, not a rock, nothing but

sand, that appeared to be without bound, north, south, east and west;

St. Just and his horse, to all appearance, were the sole occupants of

the desert. The stillness and solitude were awful in their

oppressiveness and the young officer felt that only action on his own

part would make them bearable.

He got his horse to his feet and mounted, setting out in the direction

he believed to be that which would lead him to General Buonaparte's line

of march. There was not a landmark by which to shape his way; only the

first glimmer of light eastward.

He had proceeded in a northerly direction for about two hours, when he

espied a solitary horseman in the distance, advancing towards him.

Nearer and nearer came the figure, and soon St. Just was able to make

out that he was not a native of the desert, next that he wore a French

uniform and finally, with a cry of joy, that he was Garraud, the young

subaltern from whom, with his convoy party, he had parted at the

so-called village where they had rested for the night two days before.

At the same moment, Garraud recognized him, and both simultaneously

urged their horses forward.

Mutual explanations were at once made.

It appeared that Garraud and his command had left the village a few

hours after St. Just, following slowly in his wake. The first

misfortune that had assailed them was to be almost buried in the

sand-storm that St. Just had managed to escape. Hardly had they got

over this, when they had been attacked by the very horde that St. Just

and his escort had encountered. They had done their best in the face of

tremendous odds, making a temporary rampart of the mules and their

loads, firing over their backs and surrendering only when several of

them had been killed and many wounded and all their ammunition had been

exhausted, so that further resistance would have been useless. In the

confusion, somehow, Garraud had managed to escape.

The spirits of both raised by companionship, they rode on side by side,

hoping they were nearing Buonaparte. All day they marched, resting

themselves and their horses occasionally, but with no food or water for

either. It was just beginning to grow dark, when they descried in the

distance the huts in which they had passed the night. When they reached

the spot, darkness had closed over it. They could see no one, but the

welcome challenge "Qui va la?" fell on their ears. The two men replied

"Napoleon" and, at the same moment, a light was shown in their faces.

They found that a regiment of Chasseurs occupied the place and that

General Buonaparte was with them. The main body was some few hours

behind, and ought to be up before the morning.

Buonaparte's orders were that all couriers were to be conducted to him

immediately on their arrival, so St. Just at once dismounted and,

escorted by a sergeant's guard, made instantly for the General's tent.

Two soldiers, with loaded carbines, stood before the entrance, and

within could be seen the figure of Buonaparte writing on an old door,

propped upon two blocks of stone to form a table.

At the challenge of the sentries, Buonaparte raised his head and saw the

little group standing without. "What is it?" he said in a sharp, shrill

voice.

"A courier, Sir," replied the sergeant, saluting.

Buonaparte saw and recognized St. Just, who was standing a little behind

the soldier. "Ah, from the advance guard at--"

"Beda, Sir."

"Despatches?"

"Delivered, Sir; but these are the reply;" handing in those Dessaix had

given him on his return journey.

Buonaparte opened them, glanced at them, then said, "Did you encounter

or see any force on your way here? For, on taking possession of this

place, we saw many stragglers about in the far distance, apparently part

of a large body of Bedouins."

"I cut my way through a band of the enemy--how many I can't say--last

night, losing all my escort. Afterwards I fell in with a French

infantry officer, whose party had been previously attacked by the same

force."

"How many miles away?"

"Between twenty and thirty, Sir."

"Good." Then, rising, Buonaparte walked up and down his tent for a few

minutes, his brows together, thinking deeply and evidently forgetful of

St. Just's presence. Finally he turned to his impromptu table and wrote

a few lines. These he sealed and addressed to the General in command at

Alexandria, then handed the paper to St. Just. "Deliver this; join me

again as soon as possible."

"Alone, Sir?"

"Yes, unless you can find an escort from Alexandria. Stay! When did you

leave General Dessaix?"

"On the 8th in the evening, Sir."

"This is the 10th. You halted last at 11 to-day. Have you a good

horse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Set off at six in the morning; it is now ten."

"Yes, sir."

"Go then, in the name of France." St. Just bowed and left the tent.

