to the depressing and monotonous tolling of the bell and cursing it, for
the platform was a lonely place and the night of inky darkness. At last
the bell ceased, and he stood resting on his long pike, enjoying the
stillness, and peering into the blackness surrounding him, when suddenly
he became aware of a grating, rasping sound below, as if some one were
attempting to climb the precipitous beetling cliff of castle wall and
slipping against the stones. His heart stood still with fear, for he
knew it could be nothing human. An instant later something appeared
over the parapet that could be seen only because it was blacker than the
distant dark sky against which it was outlined. It rose and rose until
the sentinel saw it was the top of a ladder, which was even more amazing
than if the fiend himself had scrambled over the stone coping, for we
know the devil can go anywhere, while a ladder cannot. But the soldier
was a common-sense man, and, dark as was the night, he knew that, tall
as such a ladder must be, there seemed a likelihood that human power was
pushing it upward. He touched it with his hands and convinced himself
that there was nothing supernatural about it. The ladder rose inch by
inch, slowly, for it must have been no easy task for even twoscore men
to raise it thus with ropes or other devices, especially when the bottom
of it neared the top of the ledge. The soldier knew he should at
once give the alarm: but he was the second traitor in the stronghold,
corrupted by the sight of the glittering gold he had shared, and only
prevented from selling himself because the rigours of military rule did
not give him opportunity of going to Baldwineltz as the less exacting
civilian duties had allowed the Spaniard to do and thus market his ware.
So the sentry made no outcry, but silently prepared a method by which he
could negotiate with advantage to himself when the first head appeared
above the parapet. He fixed the point of his lance against a round
of the ladder, and when the leading warrior, who was none other than
Heinrich von Richenbach, himself came slowly and cautiously to the top
of the wall, the sentinel, exerting all his strength, pushed the lance
outward, and the top of the ladder with it, until it stood nearly
perpendicular some two yards back from the wall.
“In God’s name, what are you about? Is that you, Rego?”
The soldier replied, calmly:
“Order your men not to move, and do not move yourself, until I have some
converse with you. Have no fear if you are prepared to accept my terms;
otherwise you will have ample time to say your prayers before you reach
the ground, for the distance is great.”
Von Richenbach, who now leaned over the top round, suspended thus
between heaven and earth, grasped the lance with both hands, so that the
ladder might not be thrust beyond the perpendicular. In quivering voice
he passed down the word that no man was to shift foot or hand until he
had made bargain with the sentinel who held them in such extreme peril.
“What terms do you propose to me, soldier?” he asked, breathlessly.
“I will conduct you down to the courtyard, and when you have surprised
and taken the castle you will grant me safe conduct and give me five
bags of gold equal in weight to those offered to our captain.”
“All that will I do and double the treasure. Faithfully and truly do I
promise it.”
“You pledge me your knightly word, and swear also by the holy coat of
Treves?”
“I pledge and swear. And pray you be careful; incline the ladder yet a
little more toward the wall.”
“I trust to your honour,” said the traitor, for traitors love to prate
of honour, “and will now admit you to the castle; but until we are in
the courtyard there must be silence.”
“Incline the ladder gently, for it is so weighted that if it come
suddenly against the wall, it may break in the middle.”
At this supreme moment, as the sentinel was preparing to bring them
cautiously to the wall, when all was deep silence, there crept swiftly
and noiselessly through the trap-door the belated Spaniard. His catlike
eyes beheld the shadowy form of the sentinel bending apparently over
the parapet, but they showed him nothing beyond. With the speed and
precipitation of a springing panther, the Spaniard leaped forward and
drove his dagger deep into the neck of his comrade, who, with a gurgling
cry, plunged headlong forward, and down the precipice, thrusting his
lance as he fell. The Spaniard’s dagger went with the doomed sentinel,
sticking fast in his throat, and its presence there passed a fatal
noose around the neck of Rego later, for they wrongly thought the false
sentinel had saved the castle and that the Spaniard had murdered a
faithful watchman.
Rego leaned panting over the stone coping, listening for the thud of the
body. Then was he frozen with horror when the still night air was split
with the most appalling shriek of combined human voice in an agony
of fear that ever tortured the ear of man. The shriek ended in a
terrorising crash far below, and silence again filled the valley.
“GENTLEMEN: THE KING!”
The room was large, but with a low ceiling, and at one end of the
lengthy, broad apartment stood a gigantic fireplace, in which was
heaped a pile of blazing logs, whose light, rather than that of several
lanterns hanging from nails along the timbered walls, illuminated the
faces of the twenty men who sat within. Heavy timbers, blackened with
age and smoke, formed the ceiling. The long, low, diamond-paned window
in the middle of the wall opposite the door, had been shuttered as
completely as possible, but less care than usual was taken to prevent
the light from penetrating into the darkness beyond, for the night was a
stormy and tempestuous one, the rain lashing wildly against the hunting
châlet, which, in its time, had seen many a merry hunting party gathered
under its ample roof.
Every now and then a blast of wind shook the wooden edifice from garret
to foundation, causing a puff of smoke to come down the chimney, and
the white ashes to scatter in little whirlwinds over the hearth. On the
opposite side from the shuttered window was the door, heavily barred.
A long, oaken table occupied the centre of the room, and round this in
groups, seated and standing, were a score of men, all with swords at
their sides; bearing, many of them, that air of careless hauteur which
is supposed to be a characteristic of noble birth.
Flagons were scattered upon the table, and a barrel of wine stood in a
corner of the room farthest from the fireplace, but it was evident that
this was no ordinary drinking party, and that the assemblage was brought
about by some high purport, of a nature so serious that it stamped
anxiety on every brow. No servants were present, and each man who wished
a fresh flagon of wine had to take his measure to the barrel in the
corner and fill for himself.
The hunting châlet stood in a wilderness, near the confines of the
kingdom of Alluria, twelve leagues from the capital, and was the
property of Count Staumn, whose tall, gaunt form stood erect at the
head of the table as he silently listened to the discussion which every
moment was becoming more and more heated, the principal speaking parts
being taken by the obstinate, rough-spoken Baron Brunfels, on the one
hand, and the crafty, fox-like ex-Chancellor Steinmetz on the other.
“I tell you,” thundered Baron Brunfels, bringing his fist down on the
table, “I will not have the King killed. Such a proposal goes beyond
what was intended when we banded ourselves together. The King is a fool,
so let him escape like a fool. I am a conspirator, but not an assassin.”
“It is justice rather than assassination,” said the ex-Chancellor
suavely, as if his tones were oil and the Baron’s boisterous talk were
troubled waters.
“Justice!” cried the Baron, with great contempt. “You have learned that
cant word in the Cabinet of the King himself, before he thrust you out.
He eternally prates of justice, yet, much as I loathe him, I have
no wish to compass his death, either directly or through gabbling of
justice.”
“Will you permit me to point out the reason that induces me to believe
his continued exemption, and State policy, will not run together?”
replied the advocate of the King’s death. “If Rudolph escape, he will
take up his abode in a neighbouring territory, and there will inevitably
follow plots and counter-plots for his restoration--thus Alluria will be
kept in a state of constant turmoil. There will doubtless grow up within
the kingdom itself a party sworn to his restoration. We shall thus be
involved in difficulties at home and abroad, and all for what? Merely to
save the life of a man who is an enemy to each of us. We place thousands
of lives in jeopardy, render our own positions insecure, bring continual
disquiet upon the State, when all might be avoided by the slitting of
one throat, even though that throat belong to the King.”
It was evident that the lawyer’s persuasive tone brought many to his
side, and the conspirators seemed about evenly divided upon the question
of life or death to the King. The Baron was about to break out again
with some strenuousness in favour of his own view of the matter, when
Count Staumn made a proposition that was eagerly accepted by all save
Brunfels himself.
“Argument,” said Count Staumn, “is ever the enemy of good comradeship.
Let us settle the point at once and finally, with the dice-box. Baron
Brunfels, you are too seasoned a gambler to object to such a mode
of terminating a discussion. Steinmetz, the law, of which you are so
distinguished a representative, is often compared to a lottery, so you
cannot look with disfavour upon a method that is conclusive, and as
reasonably fair as the average decision of a judge. Let us throw,
therefore, for the life of the King. I, as chairman of this meeting,
will be umpire. Single throws, and the highest number wins. Baron
Brunfels, you will act for the King, and, if you win, may bestow upon
the monarch his life. Chancellor Steinmetz stands for the State. If he
wins, then is the King’s life forfeit. Gentlemen, are you agreed?”
“Agreed, agreed,” cried the conspirators, with practically unanimous
voice.
Baron Brunfels grumbled somewhat, but when the dice-horn was brought,
and he heard the rattle of the bones within the leathern cylinder, the
light of a gambler’s love shone in his eyes, and he made no further
protest.
The ex-Chancellor took the dice-box in his hand, and was about to shake,
when there came suddenly upon them three stout raps against the door,
given apparently with the hilt of a sword. Many not already standing,
started to their feet, and nearly all looked one upon another with deep
dismay in their glances. The full company of conspirators was present;
exactly a score of men knew of the rendezvous, and now the twenty-first
man outside was beating the oaken panels. The knocking was repeated, but
now accompanied by the words:
“Open, I beg of you.”
Count Staumn left the table and, stealthily as a cat, approached the
door.
“Who is there?” he asked.
“A wayfarer, weary and wet, who seeks shelter from the storm.”
“My house is already filled,” spoke up the Count. “I have no room for
another.”
“Open the door peacefully,” cried the outlander, “and do not put me to
the necessity of forcing it.”
There was a ring of decision in the voice which sent quick pallor to
more than one cheek. Ex-Chancellor Steinmetz rose to his feet with
chattering teeth, and terror in his eyes; he seemed to recognise the
tones of the invisible speaker. Count Staumn looked over his shoulder at
the assemblage with an expression that plainly said: “What am I to do?”
“In the fiend’s name,” hissed Baron Brunfels, taking the precaution,
however, to speak scarce above his breath, “if you are so frightened
when it comes to a knock at the door, what will it be when the real
knocks are upon you. Open, Count, and let the insistent stranger in.
Whether he leave the place alive or no, there are twenty men here to
answer.”
The Count undid the fastenings and threw back the door. There entered
a tall man completely enveloped in a dark cloak that was dripping
wet. Drawn over his eyes was a hunter’s hat of felt, with a drooping
bedraggled feather on it.
The door was immediately closed and barred behind him, and the stranger,
pausing a moment when confronted by so many inquiring eyes, flung off
his cloak, throwing it over the back of a chair; then he removed his
hat with a sweep, sending the raindrops flying. The intriguants gazed
at him, speechless, with varying emotions. They saw before them His
Majesty, Rudolph, King of Alluria.
If the King had any suspicion of his danger, he gave no token of it. On
his smooth, lofty forehead there was no trace of frown, and no sign
of fear. His was a manly figure, rather over, than under, six feet in
height; not slim and gaunt, like Count Staumn, nor yet stout to excess,
like Baron Brunfels. The finger of Time had touched with frost the hair
at his temples, and there were threads of white in his pointed beard,
but his sweeping moustache was still as black as the night from which he
came.
His frank, clear, honest eyes swept the company, resting momentarily on
each, then he said in a firm voice, without the suspicion of a tremor in
it: “Gentlemen, I give you good evening, and although the hospitality of
Count Staumn has needed spurring, I lay that not up against him, because
I am well aware his apparent reluctance arose through the unexpectedness
of my visit; and, if the Count will act as cup-bearer, we will drown all
remembrance of a barred door in a flagon of wine, for, to tell truth,
gentlemen, I have ridden hard in order to have the pleasure of drinking
with you.”
