ACT I

[Frontispiece: Guy de Maupassant]

GREAT

SHORT STORIES

Edited by William Patten

A NEW COLLECTION

OF FAMOUS EXAMPLES

FROM THE

LITERATURES OF FRANCE,

ENGLAND AND AMERICA

VOLUME III

ROMANCE &

ADVENTURE

P. F. COLLIER & SON

NEW YORK

[Illustration: Title page]

COPYRIGHT 1906

BY P. F. COLLIER & SON

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE ATTACK ON THE MILL _By Emile Zola_

THE VENUS OF ILLE _By Prosper Merimee_

THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS _By Robert Louis Stevenson_

THE PRISONERS _By Guy de Maupassant_

THE SIEGE OF BERLIN _By Alphonse Daudet_

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING _By Rudyard Kipling_

THE BLACK PEARL _By Victorien Sardon_

THE PRISONER OF ASSIOUT _By Grant Allen_

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE _By S. R. Crockett_

THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION _By Honore de Balzac_

A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED _By Wilkie Collins_

THE CAPTURE OF BILL SIKES _By Charles Dickens_

THE POSTMISTRESS OF LAUREL RUN _By Bret Harte_

THE CAPTAIN'S VICES _By Francois Coppee_

RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER _By Nathaniel Hawthorne_

ZODOMIRSKY'S DUEL _By Alexandre Dumas_

THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL _By James Matthew Barrie_

THE RYNARD GOLD REEF COMPANY, LTD. _By Sir Walter Besant_

THE ATTACK ON THE MILL

BY EMILE ZOLA

I

_"The Attack on the Mill" is Zola's contribution to a volume entitled

"Les Soirées de Medan," made up of stories written by several friends

at his country home. Maupassant's celebrated story, "Boule de Suif,"

made its first appearance in this volume. An ardent admirer and

disciple of Balzac, Zola early conceived the idea of writing a

connected history of a family and its branches, somewhat as Balzac

had done in the "Comédie Humaine." He possessed remarkable power to

analyze human nature and wrote in a style so realistic that he was

often called upon to defend it. "The Attack on the Mill" is

frequently cited as one of the best of his short stories._

THE ATTACK ON THE MILL

By EMILE ZOLA

It was high holiday at Father Merlier's mill on that pleasant summer

afternoon. Three tables had been brought out into the garden and

placed end to end in the shade of the great elm, and now they were

awaiting the arrival of the guests. It was known throughout the

length and breadth of the land that that day was to witness the

betrothal of old Merlier's daughter, Françoise, to Dominique, a young

man who was said to be not overfond of work, but whom never a woman

for three leagues of the country around could look at without

sparkling eyes, such a well-favored young fellow was he.

That mill of Father Merlier's was truly a very pleasant spot. It was

situated right in the heart of Rocreuse, at the place where the main

road makes a sharp bend. The village has but a single street,

bordered on either side by a row of low, whitened cottages, but just

there, where the road curves, there are broad stretches of

meadow-land, and huge trees, which follow the course of the Morelle,

cover the low grounds of the valley with a most delicious shade. All

Lorraine has no more charming bit of nature to show. To right and

left dense forests, great monarchs of the wood, centuries old, rise

from the gentle slopes and fill the horizon with a sea of waving,

trembling verdure, while away toward the south extends the plain, of

wondrous fertility and checkered almost to infinity with its small

enclosures, divided off from one another by their live hedges. But

what makes the crowning glory of Rocreuse is the coolness of this

verdurous nook, even in the hottest days of July and August. The

Morelle comes down from the woods of Gagny, and it would seem as if

it gathered to itself on the way all the delicious freshness of the

foliage beneath which it glides for many a league; it brings down

with it the murmuring sounds, the glacial, solemn shadows of the

forest. And that is not the only source of coolness; there are

running waters of all sorts singing among the copses; one can not

take a step without coming on a gushing spring, and, as he makes his

way along the narrow paths, seems to be treading above subterrene

lakes that seek the air and sunshine through the moss above and

profit by every smallest crevice, at the roots of trees or among the

chinks and crannies of the rocks, to burst forth in fountains of

crystalline clearness. So numerous and so loud are the whispering

voices of these streams that they silence the song of the

bullfinches. It is as if one were in an enchanted park, with

cascades falling and flashing on every side.

The meadows below are never athirst. The shadows beneath the

gigantic chestnut trees are of inky blackness, and along the edges of

the fields long rows of poplars stand like walls of rustling foliage.

There is a double avenue of huge plane trees ascending across the

fields toward the ancient castle of Gagny, now gone to rack and ruin.

In this region, where drought is never known, vegetation of all kinds

is wonderfully rank; it is like a flower garden down there in the low

ground between those two wooded hills, a natural garden, where the

lawns are broad meadows and the giant trees represent colossal beds.

When the noonday sun pours down his scorching rays the shadows lie

blue upon the ground, vegetation slumbers in the genial warmth, while

every now and then a breath of almost icy coldness rustles the

foliage.

Such was the spot where Father Merlier's mill enlivened nature run

riot with its cheerful clack. The building itself, constructed of

wood and plaster, looked as if it might be coeval with our planet.

Its foundations were in part laved by the Morelle, which here expands

into a clear pool. A dam, a few feet in height, afforded sufficient

head of water to drive the old wheel, which creaked and groaned as it

revolved, with the asthmatic wheezing of a faithful servant who has

grown old in her place. Whenever Father Merlier was advised to

change it, he would shake his head and say that like as not a young

wheel would be lazier and not so well acquainted with its duties, and

then he would set to work and patch up the old one with anything that

came to hand, old hogshead-staves, bits of rusty iron, zinc, or lead.

The old wheel only seemed the gayer for it, with its odd, round

countenance, all plumed and feathered with tufts of moss and grass,

and when the water poured over it in a silvery tide its gaunt black

skeleton was decked out with a gorgeous display of pearls and

diamonds.

That portion of the mill which was bathed by the Morelle had

something of the look of a Moorish arch that had been dropped down

there by chance. A good half of the structure was built on piles;

the water came in under the floor, and there were deep holes, famous

throughout the whole country for the eels and the huge crawfish that

were to be caught there. Below the fall the pool was as clear as a

looking-glass, and when it was not clouded by foam from the wheel one

could see great fish swimming about in it with the slow, majestic

movements of a fleet. There was a broken stairway leading down to

the stream, near a stake to which a boat was fastened, and over the

wheel was a gallery of wood. Such windows as there were were

arranged without any attempt at order. The whole was a quaint

conglomeration of nooks and corners, bits of wall, additions made

here and there as afterthoughts, beams and roofs, that gave the mill

the aspect of an old dismantled citadel; but ivy and all sorts of

creeping plants had grown luxuriantly and kindly covered up such

crevices as were too unsightly, casting a mantle of green over the

old dwelling. Young ladies who passed that way used to stop and

sketch Father Merlier's mill in their albums.

The side of the house that faced the road was less irregular. A

gateway in stone afforded access to the principal courtyard, on the

right and left hand of which were sheds and stables. Beside a well

stood an immense elm that threw its shade over half the court. At

the further end, opposite the gate, stood the house, surmounted by a

dovecote, the four windows of its first floor symmetrically alined.

The only manifestation of pride that Father Merlier ever allowed

himself was to paint this façade every ten years. It had just been

freshly whitened at the time of our story, and dazzled the eyes of

all the village when the sun lighted it up in the middle of the day.

For twenty years had Father Merlier been mayor of Rocreuse. He was

held in great consideration on account of his fortune; he was

supposed to be worth something like eighty thousand francs, the

result of patient saving. When he married Madeleine Guilliard, who

brought him the mill as her dowry, his entire capital lay in his two

strong arms; but Madeleine had never repented of her choice, so

manfully had he conducted their joint affairs. Now his wife was

dead, and he was left a widower with his daughter Françoise.

Doubtless he might have sat himself down to take his rest and

suffered the old mill-wheel to sleep among its moss, but he would

have found the occupation too irksome and the house would have seemed

dead to him, so he kept on working still, for the pleasure of it. In

those days Father Merlier was a tall old man, with a long, unspeaking

face, on which a laugh was never seen, but beneath which there lay,

none the less, a large fund of good-humor. He had been elected mayor

on account of his money, and also for the impressive air that he knew

how to assume when it devolved on him to marry a couple.

Françoise Merlier had just completed her eighteenth year. She was

small, and for that reason was not accounted one of the beauties of

the country. Until she reached the age of fifteen she was even

homely; the good folks of Rocreuse could not see how it was that the

daughter of Father and Mother Merlier, such a hale, vigorous couple,

had such a hard time of it in getting her growth. When she was

fifteen, however, though still remaining delicate, a change came over

her and she took on the prettiest little face imaginable. She had

black eyes, black hair, and was red as a rose withal; her little

mouth was always graced with a charming smile, there were delicious

dimples in her cheeks, and a crown of sunshine seemed to be ever

resting on her fair, candid forehead. Although small as girls went

in that region, she was far from being slender; she might not have

been able to raise a sack of wheat to her shoulder, but she became

quite plump with age and gave promise of becoming eventually as

well-rounded and appetizing as a partridge. Her father's habits of

taciturnity had made her reflective while yet a young girl; if she

always had a smile on her lips it was in order to give pleasure to

others. Her natural disposition was serious.