*CHAPTER V.*

At six o'clock next day St. Just set out, to plough his solitary way

across the sandy desert. If it had been dreary on the first occasion,

when he had the company of an escort, he found the sandy wastes, now

that he was alone, almost unbearable. It was, therefore, with great

delight that, after the first few hours of his journey, he encountered

the main body of Buonaparte's army crawling like a gigantic snake across

his path. But his satisfaction was but momentary, for the sights that

met his eyes were heartrending. Horses in a lather of sweat from head

to foot and scarce able to stand from fatigue and heat, were being

cruelly urged with whip and spur to drag along the heavy guns and

ammunition wagons, whose wheels were deeply embedded in the sand and

could scarce be got to move. Ever and anon some of the exhausted

animals would fall down dead. Then the guns would have to be abandoned,

sometimes for hours, until a detachment of infantry had been brought up

and transformed into beasts of burden by being yoked to them, when the

sluggish march of the artillery would be recommenced.

Often St. Just passed men, who, overcome by fatigue, could no longer

walk, and had been left in the wake of the army, to follow afterwards,

if they could; if not, to die where they were, of thirst and exhaustion,

under the sun's scorching rays.

Many of these poor creatures cried out to him piteously for help; but he

was absolutely powerless to relieve them, and, moreover, was the bearer

of despatches which he had been charged to deliver with all speed.

Here and there, half buried in the sand, could be seen the putrefying

bodies of both men and animals (horses and mules and here and there a

camel) that had died, some of want, some of fatigue, some of illness,

and a few of Arab wounds. In some cases only a few whitening bones

remained of what a few hours before had been creatures instinct with

activity and life; the loathsome vultures having picked off all the

flesh.

Towards night he halted and, wrapping his cloak around him, he laid

himself on the ground, his head resting on his horse's shoulder, the

reins tightly knotted to his wrist, and soon dropped asleep, awakening

only with the dawn. The next day he met with a terrible disappointment.

On gaining the pool where he had intended to give his horse a drink and

to replenish his own water-bottle, he found it dry, the marching army

having drained it of every drop. With his tongue almost rattling in his

mouth, so parched was it, and his poor horse in the same condition, he

was riding on dejectedly, when, happening to cast his eyes around, he

noticed a cloud of dust upon his left. The French could scarcely be in

that direction; the disturbance must be due to Bedouins. At all hazards

he must avoid capture; should his despatches fall into the enemy's

hands, the consequences would certainly be serious, and might be fatal.

He urged his jaded, thirsty steed to pace its best, and the noble animal

responded bravely to his call.

He managed to escape the desert horsemen, but this would have availed

him little, had not assistance come, for both man and horse were

thoroughly pumped out and could proceed no further. St. Just felt his

charger sway beneath him, and, to avoid falling with him, threw himself

from the saddle only a moment before the exhausted animal rolled over.

Then, just when he had resigned himself with all the philosophy he could

command to the consciousness that, in a few hours at most, the carrion

desert birds would be stripping the flesh from his bones and from his

horse's, he heard a muffled tread, and, shortly afterwards, a troop of

French Hussars, who were bringing up the rear guard, came in sight.

Seeing the exhausted condition of both rider and horse, and learning

from St. Just that he was the bearer of important despatches from

Buonaparte to General Kleber at Alexandria, the officer in command of

the troop rendered the young aide-de-camp all the assistance in his

power and detailed two of his troopers to accompany him on his journey,

and to return with him to Buonaparte's headquarters.

After a few hours' rest and a supply of food and water, the young

officer and his horse were sufficiently restored to proceed upon their

way, and, on the fifth day after leaving General Buonaparte, he,

accompanied by the two hussars, entered Alexandria and delivered his

despatches to General Kleber.

Two days after, St. Just, with the two hussars for escort, left

Alexandria for the second time, bearing reply despatches from Kleber to

Buonaparte, and made his way as rapidly as he could to Damanhour, where

he expected to find the Commander-in-Chief. This place he reached in

two days, but only to find that Buonaparte had gone forward towards

Cairo. So St. Just had to follow.