As the King spoke these ominous words, he cast a glance of piercing
intensity upon the company, and more than one quailed under it. He
strode to the fireplace, spurs jingling as he went, and stood with his
back to the fire, spreading out his hands to the blaze. Count Staumn
left the bolted door, took an empty flagon from the shelf, filled it at
the barrel in the corner, and, with a low bow, presented the brimming
measure to the King.
Rudolph held aloft his beaker of Burgundy, and, as he did so, spoke in a
loud voice that rang to the beams of the ceiling:
“Gentlemen, I give you a suitable toast. May none here gathered
encounter a more pitiless storm than that which is raging without!”
With this he drank off the wine, and, inclining his head slightly to the
Count, returned the flagon. No one, save the King, had spoken since he
entered. Every word he had uttered seemed charged with double meaning
and brought to the suspicious minds of his hearers visions of a trysting
place surrounded by troops, and the King standing there, playing with
them, as a tiger plays with its victims. His easy confidence appalled
them.
When first he came in, several who were seated remained so, but one
by one they rose to their feet, with the exception of Baron Brunfels,
although he, when the King gave the toast, also stood. It was clear
enough their glances of fear were not directed towards the King, but
towards Baron Brunfels. Several pairs of eyes beseeched him in silent
supplication, but the Baron met none of these glances, for his gaze was
fixed upon the King.
Every man present knew the Baron to be reckless of consequences; frankly
outspoken, thoroughly a man of the sword, and a despiser of diplomacy.
They feared that at any moment he might blurt out the purport of the
meeting, and more than one was thankful for the crafty ex-Chancellor’s
planning, who throughout had insisted there should be no documentary
evidence of their designs, either in their houses or on their persons.
Some startling rumour must have reached the King’s ear to bring him thus
unexpectedly upon them.
The anxiety of all was that some one should persuade the King they were
merely a storm-besieged hunting party. They trembled in anticipation of
Brunfels’ open candor, and dreaded the revealing of the real cause of
their conference. There was now no chance to warn the Baron; a man who
spoke his mind; who never looked an inch beyond his nose, even though
his head should roll off in consequence, and if a man does not value
his own head, how can he be expected to care for the heads of his
neighbours?
“I ask you to be seated,” said the King, with a wave of the hand.
Now, what should that stubborn fool of a Baron do but remain standing,
when all but Rudolph and himself had seated themselves, thus drawing His
Majesty’s attention directly towards him, and making a colloquy between
them well-nigh inevitable. Those next the ex-Chancellor were nudging
him, in God’s name, to stand also, and open whatever discussion there
must ensue between themselves and His Majesty, so that it might be
smoothly carried on, but the Chancellor was ashen grey with fear, and
his hand trembled on the table.
“My Lord of Brunfels,” said the King, a smile hovering about his lips,
“I see that I have interrupted you at your old pleasure of dicing; while
requesting you to continue your game as though I had not joined you, may
I venture to hope the stakes you play for are not high?”
Every one held his breath, awaiting with deepest concern the reply of
the frowning Baron, and when it came growling forth, there was little in
it to ease their disquiet.
“Your Majesty,” said Baron Brunfels, “the stakes are the highest that a
gambler may play for.”
“You tempt me, Baron, to guess that the hazard is a man’s soul, but
I see that your adversary is my worthy ex-Chancellor, and as I should
hesitate to impute to him the character of the devil, I am led,
therefore, to the conclusion that you play for a human life. Whose life
is in the cast, my Lord of Brunfels?”
Before the Baron could reply, ex-Chancellor Steinmetz arose, with some
indecision, to his feet. He began in a trembling voice:
“I beg your gracious permission to explain the reason of our
gathering--”
“Herr Steinmetz,” cried the King sternly, “when I desire your
interference I shall call for it; and remember this, Herr Steinmetz; the
man who begins a game must play it to the end, even though he finds luck
running against him.”
The ex-Chancellor sat down again, and drew his hand across his damp
forehead.
“Your Majesty,” spoke up the Baron, a ring of defiance in his voice, “I
speak not for my comrades, but for myself. I begin no game that I fear
to finish. We were about dice in order to discover whether Your Majesty
should live or die.”
A simultaneous moan seemed to rise from the assembled traitors. The
smile returned to the King’s lips.
“Baron,” he said, “I have ever chided myself for loving you, for you
were always a bad example to weak and impressionable natures. Even when
your overbearing, obstinate intolerance compelled me to dismiss you from
the command of my army, I could not but admire your sturdy honesty. Had
I been able to graft your love of truth upon some of my councillors,
what a valuable group of advisers might I have gathered round me. But
we have had enough of comedy and now tragedy sets in. Those who are
traitors to their ruler must not be surprised if a double traitor is one
of their number. Why am I here? Why do two hundred mounted and armed men
surround this doomed châlet? Miserable wretches, what have you to say
that judgment be not instantly passed upon you?”
“I have this to say,” roared Baron Brunfels, drawing his sword, “that
whatever may befall this assemblage, you, at least, shall not live to
boast of it.”
The King stood unmoved as Baron Brunfels was about to rush upon him,
but Count Staumn and others threw themselves between the Baron and his
victim, seeing in the King’s words some intimation of mercy to be held
out to them, could but actual assault upon his person be prevented.
“My Lord of Brunfels,” said the King, calmly, “sheath your sword. Your
ancestors have often drawn it, but always for, and never against the
occupant of the Throne. Now, gentlemen, hear my decision, and abide
faithfully by it. Seat yourselves at the table, ten on each side, the
dice-box between you. You shall not be disappointed, but shall play out
the game of life and death. Each dices with his opposite. He who throws
the higher number escapes. He who throws the lower places his weapons on
the empty chair, and stands against yonder wall to be executed for the
traitor that he is. Thus half of your company shall live, and the other
half seek death with such courage as may be granted them. Do you agree,
or shall I give the signal?”
With unanimous voice they agreed, all excepting Baron Brunfels, who
spoke not.
“Come, Baron, you and my devoted ex-Chancellor were about to play when I
came in. Begin the game.”
“Very well,” replied the Baron nonchalantly. “Steinmetz, the dice-box is
near your hand: throw.”
Some one placed the cubes in the leathern cup and handed it to the
ex-Chancellor, whose shivering fingers relieved him of the necessity of
shaking the box. The dice rolled out on the table; a three, a four, and
a one. Those nearest reported the total.
“Eight!” cried the King. “Now, Baron.”
Baron Brunfels carelessly threw the dice into their receptacle, and a
moment after the spotted bones clattered on the table.
“Three sixes!” cried the Baron. “Lord, if I only had such luck when I
played for money!”
The ex-Chancellor’s eyes were starting from his head, wild with fear.
“We have three throws,” he screamed.
“Not so,” said the King.
“I swear I understood that we were to have three chances,” shrieked
Steinmetz, springing from his chair. “But it is all illegal, and not to
be borne. I will not have my life diced away to please either King or
commons.”
He drew his sword and placed himself in an attitude of defence.
“Seize him; disarm him, and bind him,” commanded the King. “There are
enough gentlemen in this company to see that the rules of the game are
adhered to.”
Steinmetz, struggling and pleading for mercy, was speedily overpowered
and bound; then his captors placed him against the wall, and resumed
their seats at the table. The next man to be doomed was Count Staumn.
The Count arose from his chair, bowed first to the King and then to the
assembled company; drew forth his sword, broke it over his knee, and
walked to the wall of the condemned.
The remainder of the fearful contest was carried on in silence, but with
great celerity, and before a quarter of an hour was past, ten men had
their backs to the wall, while the remaining ten were seated at the
table, some on one side, and some on the other.
The men ranged against the wall were downcast, for however bravely a
soldier may meet death in hostile encounter, it is a different matter to
face it bound and helpless at the hands of an executioner.
A shade of sadness seemed to overspread the countenance of the King,
who still occupied the position he had taken at the first, with his back
towards the fire.
Baron Brunfels shifted uneasily in his seat, and glanced now and then
with compassion at his sentenced comrades. He was first to break the
silence.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “I am always loath to see a coward die. The
whimpering of your former Chancellor annoys me; therefore, will I gladly
take his place, and give to him the life and liberty you perhaps design
for me, if, in exchange, I have the privilege of speaking my mind
regarding you and your precious Kingship.”
“Unbind the valiant Steinmetz,” said the King. “Speak your mind freely,
Baron Brunfels.”
The Baron rose, drew sword from scabbard, and placed it on the table.
“Your Majesty, backed by brute force,” he began, “has condemned to death
ten of your subjects. You have branded us as traitors, and such we are,
and so find no fault with your sentence; merely recognising that you
represent, for the time being, the upper hand. You have reminded me that
my ancestors fought for yours, and that they never turned their swords
against their sovereign. Why, then, have our blades been pointed towards
your breast? Because, King Rudolph, you are yourself a traitor. You
belong to the ruling class and have turned your back upon your order.
You, a King, have made yourself a brother to the demagogue at the street
corner; yearning for the cheap applause of the serf. You have shorn
nobility of its privileges, and for what?”
“And for what?” echoed the King with rising voice. “For this; that the
ploughman on the plain may reap what he has sown; that the shepherd
on the hillside may enjoy the increase which comes to his flock; that
taxation may be light; that my nobles shall deal honestly with the
people, and not use their position for thievery and depredation; that
those whom the State honours by appointing to positions of trust shall
content themselves with the recompense lawfully given, and refrain from
peculation; that peace and security shall rest on the land; and that
bloodthirsty swashbucklers shall not go up and down inciting the people
to carnage and rapine under the name of patriotism. This is the task I
set myself when I came to the Throne. What fault have you to find with
the programme, my Lord Baron?”
“The simple fault that it is the programme of a fool,” replied the Baron
calmly. “In following it you have gained the resentment of your nobles,
and have not even received the thanks of those pitiable hinds,
the ploughman in the valley or the shepherd on the hills. You have
impoverished us so that the clowns may have a few more coins with which
to muddle in drink their already stupid brains. You are hated in cot and
castle alike. You would not stand in your place for a moment, were
not an army behind you. Being a fool, you think the common people love
honesty, whereas, they only curse that they have not a share in the
thieving.”
“The people,” said the King soberly, “have been misled. Their ear
has been abused by calumny and falsehood. Had it been possible for me
personally to explain to them the good that must ultimately accrue to
a land where honesty rules, I am confident I would have had their
undivided support, even though my nobles deserted me.”
“Not so, Your Majesty; they would listen to you and cheer you, but when
the next orator came among them, promising to divide the moon, and give
a share to each, they would gather round his banner and hoot you from
the kingdom. What care they for rectitude of government? They see no
farther than the shining florin that glitters on their palm. When your
nobles were rich, they came to their castles among the people, and
scattered their gold with a lavish hand. Little recked the peasants how
it was got, so long as they shared it. ‘There,’ they said, ‘the coin
comes to us that we have not worked for.’
“But now, with castles deserted, and retainers dismissed, the people
have to sweat to wring from traders the reluctant silver, and they cry:
‘Thus it was not in times of old, and this King is the cause of it,’
and so they spit upon your name, and shrug their shoulders, when your
honesty is mentioned. And now, Rudolph of Alluria, I have done, and I
go the more jauntily to my death that I have had fair speech with you
before the end.”
The King looked at the company, his eyes veiled with moisture. “I
thought,” he said slowly, “until to-night, that I had possessed some
qualities at least of a ruler of men. I came here alone among you, and
although there are brave men in this assembly, yet I had the ordering of
events as I chose to order them, notwithstanding that odds stood a score
to one against me. I still venture to think that whatever failures have
attended my eight years’ rule in Alluria arose from faults of my own,
and not through imperfections in the plan, or want of appreciation in
the people.
“I have now to inform you that if it is disastrous for a King to act
without the co-operation of his nobles, it is equally disastrous for
them to plot against their leader. I beg to acquaint you with the fact
that the insurrection so carefully prepared has broken out prematurely.
