'Mistress Leyton,' said Adam Sinclair, turning with a courtl

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THE GREEN FLAG OF THE PROPHET.

Since the commencement of the war between Russia and Turkey, the world

has several times been startled by the announcement that the 'Flag of

the Prophet' was about to be unfurled in the streets of Stamboul. Such

an event, if it should happen (which may heaven avert), would proclaim

a crusade in which all true Mussulmans would be bound to take an active

part, and to fight against Christianity in every part of the world.

They may be in India, Arabia, Egypt, or wherever else their scattered

race has found a home; the raising of the green standard is a call

which none may disobey without, as the Koran lays it down, sacrificing

all his hopes of Paradise.

This fearful appeal to all the worst passions of the Eastern races

hangs like a menace over the Mohammedan world; and if the word was

once uttered and the dread flag unfurled, there is no telling to what

sanguinary excesses it might lead an enthusiastic and half-savage

people. It may be of interest to our readers if, under these

circumstances, we endeavour to make them acquainted with the origin

and history of a banner which has not seen the light of day since the

Empress Catharine of Russia attempted to reinstate Christianity in the

City of the Sultans, and which once unfurled, would set a whole world

ablaze.

There have been many flags or signals used by various nations at

different crises in their history to incite the peoples to battle on

behalf of religions, dynasties, and ideas; but none has attained to the

fearful notoriety which appertains to the terrible Flag of the Prophet,

which is really a banner of blood, for it dispels the idea of mercy

from the minds and hearts of its followers, and gives no quarter to

man, woman, or child.

The Red Cross banner of the Christian Crusaders was an emblem of

chivalry, mercy, gentleness, and love; but under its folds many a dark

deed and many a shameless act were committed; and it was understood

by the members of the Mohammedan faith to mean nothing less than the

utter extermination of their race. This feeling, with its consequent

hatred of Christianity, shews itself even at this advanced period in

the world's history, by the recent refusal of the Turkish government to

allow its ambulance corps and hospitals to bear the red cross of the

Geneva Convention (a sign which is entirely neutral, and is designed to

protect its wearers while they are engaged on their errands of mercy

to the sick and wounded of both sides), adopting instead thereof their

own emblem of the crescent. Thus we see these rival emblems once more

waving over the field of battle, though, happily, to mitigate rather

than increase the horrors of war.

In France the 'oriflamme' or golden sun upon a field of crimson

signified 'no quarter;' but this celebrated Flag of the Prophet means

infinitely more than this. It is a summons to an anti-Christian

crusade, a challenge of every believer in the Prophet to arms; a

war-signal in fact, which, like the Fiery Cross of Scotland, would

flash its dread command through the domain of Islam. In the interests

of humanity, however, we may hope that the 'Commander of the Faithful'

will never utter the dreadful word; for then indeed would the whole

soul and strength of Christendom turn against the enemy of all

civilised laws, human and divine.

The Prophet himself predicted that one day when his followers should

number a hundred millions--which they do now, with twenty millions

more added to it--his flag should fly against the advancing power of

the northern races; and the Koran or Mohammedan Bible says that when

its silken folds are flung forth 'the earth will shake, the mountains

melt into dust, the seas blaze up in fire, and the children's hair grow

white with anguish.' This language is of course metaphorical; but it is

easy to conceive, by the light of very recent history, that some such

catastrophe might take place, as the displaying of this terrible symbol

would raise a frenzy of fanaticism in the breasts of the Mohammedan

race all over the globe.

The origin of the insignia is a curious one. Mohammed gazing out upon

a vast prospect of fields, said: 'Nature is green, and green shall be

my emblem, for it is everlasting and universal.' In course of time,

however, it lost that innocent significance; and amid his visions,

the great dreamer saw the Green Flag floating as a sign that all true

believers should take up their arms and march against the Infidel;

in fact the green turban was the sacred head-dress of the pilgrim or

perfected Islamite who had gone to Mecca; and hence the sanctity of

this formidable standard.

When once unfurled, it summons all Islam by an adjuration from the

Koran that the sword is the solitary emblem and instrument of faith,

independence, and patriotism; that armies, not priests, make converts;

and that sharpened steel is the 'true key to heaven or hell.' Upon

that fearful ensign are inserted the words which are supposed to have

been written at Mecca itself--namely, 'All who draw it [the sword]

will be rewarded with temporal advantages; every drop shed of their

blood, every peril and hardship endured by them, will be registered on

high as more meritorious than either fasting or praying. If they fall

in battle, their sins will be at once blotted out, and they will be

transported to Paradise, there to revel in eternal pleasures in the

arms of black-eyed houris. But for the first heaven are reserved those

of the Faithful who die within sight of the Green Flag of the Prophet.'

Then follow the terrible and all-significant words, the fearful war-cry

against God and man: 'Then may no man give or expect mercy!'

This is the outburst of barbarism with which the world is threatened in

this year of grace 1877; and the reader cannot do otherwise than mark

the cunning nature of the portentous words inscribed on the Prophet's

banner. What would not most men do, civilised or savage, for 'temporal

advantages?' While to the Eastern peoples fasting and praying are

looked upon as of so meritorious a nature, that to find something else

which, in the eyes of Allah, would be deemed of greater value still,

would be a desideratum which none would fail to grasp, by any means

whatever, if it came within their reach. But Mohammed's wonderful

knowledge of human nature, and more especially of Eastern human nature,

is shewn in his picture of Paradise as prepared for the Faithful who

fall in battle; while his declaration that the highest heaven in this

so-called Paradise will be reserved for those who die within sight of

the Green Flag, is a masterpiece of devilish policy unequalled in the

annals of mankind.