It was reported by patrols that Mourad Bey, who had been recently

defeated at Chebreissa, had posted skirmishers on the route to Cairo, to

harass, even if they could not check, the French advance.

St. Just, therefore, asked for and obtained from the officer in command

at Damanhour, an escort of thirty-three men, in addition to the two he

already had, the troopers detailed for the purpose being selected from

the squadron that had succored him when in such distress on his way to

Alexandria.

Thus accompanied, he pushed on as fast as the horses could be made to

go; for this carrying of despatches long distances in such a country was

becoming irksome to him, and he longed to be fighting battles again, as

he had fought when a lieutenant in Italy under Augereau.

Early on the morning of the 21st, St. Just and his troopers came to a

village, where, they had been told by the French commandant at the last

post, they would find remounts. Here reports reached them that

Buonaparte was heavily engaged at Embabe, the next village, hard by

those wondrous pyramids which had been built in the past ages of Egypt's

glory.

At this news, they hurried forward; and soon could hear the distant

sounds of musketry and cannon borne from afar upon the still, clear air.

Both men and horses were excited by the noise and, though it was

necessary to husband the strength of their fresh mounts, for they might

have to take part in the action then proceeding, the men were bent upon

joining their comrades with all speed.

Their route lay a little to the left, the Nile being on their right;

but, judging from the firing that the French were occupying a portion of

the road to Gizeh, St. Just and his men rode to the right, so as to cut

off an angle.

It was now noon and the sun's rays were beating down pitilessly upon

their heads when they came upon the first signs of the conflict.

They had drawn up their panting horses upon a little knoll to recover

their wind, before bearing their riders on to the battle field below;

and St. Just, on dismounting, had plenty of leisure to observe the

scene. Ordering his hussars and their horses to lie down, that they

might be as little conspicuous as possible, St. Just crept forward and,

gaining a point of vantage, watched the movements of the combatants.

Thick clouds of smoke, through which at frequent intervals could be seen

streaks of flame, followed by the report of guns, hovered over the

Frenchmen on his left; while, on the right, gleaming in the sunlight,

were the tents of the Mameluke camp. Beyond, rose the distant banks of

the Nile, and further away the huts of Boulac, a suburb of the city of

Cairo. Dotted about the plain were swarms of Arab horsemen, their

bright mail sparkling. A body of them were massing into formation in a

last attempt to break the French squares.

St. Just had seen enough. It was plain to him that, so soon as the sun

should have declined, General Buonaparte, knowing that the horses of the

Mamelukes must be tired from their repeated charges, would launch his

cavalry against them in the hope of cutting in two the mass of horsemen.

Accordingly, he resolved to try to gain the French lines; but, to do so,

it would be necessary to cut their way through a body of the enemy who

were drawn up between them and their goal. Creeping cautiously back to

his men, he gave the order to mount. Then, having drawn them up four

deep in a square, he put himself at their head, and led them round the

further side of the knoll; then bade them charge the Mamelukes. When

within forty yards of the opposing squadron, the hussars fired their

pistols, then, like a torrent, dashed upon their enemy. Now, though the

charge was a courageous act, it was also a very foolish one, for their

foes were quite a hundred strong, and considering that the hussars'

pistols had been fired at the gallop, certainly not more than twenty out

of the possible thirty-six shots could have killed a man apiece, and

probably not half that number. For thirty-six men to attack nearly, if

not quite, a hundred, was a reckless act; but St. Just's blood was up,

and so they charged. He hardly knew what followed, except that there

was a general melee and clashing of weapons; then, somehow, he found

himself on the ground. His next impression was that he was being pulled

to his feet, and that a French voice was saying in his ear, "Diable!

Monsieur, that was a fine charge; but I thought none of you would have

come out of it."

St. Just, whose head was still confused, stumbled up, and found himself

in the midst of a squadron of the Guards, and that the person who had

addressed him was the young lieutenant in whose company he had ridden on

his first journey across the desert.

"Ah, Garraud, my friend, we are quits now; I pulled you through last

time; your men have done the same for me on this occasion."