My capital is in possession of the factions, who are industriously
cutting each other’s throats to settle which one of two smooth-tongued
rascals shall be their President. While you were dicing to settle the
fate of an already deposed King, and I was sentencing you to a mythical
death, we were all alike being involved in common ruin.
“I have seen to-night more property in flames than all my savings during
the last eight years would pay for. I have no horsemen at my back, and
have stumbled here blindly, a much bedraggled fugitive, having lost my
way in every sense of the phrase. And so I beg of the hospitality of
Count Staumn another flagon of wine, and either a place of shelter for
my patient horse, who has been left too long in the storm without, or
else direction towards the frontier, whereupon my horse and I will set
out to find it.”
“Not towards the frontier!” cried Baron Brunfels, grasping again his
sword and holding it aloft, “but towards the capital. We will surround
you, and hew for you a way through that fickle mob back to the throne of
your ancestors.”
Each man sprang to his weapon and brandished it above his head, while a
ringing cheer echoed to the timbered ceiling.
“The King! The King!” they cried.
Rudolph smiled and shook his head.
“Not so,” he said. “I leave a thankless throne with a joy I find it
impossible to express. As I sat on horseback, half-way up the hill
above the burning city, and heard the clash of arms, I was filled with
amazement to think that men would actually fight for the position of
ruler of the people. Whether the insurrection has brought freedom
to themselves or not, the future alone can tell, but it has at least
brought freedom to me. I now belong to myself. No man may question
either my motives or my acts. Gentlemen, drink with me to the new
President of Alluria, whoever he may be.”
But the King drank alone, none other raising flagon to lip. Then Baron
Brunfels cried aloud:
“_Gentlemen: the King!_”
And never in the history of Alluria was a toast so heartily honoured.
THE HOUR-GLASS
Bertram Eastford had intended to pass the shop of his old friend, the
curiosity dealer, into whose pockets so much of his money had gone
for trinkets gathered from all quarters of the globe. He knew it was
weakness on his part, to select that street when he might have taken
another, but he thought it would do no harm to treat himself to one
glance at the seductive window of the old curiosity shop, where the
dealer was in the habit of displaying his latest acquisitions. The
window was never quite the same, and it had a continued fascination for
Bertram Eastford; but this time, he said to himself resolutely, he would
not enter, having, as he assured himself, the strength of mind to forego
this temptation. However, he reckoned without his window, for in it
there was an old object newly displayed which caught his attention as
effectually as a half-driven nail arrests the hem of a cloak. On the
central shelf of the window stood an hour-glass, its framework of some
wood as black as ebony. He stood gazing at it for a moment, then turned
to the door and went inside, greeting the ancient shopman, whom he knew
so well.
“I want to look at the hour-glass you have in the window,” he said.
“Ah, yes,” replied the curiosity dealer; “the cheap watch has driven the
hour-glass out of the commercial market, and we rarely pick up a thing
like that nowadays.” He took the hour-glass from the shelf in the
window, reversed it, and placed it on a table. The ruddy sand began to
pour through into the lower receptacle in a thin, constant stream, as
if it were blood that had been dried and powdered. Eastford watched the
ever-increasing heap at the bottom, rising conically, changing its
shape every moment, as little avalanches of the sand fell away from its
heightening sides.
“There is no need for you to extol its antiquity,” said Eastford, with a
smile. “I knew the moment I looked at it that such glasses are rare, and
you are not going to find me a cheapening customer.”
“So far from over-praising it,” protested the shopman, “I was about to
call your attention to a defect. It is useless as a measurer of time.”
“It doesn’t record the exact hour, then?” asked Eastford.
“Well, I suppose the truth is, they were not very particular in the old
days, and time was not money, as it is now. It measures the hour with
great accuracy,” the curio dealer went on--“that is, if you watch
it; but, strangely enough, after it has run for half an hour, or
thereabouts, it stops, because of some defect in the neck of the glass,
or in the pulverising of the sand, and will not go again until the glass
is shaken.”
The hour-glass at that moment verified what the old man said. The tiny
stream of sand suddenly ceased, but resumed its flow the moment
its owner jarred the frame, and continued pouring without further
interruption.
“That is very singular,” said Eastford. “How do you account for it?”
“I imagine it is caused by some inequality in the grains of sand;
probably a few atoms larger than the others come together at the neck,
and so stop the percolation. It always does this, and, of course, I
cannot remedy the matter because the glass is hermetically sealed.”
“Well, I don’t want it as a timekeeper, so we will not allow that defect
to interfere with the sale. How much do you ask for it?”
The dealer named his price, and Eastford paid the amount.
“I shall send it to you this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” said the customer, taking his leave.
That night in his room Bertram Eastford wrote busily until a late hour.
When his work was concluded, he pushed away his manuscript with a sigh
of that deep contentment which comes to a man who has not wasted his
day. He replenished the open fire, drew his most comfortable arm-chair
in front of it, took the green shade from his lamp, thus filling the
luxurious apartment with a light that was reflected from armour and from
ancient weapons standing in corners and hung along the walls. He lifted
the paper-covered package, cut the string that bound it, and placed the
ancient hour-glass on his table, watching the thin stream of sand which
his action had set running. The constant, unceasing, steady downfall
seemed to hypnotise him. Its descent was as silent as the footsteps of
time itself. Suddenly it stopped, as it had done in the shop, and its
abrupt ceasing jarred on his tingling nerves like an unexpected break in
the stillness. He could almost imagine an unseen hand clasping the
thin cylinder of the glass and throttling it. He shook the bygone
time-measurer and breathed again more steadily when the sand resumed its
motion. Presently he took the glass from the table and examined it with
some attention.
He thought at first its frame was ebony, but further inspection
convinced him it was oak, blackened with age. On one round end was
carved rudely two hearts overlapping, and twined about them a pair of
serpents.
“Now, I wonder what that’s for?” murmured Eastford to himself. “An
attempt at a coat of arms, perhaps.”
There was no clue to the meaning of the hieroglyphics, and Eastford,
with the glass balanced on his knee, watched the sand still running, the
crimson thread sparkling in the lamplight. He fancied he saw distorted
reflections of faces in the convex glass, although his reason told him
they were but caricatures of his own. The great bell in the tower near
by, with slow solemnity, tolled twelve. He counted its measured strokes
one by one, and then was startled by a decisive knock at his door. One
section of his brain considered this visit untimely, another looked on
it as perfectly usual, and while the two were arguing the matter out, he
heard his own voice cry: “Come in.”
The door opened, and the discussion between the government and the
opposition in his mind ceased to consider the untimeliness of the visit,
for here, in the visitor himself, stood another problem. He was a young
man in military costume, his uniform being that of an officer. Eastford
remembered seeing something like it on the stage, and knowing little of
military affairs, thought perhaps the costume of the visitor before him
indicated an officer in the Napoleonic war.
“Good evening!” said the incomer. “May I introduce myself? I am
Lieutenant Sentore, of the regular army.”
“You are very welcome,” returned his host. “Will you be seated?”
“Thank you, no. I have but a few moments to stay. I have come for my
hour-glass, if you will be good enough to let me have it.”
“_Your_ hour-glass?” ejaculated Eastford, in surprise. “I think you
labour under a misapprehension. The glass belongs to me; I bought it
to-day at the old curiosity shop in Finchmore Street.”
“Rightful possession of the glass would appear to rest with you,
technically; but taking you to be a gentleman, I venture to believe that
a mere statement of my priority of claim will appeal to you, even though
it might have no effect on the minds of a jury of our countrymen.”
“You mean to say that the glass has been stolen from you and has been
sold?”
“It has been sold undoubtedly over and over again, but never stolen, so
far as I have been able to trace its history.”
“If, then, the glass has been honestly purchased by its different
owners, I fail to see how you can possibly establish any claim to it.”
“I have already admitted that my claim is moral rather than legal,”
continued the visitor. “It is a long story; have I your permission to
tell it?”
“I shall be delighted to listen,” replied Eastford, “but before doing
so I beg to renew my invitation, and ask you to occupy this easy-chair
before the fire.”
The officer bowed in silence, crossed the room behind Eastford, and sat
down in the arm-chair, placing his sword across his knees. The stranger
spread his hands before the fire, and seemed to enjoy the comforting
warmth. He remained for a few moments buried in deep reflection, quite
ignoring the presence of his host, who, glancing upon the hour-glass in
dispute upon his knees, seeing that the sands had all run out silently
reversed it and set them flowing again. This action caught the corner
of the stranger’s eye, and brought him to a realisation of why he was
there. Drawing a heavy sigh, he began his story.
* * * * *
“In the year 1706 I held the post of lieutenant in that part of the
British Army commanded by General Trelawny, the supreme command, of
course, being in the hands of the great Marlborough.”
Eastford listened to this announcement with a feeling that there was
something wrong about the statement. The man sitting there was calmly
talking of a time one hundred and ninety-two years past, and yet he
himself could not be a day more than twenty-five years old. Somewhere
entangled in this were the elements of absurdity. Eastford found himself
unable to unravel them, but the more he thought of the matter, the more
reasonable it began to appear, and so, hoping his visitor had not noted
the look of surprise on his face, he said, quietly, casting his mind
back over the history of England, and remembering what he had learned at
school:--
“That was during the war of the Spanish Succession?”
“Yes: the war had then been in progress four years, and many brilliant
victories had been won, the greatest of which was probably the Battle of
Blenheim.”
“Quite so,” murmured Eastford.
“It was the English,” Casper cried,
“That put the French to rout;
“But what they killed each other for,
“I never could make out.”
The officer looked up in astonishment.
“I never heard anything like that said about the war. The reason for
it was perfectly plain. We had to fight or acknowledge France to be the
dictator of Europe. Still, politics have nothing to do with my story.
General Trelawny and his forces were in Brabant, and were under orders
to join the Duke of Marlborough’s army. We were to go through the
country as speedily as possible, for a great battle was expected.
Trelawny’s instructions were to capture certain towns and cities
that lay in our way, to dismantle the fortresses, and to parole their
garrisons. We could not encumber ourselves with prisoners, and so
marched the garrisons out, paroled them, destroyed their arms, and bade
them disperse. But, great as was our hurry, strict orders had been given
to leave no strongholds in our rear untaken.
“Everything went well until we came to the town of Elsengore, which we
captured without the loss of a man. The capture of the town, however,
was of little avail, for in the centre of it stood a strong citadel,
which we tried to take by assault, but could not. General Trelawny, a
very irascible, hotheaded man, but, on the whole, a just and capable
officer, impatient at this unexpected delay, offered the garrison almost
any terms they desired to evacuate the castle. But, having had warning
of our coming, they had provisioned the place, were well supplied with
ammunition, and their commander refused to make terms with General
Trelawny.
“‘If you want the place,’ said the Frenchman, ‘come and take it.’
“General Trelawny, angered at this contemptuous treatment, flung his
men again and again at the citadel, but without making the slightest
impression on it.
“We were in no wise prepared for a long siege, nor had we expected
stubborn resistance. Marching quickly, as was our custom heretofore,
we possessed no heavy artillery, and so were at a disadvantage when
attacking a fortress as strong as that of Elsengore. Meanwhile, General
Trelawny sent mounted messengers by different roads to his chief giving
an account of what had happened, explaining his delay in joining the
main army, and asking for definite instructions. He expected that one or
two, at least, of the mounted messengers sent away would reach his chief
and be enabled to return. And that is exactly what happened, for one day
a dusty horseman came to General Trelawny’s headquarters with a brief
note from Marlborough. The Commander-in-Chief said:--
“‘I think the Frenchman’s advice is good. We want the place; therefore,
take it.’
“But he sent no heavy artillery to aid us in this task, for he could not
spare his big guns, expecting, as he did, an important battle.