It scarcely needed the fearful words which follow to add emphasis

to this dreadful appeal to the passions of a semi-barbarous race.

Another motto on this sacred flag is not without significance at the

present time: 'The gates of Paradise are under the shade of swords;'

and this alone would, if the flag were unfurled in the holy mosque of

Constantinople, give to the Turk a moral power over his subordinates

the effect of which it would be vain to calculate. Civilised though he

partially is, he still firmly believes in the old doctrine of _kismet_

or fatality, and in angels fighting on his behalf; not less implicitly

than did his ancestors at the battle of Beder, where this formidable

green standard was first unfurled. 'There,' says the historian, 'they

elevated the standard, which Mohammed from his height in heaven

blessed.'

Thus arose the great tradition of this sacred war-emblem, which it is a

Turkish boast was never yet captured in battle, though it was once in

extreme peril in a fight between hill and plain; when Mohammed himself

had it snatched out of his hands. Ali, his kinsman, however, thrust

himself in front of a hundred spears, and won the victory with the

immaculate flag flying over his head.

It is scarcely to be wondered at that a race so superstitious as the

Turks should attach an almost miraculous value to such a symbol of

their past history and their present power. It is a spell wherever

their race or religion flourishes, and its invocation in the serious

form now menaced cannot be regarded without anxiety. The day of

the military apostles of Mohammed may be past, it is true; but the

tradition survives; and the unfurling of this flag might be the spark

which would set fire to the latent enthusiasm of the Mohammedan race

and involve the world in a religious war.

We have referred to the great French banner, the oriflamme; and it was

that which led the French Crusaders through the Holy Land and headed

the royal armies of France in the campaigns of the sixteenth century,

while it also divided the Blue from the White in the Burgundian civil

wars; but this Flag of the Prophet to-day exercises a magical influence

over one hundred and twenty millions of the human race, scattered about

in Arabia, Syria, Asia Minor, Persia, and Egypt, over the Nile and the

Ganges, and from Jerusalem to the Red Sea.

The desire of Mohammed, however, was, that while all pilgrims whose

task had been duly fulfilled should wear the green turban, no sovereign

in his succession should unfurl the Green Flag of the Faith unless

Islam were in imminent peril. The unfurling of the banner would be

performed with great religious ceremony, and in the presence of the

Commander of the Faithful, who is himself supposed to carry it at the

head of his army; while a fearful curse would be called down upon the

head of every Mohammedan who, capable of bearing arms, failed to rally

round it.

The standard itself is not a very handsome one, and is surpassed both

in value and appearance by many of the banners which belong to the

various benefit societies and other mutual associations of men in this

country. It is of green silk, with a large crescent on the top of the

staff, from which is suspended a long plume of horse-hair (said to have

been the tail of the Prophet's favourite Arab steed), while the broad

folds of the flag exhibit the crescent and the quotations from the

Koran already mentioned.

The state colour of one of our regiments of the Guards is a much

prettier and more expensive standard than the great banner of Islam;

but (to such small things is man's enthusiasm attached) if the latter

was the veriest 'rag' in existence, nothing could mar the beauty which

the prestige of more than a thousand years has given to it in the eyes

of a Mussulman.

The Flag of the Prophet is kept in the mosque of St Sophia at

Constantinople, and is in the custody of the Sheik-ul-Islam, or

Mohammedan chief-priest, where all well-wishers of humanity may

sincerely trust it will ever remain.

FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.

PART II.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

Deborah and Mistress Dinnage were walking in the old garden, in the

moonlight, on the mossed green walk along which they had played hound

and hare in 'madder merrier days.' They walked slowly, arm in arm,

talking plentifully and earnestly, and still the old difference shewed

between them. Deborah, so cold with most of her own sex, and so wont to

accept passively their enthusiastic tokens of affection and admiration,

dealt only the most caressing tenderness to Margaret Dinnage; which

Mistress Dinnage, on her part, returned with brusqueness and no outward

show of affection whatever.

'I made him take it,' said Deborah. 'I know not what sore trouble had

got hold of him. I think it was worse than need of money, or a greater

debt than he has ever had before.'

'And he has gone to Master Sinclair? O Lady Deb, you should have

made him see Sir Vincent first; though, good sooth, it is easier to

preach than to practise, and it is no light task for ye to lead Master

Fleming. But I, like you, abominate that old man. Whenever he rides up

the chase, I say to father: "Father, the old fox comes! He wishes no

good to Enderby."'

'I know it well; more strongly my heart tells me so each time. He comes

for poor Deb Fleming; but time and coldness will soon unearth his

cunning, and turn his hateful love to cruel hate.'

'Ay, and he will urge your brother on to ruin, in hopes of winning you.'

'O Mistress Dinnage, good Mistress Dinnage, say not so, so coldly!

Sweet heart, how could this thing be? Marry the man who compassed my

brother's ruin? You speak wisely!'