As was no more than to be expected, she had every young man in the

countryside at her heels as a suitor, more even for her money than

for her attractiveness, and she had made a choice at last, a choice

that had been the talk and scandal of the entire neighborhood. On

the other side of the Morelle lived a strapping young fellow who went

by the name of Dominique Penquer. He was not to the manor born; ten

years previously he had come to Rocreuse from Belgium to receive the

inheritance of an uncle who had owned a small property on the very

borders of the forest of Gagny, just facing the mill and distant from

it only a few musket-shots. His object in coming was to sell the

property, so he said, and return to his own home again; but he must

have found the land to his liking for he made no move to go away. He

was seen cultivating his bit of a field and gathering the few

vegetables that afforded him an existence. He hunted, he fished;

more than once he was near coming in contact with the law through the

intervention of the keepers. This independent way of living, of

which the peasants could not very clearly see the resources, had in

the end given him a bad name. He was vaguely looked on as nothing

better than a poacher. At all events he was lazy, for he was

frequently found sleeping in the grass at hours when he should have

been at work. Then, too, the hut in which he lived, in the shade of

the last trees of the forest, did not seem like the abode of an

honest young man; the old women would not have been surprised at any

time to hear that he was on friendly terms with the wolves in the

ruins of Gagny. Still, the young girls would now and then venture to

stand up for him, for he was altogether a splendid specimen of

manhood, was this individual of doubtful antecedents, tall and

straight as a young poplar, with a milk-white skin and ruddy hair and

beard that seemed to be of gold when the sun shone on them. Now one

fine morning it came to pass that Françoise told Father Merlier that

she loved Dominique and that never, never would she consent to marry

any other young man.

It may be imagined what a knockdown blow it was that Father Merlier

received that day! As was his wont, he said never a word; his

countenance wore its usual reflective look, only the fun that used to

bubble up from within no longer shone in his eyes. Françoise, too,

was very serious, and for a week father and daughter scarcely spoke

to each other. What troubled Father Merlier was to know how that

rascal of a poacher had succeeded in bewitching his daughter.

Dominique had never shown himself at the mill. The miller played the

spy a little, and was rewarded by catching sight of the gallant, on

the other side of the Morelle, lying among the grass and pretending

to be asleep. Françoise could see him from her chamber window. The

thing was clear enough; they had been making sheep's eyes at each

other over the old mill-wheel, and so had fallen in love.

A week slipped by; Françoise became more and more serious. Father

Merlier still continued to say nothing. Then, one evening, of his

own accord, he brought Dominique to the house, without a word.

Françoise was just setting the table. She made no demonstration of

surprise; all she did was to add another plate, but her laugh had

come back to her and the little dimples appeared again upon her

cheeks. Father Merlier had gone that morning to look for Dominique

at his hut on the edge of the forest, and there the two men had had a

conference, with closed doors and windows, that lasted three hours.

No one ever knew what they said to each other; the only thing certain

is that when Father Merlier left the hut he already treated Dominique

as a son. Doubtless the old man had discovered that he whom he had

gone to visit was a worthy young man, even though he did lie in the

grass to gain the love of young girls.

All Rocreuse was up in arms. The women gathered at their doors and

could not find words strong enough to characterize Father Merlier's

folly in thus receiving a ne'er-do-well into his family. He let them

talk. Perhaps he thought of his own marriage. Neither had he

possessed a penny to his name at the time when he married Madeleine

and her mill, and yet that had not prevented him from being a good

husband to her. Moreover Dominique put an end to their tittle-tattle

by setting to work in such strenuous fashion that all the countryside

was amazed. It so happened just then that the boy of the mill drew

an unlucky number and had to go for a soldier, and Dominique would

not hear to their engaging another. He lifted sacks, drove the cart,

wrestled with the old wheel when it took an obstinate fit and refused

to turn, and all so pluckily and cheerfully that people came from far

and near merely for the pleasure of seeing him. Father Merlier

laughed his silent laugh. He was highly elated that he had read the

youngster aright. There is nothing like love to hearten up young men.

In the midst of all that laborious toil Françoise and Dominique

fairly worshiped each other. They had not much to say, but their

tender smiles conveyed a world of meaning. Father Merlier had not

said a word thus far on the subject of their marriage, and they had

both respected his silence, waiting until the old man should see fit

to give expression to his will. At last, one day along toward the

middle of July, he had had three tables laid in the courtyard, in the

shade of the big elm, and had invited his friends of Rocreuse to come

that afternoon and drink a glass of wine with him. When the

courtyard was filled with people and every one there had a full glass

in his hand, Father Merlier raised his own high above his head and

said:

"I have the pleasure of announcing to you that Françoise and this

stripling will be married in a month from now, on Saint Louis's

fête-day."

Then there was a universal touching of glasses, attended by a

tremendous uproar; every one was laughing. But Father Merlier,

raising his voice above the din, again spoke:

"Dominique, kiss your wife that is to be. It is no more than

customary."

And they kissed, very red in the face, both of them, while the

company laughed louder still. It was a regular fête; they emptied a

small cask. Then, when only the intimate friends of the house

remained, conversation went on in a calmer strain. Night had fallen,

a starlit night and very clear. Dominique and Françoise sat on a

bench, side by side, and said nothing. An old peasant spoke of the

war that the emperor had declared against Prussia. All the lads of

the village were already gone off to the army. Troops had passed

through the place only the night before. There were going to be hard

knocks.

"Bah!" said Father Merlier, with the selfishness of a man who is

quite happy, "Dominique is a foreigner, he won't have to go--and if

the Prussians come this way, he will be here to defend his wife."

The idea of the Prussians coming there seemed to the company an

exceedingly good joke. The army would give them one good,

conscientious thrashing and the affair would be quickly ended.

"I have seen them, I have seen them," the old peasant repeated in a

low voice.

There was silence for a little, then they all touched glasses once

again. Françoise and Dominique had heard nothing; they had managed

to clasp hands behind the bench in such a way as not to be seen by

the others, and this condition of affairs seemed so beatific to them

that they sat there, mute, their gaze lost in the darkness of the

night.

What a magnificent, balmy night! The village lay slumbering on

either side of the white road as peacefully as a little child. The

deep silence was undisturbed save by the occasional crow of a cock in

some distant barnyard, acting on a mistaken impression that dawn was

at hand. Perfumed breaths of air, like long-drawn sighs, almost,

came down from the great woods that lay around and above, sweeping

softly over the roofs, as if caressing them. The meadows, with their

black intensity of shadow, took on a dim, mysterious majesty of their

own, while all the springs, all the brooks and watercourses that

gargled and trickled in the darkness, might have been taken for the

cool and rhythmical breathing of the sleeping country. Every now and

then the old dozing mill-wheel, like a watchdog that barks uneasily

in his slumber, seemed to be dreaming as if it were endowed with some

strange form of life; it creaked, it groaned, it talked to itself,

rocked by the fall of the Morelle, whose current gave forth the deep,

sustained music of an organ pipe. Never was there a more charming or

happier nook, never did more entire or deeper peace come down to

cover it.

II

One month later to a day, on the eve of the fête of Saint Louis,

Rocreuse was in a state of alarm and dismay. The Prussians had

beaten the emperor and were advancing on the village by forced

marches. For a week past people passing along the road had brought

tidings of the enemy: "They are at Lormières, they are at Novelles;"

and by dint of hearing so many stories of the rapidity of their

advance, Rocreuse woke up every morning in the full expectation of

seeing them swarming down out of Gagny wood. They did not come,

however, and that only served to make the affright the greater. They

would certainly fall upon the village in the night-time, and put

every soul to the sword.

There had been an alarm the night before, a little before daybreak.

The inhabitants had been aroused by a great noise of men tramping

upon the road. The women were already throwing themselves upon their

knees and making the sign of the cross when some one, to whom it

happily occurred to peep through a half-opened window, caught sight

of red trousers. It was a French detachment. The captain had

forthwith asked for the mayor, and, after a long conversation with

Father Merlier, had remained at the mill.

The sun rose bright and clear that morning, giving promise of a warm

day. There was a golden light floating over the woodland, while in

the low grounds white mists were rising from the meadows. The pretty

village, so neat and trim, awoke in the cool dawning, and the

country, with its stream and its fountains, was as gracious as a

freshly plucked bouquet. But the beauty of the day brought gladness

to the face of no one; the villagers had watched the captain and seen

him circle round and round the old mill, examine the adjacent houses,

then pass to the other bank of the Morelle and from thence scan the

country with a field-glass; Father Merlier, who accompanied him,

appeared to be giving explanations. After that the captain had

posted some of his men behind walls, behind trees, or in hollows.

The main body of the detachment had encamped in the courtyard of the

mill. So there was going to be a fight, then? And when Father

Merlier returned, they questioned him. He spoke no word, but slowly

and sorrowfully nodded his head. Yes, there was going to be a fight.

Françoise and Dominique were there in the courtyard, watching him.

He finally took his pipe from his lips and gave utterance to these

few words:

"Ah! my poor children, I shall not be able to marry you to-day!"

Dominique, with lips tight set and an angry frown upon his forehead,

raised himself on tiptoe from time to time and stood with eyes bent

on Gagny wood, as if he would have been glad to see the Prussians

appear and end the suspense they were in. Françoise, whose face was

grave and very pale, was constantly passing back and forth, supplying

the needs of the soldiers. They were preparing their soup in a

corner of the courtyard, joking and chaffing one another while

awaiting their meal.

The captain appeared to be highly pleased. He had visited the

chambers and the great hall of the mill that looked out on the

stream. Now, seated beside the well, he was conversing with Father

Merlier.

"You have a regular fortress here," he was saying. "We shall have no

trouble in holding it until evening. The bandits are late; they

ought to be here by this time."

The miller looked very grave. He saw his beloved mill going up in

flame and smoke, but uttered no word of remonstrance or complaint,

considering that it would be useless. He only opened his mouth to

say:

"You ought to take steps to hide the boat; there is a hole behind the

wheel fitted to hold it. Perhaps you may find it of use to you."

The captain gave an order to one of his men. This captain was a

tall, fine-looking man of about forty, with an agreeable expression

of countenance. The sight of Dominique and Françoise seemed to

afford him much pleasure; he watched them as if he had forgotten all

about the approaching conflict. He followed Françoise with his eyes

as she moved about the courtyard, and his manner showed clearly

enough that he thought her charming. Then, turning to Dominique:

"You are not with the army, I see, my boy?" he abruptly asked.

"I am a foreigner," the young man replied.

The captain did not seem particularly pleased with the answer; he

winked his eyes and smiled. Françoise was doubtless a more agreeable

companion than a musket would have been. Dominique, noticing his

smile, made haste to add:

"I am a foreigner, but I can lodge a rifle-bullet in an apple at five

hundred yards. See, there's my rifle, behind you."