"It's superb!" The exclamation was drawn from both by the magnificently

reckless way their enemies were charging. Men were falling in heaps

around them. One man at their feet had just had his stomach ripped up

with a curved sword, and lay shrieking in his agony, while his

intestines gushed out upon the ground. A stallion, badly hurt, was

biting and tearing the wounded men around him; while, across his body,

five of the barbarians were fighting tooth and nail within arm's length

of the square. Here again could be seen men hurling themselves and

their horses upon the French bayonets, dying agonizing deaths only too

gladly, if, for one instant, they could find themselves within the

square.

Meanwhile St. Just had not been idle. A man was advancing from amidst

the host of warriors, apparently bearing a charmed life. He was mounted

upon a splendid gray stallion, whose beauty aroused the envy, as much as

the superb horsemanship and courageous bearing of the rider excited the

admiration of St. Just. The youthful warrior, having failed to break

the square, retired for a few yards, then coming on with a yell, he

leaped it and landed in the center. But he paid for his rashness with

his life. Almost before the horse's feet had touched the ground, St.

Just had fired. The next instant, he had mounted the Arab's horse, and

shouting "Au revoir! I am off to Buonaparte," in imitation of the late

owners tactics, he leaped out of the square.

A roar of despair and rage went up from the opposing Arabs, but almost

instantly it was drowned by a ringing cheer from the French. St. Just

landed upon a group of horsemen who were being charged, at the same

instant, by Dessaix and his cavalry.

"El J: The fiend!" the Bedouins cried, at his sudden appearance in their

midst, smiting right and left, his horse almost as excited as himself.

Utterly demoralized, their superstition, for the moment, getting the

better of them, they could make no stand against the French, who rode

them down like sheep. Though falling by hundreds, the French cavalry

accomplished their mission and separated the two bodies of Mamelukes,

thus relieving the hard pressed guns.

And so the fight went on; frenzied now, on the Mamelukes' part, for they

were fighting in despair. Another hour and they were flying, leaving

Buonaparte master of the way to Cairo.

Meanwhile St. Just had ridden past the rear of the French army and was

making for the center, where he found Buonaparte sitting motionless on

his horse, watching the battle. St. Just--both he and his horse

begrimed with dust--presented himself before the General, a little pale

with fatigue, and with a slight sword cut on his cheek, his head bare,

and his saber-tache riddled with bullets. But his eyes were sparkling

with success when he handed to Buonaparte his despatches. "From General

Kleber, Sir, from Alexandria."

Buonaparte continued to fix his eyes upon the battle and made no attempt

to open the papers, holding them in one hand, while, with the other, he

placed a telescope to his eye. No one spoke, all intently watching the

man who, it was beginning to dawn on them, was no ordinary general.

At last he spoke. Turning to an aide near him, he shut up his field

glass with a snap. "Tell the right wing to charge." Then, addressing

himself to the others, "Gentlemen, the battle is ended; we can march

upon Cairo to-morrow. You, Sir," addressing St. Just, "I thank in the

name of France and of the Army."

And, even while he spoke, the sun hid itself below the horizon, and the

pall of coming night settled upon the field of blood and the

disheartened enemy now in full retreat.

*CHAPTER VI.*

Throughout the night of the 21st of July, the darkness was

intermittently illumined by the flashes of musketry which from time to

time resounded from the direction of the village of Gizeh, whither

Mourad Bey had retreated with the remainder of his Mamelukes--about two

thousand--leaving his infantry to their fate in the intrenched camp on

the bank of the Nile. St. Just passed the night under the shadow of the

sphinx, having, like many others, no proper place of rest--for the army

was without tents--and too tired to think of anything but sleep.

Early on the following morning he received the order to mount and

proceed at the head of a squadron of Guides, about fifty strong, to help

the detachment which was pressing on towards Gizeh, and, if possible,

afterwards to advance to Cairo. Accordingly, mounted on the gray

stallion which had stood him in such stead on the previous day, he

placed himself at the head of his squadron and set out at a smart trot

for Gizeh. The infantry, who were attacking the place, and to whose aid

he had been sent, had found great difficulty in advancing, for the road

to Gizeh had been one of the hottest points in the battle of the

previous day. At last, however, the outskirts of the village had been

reached, and here it was that St. Just and his Guides came up with them.