'Ah,' said Mistress Dinnage scornfully, 'you are blind; but I, shut

out from all great folk's doings, can see and know them well. I can

see how Master Sinclair, that old fox, would bring you and yours to

_beggary_--ay, to shame--that he may say to ye: "Wed me; I will save

your father and brother." _He_ knows your love for them. _He_ knows o'

what stuff you're made. And indeed you'd be sore pressed between your

love for them and your hate for Master Sinclair.'

'O Meg, say no more. You wrong me. I had rather see them _dead_. But

what can I do? The swiftest horse would not catch Charlie now. O

Mistress Dinnage, you have scared me, and I am not wont to be scared.

What if Adam Sinclair drives him mad? gives him some great sum, and

then has him up to pay it! No; stay! Charlie is not of age. But worse,

if he refuses aid, and my poor boy flies the country. O merciful

heaven!' Deborah stood with her hands clasped upon her head, and her

eyes regarding Mistress Dinnage wildly.

'No,' said Mistress Dinnage thoughtfully; 'this will not be. If Master

Fleming is in debt, old Adam Sinclair will give him the money needful,

and draw him on and on; for the time's not come yet. Lady Deb, you

must talk to him--to Master Fleming. You alone can save him, an' it's

a down road he's goin'. If father hadn't spared the rod so oft, an' we

hadn't screened him so oft from blame, this thing might not be. But

that is past. If ye will save Master Fleming from utter ruin, _now_ is

the time.'

'Ay, you talk,' said Deborah scornfully; 'you had better turn a wild

Arab horse afield, and bid me catch him. Don't I pray? Don't I plead to

him--ay, till my very soul dissolves in words, to keep him at home from

mad companions? What can I do? A sister cannot tether him. _Love_ alone

would save him.'

'Love? Ah, you speak to me o' what I know nothing; my heart, you know,

is'----

'True as steel.'

'Ay, but as cold. But if a maiden's love indeed would save him, ask

some one whom Master Fleming could love; ask Mistress Warriston; and he

may come to love her.'

'Well; indeed he might. And May is an heiress too, and lovely. When

Charlie cared not for her, he was a boy; and now he is grown a man,

older than his years. Do you truly advise me to ask May here, who

had indeed, we both thought long ago, some secret liking for my poor

Charlie?'

'I don't advise,' quoth Mistress Dinnage. 'But, ask her.' Then again:

'Well, do as it pleases you. I won't advise. I know not if it would be

for good or ill.'

'How could it be for ill?'

'It might break Mistress Warriston's heart, which is so tender!'

'How know you it is so tender?'

'Because it is worn upon her sleeve, and ever melts in tears.'

'I love her for that womanliness.'

The proud lip of Mistress Dinnage curled. 'Yes, it is well. Tears ease

the heart, and ladies have time to weep.'

'_You_ would never weep, whatever ailed ye. Oh, thou'rt a proud

incomprehensible little maid. I would like to see thee well in love.'

'That ye never will.'

'Never boast. It is a sign of weakness, Mistress mine. But is there a

doubt that Charlie Fleming would _not_ love one so charming as May?

Were I a man, I would worship her; and it is such bold spirits as his

that love the soft and tender. Charlie _will not_ woo; he looks askance

to _be_ wooed, and would love the maiden wooer! _I_ know Charlie

Fleming.'

'Then if he loves to be wooed,' said Mistress Dinnage, with a fierce

scorn, 'let him seek it in the streets of Granta; fair enough women

there, and ready too. I thought not that Master Fleming would love such

kind!'

Deborah withdrew her arm from her companion's, and answered coldly:

'You offend me. You wilfully misunderstand me. But how can I look to be

understood by one who knows no softness, no weakness of her sex! You

have a hard, hard heart, Mistress Dinnage, if it be a noble one. The

good _you_ do is never done for love.'

'True enow, good sooth. But such poor love as ye describe, defend me

from! It is water and milk at best. If God made me love, my love would

lie so deep that the man who would win it must dig and dig to find it.

Ay, hard!'

'Proud Mistress mine, do you value yourself thus highly?'

'Ay, I am a poor girl; but I have an honest heart, Mistress Fleming,

and value it as highly as any lady in the land. He who loves, but

thinks it not worth the winning, let him go; he who sets not such store

by my love, let him go; and if the right man never comes, let the

others go! If Margaret Dinnage could have loved, it would have been

thus with her; and the hidden unvalued love would live and die within

one heart.'

'I know it, I know it!' cried Deborah impulsively. 'O noble heart!

_this_ is the kind of love I can feel for, for I have it beating

here;' and Deborah laid her hand upon her own breast. 'One thing you

lack, Meg--that would make you perfect. _Love!_' Pleading, earnest,

sweet, significant, tender, emphatic, was the utterance of the last

imperative word, and Deborah's arms were round her friend, and her

upturned face upon Margaret's breast. So in the moonlight the girls

stood: a fair picture, for the head of Mistress Dinnage was turned

aside, and her grave dark eyes averted; and in that moment each proud

heart was revealed to each. '_Let_ thyself love,' continued Deborah, in

her sweetest softest tones. 'Ye can be _too_ proud, Mistress Dinnage.

The day will come when ye will rue it bitterly. I would not urge ye,

if I divined not the secret of another heart. Are you so blind that ye

cannot see it too? The restlessness when you're not by; the wistful

eye--that _I_ dare not answer! O Mistress Dinnage, if Kingston Fleming

had had _one_ such look for me, in those old days, child as I was, I

would have loved him before all the world, truly and unchangeably. Know

ye not that I speak the truth? Would I urge ye to your ruin? When once

a Fleming loves, he never loves but honourably. Then, his fate is not

in _my_ hands--but in thine.' There was silence. The last three words,

though whispered, rang again and again in the listener's ears like

music. What Mistress Dinnage thought then, was not told, but Deborah

felt the wild heaving of her breast.