"You may find use for it," the captain dryly answered.

Françoise had drawn near; she was trembling a little, and Dominique,

regardless of the bystanders, took and held firmly clasped in his own

the two hands that she held forth to him, as if committing herself to

his protection. The captain smiled again, but said nothing more. He

remained seated, his sword between his legs, his eyes fixed on space,

apparently lost in dreamy reverie.

It was ten o'clock. The heat was already oppressive. A deep silence

prevailed. The soldiers had sat down in the shade of the sheds in

the courtyard and begun to eat their soup. Not a sound came from the

village, where the inhabitants had all barricaded their houses,

doors, and windows. A dog, abandoned by his master, howled

mournfully upon the road. From the woods and the near-by meadows,

that lay fainting in the heat, came a long-drawn whispering, soughing

sound, produced by the union of what wandering breaths of air there

were. A cuckoo sang. Then the silence became deeper still.

And all at once, upon that lazy, sleepy air, a shot rang out. The

captain rose quickly to his feet, the soldiers left their

half-emptied plates. In a few seconds all were at their posts; the

mill was occupied from top to bottom. And yet the captain, who had

gone out through the gate, saw nothing; to right and left the road

stretched away, desolate and blindingly white in the fierce sunshine.

A second report was heard, and still nothing to be seen, not even so

much as a shadow; but just as he was turning to reenter he chanced to

look over toward Gagny and there beheld a little puff of smoke,

floating away on the tranquil air, like thistle-down. The deep peace

of the forest was apparently unbroken.

"The rascals have occupied the wood," the officer murmured. "They

know we are here."

Then the firing went on, and became more and more continuous, between

the French soldiers posted about the mill and the Prussians concealed

among the trees. The bullets whistled over the Morelle without doing

any mischief on either side. The firing was irregular; every bush

seemed to have its marksman, and nothing was to be seen save those

bluish smoke wreaths that hung for a moment on the wind before they

vanished. It lasted thus for nearly two hours. The officer hummed a

tune with a careless air. Françoise and Dominique, who had remained

in the courtyard, raised themselves to look out over a low wall.

They were more particularly interested in a little soldier who had

his post on the bank of the Morelle, behind the hull of an old boat;

he would lie face downward on the ground, watch his chance, deliver

his fire, then slip back into a ditch a few steps in his rear to

reload, and his movements were so comical, he displayed such cunning

and activity, that it was difficult for any one watching him to

refrain from smiling. He must have caught sight of a Prussian, for

he rose quickly and brought his piece to the shoulder, but before he

could discharge it he uttered a loud cry, whirled completely around

in his tracks and fell backward into the ditch, where for an instant

his legs moved convulsively, just as the claws of a fowl do when it

is beheaded. The little soldier had received a bullet directly

through his heart. It was the first casualty of the day. Françoise

instinctively seized Dominique's hand and held it tight in a

convulsive grasp.

"Come away from there," said the captain. "The bullets reach us

here."

As if to confirm his words, a slight, sharp sound was heard up in the

old elm, and the end of a branch came to the ground, turning over and

over as it fell, but the two young people never stirred, riveted to

the spot as they were by the interest of the spectacle. On the edge

of the wood a Prussian had suddenly emerged from behind a tree, as an

actor comes upon the stage from the wings, beating the air with his

arms and falling over upon his back. And beyond that there was no

movement; the two dead men appeared to be sleeping in the bright

sunshine; there was not a soul to be seen in the fields on which the

heat lay heavy. Even the sharp rattle of the musketry had ceased.

Only the Morelle kept on whispering to itself with its low, musical

murmur.

Father Merlier looked at the captain with an astonished air, as if to

inquire whether that were the end of it.

"Here comes their attack," the officer murmured. "Look out for

yourself! Don't stand there!"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a terrible discharge of

musketry ensued. The great elm was riddled, its leaves came eddying

down as thick as snowflakes. Fortunately the Prussians had aimed too

high. Dominique dragged, almost carried Françoise from the spot,

while Father Merlier followed them, shouting:

"Get into the small cellar, the walls are thicker there."

But they paid no attention to him; they made their way to the main

hall, where ten or a dozen soldiers were silently waiting, watching

events outside through the chinks of the closed shutters. The

captain was left alone in the courtyard, where he sheltered himself

behind the low wall, while the furious fire was maintained

uninterruptedly. The soldiers whom he had posted outside only

yielded their ground inch by inch; they came crawling in, however,

one after another, as the enemy dislodged them from their positions.

Their instructions were to gain all the time they could, taking care

not to show themselves, in order that the Prussians might remain in

ignorance of the force they had opposed to them. Another hour

passed, and at> a sergeant came in, reporting that there were now

only two or three men left outside, the officer took his watch from

his pocket, murmuring:

"Half-past two. Come, we must hold out for four hours yet."

He caused the great gate of the courtyard to be tightly secured and

everything was made ready for an energetic defense. The Prussians

were on the other side of the Morelle, consequently there was no

reason to fear an assault at the moment. There was a bridge, indeed,

a mile and a quarter away, but they were probably unaware of Its

existence, and it was hardly to be supposed that they would attempt

to cross the stream by fording. The officer therefore simply caused

the road to be watched; the attack, when it came, was to be looked

for from the direction of the fields.

The firing had ceased again. The mill appeared to lie there in the

sunlight, void of all life. Not a shutter was open, not a sound came

from within. Gradually, however, the Prussians began to show

themselves at the edge of Gagny wood. Heads were protruded here and

there; they seemed to be mustering up their courage. Several of the

soldiers within the mill brought up their pieces to an aim, but the

captain shouted:

"No, no; not yet; wait. Let them come nearer."

They displayed a great deal of prudence in their advance, looking at

the mill with a distrustful air; they seemed hardly to know what to

make of the old structure, so lifeless and gloomy, with its curtains

of ivy. Still, they kept on advancing. When there were fifty of

them or so in the open, directly opposite, the officer uttered one

word:

"Now!"

A crashing, tearing discharge burst from the position, succeeded by

an irregular, dropping fire. François, trembling violently,

involuntarily raised her hands to her ears. Dominique, from his

position behind the soldiers, pressed out upon the field, and when

the smoke drifted away a little, counted three Prussians extended on

their backs in the middle of the meadow. The others had sought

shelter among the willows and the poplars. And then commenced the

siege.

For more than an hour the mill was riddled with bullets; they beat

and rattled on its old walls like hail. The noise they made was

plainly audible as they struck the stone-work, were flattened, and

fell back into the water; they buried themselves in the woodwork with

a dull thud. Occasionally a creaking sound would announce that the

wheel had been hit. Within the building the soldiers husbanded their

ammunition, firing only when they could see something to aim at. The

captain kept consulting his watch every few minutes, and as a ball

split one of the shutters in halves and then lodged in the ceiling:

"Four o'clock," he murmured. "We shall never be able to hold the

position."

The old mill, in truth, was gradually going to pieces beneath that

terrific fire. A shutter that had been perforated again and again

until it looked like a piece of lace, fell off its hinges into the

water and had to be replaced by a mattress. Every moment, almost,

Father Merlier exposed himself to the fire in order to take account

of the damage sustained by his poor wheel, every wound of which was

like a bullet in his own heart. Its period of usefulness was ended

this time, for certain; he would never be able to patch it up again.

Dominique had besought Françoise to retire to a place of safety, but

she was determined to remain with him; she had taken a seat behind a

great oaken clothes-press, which afforded her protection. A ball

struck the press, however, the sides of which gave out a dull, hollow

sound, whereupon Dominique stationed himself in front of Françoise.

He had as yet taken no part in the firing, although he had his rifle

in his hand; the soldiers occupied the whole breadth of the windows,

so that he could not get near them. At every discharge the floor

trembled.

"Look out! look out!" the captain suddenly shouted.

He had just descried a dark mass emerging from the wood. As soon as

they gained the open they set up a telling platoon fire. It struck

the mill like a tornado. Another shutter parted company and the

bullets came whistling in through the yawning aperture. Two soldiers

rolled upon the floor; one lay where he fell and never moved a limb;

his comrades pushed him up against the wall because he was in their

way. The other writhed and twisted, beseeching some one to end his

agony, but no one had ears for the poor wretch; the bullets were

still pouring in and every one was looking out for himself and

searching for a loop-hole whence he might answer the enemy's fire. A

third soldier was wounded; that one said not a word, but with

staring, haggard eyes sank down beneath a table. François,

horror-stricken by the dreadful spectacle of the dead and dying men,

mechanically pushed away her chair and seated herself on the floor,

against the wall; it seemed to her that she would be smaller there

and less exposed. In the meantime men had gone and secured all the

mattresses in the house; the opening of the window was partially

closed again. The hall was filled with débris of every description,

broken weapons, dislocated furniture.

"Five o'clock," said the captain. "Stand fast, boys. They are going

to make an attempt to pass the stream."

Just then Françoise gave a shriek. A bullet had struck the floor

and, rebounding, grazed her forehead on the ricochet. A few drops of

blood appeared. Dominique looked at her, then went to the window and

fired his first shot, and from that time kept on firing

uninterruptedly. He kept on loading and discharging his piece

mechanically, paying no attention to what was passing at his side,

only pausing from time to time to cast a look at Françoise. He did

not fire hurriedly or at random, moreover, but took deliberate aim.

As the captain had predicted, the Prussians were skirting the belt of

poplars and attempting the passage of the Morelle, but each time that

one of them showed himself he fell with one of Dominique's bullets in

his brain. The captain, who was watching the performance, was

amazed; he complimented the young man, telling him that he would like

to have many more marksmen of his skill. Dominique did not hear a

word he said. A ball struck him in the shoulder, another raised a

contusion on his arm. And still he kept on firing.

There were two more deaths. The mattresses were torn to shreds and

no longer availed to stop the windows. The last volley that was

poured in seemed as if it would carry away the mill bodily, so fierce

it was. The position was no longer tenable. Still, the officer kept

repeating:

"Stand fast. Another half-hour yet."