General Trelawny having his work thus cut out for him, settled down to
accomplish it as best he might. He quartered officers and men in various
parts of the town, the more thoroughly to keep watch on the citizens, of
whose good intentions, if the siege were prolonged, we were by no means
sure.
“It fell to my lot to be lodged in the house of Burgomaster Seidelmier,
of whose conduct I have no reason to complain, for he treated me well. I
was given two rooms, one a large, low apartment on the first floor,
and communicating directly with the outside, by means of a hall and a
separate stairway. The room was lighted by a long, many-paned window,
leaded and filled with diamond-shaped glass. Beyond this large
drawing-room was my bedroom. I must say that I enjoyed my stay in
Burgomaster Seidelmier’s house none the less because he had an only
daughter, a most charming girl. Our acquaintance ripened into deep
friendship, and afterwards into----but that has nothing to do with
what I have to tell you. My story is of war, and not of love. Gretlich
Seidelmier presented me with the hour-glass you have in your hand, and
on it I carved the joined hearts entwined with our similar initials.”
“So they are initials, are they?” said Eastford, glancing down at what
he had mistaken for twining serpents.
“Yes,” said the officer; “I was more accustomed to a sword than to an
etching tool, and the letters are but rudely drawn. One evening, after
dark, Gretlich and I were whispering together in the hall, when we
heard the heavy tread of the general coming up the stair. The girl fled
precipitately, and I, holding open the door, waited the approach of my
chief. He entered and curtly asked me to close the door.
“‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘it is my intention to capture the citadel
to-night. Get together twenty-five of your men, and have them ready
under the shadow of this house, but give no one a hint of what you
intend to do with them. In one hour’s time leave this place with your
men as quietly as possible, and make an attack on the western entrance
of the citadel. Your attack is to be but a feint and to draw off their
forces to that point. Still, if any of your men succeed in gaining
entrance to the fort they shall not lack reward and promotion. Have you
a watch?’
“‘Not one that will go, general; but I have an hourglass here.’
“‘Very well, set it running. Collect your men, and exactly at the hour
lead them to the west front; it is but five minutes’ quick march from
here. An hour and five minutes from this moment I expect you to begin
the attack, and the instant you are before the western gate make as much
noise as your twenty-five men are capable of, so as to lead the enemy to
believe that the attack is a serious one.’
“Saying this, the general turned and made his way, heavy-footed, through
the hall and down the stairway.
“I set the hour-glass running, and went at once to call my men,
stationing them where I had been ordered to place them. I returned
to have a word with Gretlich before I departed on what I knew was a
dangerous mission. Glancing at the hour-glass, I saw that not more than
a quarter of the sand had run down during my absence. I remained in the
doorway, where I could keep an eye on the hour-glass, while the
girl stood leaning her arm against the angle of the dark passageway,
supporting her fair cheek on her open palm; and, standing thus in the
darkness, she talked to me in whispers. We talked and talked, engaged in
that sweet, endless conversation that murmurs in subdued tone round
the world, being duplicated that moment at who knows how many
places. Absorbed as I was in listening, at last there crept into
my consciousness the fact that the sand in the upper bulb was not
diminishing as fast as it should. This knowledge was fully in my mind
for some time before I realised its fearful significance. Suddenly
the dim knowledge took on actuality. I sprang from the door-lintel,
saying:--
“‘Good heavens, the sand in the hour-glass has stopped running!’
“I remained there motionless, all action struck from my rigid limbs,
gazing at the hour-glass on the table.
“Gretlich, peering in at the doorway, looking at the hour-glass and not
at me, having no suspicion of the ruin involved in the stoppage of that
miniature sandstorm, said, presently:--
“‘Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you it does that now and then, and so you
must shake the glass.’
“She bent forward as if to do this when the leaden windows shuddered,
and the house itself trembled with the sharp crash of our light cannon,
followed almost immediately by the deeper detonation of the heavier guns
from the citadel. The red sand in the glass began to fall again, and its
liberation seemed to unfetter my paralysed limbs. Bareheaded as I was,
I rushed like one frantic along the passage and down the stairs. The
air was resonant with the quick-following reports of the cannon, and
the long, narrow street was fitfully lit up as if by sudden flashes of
summer lightning. My men were still standing where I had placed them.
Giving a sharp word of command, I marched them down the street and
out into the square, where I met General Trelawny coming back from his
futile assault. Like myself, he was bareheaded. His military countenance
was begrimed with powder-smoke, but he spoke to me with no trace of
anger in his voice.
“‘Lieutenant Sentore,’ he said, ‘disperse your men.’
“I gave the word to disband my men, and then stood at attention before
him.
“‘Lieutenant Sentore,’ he said, in the same level voice, ‘return to your
quarters and consider yourself under arrest. Await my coming there.’
“I turned and obeyed his orders. It seemed incredible that the sand
should still be running in the hour-glass, for ages appeared to have
passed over my head since last I was in that room. I paced up and down,
awaiting the coming of my chief, feeling neither fear nor regret, but
rather dumb despair. In a few minutes his heavy tread was on the stair,
followed by the measured tramp of a file of men. He came into the room,
and with him were a sergeant and four soldiers, fully armed. The general
was trembling with rage, but held strong control over himself, as was
his habit on serious occasions.
“‘Lieutenant Sentore,’ he said, ‘why were you not at your post?”
“‘The running sand in the hour-glass’ (I hardly recognised my own voice
on hearing it) ‘stopped when but half exhausted. I did not notice its
interruption until it was too late.’
“The general glanced grimly at the hour-glass. The last sands were
falling through to the lower bulb. I saw that he did not believe my
explanation.
“‘It seems now to be in perfect working order,’ he said, at last.
“He strode up to it and reversed it, watching the sand pour for a few
moments, then he spoke abruptly:--
“‘Lieutenant Sentore, your sword.’
“I handed my weapon to him without a word. Turning to the sergeant,
he said: ‘Lieutenant Sentore is sentenced to death. He has an hour for
whatever preparations he cares to make. Allow him to dispose of that
hour as he chooses, so long as he remains within this room and holds
converse with no one whatever. When the last sands of this hour-glass
are run, Lieutenant Sentore will stand at the other end of this room
and meet the death merited by traitors, laggards, or cowards. Do you
understand your duty, sergeant?’
“‘Yes, general.’
“General Trelawny abruptly left the room, and we heard his heavy steps
echoing throughout the silent house, and later, more faintly on the
cobble-stones of the street. When they had died away a deep stillness
set in, I standing alone at one end of the room, my eyes fixed on the
hour-glass, and the sergeant with his four men, like statues at the
other, also gazing at the same sinister object. The sergeant was the
first to break the silence.
“‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘do you wish to write anything----?’
“He stopped short, being an unready man, rarely venturing far beyond
‘Yes’ and ‘No.’
“‘I should like to communicate with one in this household,’ I said, ‘but
the general has forbidden it, so all I ask is that you shall have
my body conveyed from this room as speedily as possible after the
execution.’
“‘Very good, lieutenant,’ answered the sergeant.
“After that, for a long time no word was spoken. I watched my life run
redly through the wasp waist of the transparent glass, then suddenly the
sand ceased to flow, half in the upper bulb, half in the lower.
“‘It has stopped,’ said the sergeant; ‘I must shake the glass.’
“‘Stand where you are!’ I commanded, sharply. ‘Your orders do not run to
that.’
“The habit of obedience rooted the sergeant to the spot.
“‘Send one of your men to General Trelawny,’ I said, as if I had
still the right to be obeyed. ‘Tell him what has happened, and ask for
instructions. Let your man tread lightly as he leaves the room.’
“The sergeant did not hesitate a moment, but gave the order I required
of him. The soldier nearest the door tip-toed out of the house. As we
all stood there the silence seeming the deeper because of the stopping
of the sand, we heard the hour toll in the nearest steeple. The sergeant
was visibly perturbed, and finally he said:--
“‘Lieutenant, I must obey the general’s orders. An hour has passed since
he left here, for that clock struck as he was going down the stair.
Soldiers, make ready. _Present_.’
“The men, like impassive machines levelled their muskets at my breast. I
held up my hand.
“‘Sergeant,’ I said as calmly as I could, ‘you are now about to exceed
your instructions. Give another command at your peril. The exact words
of the general were, ‘When the last sands of this hour-glass are run.’
I call your attention to the fact that the conditions are not fulfilled.
Half of the sand remains in the upper bulb.’
“The sergeant scratched his head in perplexity, but he had no desire to
kill me, and was only actuated by a soldier’s wish to adhere strictly to
the letter of his instructions, be the victim friend or foe. After a few
moments he muttered, ‘It is true,’ then gave a command that put his men
into their former position.
“Probably more than half an hour passed, during which time no man moved;
the sergeant and his three remaining soldiers seemed afraid to breathe;
then we heard the step of the general himself on the stair. I feared
that this would give the needed impetus to the sand in the glass, but,
when Trelawny entered, the _status quo_ remained. The general stood
looking at the suspended sand, without speaking.
“’ That is what happened before, general, and that is why I was not
at my place. I have committed the crime of neglect, and have thus
deservedly earned my death; but I shall die the happier if my general
believes I am neither a traitor nor a coward.’
“The general, still without a word, advanced to the table, slightly
shook the hour-glass, and the sand began to pour again. Then he picked
the glass up in his hand, examining it minutely, as if it were some
strange kind of toy, turning it over and over. He glanced up at me and
said, quite in his usual tone, as if nothing in particular had come
between us:--
“‘Remarkable thing that, Sentore, isn’t it?’
“‘Very,’ I answered, grimly.
“He put the glass down.
“‘Sergeant, take your men to quarters. Lieutenant Sentore, I return to
you your sword; you can perhaps make better use of it alive than dead;
I am not a man to be disobeyed, reason or no reason. Remember that, and
now go to bed.’
“He left me without further word, and buckling on my sword, I proceeded
straightway to disobey again.
“I had a great liking for General Trelawny. Knowing how he fumed and
raged at being thus held helpless by an apparently impregnable fortress
in the unimportant town of Elsengore, I had myself studied the citadel
from all points, and had come to the conclusion that it might be
successfully attempted, not by the great gates that opened on the
square of the town, nor by the inferior west gates, but by scaling the
seemingly unclimbable cliffs at the north side. The wall at the top of
this precipice was low, and owing to the height of the beetling
cliff, was inefficiently watched by one lone sentinel, who paced the
battlements from corner tower to corner tower. I had made my plans,
intending to ask the general’s permission to risk this venture, but
now I resolved to try it without his knowledge or consent, and thus
retrieve, if I could, my failure of the foregoing part of the night.
“Taking with me a long, thin rope which I had in my room, anticipating
such a trial for it, I roused five of my picked men, and silently we
made our way to the foot of the northern cliff. Here, with the rope
around my waist, I worked my way diagonally up along a cleft in
the rock, which, like others parallel to it, marked the face of the
precipice. A slip would be fatal. The loosening of a stone would give
warning to the sentinel, whose slow steps I heard on the wall above me,
but at last I reached a narrow ledge without accident, and standing up
in the darkness, my chin was level with the top of the wall on which the
sentry paced. The shelf between the bottom of the wall and the top of
the cliff was perhaps three feet in width, and gave ample room for a
man careful of his footing. Aided by the rope, the others, less expert
climbers than myself, made their way to my side one by one, and the
six of us stood on the ledge under the low wall. We were all in our
stockinged feet, some of the men, in fact, not even having stockings on.
As the sentinel passed, we crouching in the darkness under the wall, the
most agile of our party sprang up behind him. The soldier had taken off
his jacket, and tip-toeing behind the sentinel, he threw the garment
over his head, tightening it with a twist that almost strangled the man.
Then seizing his gun so that it would not clatter on the stones, held
him thus helpless while we five climbed up beside him. Feeling under the
jacket, I put my right hand firmly on the sentinel’s throat, and nearly
choking the breath out of him, said:--
“‘Your life depends on your actions now. Will you utter a sound if I let
go your throat?’