So a few moments passed, and Margaret put Deborah from her with firm

but gentle hands. 'Talk no more of this,' she said, while they walked

on. 'I will not be so stubborn as to seem ignorant of your meaning.

But I do not think with you. No; do not speak, my sweet Mistress

Deborah; no words will make us think alike. What! was it not so in the

old days, that your heart would ever outrun your head, and ye _would_

believe what ye longed for? Noble it is of ye to long for this; but

Deborah Fleming, ye are like no other woman living, rich or poor. Ye

are _yourself_; and I know you to be above all the littlenesses of

woman-kind.'

Deborah blushed with pleasure. 'Hush, hush!' she said. 'This from you

is too high praise; and dangerous, because you mean it all, and no

flattery. But if it _is_ noble to plead for one's dearest wish, and to

choose above all rank and riches one's best and dearest friend, then

I must be a very noble maid! But it seems to me simple nature, and no

nobility. God has given me no ambition for great things; on the other

hand, He has given me the power of loving faithfully; so that through

all, with all her faults, never think but that Deborah Fleming will be

true to her nature--true to those dearer than her own life!'

And then, Mistress Dinnage beginning, they talked of Kingston Fleming.

A very frequent subject of conversation was he. It would not be fair to

write all the nonsense that maidens will talk, even a Mistress Fleming

and a Mistress Dinnage, for diamonds are found in dust. And they talked

with great earnestness and gravity of the lace cap and discussed every

minute point of dress; and what should be done if King Fleming came,

and there was no host to receive him. Would he stay? Would it be

seemly? Surely, with Dame Marjory--and much laughter even; for laughter

and tears are near akin; and in April, sun follows showers.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

The next morning, Deborah, in her great saloon, was tending her flowers

and thinking of Charlie, when she heard her father's step. With a rush

she was out, and the sun streamed out with her through the open door.

'My Rose of Enderby, art smartening up! The lad Kingston will be here

to-morrow.'

Deborah's treacherous heart gave a great leap. 'Who told you so?' she

asked calmly.

'This scrawl. Why, Deb, ye must look gladder than that; he is your

cousin, ye know: or have ye forgot him?'

Deborah read the note in silence, and then her busy bewildered thoughts

flew off. Oh, she must be calm; this would never do; she must be

'Mistress Deborah Fleming,' receiving in all cousinly courtesy the

affianced lover of Mistress Beatrix Blancheflower, her rival beauty in

a rival county.

'Father,' said Deborah, with sudden laughing joy, 'I must have some

guests to meet him. Why, I have seldom had a party here; a very little

money will go a long long way to make this bright and gay, and you have

a store of good old wine still left. Wine and flowers and _women_,

father! What more do mortals want? And it will be returning Master

Sinclair's generosity, which necessity weighs heavily on us, till it be

paid. Oh, leave it to me, father, and you will think me a rare Mistress

of Enderby!'

Sir Vincent looked round somewhat ruefully. '_Must_ it be, sweet heart,

and even to-morrow? It cannot be.'

'It can. Trust in me. Why, father, you will be the gayest of the gay,

as ye always are at such times. Dost give consent?'

'Why yes, tyrant. But ask Adam Sinclair.'

'Trust me.' And Deborah was out and away to Dame Marjory and Mistress

Dinnage. The lord of Lincoln for once would be welcomed!

It pleased Deborah to have a banquet in the hall and music in the

saloon. Why, she had twenty pounds a year; and good lack! One could not

_always_ contemplate ruin. A Fleming was coming home; they would 'kill

the fatted calf.' Such pleasures were far between.

It was short notice, but willing messengers were soon afoot, and Granta

was laid under requisition for guests. Deborah, happy and proud, sent

the word to all invited guests that short notice was involuntary on

her part; her cousin Kingston Fleming was coming home suddenly, and

who could, must come and dance at Enderby. So what with Granta men and

young belles of Deborah's age, and a few old dowagers and a few Adam

Sinclairs, the party was made up. Deborah was lucky. She, in her sheeny

lovely dress, was well-nigh worshipped by the men, she looked so full

of life, so brilliant. But no Charlie! That was the one drawback; nor

did Adam Sinclair know where he was, save that he had left Lincoln the

day before in good spirits. Deborah knew in her heart what that meant.

As she conversed, she looked full at Adam Sinclair, and felt to love

all man and woman kind. The aged wooer trembled before the gracious

girl; time only heightened his passion and hardened his determination

to win Deborah Fleming at all hazards. The county had already begun to

whisper about his infatuation and her coldness.

Eyes enough were upon them though, and the dowagers decided that so far

from being 'cold,' Deborah Fleming encouraged him by every means in her

power.

'Mistress Fleming,' he whispered ardently, 'give me some token

to-night--some slight token of favour. Your eyes look kind to-night.

Give me that rose.'

Deborah glanced at the red rose in her breast. 'This rose, Master

Sinclair? Nay; not this: there are a thousand others in the garden.

Marjory shall bring ye one.'