He was counting the minutes, one by one, now. He had promised his

commanders that he would hold the enemy there until nightfall, and he

would not budge a hair's-breadth before the moment that he had fixed

on for his withdrawal. He maintained his pleasant air of good-humor,

smiling at Françoise by way of reassuring her. He had picked up the

musket of one of the dead soldiers and was firing away with the rest.

There were but four soldiers left in the room. The Prussians were

showing themselves _en masse_ on the other bank of the Morelle, and

it was evident that they might now pass the stream at any moment. A

few moments more elapsed; the captain was as determined as ever and

would not give the order to retreat, when a sergeant came running

into the room, saying:

"They are on the road; they are going to take us in rear."

The Prussians must have discovered the bridge. The captain drew out

his watch again.

"Five minutes more," he said. "They won't be here within five

minutes."

Then exactly at six o'clock, he at last withdrew his men through a

little postern that opened on a narrow lane, whence they threw

themselves into the ditch and in that way reached the forest of

Sauval. The captain took leave of Father Merlier with much

politeness, apologizing profusely for the trouble he had caused. He

even added:

"Try to keep them occupied for a while. We shall return."

While this was occurring Dominique had remained alone in the hall.

He was still firing away, hearing nothing, conscious of nothing; his

sole thought was to defend Françoise. The soldiers were all gone and

he had not the remotest idea of the fact; he aimed and brought down

his man at every shot. All at once there was a great tumult. The

Prussians had entered the courtyard from the rear. He fired his last

shot, and they fell upon him with his weapon still smoking in his

hand.

It required four men to hold him; the rest of them swarmed about him,

vociferating like madmen in their horrible dialect. Françoise rushed

forward to intercede with her prayers. They were on the point of

killing him on the spot, but an officer came in and made them turn

the prisoner over to him. After exchanging a few words in German

with his men he turned to Dominique and said to him roughly, in very

good French:

"You will be shot in two hours from now."

III

It was the standing regulation, laid down by the German staff, that

every Frenchman, not belonging to the regular army, taken with arms

in his hands, should be shot. Even the _compagnies franches_ were

not recognized as belligerents. It was the intention of the Germans,

in making such terrible examples of the peasants who attempted to

defend their firesides, to prevent a rising _en masse_, which they

greatly dreaded.

The officer, a tall, spare man about fifty years old, subjected

Dominique to a brief examination. Although he spoke French fluently,

he was unmistakably Prussian in the stiffness of his manner.

"You are a native of this country?"

"No, I am a Belgian."

"Why did you take up arms? These are matters with which you have no

concern."

Dominique made no reply. At this moment the officer caught sight of

Françoise where she stood listening, very pale; her slight wound had

marked her white forehead with a streak of red. He looked from one

to the other of the young people and appeared to understand the

situation; he merely added:

"You do not deny having fired on my men?"

"I fired as long as I was able to do so," Dominique quietly replied.

The admission was scarcely necessary, for he was black with powder,

wet with sweat, and the blood from the wound in his shoulder had

trickled down and stained his clothing.

"Very well," the officer repeated. "You will be shot two hours

hence."

Françoise uttered no cry. She clasped her hands and raised them

above her head in a gesture of mute despair. Her action was not lost

upon the officer. Two soldiers had led Dominique away to an adjacent

room where their orders were to guard him and not lose sight of him.

The girl had sunk upon a chair; her strength had failed her; her legs

refused to support her; she was denied the relief of tears; it seemed

as if her emotion was strangling her. The officer continued to

examine her attentively and finally addressed her:

"Is that young man your brother?" he inquired.

She shook her head in negation. He was as rigid and unbending as

ever, without the suspicion of a smile on his face. Then, after an

interval of silence, he spoke again:

"Has he been living in the neighborhood long?"

She answered yes, by another motion of the head.

"Then he must be well acquainted with the woods about here?"

This time she made a verbal answer. "Yes, sir," she said, looking at

him with some astonishment.

He said nothing more, but turned on his heel, requesting that the

mayor of the village should be brought before him. But Françoise had

risen from her chair, a faint tinge of color on her cheeks, believing

that she had caught the significance of his questions, and with

renewed hope she ran off to look for her father.

As soon as the firing had ceased Father Merlier had hurriedly

descended by the wooden gallery to have a look at his wheel. He

adored his daughter and had a strong feeling of affection for

Dominique, his son-in-law who was to be: but his wheel also occupied

a large space in his heart. Now that the two little ones, as he

called them, had come safe and sound out of the fray, he thought of

his other love, which must have suffered sorely, poor thing, and

bending over the great wooden skeleton he was scrutinizing its wounds

with a heartbroken air. Five of the buckets were reduced to

splinters, the central framework was honeycombed. He was thrusting

his fingers into the cavities that the bullets had made to see how

deep they were, and reflecting how he was ever to repair all that

damage. When Françoise found him he was already plugging up the

crevices with moss and such débris as he could lay hands on.

"They are asking for you, father," said she.

And at last she wept as she told him what she had just heard. Father

Merlier shook his head. It was not customary to shoot people like

that. He would have to look into the matter. And he reentered the

mill with his usual placid, silent air. When the officer made his

demand for supplies for his men, he answered that the people of

Rocreuse were not accustomed to be ridden roughshod, and that nothing

would be obtained from them through violence; he was willing to

assume all the responsibility, but only on condition that he was

allowed to act independently. The officer at first appeared to take

umbrage at this easy way of viewing matters, but finally gave way

before the old man's brief and distinct representations. As the

latter was leaving the room the other recalled him to ask:

"Those woods there, opposite, what do you call them?"

"The woods of Sauval."

"And how far do they extend?"

The miller looked him straight in the face. "I do not know," he

replied.

And he withdrew. An hour later the subvention in money and

provisions that the officer had demanded was in the courtyard of the

mill. Night was closing in; Françoise followed every movement of the

soldiers with an anxious eye. She never once left the vicinity of

the room in which Dominique was imprisoned. About seven o'clock she

had a harrowing emotion; she saw the officer enter the prisoner's

apartment and for a quarter of an hour heard their voices raised in

violent discussion. The officer came to the door for a moment and

gave an order in German which she did not understand, but when twelve

men came and formed in the courtyard with shouldered muskets, she was

seized with a fit of trembling and felt as if she should die. It was

all over, then; the execution was about to take place. The twelve

men remained there ten minutes; Dominique's voice kept rising higher

and higher in a tone of vehement denial. Finally the officer came

out, closing the door behind him with a vicious bang and saying:

"Very well; think it over. I give you until to-morrow morning."

And he ordered the twelve men to break ranks by a motion of his hand.

Françoise was stupefied. Father Merlier, who had continued to puff

away at his pipe while watching the platoon with a simple, curious

air, came and took her by the arm with fatherly gentleness. He led

her to her chamber.

"Don't fret," he said to her; "try to get some sleep. To-morrow it

will be light and we shall see more clearly."

He locked the door behind him as he left the room. It was a fixed

principle with him that women are good for nothing and that they

spoil everything whenever they meddle in important matters.

Françoise did not retire to her couch, however; she remained a long

time seated on her bed, listening to the various noises in the house.

The German soldiers quartered in the courtyard were singing and

laughing; they must have kept up their eating and drinking until

eleven o'clock, for the riot never ceased for an instant. Heavy

footsteps resounded from time to time through the mill itself,

doubtless the tramp of the guards as they were relieved. What had

most interest for her was the sounds that she could catch in the room

that lay directly under her own; several times she threw herself

prone upon the floor and applied her ear to the boards. That room

was the one in which they had locked up Dominique. He must have been

pacing the apartment, for she could hear for a long time his regular,

cadenced tread passing from the wall to the window and back again;

then there was a deep silence; doubtless he had seated himself. The

other sounds ceased, too; everything was still. When it seemed to

her that the house was sunk in slumber she raised her window as

noiselessly as possible and leaned out.

Without, the night was serene and balmy. The slender crescent of the

moon, which was just setting behind Sauval wood, cast a dim radiance

over the landscape. The lengthening shadows of the great trees

stretched far athwart the fields in bands of blackness, while in such

spots as were unobscured the grass appeared of a tender green, soft

as velvet. But Françoise did not stop to consider the mysterious

charm of night. She was scrutinizing the country and looking to see

where the Germans had posted their sentinels. She could clearly

distinguish their dark forms outlined along the course of the

Morelle. There was only one stationed opposite the mill, on the far

bank of the stream, by a willow whose branches dipped in the water.

Françoise had an excellent view of him; he was a tall young man,

standing quite motionless with face upturned toward the sky, with the

meditative air of a shepherd.

When she had completed her careful inspection of localities she

returned and took her former seat upon the bed. She remained there

an hour, absorbed in deep thought. Then she listened again; there

was not a breath to be heard in the house. She went again to the

window and took another look outside, but one of the moon's horns was

still hanging above the edge of the forest, and this circumstance

doubtless appeared to her unpropitious, for she resumed her waiting.

At last the moment seemed to have arrived; the night was now quite

dark; she could no longer discern the sentinel opposite her, the

landscape lay before her black as a sea of ink. She listened

intently for a moment, then formed her resolve. Close beside her

window was an iron ladder made of bars set in the wall, which

ascended from the mill-wheel to the granary at the top of the

building and had formerly served the miller as a means of inspecting

certain portions of the gearing, but a change having been made in the

machinery the ladder had long since become lost to sight beneath the

thick ivy that covered all that side of the mill. Françoise bravely

climbed over the balustrade of the little balcony in front of her

window, grasped one of the iron bars and found herself suspended in

space. She commenced the descent; her skirts were a great hindrance

to her. Suddenly a stone became loosened from the wall and fell into

the Morelle with a loud splash. She stopped, benumbed with fear, but

reflection quickly told her that the waterfall, with its continuous

roar, was sufficient to deaden any noise that she could make, and

then she descended more boldly, putting aside the ivy with her foot,

testing each round of her ladder. When she was on a level with the

room that had been converted into a prison for her lover she stopped.