“The man shook his head vehemently, and I released my clutch.
“‘Now,’ I said to him, ‘where is the powder stored? Answer in a whisper,
and speak truly.’
“‘The bulk of the powder,’ he answered, ‘is in the vault below the
citadel.’
“‘Where is the rest of it?’ I whispered.
“‘In the lower room of the round tower by the gate.’
“‘Nonsense,’ I said: ‘they would never store it in a place so liable to
attack.’
“‘There was nowhere else to put it,’ replied the sentinel, ‘unless they
left it in the open courtyard, which would be quite as unsafe.’
“‘Is the door to the lower room in the tower bolted?’
“‘There is no door,’ replied the sentry, ‘but a low archway. This
archway has not been closed, because no cannon-balls ever come from the
northern side.’
“‘How much powder is there in this room?’
“‘I do not know; nine or ten barrels, I think.’
“It was evident to me that the fellow, in his fear, spoke the truth.
Now, the question was, how to get down from the wall into the courtyard
and across that to the archway at the southern side? Cautioning the
sentinel again, that if he made the slightest attempt to escape or give
the alarm, instant death would be meted to him, I told him to guide us
to the archway, which he did, down the stone steps that led from the
northern wall into the courtyard. They seemed to keep loose watch
inside, the only sentinels in the place being those on the upper walls.
But the man we had captured not appearing at his corner in time, his
comrade on the western side became alarmed, spoke to him, and obtaining
no answer, shouted for him, then discharged his gun. Instantly the
place was in an uproar. Lights flashed, and from different guard-rooms
soldiers poured out. I saw across the courtyard the archway the sentinel
had spoken of, and calling my men made a dash for it. The besieged
garrison, not expecting an enemy within, had been rushing up the stone
steps at each side to the outer wall to man the cannon they had so
recently quitted, and it was some minutes before a knowledge of the real
state of things came to them. These few minutes were all we needed, but
I saw there was no chance for a slow match, while if we fired the mine
we probably would die under the tottering tower.
“By the time we reached the archway and discovered the powder barrels,
the besieged, finding everything silent outside, came to a realisation
of the true condition of affairs. We faced them with bayonets fixed,
while Sept, the man who had captured the sentinel, took the hatchet he
had brought with him at his girdle, flung over one of the barrels on its
side, knocked in the head of it, allowing the dull black powder to pour
on the cobblestones. Then filling his hat with the explosive, he came
out towards us, leaving a thick trail behind him. By this time we were
sorely beset, and one of our men had gone down under the fire of the
enemy, who shot wildly, being baffled by the darkness, otherwise all of
us had been slaughtered. I seized a musket from a comrade and shouted to
the rest:--
“‘Save yourselves’, and to the garrison, in French, I gave the same
warning; then I fired the musket into the train of powder, and the next
instant found myself half stunned and bleeding at the farther end of the
courtyard. The roar of the explosion and the crash of the falling tower
were deafening. All Elsengore was groused by the earthquake shock, I
called to my men when I could find my voice, and Sept answered from
one side, and two more from another. Together we tottered across the
_débris_-strewn courtyard. Some woodwork inside the citadel had taken
fire and was burning fiercely, and this lit up the ruins and made
visible the great gap in the wall at the fallen gate. Into the square
below we saw the whole town pouring, soldiers and civilians alike coming
from the narrow streets into the open quadrangle. I made my way, leaning
on Sept, over the broken gate and down the causeway into the square, and
there, foremost of all, met my general, with a cloak thrown round him,
to make up for his want of coat.
“‘There, general,’ I gasped, ‘there is your citadel, and through this
gap can we march to meet Marlborough.’
“‘Pray, sir, who the deuce are you?’ cried the general, for my face was
like that of a blackamoor.
“‘I am the lieutenant who has once more disobeyed your orders, general,
in the hope of retrieving a former mistake.’
“‘Sentore!’ he cried, rapping out an oath. ‘I shall have you
court-martialled, sir.’
“‘I think, general,’ I said, ‘that I am court-martialled already,’ for I
thought then that the hand of death was upon me, which shows the
effect of imagination, for my wounds were not serious, yet I sank down
unconscious at the general’s feet. He raised me in his arms as if I had
been his own son, and thus carried me to my rooms. Seven years later,
when the war ended, I got leave of absence and came back to Elsengore
for Gretlich Seidelmier and the hour-glass.”
As the lieutenant ceased speaking, Eastford thought he heard again the
explosion under the tower, and started to his feet in nervous alarm,
then looked at the lieutenant and laughed, while he said:--
“Lieutenant, I was startled by that noise just now, and imagined for
the moment that I was in Brabant. You have made good your claim to the
hour-glass, and you are welcome to it.”
But as Eastford spoke, he turned his eyes towards the chair in which the
lieutenant had been seated, and found it vacant. Gazing round the room,
in half somnolent dismay, he saw that he was indeed alone. At his
feet was the shattered hour-glass, which had fallen from his knee, its
blood-red sand mingling with the colours on the carpet. Eastford said,
with an air of surprise:--
“By Jove!”
THE WARRIOR MAID OF SAN CARLOS
The young naval officer came into this world with two eyes and two arms;
he left it with but one of each--nevertheless the remaining eye was ever
quick to see, and the remaining arm ever strong to seize. Even his blind
eye became useful on one historic occasion. But the loss of eye or arm
was as nothing to the continual loss of his heart, which often led
him far afield in the finding of it. Vanquished when he met the women;
invincible when he met the men; in truth, a most human hero, and so
we all love Jack--the we, in this instant, as the old joke has it,
embracing the women.
In the year 1780 Britain ordered Colonel Polson to invade Nicaragua.
The task imposed on the gallant Colonel was not an onerous one, for the
Nicaraguans never cared to secure for themselves the military reputation
of Sparta. In fact, some years after this, a single American, Walker,
with a few Californian rifles under his command, conquered the whole
nation and made himself President of it, and perhaps would have been
Dictator of Nicaragua to-day if his own country had not laid him by the
heels. It is no violation of history to state that the entire British
fleet was not engaged in subduing Nicaragua, and that Colonel Polson
felt himself amply provided for the necessities of the crisis by sailing
into the harbour of San Juan del Norte with one small ship. There were
numerous fortifications at the mouth of the river, and in about an hour
after landing, the Colonel was in possession of them all.
The flight of time, brief as it was, could not be compared in celerity
with the flight of the Nicaraguans, who betook themselves to the
backwoods with an impetuosity seldom seen outside of a race-course.
There was no loss of life so far as the British were concerned, and the
only casualties resulting to the Nicaraguans were colds caught through
the overheating of themselves in their feverish desire to explore
immediately the interior of their beloved country. “He who bolts
and runs away will live to bolt another day,” was the motto of the
Nicaraguans. So far, so good, or so bad, as the case may be.
The victorious Colonel now got together a flotilla of some half a score
of boats, and the flotilla was placed under the command of the young
naval officer, the hero of this story. The expedition proceeded
cautiously up the river San Juan, which runs for eighty miles, or
thereabouts, from Lake Nicaragua to the salt water. The voyage was
a sort of marine picnic. Luxurious vegetation on either side, and no
opposition to speak of, even from the current of the river; for Lake
Nicaragua itself is but a hundred and twenty feet above the sea level,
and a hundred and twenty feet gives little rapidity to a river eighty
miles long.
As the flotilla approached the entrance to the lake caution increased,
for it was not known how strong Fort San Carlos might prove. This fort,
perhaps the only one in the country strongly built, stood at once on
the shore of the lake and bank of the stream. There was one chance in
a thousand that the speedy retreat of the Nicaraguans had been merely
a device to lure the British into the centre of the country, where
the little expedition of two hundred sailors and marines might be
annihilated. In these circumstances Colonel Poison thought it well,
before coming in sight of the fort, to draw up his boats along the
northern bank of the San Juan River, sending out scouts to bring in
necessary information regarding the stronghold.
The young naval officer all through his life was noted for his energetic
and reckless courage, so it was not to be wondered at that the age of
twenty-two found him impatient with the delay, loth to lie inactive in
his boat until the scouts returned; so he resolved upon an action that
would have justly brought a court-martial upon his head had a knowledge
of it come to his superior officer. He plunged alone into the tropical
thicket, armed only with two pistols and a cutlass, determined to force
his way through the rank vegetation along the bank of the river, and
reconnoitre Fort San Carlos for himself. If he had given any thought to
the matter, which it is more than likely he did not, he must have known
that he ran every risk of capture and death, for the native of South
America, then as now, has rarely shown any hesitation about shooting
prisoners of war. Our young friend, therefore, had slight chance for
his life if cut off from his comrades, and, in the circumstances, even a
civilised nation would have been perfectly within its right in executing
him as a spy.
After leaving the lake the river San Juan bends south, and then north
again. The scouts had taken the direct route to the fort across the
land, but the young officer’s theory was that, if the Nicaraguans meant
to fight, they would place an ambush in the dense jungle along the
river, and from this place of concealment harass the flotilla before it
got within gunshot of the fort. This ambuscade could easily fall back
upon the fort if directly attacked and defeated. This, the young man
argued was what he himself would have done had he been in command of the
Nicaraguan forces, so it naturally occurred to him to discover whether
the same idea had suggested itself to the commandant at San Carlos.
Expecting every moment to come upon this ambuscade, the boy proceeded,
pistol in hand, with the utmost care, crouching under the luxuriant
tropical foliage, tunnelling his way, as one might say, along the dark
alleys of vegetation, roofed in by the broad leaves overhead. Through
cross-alleys he caught glimpses now and then of the broad river, of
which he was desirous to keep within touch. Stealthily crossing one of
these riverward alleys the young fellow came upon his ambuscade, and
was struck motionless with amazement at the form it took. Silhouetted
against the shining water beyond was a young girl. She knelt at the
very verge of the low, crumbling cliff above the water; her left hand,
outspread, was on the ground, her right rested against the rough trunk
of a palm-tree, and counter-balanced the weight of her body, which
leaned far forward over the brink. Her face was turned sideways towards
him, and her lustrous eyes peered intently down the river at the British
flotilla stranded along the river’s bank. So intent was her gaze, so
confident was she that she was alone, that the leopard-like approach of
her enemy gave her no hint of attack. Her perfect profile being towards
him, he saw her cherry-red lips move silently as if she were counting
the boats and impressing their number upon her memory.
A woman in appearance, she was at this date but sixteen years old, and
the breathless young man who stood like a statue regarding her thought
he had never seen a vision of such entrancing beauty, and, as I have
before intimated, he was a judge of feminine loveliness. Pulling himself
together, and drawing a deep but silent breath, he went forward with
soft tread, and the next instant there was a grip of steel on the wrist
of the young girl that rested on the earth. With a cry of dismay she
sprang to her feet and confronted her assailant, nearly toppling over
the brink as she did so; but he grasped her firmly, and drew her a step
or two up the arcade. As he held her left wrist there was in the air the
flash of a stiletto, and the naval officer’s distinguished career would
have ended on that spot had he not been a little quicker than his fair
opponent. His disengaged hand gripped the descending wrist and held her
powerless.
“Ruffian!” she hissed, in Spanish.
The young man had a workable knowledge of the language, and he thanked
his stars now that it was so. He smiled at her futile struggles to free
herself, then said:--
“When they gave me my commission, I had no hope that I should meet so
charming an enemy. Drop the knife, señorita, and I will release your
hand.”
The girl did not comply at first. She tried to wrench herself free,
pulling this way and that with more strength than might have been
expected from one so slight. But finding herself helpless in those rigid
bonds, she slowly relaxed the fingers of her right hand, and let the
dagger drop point downward into the loose soil, where it stood and
quivered.