'I covet this one, Mistress Fleming, warm from your heart. What is it

to you? And _I_ would give a hundred crowns to possess it.'

'It would seem perchance a love-token, and those I never give.'

'Ye are obdurate.'

Deborah turned away from those gleaming eyes. 'I am honest,' she said.

'Mistress Leyton,' said Adam Sinclair, turning with a courtly smile

to an old dame who was sitting near, drinking elder-berry wine and

listening open-eared, 'will ye not plead my cause? Here is Mistress

Fleming will give me nought. And what do I ask? Nothing, but that red

rose from her gown.'

'What would you do in my place, Mistress Leyton?' asked Deborah.

'Why, if I favoured Master Sinclair, I would give him the rose.'

'You put it very strongly,' laughed Deborah. 'But you have released me

from my strait, for I could neither be so bold as to _favour_ Master

Sinclair nor so rude as to shew him none; so I give my rose to you.'

'Keep it, child; it looks so lovely. It suits too thy name--Rose of

Enderby.'

'Mistress Leyton, you must bring this Rose to Lincoln one day,' said

Adam Sinclair. 'Now do this much for me, for old acquaintance' sake!'

'But will Mistress Deborah come?'

'I know not,' answered Deborah, smiling. 'What I would like now, I may

not like to-morrow.'

'Thou art a spoiled child and a wilful one.'

'Yes; I fear me it is so. But Master Sinclair, I am not ungracious.'

'I think ye are. Come one moment to this window.' He led Deborah

into the recess, and asked her to gather him a rose, a red rose. The

brilliant lights flashed athwart them; near by stood a bevy of young

and scowling men; the roses were laughing and fluttering about the

casement. The tall old figure was bending down, and Deborah, gay yet

reluctant, and looking gloriously beautiful, raised her eyes to

present the gift, when Kingston Fleming entered.

He had heard enough on the way about 'Mistress Deborah Fleming' and

'Master Sinclair;' all rumours united their names, till he knew not

what to believe, but laughed and wondered. So, with his old indolent

curiosity, he looked up at Enderby, and saw lights gleam through the

great windows, heard music, and saw dancing forms flit by. He raised

his glass, and laughed. 'Why, Deb is queening it right royally! I

imagine Master Sinclair is among the guests.' And wondering at it all,

and greatly edified, Master Kingston Fleming, having first put his

travelling-dress in some slight order, was conducted by Dame Marjory

along the gallery. 'Are they often so gay, Marjory?' he asked, laughing

at her grim but important countenance.

'_Never, never_, Master King! Bless thee, no. There are lonesome hours

enow at Enderby, an' Master Charlie never here. This is a whim of

the young mistress to welcome _thee_, Master King;' and her features

relaxed into a grim smile. 'She has such a whim now and again.'

So Kingston Fleming entered, and saw the picture we have drawn. From

that moment the mad young hoyden faded for ever from Kingston's mind,

into the stately beauty who stood there. She turned, the colour flushed

to her cheeks and light sprang to her eyes. 'Kingston!'

'Why, Deb! But "_little_ Deb" no longer. How changed! I scarce know

you.'

Then Sir Vincent came forward, and they were parted, for Mistress

Fleming had duties to fulfil. But ever Kingston's eyes followed her,

though she had no eyes for him. Then there was the dancing, and all

were seeking Deborah; she was surrounded; and often she saw herself in

the tall old mirrors, and her beauty flashed on her like a surprise.

Deborah Fleming carried all before her that night; she sang--that was

her one perfect gift; she had a splendid voice, and sang with power

and sweetness, and some deep emotion threw passion into her song that

night. Then there was the supper, when Adam Sinclair sat on Deborah's

right hand. Then another measure. But Kingston would not dance, though

he loved it with enthusiasm. Then there was the hour of two tolled out

from the chimes of Enderby, and the last carriage rolled away.

'Come down and smoke a pipe, boy,' said Sir Vincent; and Kingston said

he would follow.

Deborah, tired, but strangely happy, had thrown herself on a sofa. 'Not

yet, King,' said she. 'You have been away for two long years; you have

much to tell me, sure. You have seen May Warriston?'

'Ay; in a picture-gallery at Florence.'

'Was she changed?'

'She was prettier and graver. I even thought little May somewhat staid

and prim; but then old Guardy was at her elbow.'

'Did she speak of me--of us?'

'Of you, a hundred times.'

'Sweet May! And you, Kingston'--Deborah blushed and hesitated--'you

have come from Rimbolton?'

'Yes.'

(Why would he not speak, and aid her?) Deborah continued shyly: 'And

is--Mistress Blancheflower well?'

'I thank ye, very well.'

Deborah could say no more anent that. 'Are you changed, King, in looks?

Let me see.' She bent forward, and laid one hand upon his. 'Nay; the

old comic King, with whom I ofttimes quarrelled sore; only browner,

thinner, graver too, as I see thee now.'

'Cares o' the world, Deb. Where is boy Charlie?'

'Nay; I know not.' What a sudden paleness and abstraction overspread

the sweet face! 'Charlie is much away, Kingston. I hope you will see

him and talk to my dear boy like a good kinsman. Charlie needs a

sterling friend.'

Kingston looked grave, thinking perhaps how far he himself had led

Charlie from the straight and narrow track. He answered gaily, however:

'Oh, he is young yet. Charlie promised to be a fine fellow in the end;

and with his talents, we must make something of him. Don't despair,

Deb.'