An unforeseen difficulty came near depriving her of all her courage:

the window of the room beneath was not situated directly under the

window of her bedroom, there was a wide space between it and the

ladder, and when she extended her hand it only encountered the naked

wall.

Would she have to go back the way she came and leave her project

unaccomplished? Her arms were growing very tired, the murmuring of

the Morelle, far down below, was beginning to make her dizzy. Then

she broke off bits of plaster from the wall and threw them against

Dominique's window. He did not hear; perhaps he was asleep. Again

she crumbled fragments from the wall, until the skin was peeled from

her fingers. Her strength was exhausted, she felt that she was about

to fall backward into the stream, when at last Dominique softly

raised his sash.

"It is I," she murmured. "Take me quick; I am about to fall."

Leaning from the window he grasped her and drew her into the room,

where she had a paroxysm of weeping, stifling her sobs in order that

she might not be heard. Then, by a supreme effort of the will, she

overcame her emotion.

"Are you guarded?" she asked, in a low voice.

Dominique, not yet recovered from his stupefaction at seeing her

there, made answer by simply pointing toward his door. There was a

sound of snoring audible on the outside; it was evident that the

sentinel had been overpowered by sleep and had thrown himself upon

the floor close against the door in such a way that it could not be

opened without arousing him.

"You must fly," she continued earnestly. "I came here to bid you fly

and say farewell."

But he seemed not to hear her. He kept repeating:

"What, is it you, is it you? Oh, what a fright you gave me! You

might have killed yourself." He took her hands, he kissed them again

and again. "How I love you, Françoise! You are as courageous as you

are good. The only thing I feared was that I might die without

seeing you again, but you are here, and now they may shoot me when

they will. Let me but have a quarter of an hour with you and I am

ready."

He had gradually drawn her to him; her head was resting on his

shoulder. The peril that was so near at hand brought them closer to

each other, and they forgot everything in that long embrace.

"Ah, François!" Dominique went on in low, caressing tones, "to-day is

the fête of Saint Louis, our wedding-day, that we have been waiting

for so long. Nothing has been able to keep us apart, for we are both

here, faithful to our appointment, are we not? It is now our wedding

morning."

"Yes, yes," she repeated after him, "our wedding morning."

They shuddered as they exchanged a kiss. But suddenly she tore

herself from his arms; the terrible reality arose before her eyes.

"You must fly, you must fly," she murmured breathlessly. "There is

not a moment to lose." And as he stretched out his arms in the

darkness to draw her to him again, she went on in tender, beseeching

tones: "Oh! listen to me, I entreat you. If you die, I shall die.

In an hour it will be daylight. Go, go at once; I command you to go."

Then she rapidly explained her plan to him. The iron ladder extended

downward to the wheel; once he had got that far he could climb down

by means of the buckets and get into the boat, which was hidden in a

recess. Then it would be an easy matter for him to reach the other

bank of the stream and make his escape.

"But are there no sentinels?" said he.

"Only one, directly opposite here, at the foot of the first willow."

"And if he sees me, if he gives the alarm?"

Françoise shuddered. She placed in his hand a knife that she had

brought down with her. They were silent.

"And your father--and you?" Dominique continued. "But no, it is not

to be thought of; I must not fly. When I am no longer here those

soldiers are capable of murdering you. You do not know them. They

offered to spare my life if I would guide them into Sauval forest.

When they discover that I have escaped their fury will be such that

they will be ready for every atrocity."

The girl did not stop to argue the question. To all the

considerations that he adduced, her one simple answer was: "Fly. For

love of me, fly. If you love me, Dominique, do not linger here a

single moment longer."

She promised that she would return to her bedroom; no one should know

that she had assisted him. She concluded by folding him in her arms

and smothering him with kisses, in an extravagant outburst of

passion. He was vanquished. He put only one more question to her:

"Will you swear to me that your father knows what you are doing and

that he counsels my flight?"

"It was my father who sent me to you," Françoise unhesitatingly

replied.

She told a falsehood. At that moment she had but one great,

overmastering longing, to know that he was in safety, to escape from

the horrible thought that the morning's sun was to be the signal for

his death. When he should be far away, then calamity and evil might

burst upon her head; whatever fate might be in store for her would

seem endurable, so that only his life might be spared. Before and

above all other considerations, the selfishness of her love demanded

that he should be saved.

"It is well," said Dominique; "I will do as you desire."

No further word was spoken. Dominique went to the window to raise it

again. But suddenly there was a noise that chilled them with

affright. The door was shaken violently, they thought that some one

was about to open it; it was evidently a party going the rounds who

had heard their voices. They stood by the window, close locked in

each other's arms, awaiting the event with anguish unspeakable.

Again there came the rattling at the door, but it did not open. Each

of them drew a deep sigh of relief; they saw how it was; the soldier

lying across the threshold had turned over in his sleep. Silence was

restored, indeed, and presently the snoring commenced again, sounding

like sweetest music in their ears.

Dominique insisted that Françoise should return to her room first of

all. He took her in his arms, he bade her a silent farewell, then

assisted her to grasp the ladder, and himself climbed out on it in

turn. He refused to descend a single step, however, until he knew

that she was in her chamber. When she was safe in her room she let

fall, in a voice scarce louder than the whispering breeze, the words:

"_Au revoir_, I love you!"

She knelt at the window, resting her elbows on the sill, straining

her eyes to follow Dominique. The night was still very dark. She

looked for the sentinel, but could see nothing of him; the willow

alone was dimly visible, a pale spot upon the surrounding blackness.

For a moment she heard the rustling of the ivy as Dominique

descended, then the wheel creaked, and there was a faint plash which

told that the young man had found the boat. This was confirmed when,

a minute later, she descried the shadowy outline of the skiff on the

gray bosom of the Morelle. Then a horrible feeling of dread seemed

to clutch her by the throat and deprive her of power to breathe; she

momently expected to hear the sentry give the alarm; every faintest

sound among the dusky shadows seemed to her overwrought imagination

to be the hurrying tread of soldiers, the clash of steel, the click

of musket-locks. The seconds slipped by, however; the landscape

still preserved its solemn peace. Dominique must have landed safely

on the other bank. Françoise no longer had eyes for anything. The

silence was oppressive. And she heard the sound of trampling feet, a

hoarse cry, the dull thud of a heavy body falling. This was followed

by another silence, even deeper than that which had gone before.

Then, as if conscious that Death had passed that way, she became very

cold in presence of the impenetrable night.

IV

At early daybreak the repose of the mill was disturbed by the clamor

of angry voices. Father Merlier had gone and unlocked Françoise's

door. She descended to the courtyard, pale and very calm, but when

there could not repress a shudder upon being brought face to face

with the body of a Prussian soldier that lay on the ground beside the

well, stretched out upon a cloak.

Soldiers were shouting and gesticulating angrily about the corpse.

Several of them shook their fists threateningly in the direction of

the village. The officer had just sent a summons to Father Merlier

to appear before him in his capacity as mayor of the commune.

"Here is one of our men," he said, in a voice that was almost

unintelligible from anger, "who was found murdered on the bank of the

stream. The murderer must be found, so that we may make a salutary

example of him, and I shall expect you to cooperate with us in

finding him."

"Whatever you desire," the miller replied, with his customary

impassiveness. "Only it will be no easy matter."

The officer stooped down and drew aside the skirt of the cloak which

concealed the dead man's face, disclosing as he did so a frightful

wound. The sentinel had been struck in the throat and the weapon had

not been withdrawn from the wound. It was a common kitchen-knife,

with a black handle.

"Look at that knife," the officer said to Father Merlier. "Perhaps

it will assist us in our investigation."

The old man had started violently, but recovered himself at once; not

a muscle of his face moved as he replied:

"Every one about here has knives like that. Like enough your man was

tired of fighting and did the business himself. Such things have

happened before now."

"Be silent!" the officer shouted in a fury. "I don't know what it is

that keeps me from applying the torch to the four corners of your

village."

His rage fortunately kept him from noticing the great change that had

come over Françoise's countenance. Her feelings had compelled her to

sit down upon the stone bench beside the well. Do what she would she

could not remove her eyes from the body that lay stretched upon the

ground, almost at her feet. He had been a tall, handsome young man

in life, very like Dominique in appearance, with blue eyes and golden

hair. The resemblance went to her heart. She thought that perhaps

the dead man had left behind him in his German home some loved one

who would weep for his loss. And she recognized her knife in the

dead man's throat. She had killed him.

The officer, meantime, was talking of visiting Rocreuse with some

terrible punishment, when two or three soldiers came running in. The

guard had just that moment ascertained the fact of Dominique's

escape. The agitation caused by the tidings was extreme. The

officer went to inspect the locality, looked out through the still

open window, saw at once how the event had happened, and returned in

a state of exasperation.

Father Merlier appeared greatly vexed by Dominique's flight. "The

idiot!" he murmured; "he has upset everything."

Françoise heard him, and was in an agony of suffering. Her father,

moreover, had no suspicion of her complicity. He shook his head,

saying to her in an undertone:

"We are in a nice box, now!"

"It was that scoundrel! it was that scoundrel!" cried the officer.

"He has got away to the woods; but he must be found, or by ----, the

village shall stand the consequences." And addressing himself to the

miller: "Come, you must know where he is hiding?"

Father Merlier laughed in his silent way and pointed to the wide

stretch of wooded hills.

"How can you expect to find a man in that wilderness?" he asked.

"Oh! there are plenty of hiding-places that you are acquainted with.

I am going to give you ten men; you shall act as guide to them."

"I am perfectly willing. But it will take a week to beat up all the

woods of the neighborhood."

The old man's serenity enraged the officer; he saw, indeed, what a

ridiculous proceeding such a hunt would be. It was at that moment

that he caught sight of Françoise where she sat, pale and trembling,

on her bench. His attention was aroused by the girl's anxious

attitude. He was silent for a moment, glancing suspiciously from

father to daughter and back again.

"Is not this man," he at last coarsely asked the old man, "your

daughter's lover?"

Father Merlier's face became ashy pale, and he appeared for a moment

as if about to throw himself on the officer and throttle him. He

straightened himself up and made no reply. Françoise had hidden her

face in her hands.