“Now let me go,” she said, panting. “You promised.”
The young man relinquished his hold, and the girl, with the quick
movement of a humming-bird, dived into the foliage, and would have
disappeared, had he not with equal celerity intercepted her, again
imprisoning her wrist.
“You liar!” she cried, her magnificent eyes ablaze with anger.
“Faithless minion of a faithless race, you promised to let me go.”
“And I kept my promise,” said the young man, still with a smile. “I said
I would release your hand, and I did so; but as for yourself, that is a
different matter. You see, señorita, to speak plainly, you are a spy.
I have caught you almost within our lines, counting our boats, and,
perhaps, our men. There is war between our countries, and I arrest you
as a spy.”
“A brave country, yours,” she cried, “to war upon women!”
“Well,” said the young man, with a laugh, “what are we to do? The men
won’t stay and fight us.”
She gave him a dark, indignant glance at this, which but heightened her
swarthy beauty.
“And what are you,” she said, “but a spy?”
“Not yet,” he replied. “If you had found me peering at the fort, then,
perhaps, I should be compelled to plead guilty. But as it is, you are
the only spy here at present, señorita. Do you know what the fate of a
spy is?”
The girl stood there for a few moments, her face downcast, the living
gyves still encircling her wrists. When she looked up it was with a
smile so radiant that the young man gasped for breath, and his heart
beat faster than ever it had done in warfare.
“But you will not give me up?” she murmured, softly.
“Then would I be in truth a faithless minion,” cried the young man,
fervently; “not, indeed, to my country, but to your fascinating sex,
which I never adored so much as now.”
“You mean that you would be faithless to your country, but not to me?”
“Well,” said the young man, with some natural hesitation, “I shouldn’t
care to have to choose between my allegiance to one or the other.
England can survive without warring upon women, as you have said; so I
hope that if we talk the matter amicably over, we may find that my duty
need not clash with my inclination.”
“I am afraid that is impossible,” she answered, quickly. “I hate your
country.”
“But not the individual members of it, I hope.”
“I know nothing of its individual members, nor do I wish to, as you
shall soon see, if you will but let go my wrist.”
“Ah, señorita,” exclaimed the young man, “you are using an argument now
that will make me hold you forever.”
“In that case,” said the girl, “I shall change my argument, and give
instead a promise. If you release me I shall not endeavour to escape--I
may even be so bold as to expect your escort to the fort, where, if I
understand you aright, you were but just now going.”
“I accept your promise, and shall be delighted if you will accept my
escort. Meanwhile, in the interest of our better acquaintance, can I
persuade you to sit down, and allow me to cast myself at your feet?”
The girl, with a clear, mellow laugh, sat down, and the young man
reclined in the position he had indicated, gazing up at her with intense
admiration in his eyes.
“If this be war,” he said to himself, “long may I remain a soldier.”
Infatuated as he certainly was, his natural alertness could not but
notice that her glance wandered to the stiletto, the perpendicular
shining blade of which looked like the crest of a glittering, dangerous
serpent, whose body was hidden in the leaves. She had seated herself
as close to the weapon as possible, and now, on one pretext or another,
edged nearer and nearer to it. At last the young man laughed aloud,
and, sweeping his foot round, knocked down the weapon, then indolently
stretching out his arm, he took it.
“Señorita,” he said, examining its keen edge, “will you give me this
dagger as a memento of our meeting?”
“It is unlucky,” she murmured, “to make presents of stilettos.”
“I think,” said the young man, glancing up at her with a smile on his
lips, “it will be more lucky for me if I place it here in my belt than
if I allow it to reach the possession of another.”
“Do you intend to steal it, señor?”
“Oh, no. If you refuse to let me have it, I will give it back to you
when our interview ends; but I should be glad to possess it, if you
allow me to keep it.”
“It is unlucky, as I have said; to make a present of it, but I will
exchange. If you will give me one of your loaded pistols, you may have
the stiletto.”
“A fair exchange,” he laughed, but he made no motion to fulfil his
part to the barter. “May I have the happiness of knowing your name,
señorita?” he asked.
“I am called Donna Rafaela Mora,” answered the girl, simply. “I am
daughter of the Commandant of Fort San Carlos. I am no Nicaraguan, but a
Spaniard And, señor, what is your name?”
“Horatio Nelson, an humble captain in His Majesty’s naval forces, to be
heard from later, I hope, unless Donna Rafaela cuts short my thread of
life with her stiletto.”
“And does a captain in His Majesty’s forces condescend to play the part
of a spy?” asked the girl, proudly.
“He is delighted to do so when it brings him the acquaintance of another
spy so charming as Donna Rafaela. My spying, and I imagine yours
also, is but amateurish, and will probably be of little value to our
respective forces. Our real spies are now gathered round your fort, and
will bring to us all the information we need. Thus, I can recline at
your feet, Donna Rafaela, with an easy conscience, well aware that my
failure as a spy will in no way retard our expedition.”
“How many men do you command, Señor Captain?” asked the girl, with
ill-concealed eagerness.
“Oh, sometimes twenty-five, sometimes fifty, or a hundred or two
hundred, or more, as the case may be,” answered the young man,
carelessly.
“But how many are there in your expedition now?”
“Didn’t you count them, Donna? To answer truly, I must not, to answer
falsely, I will not, Donna.”
“Why?” asked the girl, impetuously. “There is no such secrecy about our
forces; we do not care who knows the number in our garrison.”
“No? Then how many are there, Donna?”
“Three hundred and forty,” answered the girl.
“Men, or young ladies like yourself, Donna? Be careful how you answer,
for if the latter, I warn you that nothing will keep the British out
of Fort San Carlos. We shall be with you, even if we have to go as
prisoners. In saying this, I feel that I am speaking for our entire
company.”
The girl tossed her head scornfully.
“There are three hundred and forty men,” she said, “as you shall find to
your cost, if you dare attack the fort.”
“In that case,” replied Nelson, “you are nearly two to one, and I
venture to think that we have not come up the river for nothing.”
“What braggarts you English are!”
“Is it bragging to welcome a stirring fight? Are you well provided with
cannon?”
“You will learn that for yourself when you come within sight of the
fort. Have you any more questions to ask, Señor Sailor?”
“Yes; one. The number in the fort, which you give, corresponds with what
I have already heard. I have heard also that you were well supplied with
cannon, but I have been told that you have no cannonballs in Fort San
Carlos.”
“That is not true; we have plenty.
“Incredible as it may seem, I was told that the cannon-balls were made
of clay. When I said you had none, I meant that you had none of iron.”
“That also is quite true,” answered the girl. “Do you mean to say
that you are going to shoot baked clay at us? It will be like heaving
bricks,” and the young man threw back his head and laughed.
“Oh, you may laugh,” cried the girl, “but I doubt if you will be so
merry when you come to attack the fort. The clay cannon-balls were made
under the superintendence of my father, and they are filled with links
of chain, spikes, and other scraps of iron.”
“By Jove!” cried young Nelson, “that’s an original idea. I wonder how it
will work?”
“You will have every opportunity of finding out, if you are foolish
enough to attack the fort.”
“You advise us then to retreat?”
“I most certainly do.”
“And why, Donna, if you hate our country, are you so anxious that we
shall not be cut to pieces by your scrap-iron?”
The girl shrugged her pretty shoulders.
“It doesn’t matter in the least to me what you do,” she said, rising to
her feet. “Am I your prisoner, Señor Nelson?”
“No,” cried the young man, also springing up; “I am yours, and have been
ever since you looked at me.”
Again the girl shrugged her shoulders. She seemed to be in no humour for
light compliments, and betrayed an eagerness to be gone.
“I have your permission, then, to depart? Do you intend to keep your
word?”
“If you will keep yours, Donna.”
“I gave you no promise, except that I would not run away, and I have not
done so. I now ask your permission to depart.”
“You said that I might accompany you to the fort.”
“Oh, if you have the courage, yes,” replied the girl, carelessly.
They walked on together through the dense alleys of vegetation, and
finally came to an opening which showed them a sandy plain, and across
it the strong white stone walls of the fort, facing the wide river, and
behind it the blue background of Lake Nicaragua.
Not a human form was visible either on the walls or on the plain. Fort
San Carlos, in spite of the fact that it bristled with cannon, seemed
like an abandoned castle. The two stood silent for a moment at the
margin of the jungle, the young officer running his eye rapidly over
the landscape, always bringing back his gaze to the seemingly deserted
stronghold.
“Your three hundred and forty men keep themselves well hidden,” he said
at last.
“Yes,” replied the girl, nonchalantly, “they fear that if they show
themselves you may hesitate to attack a fortress that is impregnable.”
“Well, you may disabuse their minds of that error when you return.”
“Are you going to keep my stiletto?” asked the girl, suddenly changing
the subject.
“Yes, with your permission.”
“Then keep your word, and give me your pistol in return.”
“Did I actually promise it?”
“You promised, Señor.”
“Then in that case, the pistol is yours.”
“Please hand it to me.”
Her eagerness to obtain the weapon was but partially hidden, and the
young man laughed as he weighed the fire-arm in his hand, holding it by
the muzzle.
“It is too heavy for a slim girl like you to handle,” he said, at last.
“It can hardly be called a lady’s toy.”
“You intend, then, to break your word,” said the girl, with quick
intuition, guessing with unerring instinct his vulnerable point.
“Oh, no,” he cried, “but I am going to send the pistol half-way home for
you,” and with that, holding it still by the barrel, he flung it far out
on the sandy plain, where it fell, raising a little cloud of dust. The
girl was about to speed to the fort, when, for the third time, the young
man grasped her wrist. She looked at him with indignant surprise.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but in case you should wish to fire the weapon,
you must have some priming. Let me pour a quantity of this gunpowder
into your hand.”
“Thank you,” she said, veiling her eyes, to hide their hatred.
He raised the tiny hand to his lips, without opposition, and then into
her satin palm, from his powderhorn, he poured a little heap of the
black grains.
“Good-bye, señor,” she said, hurrying away. She went directly to where
the pistol had fallen, stooped and picked it up. He saw her pour the
powder from her hand on its broad, unshapely pan. She knelt on the sand,
studied the clumsy implement, resting her elbow on her knee. The young
man stood there motionless, bareheaded, his cap in his hand. There was
a flash and a loud report; and the bullet cut the foliage behind him,
a little nearer than he expected. He bowed low to her, and she, rising
with an angry gesture, flung the weapon from her.
“Donna Rafaela,” he shouted, “thank you for firing the pistol. Its
report brings no one to the walls of San Carlos. Your fortress is
deserted, Donna. Tomorrow may I have the pleasure of showing you how to
shoot?”
The girl made no answer, but turning, ran as fast as she could towards
the fort.
The young man walked toward the fort, picked up his despised weapon,
thrust it in his belt, and went back to the camp. The scouts were
returning, and reported that, as far as they could learn, the three
hundred and forty Nicaraguans had, in a body, abandoned Fort San Carlos.
“It is some trick,” said the Colonel. “We must approach the fortress
cautiously, as if the three hundred and forty were there.”
The flotilla neared the fort in a long line. Each boat was filled with
men, and in each prow was levelled a small cannon--a man with a lighted
match beside it--ready to fire the moment word was given. Nelson himself
stood up in his boat, and watched the silent fort. Suddenly the silence
was broken by a crash of thunder, and Nelson’s boat (and the one nearest
to it) was wrecked, many of the men being killed, and himself severely
wounded.
“Back, back!” cried the commander. “Row out of range, for your lives!”
The second cannon spoke, and the whole line of boats was thrown into
inextricable confusion. Cannon after cannon rang out, and of the two
hundred men who sailed up the river San Juan only ten reached the ship
alive.