'Nay; I never despair.'

'I hear that he is a friend of Master Adam Sinclair's.'

'Yes. Didst hear that at Rimbolton?'

'Yes; and elsewhere too.'

'Then ye have doubtless heard most tidings?'

'Yes, Deb. Tidings spread like wild-fire on a country-side; but I don't

credit all I hear, or I should believe ye to be betrothed to Adam

Sinclair.'

'When _I_ tell you, you may believe that, not till then,' answered the

maiden.

Then followed a long silence, and Kingston looked on vacancy through

the fading rose on Deborah's breast. O irrevocable past! O vague dark

future! 'You used to hate me, Deb,' said he suddenly, at last.

'Ay? Did I? Well, perhaps I hate you now.'

'Perhaps you are grown a little hypocrite, as you give me kind smiles

in place o' former frowns.'

'That is a necessary duty. I smile at Master Sinclair.'

'There is no disguise _there_. It springs from the heart, Deb.'

'You can read my heart then? No; I do not hate you, Kingston; I love

you as my kinsman and my brother's truest friend.'

'Not always his true friend, Deb,' said Kingston quickly. 'Don't give

me more than my due.'

'Well, I don't hate you for your candour, but rather love you, King.'

'Dost love me, Deb?' Kingston Fleming looked up strangely and suddenly

from under his long love-lock with his old arch smile, but there was a

wistful sadness in it too.

Deborah blushed scarlet at the sudden question. 'Love ye?' she begged

curtly, to hide her confusion. 'Ay, well enough. We _shall_ be friends,

I know. We will quarrel no more, King; we two _must_ be friends.'

'Friends, sweet heart--_friends_?' What ailed him as he murmured these

words? He seemed like one distraught. Springing up, he paced to and fro

the long length of the saloon, then stopped before the maiden.

'Well, good-bye, Deb. I am tongue-tied in thy presence. I had better

go. Kiss me!'

Deborah blushed. 'Nay; I never did that.'

'Is that a reason ye _never_ should?' And Kingston stooped and kissed

her.

He was gone. Was it pleasure or pain that caused Deborah's heart to

beat so wildly?

'Oh, this must not be,' she exclaimed passionately. 'This shall not

be. I love him madly. And he? Oh, shame on me, to let him do this

thing, and trifle with me thus! He, affianced meantime to Mistress

Blancheflower; and thinks the while to play with Deborah Fleming's

heart!' The girl started up, and paced where Kingston had paced before

her. '_Two_ can play at this,' she said. 'Ah, Master King Fleming, if

ye think to lower a Fleming's pride, it shall go hardly with ye! But if

ye mean well, I will bless thy future, and still love thee--as neither

friend nor foe.' Deborah's voice sank to a whisper of unutterable

tenderness. "Friends, sweet heart--_friends_?" What meant he by that,

but to put vain and wicked love-thoughts in my head? Can I believe thee

so dishonoured, Kingston? Thou, whom I thought the soul of honour!

It cannot be. But I will watch thee well. Love thee as a _friend_,

forsooth! It is Deborah Fleming's curse to have a heart true to one

life-long love, one long unmaidenly love--because unsought, uncared

for. Ah me! I fear myself. I dare not think on Mistress Blancheflower,

lest I seek to do her some grievous harm. I dare not think on that

marriage-day. O Beatrix Blancheflower, do ye love him well? So well,

that ye are worthy of my sacrifice? Ah! why did King Fleming come here!

For the love of honour and of good faith to Mistress Blancheflower, I

will estrange him from me.'

ITALIAN VAGRANT CHILDREN.

Little Giovanni Alessandro Bosco, the bright-eyed Italian boy who

has a couple of white mice to attract the attention of passers-by,

or believes that kind folks will perchance give a copper for hearing

a tune played on a small barrel-organ, is not perhaps aware that he

has risen to the dignity of being officially noticed. In other words,

Italian organ-boys, image-boys, street exhibitors, and appellants

to a compassionate public, have been the subject of correspondence

between the diplomatists of Italy and those of England. The despatches

or communications have lately been published in a blue-book or

parliamentary paper; shewing that European governments are now alive to

sympathies which would have had but little chance of manifesting their

presence in an earlier and ruder state of society.

About three years and a half ago, we gave an account of what had come

under our knowledge in Italy concerning the deportation of Italian

boys as beggars or exhibitors. We stated that 'Much to its credit, the

parliament of Italy have before them a bill to abolish the system of

apprenticing children of less than eighteen years of age to strolling

trades or professions, such as mountebanks, jugglers, charlatans,

rope-dancers, fortune-tellers, expounders of dreams, itinerant

musicians, vocalists or instrumentalists, exhibitors of animals, and

mendicants of every description, at home or abroad, under a penalty

of two pounds to ten pounds for each offence, and from one to three

months' imprisonment. It is to be trusted that this will shortly become

law, and so put an end to one of the most crying evils of our time.'

Subsequent facts shew that, although this law has passed in Italy,

and may in that country be producing some good results, it has not in

any way lessened the number of vagrant Italian children seen in the

streets of London and other English towns. How it happens that the

remedial measure has not relieved our shores from this incubus, we will

explain presently; but it may be well first to summarise a few of the

statements in the former article, sufficient to shew the mode in which

this cruel traffic is carried on.