"Yes, that is how it is," the Prussian continued; "you or your

daughter have assisted him to escape. You are his accomplices. For

the last time, will you surrender him?"

The miller did not answer. He had turned away and was looking at the

distant landscape with an air of supreme indifference, just as if the

officer were talking to some other person. That put the finishing

touch to the latter's wrath.

"Very well, then!" he declared, "you shall be shot in his stead."

And again he ordered out the firing-party. Father Merlier was as

imperturbable as ever. He scarcely did so much as shrug his

shoulders; the whole drama appeared to him to be in very doubtful

taste. He probably believed that they would not take a man's life in

that unceremonious manner. When the platoon was on the ground he

gravely said:

"So, then, you are in earnest?--Very well, I am willing it should be

so. If you feel you must have a victim, it may as well be I as

another."

But Françoise arose, greatly troubled, stammering: "Have mercy, good

sir; do not harm my father. Take my life instead of his. It was I

who assisted Dominique to escape; I am the only guilty one."

"Hold your tongue, my girl," Father Merlier exclaimed. "Why do you

tell such a falsehood? She passed the night locked in her room,

monsieur; I assure you that she does not speak the truth."

"I am speaking the truth," the girl eagerly replied. "I left my room

by the window; I incited Dominique to fly. It is the truth, the

whole truth."

The old man's face was very white. He could read in her eyes that

she was not lying and her story terrified him. Ah, those children,

those children! how they spoiled everything, with their hearts and

their feelings! Then he said angrily:

"She is crazy; do not listen to her. It is a lot of trash she is

giving you. Come, let us get through with this business."

She persisted in her protestations; she kneeled, she raised her

clasped hands in supplication. The officer stood tranquilly by and

watched the harrowing scene.

"_Mon Dieu_," he said at last, "I take your father because the other

has escaped me. Bring me back the other man and your father shall

have his liberty."

She looked at him for a moment with eyes dilated by the horror which

his proposal inspired in her.

"It is dreadful," she murmured. "Where can I look for Dominique now?

He is gone; I know nothing beyond that."

"Well, make your choice between them; him or your father."

"Oh! my God! how can I choose? Even if I knew where to find

Dominique I could not choose. You are breaking my heart. I would

rather die at once. Yes, it would be more quickly ended thus. Kill

me, I beseech you, kill me--"

The officer finally became weary of this scene of despair and tears.

He cried:

"Enough of this! I wish to treat you kindly. I will give you two

hours. If your lover is not here within two hours, your father shall

pay the penalty that he has incurred."

And he ordered Father Merlier away to the room that had served as a

prison for Dominique. The old man asked for tobacco and began to

smoke. There was no trace of emotion to be descried on his impassive

face. Only when he was alone he wept two big tears that coursed

slowly down his cheeks as he smoked his solitary pipe. His poor,

dear child, what a fearful trial she was enduring!

Françoise remained in the courtyard. Prussian soldiers passed back

and forth, laughing. Some of them addressed her with coarse

pleasantries which she did not understand. Her gaze was bent upon

the door through which her father had disappeared, and with a slow

movement she raised her hand to her forehead, as if to keep it from

bursting. The officer turned sharply and said to her:

"You have two hours. Try to make good use of them."

She had two hours. The words kept buzzing, buzzing in her ears.

Then she went forth mechanically from the courtyard; she walked

straight ahead with no definite end. Where was she to go? what was

she to do? She did not even endeavor to arrive at any decision, for

she felt how utterly useless were her efforts. And yet she would

have liked to see Dominique; they could have come to some

understanding together. Perhaps they might have hit on some plan to

extricate them from their difficulties. And so, amid the confusion

of her whirling thoughts, she took her way downward to the bank of

the Morelle, which she crossed below the dam by means of some

stepping-stones which were there. Proceeding onward, still

involuntarily, she came to the first willow, at the corner of the

meadow, and stooping down, beheld a sight that made her grow deathly

pale--a pool of blood. It was the spot. And she followed the trace

that Dominique had left in the tall grass; it was evident that he had

run, for the footsteps that crossed the meadow in a diagonal line

were separated from one another by wide intervals. Then, beyond that

point, she lost the trace, but thought she had discovered it again in

an adjoining field. It led her onward to the border of the forest,

where the trail came abruptly to an end.

Though conscious of the futility of the proceeding, Françoise

penetrated into the wood. It was a comfort to her to be alone. She

sat down for a moment, then, reflecting that time was passing, rose

again to her feet. How long was it since she left the mill? Five

minutes? or a half-hour? She had lost all idea of time. Perhaps

Dominique had sought concealment in a clearing that she knew of,

where they had gone together one afternoon and eaten hazel-nuts. She

directed her steps toward the clearing, she searched it thoroughly.

A blackbird flew out, whistling his sweet and melancholy note; that

was all. Then she thought that he might have taken refuge in a

hollow among the rocks where he went sometimes with his gun to secure

a bird or a rabbit, but the spot was untenanted. What use was there

in looking for him? She would never find him, and little by little

the desire to discover his hiding-place became a passionate longing.

She proceeded at a more rapid pace. The idea suddenly took

possession of her that he had climbed into a tree, and thenceforth

she went along with eyes raised aloft and called him by name every

fifteen or twenty steps, so that he might know she was near him. The

cuckoos answered her; a breath of air that rustled the leaves made

her think that he was there and was coming down to her. Once she

even imagined that she saw him; she stopped, with a sense of

suffocation, with a desire to run away. What was she to say to him?

Had she come there to take him back with her and have him shot? Oh!

no, she would not mention those things; she would tell him that he

must fly, that he must not remain in the neighborhood. Then she

thought of her father awaiting her return, and the reflection caused

her most bitter anguish. She sank upon the turf, weeping hot tears,

crying aloud:

"My God! My God! why am I here!"

It was a mad thing for her to have come. And as if seized with

sudden panic, she ran hither and thither, she sought to make her way

out of the forest. Three times she lost her way, and had begun to

think she was never to see the mill again, when she came out into a

meadow, directly opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of

the village she stopped. Was she going to return alone?

She was standing there when she heard a voice calling her by name,

softly:

"Françoise! Françoise!"

And she beheld Dominique, raising his head above the edge of a ditch.

Just God! she had found him!

Could it be, then, that heaven willed his death? She suppressed a

cry that rose to her lips and slipped into the ditch beside him.

"You were looking for me?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied bewilderedly, scarce knowing what she was saying.

"Ah! what has happened?"

She stammered, with eyes downcast: "Why, nothing; I was anxious, I

wanted to see you."

Thereupon, his fears alleviated, he went on to tell her how it was

that he had remained in the vicinity. He was alarmed for them.

Those rascally Prussians were not above wreaking their vengeance on

women and old men. All had ended well, however, and he added,

laughing:

"The wedding will be deferred for a week, that's all."

He became serious, however, upon noticing that her dejection did not

pass away.

"But what is the matter? You are concealing something from me."

"No, I give you my word I am not. I am tired; I ran all the way

here."

He kissed her, saying it was imprudent for them both to remain there

longer, and was about to climb out of the ditch in order to return to

the forest. She stopped him; she was trembling violently.

"Listen, Dominique; perhaps it will be as well for you to remain

here, after all. There is no one looking for you, you have nothing

to fear."

"Françoise, you are concealing something from me," he said again.

Again she protested that she was concealing nothing. She only liked

to know that he was near her. And there were other reasons still

that she gave in stammering accents. Her manner was so strange that

no consideration could now have induced him to go away. He believed,

moreover, that the French would return presently. Troops had been

seen over toward Sauval.

"Ah! let them make haste; let them come as quickly as possible," she

murmured fervently.

At that moment the clock of the church at Rocreuse struck eleven; the

strokes reached them, clear and distinct. She arose in terror; it

was two hours since she had left the mill.

"Listen," she said, with feverish rapidity, "should we need you I

will go up to my room and wave my handkerchief from the window."

And she started off homeward on a run, while Dominique, greatly

disturbed in mind, stretched himself at length beside the ditch to

watch the mill. Just as she was about to enter the village Françoise

encountered an old beggarman, Father Bontemps, who knew every one and

everything in that part of the country. He saluted her; he had just

seen the miller, he said, surrounded by a crowd of Prussians; then,

making numerous signs of the cross and mumbling some inarticulate

words, he went his way.

"The two hours are up," the officer said, when Françoise made her

appearance.

Father Merlier was there, seated on the bench beside the well. He

was smoking still. The young girl again proffered her supplication,

kneeling before the officer and weeping. Her wish was to gain time.

The hope that she might yet behold the return of the French had been

gaining strength in her bosom, and amid her tears and sobs she

thought she could distinguish in the distance the cadenced tramp of

an advancing army. Oh! if they would but come and deliver them all

from their fearful trouble!

"Hear me, sir; grant us an hour, just one little hour. Surely you

will not refuse to grant us an hour!"

But the officer was inflexible. He even ordered two men to lay hold

of her and take her away, in order that they might proceed

undisturbed with the execution of the old man. Then a dreadful

conflict took place in Françoise's heart. She could not allow her

father to be murdered in that manner; no, no, she would die in

company with Dominique rather, and she was just darting away in the

direction of her room in order to signal her _fiance_, when Dominique

himself entered the courtyard.

The officer and his soldiers gave a great shout of triumph, but he,

as if there had been no soul there but Françoise, walked straight up

to her; he was perfectly calm, and his face wore a slight expression

of sternness.

"You did wrong," he said. "Why did you not bring me back with you?

Had it not been for Father Bontemps I should have known nothing of

all this. Well, I am here, at all events."

V

It was three o'clock. The heavens were piled high with great black

clouds, the tail-end of a storm that had been raging somewhere in the

vicinity. Beneath the coppery sky and ragged scud the valley of

Rocreuse, so bright and smiling in the sunlight, became a grim chasm,

full of sinister shadows. The Prussian officer had done nothing with

Dominique beyond placing him in confinement, giving no indication of

his ultimate purpose in regard to him. Françoise, since noon, had

been suffering unendurable agony; notwithstanding her father's

entreaties she would not leave the courtyard. She was waiting for

the French troops to appear, but the hours slipped by, night was

approaching, and she suffered all the more since it appeared as if

the time thus gained would have no effect on the final result.