Mourad Bey made repeated dashes, hoping to lead to victory the

dispirited remnants of his followers; but it was not to be; St. Just and

his Guides hurled themselves through the sea of fire--the blazing

houses--that separated them from the enemy's ranks. Despite the clouds

of pungent smoke and the myriads of sparks that fell upon them, they

forced their way, supported by the infantry who had taken fresh heart at

their arrival, with such vigor that, after a short but sharp encounter,

they put the Mamelukes to rout. That night General Buonaparte slept at

Gizeh in the Bey's country house.

St. Just and his troopers, now reduced to thirty, followed in the Bey's

track to the Nile bank, but were prevented from crossing the river by

the destruction of the bridge of boats that had led to the Mameluke

fleet. Thus checked in his advance, he rested his men in a hut hard by

the river side, while he considered what course he should pursue.

Before he had come to a decision, he noticed a good deal of activity on

board the vessels in the river, and that, from some of them, smoke was

beginning to ascend. Instantly he understood what was going on. They

were firing them, to prevent their falling into the hands of the French.

Now St. Just concluded that, if the Egyptians thought the vessels worth

the burning, there must be valuable cargo on board, and that they were

worth the saving. Forthwith he resolved to do his best with that

intent.

Leaving half his men and all the horses, posted at the hut, he marched

on foot with the remainder to the river. Several boats were moored along

the bank, and one of these they seized, and in it they rowed down the

river towards the burning dahabeahs, St. Just's intention being to cut

some of them adrift, in the hope of afterwards capturing them.

But he had reckoned without his host, for the vessels had been too

successfully set alight. There was a strong wind blowing, and the

flames and smoke were such that he could not get near enough to cast the

vessels from their moorings. Again and again he and his brave men

renewed the attempt, but only to be as often driven back by the

scorching heat. But, worse even than the flames, the enemy, who had

marked them while they were some distance from the vessels, poured in a

deadly fire of musketry. One by one his men kept dropping, and St. Just

soon saw that it was no longer a question of capturing the enemy's

ships, but of saving their own lives.

Meanwhile the ships burned furiously, producing such a light that the

French troops at Gizeh could see dimly amid the crimson gleams the

distant minarets and gilded cupolas of Cairo.

St. Just gave orders to row back to their starting point, close to which

he had posted the remainder of his troop.

But soon he found that their retreat in that direction was cut off; for,

while he and his men had been busy trying to cut adrift the burning, as

well as the yet unlighted, dahabeahs, swarms of Arabs had put off in

boats and had collected in their rear.

To turn the boat's head round and row towards Cairo seemed the only

thing to be done, and even the risk of this was terrible, their safety

depending upon General Buonaparte's having captured the city. His

fifteen men were now reduced to eight, seven having fallen beneath the

Mamelukes' fusillade. St. Just sat in the stern of the boat steering,

pondering meanwhile on the peril of their situation and their chances of

escape. He knew that some of the French troops were already moving on

Cairo; and, from scraps of conversation picked up round the camp fires

on the previous night, he entertained little doubt that Buonaparte would

enter the city, either by storming it, or otherwise, at dawn on the

following day.

Now if he, St. Just, could get into Cairo, with his men, unseen, and

quietly take possession of some house, they would probably be able to

maintain themselves secure in it till General Buonaparte's arrival. And

this was what he set himself to do. But how to do it was the

difficulty. The light from the conflagration on the river was so great

that, were they to attempt to land in their French uniforms, they would

be instantly discovered by the lawless and turbulent hordes scattered up

and down the river banks, plundering and fighting and murdering in all

directions, and would be quickly set upon, overcome and killed.

Their position was desperate, and desperate remedies were required; and

the plan St. Just evolved was desperate, and depended also on chance for

its accomplishment. Having explained it to his men, he ordered them to

lie up under the shadow of some vessels moored in mid-stream and as yet

untouched by the fire, just keeping the boat from drifting, and to wait

for the chance of capturing a passing boat with Arabs on board, his

intention being to massacre the crew for the sake of their clothes,

which his own men would then put on; then they were to watch their

opportunity to get ashore in the confusion that everywhere prevailed.