The Commandant of the fort lay ill in his bed, unable to move, but his
brave daughter fired the cannon that destroyed the flotilla. Here Nelson
lost his eye, and so on a celebrated occasion was unable to see the
signals that called upon him to retreat. Thus victory ultimately rose
out of disaster.
The King of Spain decorated Donna Rafaela Mora, made her a colonel, and
gave her a pension for life. So recently as 1857, her grandson, General
Martinez, was appointed President of Nicaragua solely because he was a
descendant of the girl who defeated Horatio Nelson.
THE AMBASSADOR’S PIGEONS
Haziddin, the ambassador, stood at the door of his tent and gazed down
upon the famous city of Baalbek, seeing it now for the first time. The
night before, he had encamped on the heights to the south of Baalbek,
and had sent forward to that city, messengers to the Prince, carrying
greetings and acquainting him with the fact that an embassy from the
Governor of Damascus awaited permission to enter the gates. The sun
had not yet risen, but the splendour in the East, lighting the sky with
wondrous colourings of gold and crimson and green, announced the speedy
coming of that god which many of the inhabitants of Baalbek still
worshipped. The temples and palaces of the city took their tints from
the flaming sky, and Haziddin, the ambassador, thought he had never seen
anything so beautiful, notwithstanding the eulogy Mahomet himself had
pronounced upon his own metropolis of Damascus.
The great city lay in silence, but the moment the rim of the sun
appeared above the horizon the silence was broken by a faint sound of
chanting from that ornate temple, seemingly of carven ivory, which had
bestowed upon the city its Greek name of Heliopolis. The Temple of the
Sun towered overall other buildings in the place, and, as if the day-god
claimed his own, the rising sun shot his first rays upon this edifice,
striking from it instantly all colour, leaving its rows of pillars a
dazzling white as if they were fashioned from the pure snows of distant
Lebanon. The sun seemed a mainspring of activity, as well as an object
of adoration, for before it had been many minutes above the horizon the
ambassador saw emerging from the newly opened gate the mounted convoy
that was to act as his escort into the city; so, turning, he gave
a quick command which speedily levelled the tents, and brought his
retinue; into line to receive their hosts.
The officer, sent by the Prince of Baalbek to welcome the ambassador
and conduct him into the city, greeted the visitor with that deferential
ceremony so beloved of the Eastern people, and together they journeyed
down the hill to the gates, the followers of the one mingling
fraternally with the followers of the other. As if the deities of the
wonderful temples they were approaching wished to show the futility of
man’s foresight, a thoughtless remark made by one of the least in
the ambassador’s retinue to one of the least who followed the Baalbek
general, wrought ruin to one empire, and saved another from disaster.
A mule-driver from Baalbek said to one of his lowly a profession from
Damascus that the animals of the northern city seemed of superior
breed to those of the southern. Then the Damascus man, his civic pride
disturbed by the slighting remark, replied haughtily that if the mules
of Baalbek had endured such hardships as those of Damascus, journeying
for a month without rest through a rugged mountain country, they would
perhaps look in no better condition than those the speaker then drove.
“Our mules were as sleek as yours a month ago, when we left Damascus.”
As Baalbek is but thirty-one miles north of Damascus, the muleteer of
the former place marvelled that so long a time had been spent on
the journey, and he asked his fellow why they had wandered among the
mountains. The other could but answer that so it was, and he knew no
reason for it, and with this the man of Baalbek had to content himself.
And so the tale went from mouth to ear of the Baalbek men until it
reached the general himself. He thought little of it for the moment,
but, turning to the ambassador, said, having nothing else to say:
“How long has it taken you from Damascus to Baalbek?”
Then the ambassador answered:
“We have done the journey in three days; it might have taken us but two,
or perhaps it could have been accomplished in one, but there being no
necessity for speed we travelled leisurely.”
Then the general, remaining silent, said to himself:
“Which has lied, rumour or the ambassador?”
He cast his eyes over the animals the ambassador had brought with
him, and saw that they indeed showed signs of fatigue, and perhaps of
irregular and improper food.
Prince Ismael himself received Haziddin, ambassador of Omar, Governor
of Damascus, at the gates of Baalbek, and the pomp and splendour of
that reception was worthy of him who gave it, but the general found
opportunity to whisper in the ear of the Prince:
“The ambassador says he was but three days coming, while a follower of
his told a follower of mine that they have been a month on the road,
wandering among the mountains.”
Suspicion is ever latent in the Eastern mind, and the Prince was quick
to see a possible meaning for this sojourn among the mountains. It might
well be that the party were seeking a route at once easy and unknown by
which warriors from Damascus might fall upon Baalbek; yet, if this were
the case, why did not the explorers return directly to Damascus rather
than venture within the walls of Baalbek? It seemed to Prince Ismael
that this would have been the more crafty method to pursue, for, as it
was, unless messengers had returned to Damascus to report the result of
their mountain excursion, he had the whole party practically prisoners
within the walls of his city, and he could easily waylay any envoy sent
by the ambassador to his chief in Damascus. The Prince, however, showed
nothing in his manner of what was passing through his mind, but at the
last moment he changed the programme he had laid out for the reception
of the ambassador. Preparation had been made for a great public
breakfast, for Haziddin was famed throughout the East, not only as a
diplomatist, but also as physician and a man of science. The Prince
now gave orders that his officers were to entertain the retinue of
the ambassador at the public breakfast, while he bestowed upon the
ambassador the exceptional honour of asking him to his private table,
thus giving Haziddin of Damascus no opportunity to confer with his
followers after they had entered the gates of Baalbek.
It was impossible for Haziddin to demur, so he could but bow low and
accept the hospitality which might at that moment be most unwelcome, as
indeed it was. The Prince’s manner was so genial and friendly that, the
physician, Haziddin, soon saw he had an easy man to deal with, and he
suspected no sinister motive beneath the cordiality of the Prince.
The red wine of Lebanon is strong, and his Highness, Ismael, pressed it
upon his guest, urging that his three days’ journey had been fatiguing.
The ambassador had asked that his own servant might wait upon him, but
the Prince would not hear of it, and said that none should serve him who
were not themselves among the first nobles in Baalbek.
“You represent Omar, Governor of Damascus, son of King Ayoub, and as
such I receive you on terms of equality with myself.”
The ambassador, at first nonplussed with a lavishness that was most
unusual, gradually overcame his diffidence, became warm with the wine,
and so failed to notice that the Prince himself remained cool, and
drank sparingly. At last the head of Haziddin sank on his breast, and he
reclined at full length on the couch he occupied, falling into a drunken
stupor, for indeed he was deeply fatigued, and had spent the night
before sleepless. As his cloak fell away from him it left exposed a
small wicker cage attached to his girdle containing four pigeons closely
huddled, for the cage was barely large enough to hold them, and here the
Prince saw the ambassador’s swift messengers to Damascus. Let loose from
the walls of Baalbek, and flying direct, the tidings would, in a few
hours, be in the hands of the Governor of Damascus. Haziddin then was
spy as well as ambassador. The Prince also possessed carrier pigeons,
and used them as a means of communication between his armies at Tripoli
and at Antioch, so he was not ignorant of their consequence. The fact
that the ambassador himself carried this small cage under his cloak
attached to his girdle showed the great importance that was attached to
these winged messengers, otherwise Haziddin would have entrusted them to
one of his subordinates.
“Bring me,” whispered the Prince to his general, “four of my own
pigeons. Do not disturb the thongs attached to the girdle when you open
the cage, but take the ambassador’s pigeons out and substitute four of
my own. Keep these pigeons of Damascus separate from ours; we may yet
have use for them in communicating with the Governor.”
The general, quick to see the scheme which was in the Prince’s mind,
brought four Baalbek pigeons, identical with the others in size and
colour. He brought with him also a cage into which the Damascus pigeons
were put, and thus the transfer was made without the knowledge of the
slumbering ambassador. His cloak was arranged about him so that it
concealed the cage attached to the girdle, then the ambassador’s own
servants were sent for, and he was confided to their care.
When Haziddin awoke he found himself in a sumptuous room of the palace.
He had but a hazy remembrance of the latter part of the meal with the
Prince, and his first thought went with a thrill of fear towards the
cage under his cloak; finding, however, that this was intact, he was
much relieved in his mind, and could but hope that in his cups he had
not babbled anything of his mission which might arouse suspicion in the
mind of the Prince. His first meeting with the ruler of Baalbek after
the breakfast they had had together, set all doubts finally at
rest, because the Prince received him with a friendship which was
unmistakable. The physician apologised for being overcome by the potency
of the wine, and pleaded that he had hitherto been unused to liquor
of such strength. The Prince waved away all reference to the subject,
saying that he himself had succumbed on the same occasion, and had but
slight recollection of what had passed between them.
Ismael assigned to the ambassador one of the palaces near the Pantheon,
and Haziddin found himself free to come and go as he pleased without
espionage or restriction. He speedily learned that one of the armies
of Baalbek was at the north, near Antioch, the other to the west at
Tripoli, leaving the great city practically unprotected, and this
unprecedented state of affairs jumped so coincident with the designs of
his master, that he hastened to communicate the intelligence. He wrote:
“If Baalbek is immediately attacked, it cannot be protected. Half of the
army is on the shore of the Mediterranean, near Tripoli, the other half
is north, at Antioch. The Prince has no suspicion. If you conceal the
main body of your army behind the hills to the south of Baalbek, and
come on yourself with a small: retinue, sending notice to the Prince of
your arrival, he will likely himself come out to the gates to meet you,
and having secured his person, while I, with my followers, hold the open
gates, you can march into Baalbek unmolested. Once with a force inside
the walls of Baalbek, the city is as nearly as possible impregnable, and
holding the Prince prisoner, you may make with him your own terms. The
city is indescribably rich, and probably never before in the history of
the world has there been opportunity of accumulating so much treasure
with so little risk.”
This writing Haziddin attached to the leg of a pigeon, and throwing the
bird aloft from the walls, it promptly disappeared over the housetops,
and a few moments later was in the hands of its master, the Prince
of Baalbek, who read the treacherous message with amazement. Then,
imitating the ambassador’s writing, he penned a note, saying that this
was not the time to invade Baalbek, but as there were rumours that the
armies were about to leave the city, one going to the north and the
other to the west, the ambassador would send by another pigeon news of
the proper moment to strike.
This communication the Prince attached to the leg of one of the Damascus
pigeons, and throwing it into the air, saw with satisfaction that the
bird flew straight across the hills towards the south.
Ismael that night sent messengers mounted on swift Arabian horses to
Tripoli and to Antioch recalling his armies, directing his generals to
avoid Baalbek and to join forces in the mountains to the south of that
city and out of sight of it. This done, the Prince attended in state
a banquet tendered to him by the ambassador from Damascus, where he
charmed all present by his genial urbanity, speaking touchingly on the
blessings of peace, and drinking to a thorough understanding between the
two great cities of the East, Damascus and Baalbek, sentiments which,
were cordially reciprocated by the ambassador.
Next morning the second pigeon came to the palace of the Prince.
“Ismael is still unsuspicious,” the document ran. “He will fall an easy
prey if action be prompt. In case of a failure to surprise, it would be
well to impress upon your generals the necessity of surrounding the city
instantly so that messengers cannot be sent to the two armies. It will
then be advisable to cut off the water-supply by diverting the course
of the small river which flows into Baalbek. The walls of the city are
incredibly strong, and a few men can defend them successfully against a
host, once the gates are shut. Thirst, however, will soon compel them,
to surrender. Strike quickly, and Baalbek is yours.”
The Prince sent a note of another tenor to Damascus, and the calm
days passed serenely on, the ambassador watching anxiously from his
house-top, his eyes turned to the south, while the Prince watched as
anxiously from the roof of his palace, his gaze turning now westward now
northward.
The third night after the second message had been sent, the ambassador
paced the long level promenade of his roof, ever questioning the south.