About three o'clock, however, the Prussians began to make their

preparations for departure. The officer had gone to Dominique's room

and remained closeted with him for some minutes, as he had done the

day before. Françoise knew that the young man's life was hanging in

the balance; she clasped her hands and put up fervent prayers.

Beside her sat Father Merlier, rigid and silent, declining, like the

true peasant he was, to attempt any interference with accomplished

facts.

"Oh! my God! my God!" Françoise exclaimed, "they are going to kill

him!"

The miller drew her to him and took her on his lap as if she had been

a little child. At this juncture the officer came from the room,

followed by two men conducting Dominique between them.

"Never, never!" the latter exclaimed. "I am ready to die."

"You had better think the matter over," the officer replied. "I

shall have no trouble in finding some one else to render us the

service which you refuse. I am generous with you; I offer you your

life. It is simply a matter of guiding us across the forest to

Montredon; there must be paths."

Dominique made no answer.

"Then you persist in your obstinacy?"

"Shoot me, and have done with the matter," he replied.

François, in the distance, entreated her lover with clasped hands;

she was forgetful of all considerations save one, she would have had

him commit a treason. But Father Merlier seized her hands that the

Prussians might not see the wild gestures of a woman whose mind was

disordered by her distress.

"He is right," he murmured, "it is best for him to die."

The firing-party was in readiness. The officer still had hopes of

bringing Dominique over, and was waiting to see him exhibit some

signs of weakness. Deep silence prevailed. Heavy peals of thunder

were heard in the distance, the fields and woods lay lifeless beneath

the sweltering heat. And it was in the midst of this oppressive

silence that suddenly the cry arose:

"The French; the French!"

It was a fact; they were coming. The line of red trousers could be

seen advancing along the Sauval road, at the edge of the forest. In

the mill the confusion was extreme; the Prussian soldiers ran to and

fro, giving vent to guttural cries. Not a shot had been fired as yet.

"The French! the French!" cried Françoise, clapping her hands for

joy. She was like a woman possessed. She had escaped from her

father's embrace and was laughing boisterously, her arms raised high

in air. They had come at last, then, and had come in time, since

Dominique was still there, alive!

A crash of musketry that rang in her ears like a thunder-clap caused

her to suddenly turn her head. The officer had muttered: "We will

finish this business first," and with his own hands pushing Dominique

up against the wall of a shed, had given the command to the squad to

fire. When Françoise turned Dominique was lying on the ground,

pierced by a dozen bullets.

She did not shed a tear, she stood there like one suddenly rendered

senseless. Her eyes were fixed and staring, and she went and seated

herself beneath the shed, a few steps from the lifeless body. She

looked at it wistfully; now and then she would make a movement with

her hand in an aimless, childish way. The Prussians had seized

Father Merlier as a hostage.

It was a pretty fight. The officer, perceiving that he could not

retreat without being cut to pieces, rapidly made the best

disposition possible of his men; it was as well to sell their lives

dearly. The Prussians were now the defenders of the mill and the

French were the attacking party. The musketry fire began with

unparalleled fury; for half an hour there was no lull in the storm.

Then a deep report was heard and a ball carried away a large branch

of the old elm. The French had artillery; a battery, in position

just beyond the ditch where Dominique had concealed himself,

commanded the main street of Rocreuse. The conflict could not last

long after that.

Ah! the poor old mill! The cannon-balls raked it from wall to wall.

Half the roof was carried away; two of the walls fell in. But it was

on the side toward the Morelle that the damage was greatest. The

ivy, torn from the tottering walls, hung in tatters, débris of every

description floated away upon the bosom of the stream, and through a

great breach Françoise's chamber was visible with its little bed, the

snow-white curtains of which were carefully drawn. Two balls struck

the old wheel in quick succession and it gave one parting groan; the

buckets were carried away down stream, the frame was crushed into a

shapeless mass. It was the soul of the stout old mill parting from

the body.

Then the French came forward to carry the place by storm. There was

a mad hand-to-hand conflict with the bayonet. Under the dull sky the

pretty valley became a huge slaughter-pen; the broad meadows looked

on affrightedly, with their great isolated trees and their rows of

poplars, dotting them with shade, while to right and left the forest

was like the walls of a tilting-ground enclosing the combatants, and

in nature's universal panic the gentle murmur of the springs and

watercourses sounded like sobs and wails.

Françoise had not stirred from the shed, where she remained hanging

over Dominique's body. Father Merlier had met his death from a stray

bullet. Then the French captain, the Prussians being exterminated

and the mill on fire, entered the courtyard at the head of his men.

It was the first success that he had gained since the breaking out of

the war, so, all afire with enthusiasm, drawing himself up to the

full height of his lofty stature, he laughed pleasantly, as a

handsome cavalier like him might laugh, and, perceiving poor idiotic

Françoise where she crouched between the corpses of her father and

her betrothed, among the smoking ruins of the mill, he saluted her

gallantly with his sword and shouted:

"Victory! victory!"

VENUS OF ILLE

BY PROSPER MERIMEE

_Prosper Mérimée, novelist, historian, dramatist, critic, was born in

Paris in 1803, the son of an artist of recognized talent. Rarely

gifted and highly educated, he held various offices in the civil

service, was an Academician, and a Senator of the Empire in 1853. A

great traveler, and admitted through his adaptableness and engaging

personality to all classes of society, from that of Napoleon III to

that of the humblest peasants, observing wherever he went, he

gathered material for his stories, in which a great variety of types

are noticeable. His literary style--clear, simple, artistic, and

marked by sobriety--is considered a model of restraint and

conciseness. "Carmen," on which Bizet's opera is founded, and

"Colomba," his most successful novel, are probably the best known of

his works._

THE VENUS OF ILLE

By PROSPER MERIMEE

[Illustration: Greek text]

I was descending the last slope of the Canigou, and though the sun

was already set I could distinguish on the plain the houses of the

small town of Ille, toward which I directed my steps.

"Of course," I said to the Catalan who since the day before served as

my guide, "you know where M. de Peyrehorade lives?"

"Just don't I," cried he; "I know his house like my own, and if it

were not so dark I would show it to you. It is the finest in Ille.

He is rich, M. de Peyrehorade is, and he marries his son to one

richer even than he."

"Does the marriage come off soon?" I asked him.

"Soon? It may be that the violins are already ordered for the

wedding. To-night perhaps, to-morrow or the next day, how do I know?

It will take place at Puygarrig, for it is Mademoiselle de Puygarrig

that the son is to marry. It will be a sight, I can tell you."

I was recommended to M. de Peyrehorade by my friend M. de P. He was,

I had been told, an antiquarian of much learning and a man of

charming affability. He would take delight in showing me the ruins

for ten leagues around. Therefore I counted on him to visit the

outskirts of Ille, which I knew to be rich in memorials of the Middle

Ages. This marriage, of which I now heard for the first time, upset

all my plans.

"I shall be a troublesome guest," I told myself. "But I am expected;

my arrival has been announced by M. de P.: I must present myself."

When we reached the plain the guide said, "Wager a cigar, sir, that I

can guess what you are going to do at M. de Peyrehorade's."

Offering him one, I answered, "It is not very hard to guess. At this

hour, when one has made six leagues in the Canigou, supper is the

great thing after all."

"Yes, but to-morrow? Here I wager that you have come to Ille to see

the idol. I guessed that when I saw you draw the portraits of the

saints at Serrabona."

"The idol! what idol?" This word had aroused my curiosity.

"What! were you not told at Perpignan how M. de Peyrehorade had found

an idol in the earth?"

"You mean to say an earthen statue?"

"Not at all. A statue in copper, and there is enough of it to make a

lot of big pennies. She weighs as much as a church-bell. It was

deep in the ground at the foot of an olive-tree that we got her."

"You were present at the discovery?"

"Yes, sir. Two weeks ago M. de Peyrehorade told Jean Coll and me to

uproot an old olive-tree which was frozen last year when the weather,

as you know, was very severe. So in working, Jean Coll, who went at

it with all his might, gave a blow with his pickax, and I heard

_bimm_--as if he had struck a bell--and I said, 'What is that?' We

dug on and on, and there was a black hand, which looked like the hand

of a corpse, sticking out of the earth. I was scared to death. I

ran to M. de Peyrehorade and I said to him: 'There are dead people,

master, under the olive-tree! The priest must be called.'

"'What dead people?' said he to me. He came, and he had no sooner

seen the hand than he cried out, 'An antique! an antique!' You would

have thought he had found a treasure. And there he was with the

pickax in his own hands, struggling and doing almost as much work as

we two."

"And at last what did you find?"

"A huge black woman more than half naked, with due respect to you,

sir. She was all in copper, and M. de Peyrehorade told us it was an

idol of pagan times--the time of Charlemagne."

"I see what it is--some virgin or other in bronze from a destroyed

convent."

"A virgin! Had it been one I should have recognized it. It is an

idol, I tell you; you can see it in her look. She fixes you with her

great white eyes--one might say she stares at you. One lowers one's

eyes, yes, indeed, one does, on looking at her."

"White eyes? Doubtless they are set in the bronze. Perhaps it is

some Roman statue."

"Roman! That's it. M. de Peyrehorade says it is Roman. Oh! I see

you are an erudite like himself."

"Is she complete, well preserved?"

"Yes, sir, she lacks nothing. It is a handsomer statue and better

finished than the bust of Louis Philippe in colored plaster which is

in the town-hall. But with all that the face of the idol does not

please me. She has a wicked expression --and, what is more, she is

wicked."

"Wicked! what has she done to you?"

"Nothing to me exactly; but wait a minute. We had gotten down on all

fours to stand her upright, and M. de Peyrehorade was also pulling on

the rope, though he has not much more strength than a chicken. With

much trouble we got her up straight. I reached for a broken tile to

support her, when if she doesn't tumble over backward all in a heap.