There is an old proverb to the effect that all things come to those who

wait, if they but wait long enough; and so it was in this case. The men

were sitting listlessly, tired of their inactivity, when a sudden cry

brought them back to attention. Bearing down upon them was a large boat

manned by about a dozen Arabs. A shaft of light cast from some burning

wreckage floating by upon the encrimsoned waters in their direction, had

betrayed to the approaching boat that in one of their own craft were

some of the hated invaders. It was their fierce cry that awakened St.

Just and his crew to a conviction of their danger. Ping! Ping! went

the bullets from the Arab matchlocks, and at the same moment St. Just

shouted, "Only two men row; the rest lie in the boat and fire at the

Arab rowers. Take careful aim and don't throw away a shot. Your lives

depend upon it."

The men obeyed at once. Crack, crack. Two of the Frenchmen had fired,

and two of the Arabs threw up their arms and fell in a huddled heap at

the bottom of their dhow. Almost immediately a wild volley was fired by

the Arabs, and one of the Frenchmen, whose head had been exposed to the

light, toppled over the side of the boat into the Nile, a bullet in his

brain; giving his comrades a brief view of his face, ere he sank beneath

the waters in the ruddy light.

St. Just's measures were prompt and decisive, and his voice rang out

like a clarion on the night. "A volley, all of you; then pick up your

oars and row for them as hard as you can go."

The order was as promptly obeyed. The seven shots flew straight and,

before the Arabs could recover from the confusion they had occasioned,

the French picked up their oars, crashed into them and boarded them. A

few moments later, there drifted down the Nile an empty boat; while,

pulling for the distant domes, which marked the city of Cairo, were

eight men dressed as Arabs and speaking French.

*CHAPTER VII.*

The flames from the burning vessels on the river wrapped the city of

Cairo in a lurid glow, and above it hovered a cloud of smoke, but which

the breeze that heralds the approach of dawn, was gradually, though

almost imperceptibly dispersing. The air was rent with cries and groans

and yells. The thoroughfares were thronged with the panic-stricken

citizens. Some, laden with goods, were fleeing with their families into

the desert towards Philiae; others, their clothes torn and

blood-stained, their muskets still in their hands, their dress

proclaiming them to be soldiers who, routed in that day's fight, had

fled for refuge to the city, were occupying themselves with pillaging

the houses of the merchants.

In marked contrast to the general glare and din, one little narrow side

street near the citadel remained wrapped in gloom and silence. Running

parallel to the river, as it did, the houses on its river side shut out

the light of the conflagration and only a faint reflection was visible

overhead.

Hugging the walls of the houses on one side of this court--for it scarce

merited the name of street, so narrow was it--St. Just and his

followers, enveloped in "haic" and "burnous," crept stealthily and

silently along. No one was about, nor was a light to be seen in any of

the houses.

So far their venture had been successful; aided by the semi-darkness and

the confusion that was prevailing in the busier parts of the city, where

the crowd had drawn together, St. Just had managed to run his boat

ashore on an unfrequented spot and to land unnoticed. Then separating,

the better to escape observation, but still keeping close enough

together for mutual help, should they be attacked, they had made their

way towards the citadel and had joined a mob that was pouring into its

gates. At that point, however, St. Just had turned aside to investigate

the little street which seemed deserted.

He and his men had almost reached the top, when, suddenly, a piercing

shriek rang out upon the stillness of the night. It came from a house

St. Just was passing. He halted instantly; then, in the shrill and

fearsome tones of a woman, came some words in Arabic. Now, during the

few weeks the young officer had been in Egypt he had, in his journeyings

with despatches, contrived to pick up a few words of Arabic; and the

knowledge thus acquired now stood him in good stead. Thus he could

translate the woman's cry, "Let me go; Yusuf, let me go!"

What Frenchman could listen unmoved to such a call for help? Certainly

not St. Just. In a whisper, he told the man next to him to close up and

pass the same order on from each man to the one behind him. Then he

cast his eyes up and down the house; it was a tall stone building and

white-washed, and was windowless, save that high up from the ground were

a few square holes protected by bars of iron. A strong iron-studded

door, set deep in a stone archway, formed the entrance to this house.