In years gone by, when Italy was split up into a number of kingdoms,

dukedoms, and petty states, very little attention was paid to the

general welfare of the people; the peasants and small cultivators

were often so hardly driven that the support of a family became a

serious responsibility; and a people, naturally kind rather than the

reverse, were tempted to the adoption of a course from which their

better feeling would have revolted. They did not actually _sell_ their

children, but they apprenticed them off for a time, on the receipt

of a sum of money. The _padroni_ or masters, to whom the children

were apprenticed, were men whose only sympathy was for themselves and

their own pockets; they made specious promises, and got the poor young

creatures, eight years old or so, into their hands. Too often, the

parents never saw the children again, and remained quite ignorant of

their fate. It was not in Italy that the scoundrels kept their victims;

they mostly crossed the Alps into France, whence many of them found

their way to England. Or else they were shipped at Genoa, and conveyed

at cheap rates to such shores as seemed likely to be most profitable to

the _padroni_. As these men acquire an accurate knowledge of the extent

to which sheer open beggary is illegal in this or that country, they

adopt a blind, by turning the poor children into exhibitors of white

mice, marmots, or monkeys. Advanced a little in age and experience, the

boys are intrusted with small organs, and perhaps later with organs of

larger size. Those whose strength of constitution enables them to bear

a life of hardship during the so-called apprenticeship can sometimes

obtain an organ on hire from one of the makers of those instruments,

and become itinerant organ-grinders on their own account. But there is

reason to fear that the poor boys too often succumb to the treatment

they receive, and die at an early age. As to what befalls the girls

thus expatriated, another sad picture would have to be drawn.

No resident in London, no visitor to London, need be told of the organ

nuisance. Some of the organs, it is true, are really of excellent

tone, and play good music; but they become a pest in this way--that

the men, taking note of the houses whence they have obtained money,

stop in front of those houses more and more frequently, in the hope of

being paid, if not for playing, at least for going away. Some of these

organ-men have been organ-boys who came over with _padroni_.

And now for the diplomatic correspondence relating to this subject.

In 1874 the Chevalier Cadorna, Italian Minister at the Court of St

James's, addressed a communication to the Earl of Derby relating to

these wretched and ill-used children. He stated that a law had been

passed in Italy, the success of which would depend largely on the

co-operation of other governments. It had been ascertained that in

many provinces of that country parents lease or lend their children

for money; boys and girls under eight years of age, who are taken by

vile speculators to foreign lands, there to be employed as musicians,

tumblers, dancers, exhibitors of white mice, beggars, &c. It is a white

slave-trade, in which the unfeeling parents participate. London is

especially noted for the presence of these unfortunates; the _padroni_

or masters find that a good harvest may be made out of the injudicious

because indiscriminate charity of the metropolis. 'Miserable it is

for the children,' says M. Cadorna, 'if they fail any day to obtain

the sum which their tyrants require from them! This is the reason why

we often see them wandering about till late at night, exhausted by

fatigue and hunger, rather than return to the lodgings where they dread

ill-treatment of various kinds from their pitiless masters.' The police

magistrates of London are frequently occupied in listening to the

complaints of these poor creatures. But no: this is hardly the case;

for the victims are generally afraid to make their sorrows known, lest

they should suffer still worse from the vengeance of their taskmasters;

sometimes, however, they are too ill from bad treatment to conceal

their misery; while at other times they are taken up for begging. Who

knows? perhaps the poor things receive better food and lodging during

a few days' imprisonment--certainly better in a reformatory or a

workhouse--than in the squalid rooms which their tyrants provide for

them.

The Italian government are endeavouring to check the evil at its source

or fountain-head; making the leasing of children by their parents

illegal. If this does not produce a cure, then they are endeavouring

to watch the slave-traders (as we may truly call them), and forbid

them to carry their victims across the frontier or out to sea. When

the Chevalier Cadorna made his communication to the Earl of Derby,

the new law had been too recently passed to supply evidence of its

practical effect; but he pointed to the fact that the law could not

meet with full success unless foreign governments would render aid,

by making this kind of Italian slavery unlawful in the countries to

which the _padroni_ bring their little victims. A suggestion was

made that the Extradition convention, signed between England and

Italy, might possibly be made to take cognizance of this state of

things. Not so, it appears. The Home Secretary, when appealed to,

stated that traffic in children is not within any of the crimes named

in the English Extradition Acts. 'It appears to Mr Cross that the

source of the evil arises in Italy, and that measures might be there

adopted for preventing the egress from that country of such children

as are described in the letter of the Italian Minister. He supposes

that it would be competent to the Italian government to decline to

grant passports for such children, and thus prevent their crossing

the Italian frontier. There is no power to prevent such children from

landing in this country. All that can be done is to protect them from

any cruelty or ill-treatment on the part of _padroni_; and Mr Cross is

assured that the metropolitan magistrates are most anxious to carry out

that object, and that they are very desirous to abate the evils as far

as our laws empower them to do so.'

So the matter rested for a time. Three years later, in May of the

present year, the subject was mentioned in the House of Commons; and

the Italian Minister, General Menabrea (successor to the Chevalier

Cadorna), informed the Earl of Derby that the Italian government

cannot effect all they wish in preventing the exodus of the _padroni_

and their victims. 'It is easy for them to elude the vigilance of the

authorities; for passports being now practically abolished from Italy

to France, and thence to England, the traffickers in children can, by

expatriating themselves, relieve themselves from the punishments they

have incurred.'