A full moon shone down on the silent city, and in that clear air the
plain outside the walls and the nearer hills were as distinctly visible
as if it were daylight. There was no sign of an approaching army.
Baalbek lay like a city of the dead, the splendid architecture of its
countless temples gleaming ghostlike, cold, white and unreal in the pure
refulgence of the moon. Occasionally the ambassador paused in his walk
and leaned on the parapet. He had become vaguely uneasy, wondering why
Damascus delayed, and there crept over him that sensation of dumb fear
which comes to a man in the middle of the night and leaves him with
the breaking of day. He realised keenly the extreme peril of his own
position--imprisoned and at the mercy of his enemy should his treachery
be discovered. And now as he leaned over the parapet in the breathless
stillness, his alert ear missed an accustomed murmur of the night.
Baalbek was lulled to sleep by the ever-present tinkle of running water,
the most delicious sound that can soothe an Eastern ear, accustomed as
it is to the echoless silence of the arid rainless desert.
The little river which entered Baalbek first flowed past the palace of
the Prince, then to the homes of the nobles and the priests, meandering
through every street and lane until it came to the baths left by the
Romans, whence it flowed through the poorer quarters, and at last
disappeared under the outer wall. It might be termed a liquid guide to
Baalbek, for the stranger, leaving the palace and following its current,
would be led past every temple and residence in the city. It was the
limpid thread of life running through the veins of the town, and without
it Baalbek could not have existed. As the ambassador leaned over the
parapet wondering whether it was his imagination which made this night
seem more still than all that had gone before since he came to the city,
he suddenly became aware that what he missed was the purling trickle of
the water. Peering over the wall of his house, and gazing downward on
the moonlit street, he saw no reflecting glitter of the current, and
realised, with a leap of the heart, that the stream had run dry.
The ambassador was quick to understand the meaning of this sudden drying
of the stream. Notwithstanding his vigilance, the soldiers of Damascus
had stolen upon the city unperceived by him, and had already diverted
the water-course. Instantly his thoughts turned toward his own escape.
In the morning the fact of the invasion would be revealed, and his life
would lie at the mercy of an exasperated ruler. To flee from Baalbek in
the night he knew to be no easy task; all the gates were closed, and
not one of them would be opened before daybreak, except through the
intervention of the Prince himself. To spring from even the lowest part
of the wall would mean instant death. In this extremity the natural
ingenuity of the man came to his rescue. That which gave him warning
would also provide an avenue of safety.
The stream, conveyed to the city by a lofty aqueduct, penetrated the
thick walls through a tunnel cut in the solid stone, just large enough
to receive its volume. The tunnel being thus left dry, a man could crawl
on his hands and knees through it, and once outside, walk upright on the
top of the viaduct, along the empty bed of the river, until he reached
the spot where the water had been diverted, and there find his
comrades. Wasting not a thought on the jeopardy in which he left his own
followers, thus helplessly imprisoned in Baalbek, but bent only on his
own safety, he left his house silently, and hurried, deep in the shadow,
along the obscure side of the street. He knew he must avoid the guards
of the palace, and that done, his path to the invading army was clear.
But before he reached the palace of the Prince there remained for him
another stupefying surprise.
Coming to a broad thoroughfare leading to the square in which stood the
Temple of Life, he was amazed to see at his feet, flowing rapidly, the
full tide of the stream, shattering into dancing discs of light the
reflection of the full moon on its surface, gurgling swiftly towards the
square. The fugitive stood motionless and panic-stricken at the margin
of this transparent flood. He knew that his retreat had been cut
off. What had happened? Perhaps the strong current had swept away the
impediment placed against it by the invaders, and thus had resumed its
course into the city. Perhaps--but there was little use in surmising,
and the ambassador, recovering in a measure his self-possession,
resolved to see whether or not it would lead him to his own palace.
Crossing the wide thoroughfare into the shadow beyond, he followed it
towards the square, keeping his eye on the stream that rippled in the
moonlight. The rivulet flowed directly across the square to the Temple
of Life; there, sweeping a semicircle half round the huge building, it
resumed its straight course. The ambassador hesitated before crossing
the moonlit square, but a moment’s reflection showed him that no
suspicion could possibly attach to his movements in this direction,
for the Temple of Life was the only sacred edifice in the city for ever
open.
The Temple of Life consisted of a huge dome, which was supported by
a double circle of pillars, and beneath this dome had been erected
a gigantic marble statue, representing the God of Life, who stood
motionless with outstretched arms, as if invoking a blessing upon the
city. A circular opening at the top of the dome allowed the rays of the
moon to penetrate and illuminate the head of the statue. Against the
white polished surface of the broad marble slab, which lay at the foot
of the statue, the ambassador saw the dark forms of several prostrate
figures, and knew that each was there to beg of the sightless statue,
life for some friend, lying at that moment somewhere on a bed of
illness. For this reason the Temple of Life was always open, and
supplicants prostrated themselves within it at any hour of the night or
day. Remembering this, and knowing that it was the resort of high
and low alike, for Death respects not rank, Haziddin, with gathering
confidence, entered the moonlit square. At the edge of the great
circular temple he paused, meeting there his third surprise. He saw that
the stream was not deflected round the lower rim of the edifice, but
that a stone had been swung at right angles with the lower step, cutting
off the flow of the stream to the left, and allowing its waters to pour
underneath the temple. Listening, the ambassador heard the low muffled
roar of pouring water, and instantly his quick mind jumped at an
accurate conclusion. Underneath the Temple was a gigantic tank for the
storage of water, and it was being filled during the night. Did the
authorities of Baalbek expect a siege, and were they thus preparing
for it? Or was the filling of the tank an ordinary function performed
periodically to keep the water sweet? The ambassador would have given
much for an accurate answer to these questions, but he knew not whom to
ask.
Entering the Temple he prostrated himself on the marble slab, and
remained there for a few moments, hoping that, if his presence had been
observed, this action would provide excuse for his nocturnal wanderings.
Rising, he crossed again the broad square, and hurried up the street
by which he had entered it. This street led to the northern gate, whose
dark arch he saw at the end of it, and just as he was about to turn
down a lane which led to his palace, he found himself confronted with a
fourth problem. One leaf of the ponderous gate swung inward, and through
the opening he caught a glimpse of the moonlit country beyond. Knowing
that the gates were never opened at night, except through the direct
order of the Prince, he paused for a moment, and then saw a man on
horseback enter, fling himself hurriedly from his steed, leaving it in
care of those in charge of the gates, and disappear down the street that
led directly to the Prince’s palace. In a most perturbed state of mind
the ambassador sought his own house, and there wrote his final despatch
to Damascus. He told of his discovery of the water-tank, and said that
his former advice regarding the diverting of the stream was no longer
of practical value. He said he would investigate further the reservoir
under the Temple of Life, and discover, if possible, how the water was
discharged. If he succeeded in his quest he would endeavour, in case of
a long siege, to set free Baalbek’s store of water; but he reiterated
his belief that it was better to attempt the capture of the city by
surprise and fierce assault. The message that actually went to Damascus,
carried by the third pigeon, was again different in tenor.
“Come at once,” it said. “Baalbek is unprotected, and the Prince has
gone on a hunting expedition. March through the Pass of El-Zaid, which
is unprotected, because it is the longer route. The armies of Baalbek
are at Tripoli and at Antioch, and the city is without even a garrison.
The southern gate will be open awaiting your coming.”
Days passed, and the ambassador paced the roof of his house, looking in
vain towards the south. The streamed flowed as usual through the city.
Anxiety at the lack of all tidings from Damascus began to plough furrows
in his brow. He looked careworn and haggard. To the kindly inquiries
of the Prince regarding his health, he replied that there was nothing
amiss.
One evening, an urgent message came from the palace requesting his
attendance there. The Prince met him with concern on his brow.
“Have you had word from your master, Omar, Governor of Damascus, since
you parted with him?” asked Ismael.
“I have had no tidings,” replied the ambassador.
“A messenger has just come in from Damascus, who says that Omar is in
deadly peril. I thought you should know this speedily, and so I sent for
you.”
“Of what nature is this peril?” asked the ambassador, turning pale.
“The messenger said something of his falling a prisoner, sorely wounded,
in the hands of his enemies.”
“Of his enemies,” echoed the ambassador. “He has many. Which one has
been victorious?”
“I have had no particulars and perhaps the news may not be true,”
answered the Prince, soothingly.
“May I question your messenger?”
“Assuredly. He has gone to the Temple of Life, to pray for some of his
own kin, who are in danger. Let us go there together and find him.”
But the messenger had already left the Temple before the arrival of his
master, and the two found the great place entirely empty. Standing near
the edge of the slab before the mammoth statue, the Prince said:
“Stand upon that slab facing the statue, and it will tell you more
faithfully than any messenger whether your master shall live or die, and
when.”
“I am a Moslem,” answered Haziddin, “and pray to none but Allah.”
“In Baalbek,” said the Prince, carelessly, “all religions are tolerated.
Here we have temples for the worship of the Roman and the Greek gods and
mosques for the Moslems. Here Christian, or Jew, Sun-worshipper or Pagan
implore their several gods unmolested, and thus is Baalbek prosperous. I
confess a liking for this Temple of Life, and come here often. I should,
however, warn you that it is the general belief of those who frequent
this place that he who steps upon the marble slab facing the god courts
disaster, unless his heart is as free, from treachery and guile as this
stone beneath him is free from flaw. Perhaps you have heard the rumour,
and therefore hesitate.”
“I have not heard it heretofore, but having heard it, do not hesitate.”
Saying which, the ambassador stepped upon the stone. Instantly, the
marble turned under him, and falling, he clutched its polished surface
in vain, dropping helplessly into the reservoir beneath. The air under
his cloak bore him up and kept him from sinking. The reservoir into
which he had fallen proved to be as large as the Temple itself, circular
in form, as was the edifice above it. Steps rose from the water in
unbroken rings around it, but even if he could have reached the edge
of the huge tank in which he found himself, ascent by the steps was
impossible, for upon the first three burned vigorously some chemical
substance, which luridly illuminated the surface of this subterranean
lake. He was surrounded immediately by water, and beyond that by rising
rings of flame, and he rightly surmised that this substance was Greek
fire, for where it dripped into the water it still burned, floating
on the surface. A moment later the Prince appeared on the upper steps,
outside the flaming circumference.
“Ambassador,” he cried, “I told you that if you stepped on the marble
slab, you would be informed truly of the fate of your master. I now
announce to you that he dies to-night, being a prisoner in my hands. His
army was annihilated in the Pass of El-Zaid, while he was on his way to
capture this city through your treachery. In your last communication to
him you said that you would investigate our water storage, and learn how
it was discharged. This secret I shall proceed to put you in possession
of, but before doing so, I beg to tell you that Damascus has fallen
and is in my possession. The reservoir, you will observe, is emptied
by pulling this lever, which releases a trap-door at the centre of the
bottom of the tank.”
The Prince, with both hands on the lever, exerted his strength and
depressed it. Instantly the ambassador felt the result. First, a small
whirlpool became indented in the placid surface of the water, exactly in
the centre of the disc: enlarging its influence, it grew and grew until
it reached the outer edges of the reservoir, bringing lines of fire
round with it. The ambassador found himself floating with increased
rapidity, dizzily round and round. He cried out in a voice that rang
against the stone ceiling:
“An ambassador’s life is sacred, Prince of Baalbek. It is contrary to
the law of nations to do me injury, much less to encompass my death.”
“An ambassador is sacred,” replied the Prince, “but not a spy. Aside
from that, it is the duty of an ambassador to precede his master, and
that you are about to do. Tell him, when you meet him, the secret of the
reservoir of Baalbek.”
This reservoir, now a whirling maelstrom, hurled its shrieking victim
into its vortex, and then drowned shriek and man together.