Earnestly as St. Just desired to go to the rescue of the shrieking

woman, the door was too strong to be forced, except after continued and

strenuous efforts, and there was no other possible entrance from the

front. He was debating whether to try to make his way round to the back

of the house, in the hope of there finding a means of getting in, when,

all at once, the heavy door swung open, and a swarthy Arab came out,

bearing on his shoulders a woman, who was either dead or senseless, for

she made no movement. With the opening of the door, the light from

within fell upon St. Just and those behind him, disclosing to the man's

astonished eyes that they were not Arabs, but Frenchmen. St. Just made

a forward movement; the Arab hesitated for a moment, then dropped his

burden and turned and fled into the house again.

St. Just's action was speedy. Fate seemed to be playing into his hands.

Here was a house that might serve them for a refuge and that, to all

appearance, could be defended for some hours, at any rate, by the small

body of men he had at his disposal. At once he decided to take

possession of it. Turning to the two nearest men, he said, "Pick up the

woman, and take her inside." Then to the others, "Follow me, then close

the door and make it fast."

His orders were promptly carried out. Then the party--two of them

bearing the still unconscious woman--traversed the length of a narrow

passage lighted by a small brass lamp that hung from the ceiling. At

the end of this they found themselves in an open court, in the center of

which a marble fountain was playing, the water falling into the basin

with the sound of gentle rain, and moistening the air with its tumid

spray.

At the further side of the courtyard was a colonnade, and above it were

the latticed windows of the women's apartments, now open. But no dusky

beauties peeped from them, nor was there any sign or sound of life; the

whole place was silent as the grave.

Leaving one man as a sentry in the corridor, and despatching four to

make a thorough search of the premises, St. Just told the two who were

carrying the woman, to lay her down on a marble seat under the

colonnade. This done, he set himself to restore her, if so be that she

still lived. There were signs that she had struggled with her abductor,

for, half way across the courtyard, they found a richly embroidered

shawl and a jeweled dagger. A short examination showed St. Just that

the woman breathed, and he could find no marks of injury about her. He

sprinkled water on her face and fanned her and rubbed her hands; but,

despite all his efforts to revive her, she remained insensible.

St. Just was still thus occupied, when the four men he had sent on a

tour of inspection through the house, returned, each carrying a lighted

lantern, to report that they had found not a soul about the place,

though, from the appearance of the rooms, it was plain that the inmates

had but recently vacated them.

While receiving his men's report, St. Just had temporarily stayed his

efforts to revive the fainting woman, and had faced the troopers. Now

he looked to her again. The men had turned their lanterns on her; her

headgear had fallen to the ground, disclosing to the young officer's

astonished gaze a face of such rare beauty as he had not even dreamed

of. She was quite young and, for an Eastern woman, singularly fair; she

had hair of a golden brown and dark blue eyes, and a mouth about which

now lurked as sweet a smile as ever brightened woman's face.

For the light shining in her eyes had completed her awakening, and, at

the moment when St. Just became conscious of her surpassing loveliness,

she was gazing in bewilderment upon the group around her. In a few

seconds, she recognized them as the invaders of her country, and, at the

same time, remembered what had led to her unconsciousness.

Then, to the astonishment of her hearers, she thus addressed them,

speaking in excellent French and a clear, musical voice.

"Messieurs, the fortune of war has thrown into your hands a woman who

has some claim to call herself a French woman. My mother was captured

by a slaver when traveling from France at the time of the death of Louis

Quinze, whose soul may God preserve. All my life have I spoken your

tongue, and, because of the French blood in me, I have cursed the

slavery in which, in this country, we women are held.

"I thank you for your timely help. You have saved me from a fate worse

than death.

"And now I will order the slaves to bring you some refreshment."

And, rising with difficulty, though not without grace and dignity,

despite her stiffness and the novelty of her position, she made as

though to walk to the colonnade.

"Mademoiselle!"

She stopped and faced the speaker, fixing her eyes intently upon his

face. St. Just bowed low before her. She might have been an Empress;

but his respect was a tribute only to her beauty.