Thus the inquiry ended nearly as it began, so far as definite

conclusions are concerned. England is very chary of making restrictions

on the freedom of entry of foreigners on our shores. Deposed emperors

and kings, princes in trouble, defeated presidents and past presidents,

persecuted ecclesiastics, patriots out of work--all find an asylum in

little England; and many things would have to be taken into account

before our government could legally forbid the Italian children and

their _padroni_ from setting foot on English ground.

No one can glance habitually through the daily newspapers without

meeting with cases illustrating the condition of the poor Italian

children. Some months back the magistrates of North Shields had a boy

and a girl brought before them charged with begging. The fact came out

in evidence that their _padrone_ had bought or farmed them of their

parents, and brought them to England. Marianna Frametta was fourteen

years of age, Marcolatto Crola eleven. He had bought or rather leased

them for twelve months, at ten pounds each: his calculation being that

this sum, four shillings a week, would be amply covered, and much

more, after providing them with board and lodging, by their earnings.

They usually, it appears, got from nine to fifteen shillings a _day_

by begging, possibly with the addition of some small pretence to an

exhibition of white mice. If they brought home less than ten shillings

each, they were beaten instead of fed at night. These sums appear

strangely large; but so stands the record. It is satisfactory to know

that the fellow was punished with imprisonment and hard labour for

his cruelty. But what would eventually be the life of the children

themselves? They were sent to the workhouse for temporary shelter,

food, and medical treatment; these could only last for a time; and the

youngsters would still be aliens, without definite occupation or means

of livelihood.

There can be no doubt that the English habit of giving small sums of

money to people in the streets and at the street doors has something

to do with this matter. It may be due to a kind motive, but it

unquestionably increases the number of applicants, and opposes a bar

to the endeavours of governments and legislatures to bring about an

improvement. Nevertheless it is quite right that all should be done

that can be done to prevent ruthless speculators from bringing over

poor Italian children to our shores, and then treating them like

veritable slaves. This should all the more sedulously be attended to,

because the _padroni_ (so far as concerns the metropolis) live almost

exclusively in one district, around Hatton Garden and Leather Lane. The

narrow streets, courts, and alleys in that vicinity are crowded with

them; every room in some of the houses being occupied by a distinct

Italian batch, crowded together like pigs in a sty, and forming hotbeds

of disease. When the 'Health Act' and the 'Lodging-Houses Act' gave the

police power to enter such wretched apologies for dwellings, fearful

scenes of this kind were brought to light. Matters are gradually being

improved, but only by dint of constant vigilance.

Evidently there is an anxiety on the part of the Home Secretary to

do all in his power to suppress the scandal, as is evidenced by

the following circular, addressed to the police authorities of the

metropolis: 'The attention of the Secretary of State has been called

to the practice under which children bought or stolen from parents in

Italy or elsewhere are imported into this country by persons known by

the name of _padroni_, who send them into the streets to earn money by

playing musical instruments, selling images, begging, or otherwise. It

is most important to suppress this traffic by every available means,

and Mr Cross relies on the vigilant co-operation of the police for this

purpose. In many cases the employer will be found to have committed an

offence against the Vagrant Act, 5 George IV. cap. 88, by procuring

the child to beg. If so, he should be forthwith prosecuted, and the

result of such prosecution should be made the subject of a special

report to the Secretary of State. The child will probably come within

the provisions of the 14th section of the Industrial Schools Act, 1866

(29 and 30 Vic. cap. 118), either under the first clause (as a child

begging alms), or under the second clause (as a child wandering and

without proper guardianship). An application should therefore be made

to the justices for the child to be sent to a certified industrial

school. Further application should be made, under section 19, for the

temporary detention of the child in the workhouse until the industrial

school has been selected, information being at once communicated to

the Secretary of State, in order that, if requisite, he may render

assistance in making the necessary arrangements. The final result of

each case should also be reported to the Home Secretary.'

In conclusion, we are glad to see from the newspapers that the Brighton

School Board, by enforcing the provisions of the Elementary Education

Act, have been successful in terrifying the _padroni_ who bring Italian

vagrant children to the town, and thereby have banished them with

their unhappy victims. The circumstance offers a good hint to local

authorities. Rigidly apply the School Act, and we shall probably hear

no more of the infamous practice of importing Italian children for

vicious purposes.

MAJOR HAMMOND'S RING.

'What's this?' cried Miss Hammond, breaking open a letter just handed

to her by a servant. 'You read it, Maggie; your eyes are better than

mine.'

Small wonder at that indeed, seeing that Maggie is aged about eighteen,

and the other sixty-five at the very least, a pleasant-looking,

well-preserved spinster, with a brown resolute face and sausage curls

over the forehead. Maggie, a handsome modern girl, sits down and reads:

MADAM--The parishioners of St Crispin, Gigglesham, in vestry

assembled, have determined to rebuild their parish church,

pronounced unsafe by the surveyors. Contributions are earnestly

requested. The alterations will necessitate the removal of

many vaults and graves; among others, that of the Hammond

family. It is the wish of the churchwardens to respect the

wishes of survivors and others in the disposal of the remains.

Any directions you may have to give, you will be good enough

to communicate to the undersigned.--Your most humble obedient

servants,

THOMAS TRUSCOTT,

WILLIAM BONNER,

_Churchwardens._