"Mademoiselle," he repeated, "I regret to inform you that I have just

learned that, save yourself and us, there is no one in the house."

"Is that indeed so?" she answered, bowing on her part. "Then I pray you

order your men to forage for themselves. If you care to accompany me, I

will show you where the stores are."

He turned to the men and said, "Hunt about, lads, and eat what you can;

for, if that black rascal returns with any more of his friends, we shall

have to stand a siege and fight for our skins, and" (after a pause) "the

lady's."

With this the men dispersed, some in search of food and others to

perform allotted duties.

An hour later, St. Just, who had busied himself in the interval in

putting the house into a fair condition of defence, ascended, with

beating heart, a staircase, at the top of which was a doorway screened

by heavy blue curtains, that formed a glaring contrast to the bright red

stair carpets. Bold soldier as he was, it was with a timid air that he

pushed aside the curtains and found himself where, till now, no man,

save the master of the house, had been permitted to set foot; in the

women's apartments. It was a long, narrow room, but so gracefully and

skillfully decorated that its narrowness was not at first apparent. The

air was heavy with some Eastern perfume, that caused the feeling of

oppression, for the lattices overlooking the courtyard that had been

closed over night had not yet been opened, despite the fact that the sun

was beginning to show its power.

St. Just looked round the room for signs of the girl he had rescued not

two hours before; his eyes did not roam far before they lighted on her;

she was reclining upon a pile of cushions, on a divan, one arm under her

head, the other, bare to the shoulder and exquisitely molded, lying on

her side, but bent slightly forward, so that her fingers just touched

the floor. She was sleeping, her whole pose betokening the abandon of

fatigue. Noiselessly St. Just moved to her side, and gazed enraptured

on the vision of loveliness beneath him. Through the gauzy drapery, he

could see her swelling bosom rise and fall in gentle undulations; he

noted the faint flush, induced by sleep, upon her cheek, the ruddy lips

slightly parted in a smile and showing just a hint of the gleaming teeth

within, the delicately chiselled nose, the broad smooth brow, the

exquisite oval of her face; and, at the sight of all her charms, he felt

his manhood stir within him.

Then, as sleepers generally do when one is near to them, she became

conscious that she was not alone, and the dark blue orbs unclosed. She

started, and a look of fear came over her at finding herself in the

presence of a man; but, the next instant, she recognized him and,

remembering what had passed, she smiled.

St. Just, too, smiled, and at the same time registered a mental vow to

save her from the usual fate of young and handsome women in a captured

city.

Then she sat up and laughingly addressed him in French, as heretofore.

"Fancy your finding me asleep like this. I feel quite ashamed. And with

my face uncovered. And do you know, Sir, that no man but my father ever

sets foot in the apartments. They are sacred to the women."

"I fear, Madame," replied St. Just, "that, in a state of warfare,

nothing is sacred to a Frenchman. But I came here to help you; and this

must be my excuse. Soon my countrymen will be in possession of the

city, and you will need protection. But I will see to it that no harm

shall come to you."

"I am sure of that," she answered, beaming on him with admiration. He

was the handsomest man she had ever seen. "But come and breakfast with

me," she went on, and she motioned to him to seat himself beside her on

the divan.

St. Just needed no second invitation, but quickly did as he was bidden.

Then he noticed that, on a small table close at hand, there was laid out

a dainty refreshment in the shape of coffee and Arab cakes and fruit.

"Are you a conjurer?" he asked in surprise, when she had filled a cup

and passed it to him. He did not understand how the repast had been

prepared, all the servants having fled.

She laughed a merry laugh. "I made the coffee myself a short time ago,"

she said, "and then I must have dropped asleep. The fruit and biscuits

were already in the room."

"But you had no stove," St. Just objected.

"There is a brazier in the corner. See? And the saucepan was put ready

for this morning by the slave last night, who was not able to forget the

habits of a lifetime even when overcome by terror. Though, till my

father returned from Gizeh late last night and told us how the battle

had gone, we had no cause for fear."

"But how comes it that I find you here alone?"