I said, 'Take care,' but not quick enough, for Jean did not have time

to draw away his leg--"

"And it was hurt?"

"Broken as clean as a vine-prop. When I saw that I was furious; I

wanted to take my pickax and smash the statue to pieces, but M. de

Peyrehorade stopped me. He gave Jean Coll some money, but all the

same, he is in bed still, though it is two weeks since it happened,

and the physician says that he will never walk as well with that leg

as with the other. It is a pity, for he was our best runner, and,

after M. de Peyrehorade's son, the cleverest racquet player. M.

Alphonse de Peyrehorade was sorry, I can tell you, for Coll always

played on his side. It was beautiful to see how they returned each

other the balls. They never touched the ground."

Chatting in this way we entered Ille, and I soon found myself in the

presence of M. de Peyrehorade. He was a little old man, still hale

and active, with powdered hair, a red nose, and a jovial, bantering

manner. Before opening M. de P.'s letter he had seated me at a

well-spread table, and had presented me to his wife and son as a

celebrated archeologist who was to draw Roussillon from the neglect

in which the indifference of erudites had left it.

While eating heartily, for nothing makes one hungrier than the keen

air of the mountains, I scrutinized my hosts. I have said a word

about M. de Peyrehorade. I must add that he was activity

personified. He talked, got up, ran to his library, brought me

books, showed me engravings, and filled my glass, all at the same

time. He was never two minutes in repose. His wife was a trifle

stout, as are most Catalans when they are over forty years of age.

She appeared to me a thorough provincial, solely occupied with her

housekeeping. Though the supper was sufficient for at least six

persons, she hurried to the kitchen and had pigeons killed and a

number broiled, and she opened I do not know how many jars of

preserves. In no time the table was laden with dishes and bottles,

and if I had but tasted of everything offered me I should certainly

have died of indigestion. Nevertheless, at each dish I refused they

made fresh excuses. They feared I found myself very badly off at

Ille. In the provinces there were so few resources, and of course

Parisians were fastidious!

In the midst of his parent's comings and goings M. Alphonse de

Peyrehorade was as immovable as rent-day. He was a tall young man of

twenty-six, with a regular and handsome countenance, but lacking in

expression. His height and his athletic figure well justified the

reputation of an indefatigable racquet player given him in the

neighborhood.

On that evening he was dressed in an elegant manner; that is to say,

he was an exact copy of a fashion plate in the last number of the

"Journal des Modes." But he seemed to me ill at ease in his clothes;

he was as stiff as a post in his velvet collar, and could only turn

all of a piece. In striking contrast to his costume were his large

sunburnt hands and blunt nails. They were a laborer's hands issuing

from the sleeves of an exquisite. Moreover, though he examined me in

my quality of Parisian most curiously from head to foot, he only

spoke to me once during the whole evening, and that was to ask me

where I had bought my watch-chain.

As the supper was drawing to an end M. de Peyrehorade said to me:

"Ah! my dear guest, you belong to me now you are here. I shall not

let go of you until you have seen everything of interest in our

mountains. You must learn to know our Roussillon, and to do it

justice. You do not suspect all that we have to show you, Phenician,

Celtic, Roman, Arabian, and Byzantine monuments; you shall see them

all from the cedar to the hyssop. I shall drag you everywhere, and

will not spare you a single stone."

A fit of coughing obliged him to pause. I took advantage of it to

tell him that I should be sorry to disturb him on an occasion of so

much interest to his family. If he would but give me his excellent

advice about the excursions to be made, I could go without his taking

the trouble to accompany me.

"Ah! you mean the marriage of that boy there," he exclaimed,

interrupting me; "stuff and nonsense, it will be over the day after

to-morrow. You will go to the wedding with us, which is to be

informal, as the bride is in mourning for an aunt whose heiress she

is. Therefore, there will be no festivities, no ball. It is a pity,

though; you might have seen our Catalans dance. They are pretty, and

might have given you the desire to imitate Alphonse. One marriage,

they say, leads to another. The young people once married I shall be

free, and we will bestir ourselves. I beg your pardon for boring you

with a provincial wedding. For a Parisian tired of

entertainments--and a wedding without a ball at that! Still, you

will see a bride--a bride--well, you shall tell me what you think of

her. But you are a thinker and no longer notice women. I have

better than that to show you. You shall see something; in fact, I

have a fine surprise in store for you to-morrow."

"Good heavens!" said I; "it is difficult to have a treasure in the

house without the public being aware of it. I think I know the

surprise in reserve for me. But if it is your statue which is in

question, the description my guide gave me of it only served to

excite my curiosity and prepared me to admire."

"Ah! So he spoke to you about the idol, as he calls my beautiful

Venus Tur: but I will tell you nothing. To-morrow you shall see her

by daylight and tell me if I am right in thinking the statue a

masterpiece. You could not have arrived more opportunely. There are

inscriptions on it which I, poor ignoramus that I am, explain after

my own fashion; but you a Parisian erudite, will probably laugh at my

interpretation: for I have actually written a paper about it--I, an

old provincial antiquary, have launched myself in literature. I wish

to make the press groan. If you would kindly read and correct it I

might have some hope. For example, I am very anxious to know how you

translate this inscription from the base of the statue: 'CAVE.' But

I do not wish to ask you yet! Wait until to-morrow. Not a word more

about the Venus to-day!"

"You are right, Peyrehorade," said his wife: "drop your idol. Can

you not see that you prevent our guest from eating? You may be sure

that he has seen in Paris much finer statues than yours. In the

Tuileries there are dozens, and they also are in bronze."

"There you have the saintly ignorance of the provinces!" interrupted

M. de Peyrehorade. "The idea of comparing an admirable antique to

the insipid figures of Coustou!

"'How irreverent my housekeeper

Speaks of the gods!"

Do you know that my wife wanted me to melt my statue into a bell for

our church? She would have been the godmother. Just think of it, to

melt a masterpiece by Myron, sir!"

"Masterpiece! Masterpiece! A charming masterpiece she is! to break

a man's leg."

"Madam, do you see that?" said M. de Peyrehorade, in a resolute tone,

extending toward her his right leg in its changeable silk stocking;

"if my Venus had broken that leg there for me I should not regret it."

"Good gracious! Peyrehorade, how can you say such a thing?

Fortunately, the man is better. And yet I can not bring myself to

look at a statue which has caused so great a disaster. Poor Jean

Coll!"

"Wounded by Venus, sir," said M. de Peyrehorade, with a loud laugh;

"wounded by Venus, and the churl complains!

"'Veneris nee præmia noris.'

Who has not been wounded by Venus?"

M. Alphonse, who understood French better than Latin, winked one eye

with an air of intelligence, and looked at me as if to ask, "And you,

Parisian, do you understand?"

The supper came to an end. I had ceased eating an hour before. I

was weary, and I could not manage to hide the frequent yawns which

escaped me. Madame de Peyrehorade was the first to notice them, and

remarked that it was time to go to bed. Then followed fresh

apologies for the poor accommodations I would have. I would not be

as well off as in Paris. It was so uncomfortable in the provinces!

Indulgence was needed for the Roussillonnais. Notwithstanding my

protests that after a tramp in the mountains a bundle of straw would

seem to me a delicious couch, they continued begging me to pardon

poor country people if they did not treat me as well as they could

have wished.

Accompanied by M. de Peyrehorade I ascended at last to the room

arranged for me. The staircase, the upper half of which was in wood,

ended in the centre of a hall, out of which opened several rooms.

"To the right," said my host, "is the apartment which I propose to

give the future Madame Alphonse. Your room is at the opposite end of

the corridor. You understand," he added in a manner which he meant

to be sly--"you understand that newly married people must be alone.

You are at one end of the house, they at the other."

We entered a well-furnished room where the first object on which my

gaze rested was a bed seven feet long, six wide, and so high that one

needed a chair to climb up into it. Having shown me where the bell

was, and assured himself that the sugar-bowl was full and the cologne

bottles duly placed on the toilet-stand, my host asked me a number of

times if anything was lacking, wished me good-night, and left me

alone.

The windows were closed. Before undressing I opened one to breathe

the fresh night air so delightful after a long supper. Facing me was

the Canigou. Always magnificent, it appeared to me on that

particular evening, lighted as it was by a resplendent moon, as the

most beautiful mountain in the world. I remained a few minutes

contemplating its marvelous silhouette, and was about to close the

window when, lowering my eyes, I perceived, a dozen yards from the

house, the statue on its pedestal. It was placed at the corner of a

hedge that separated a small garden from a vast, perfectly level

quadrangle, which I learned later was the racquet court of the town.

This ground was the property of M. de Peyrehorade, and had been given

by him to the parish at the solicitation of his son.

Owing to the distance it was difficult for me to distinguish the

attitude of the statue; I could only judge of its height, which

seemed to be about six feet. At that moment two scamps of the town,

whistling the pretty Roussillon tune, "Montagnes régalades," were

crossing the racquet court quite near the hedge. They paused to look

at the statue, and one of them even apostrophized it aloud. He spoke

Catalonian, but I had been long enough in Roussillon to understand

pretty well what he said.

"There you are, you wench!" (The Catalonian word was much more

forcible.) "There you are!" he said. "It was you, then, who broke

Jean Coll's leg! If you belonged to me I'd break your neck."

"Bah! what with?" said the other youth. "It is of the copper of

pagan times, and harder than I don't know what."

"If I had my chisel" (it seems he was a locksmith's apprentice), "I

would soon force out its big white eyes, as I would pop an almond

from its shell. There are more than a hundred pennies' worth of

silver in them."

They went on a few steps.

"I must wish the idol good-night," said the taller of the

apprentices, stopping suddenly.

He stooped and probably picked up a stone. I saw him unbend his arm

and throw something. A blow resounded on the bronze, and immediately

the apprentice raised his hand to his head with a cry of pain.

"She threw it back at me!" he exclaimed. And my two rascals ran off

as fast as they could. It was evident that the stone had rebounded

from the metal and had punished the wag for the outrage he had done

the goddess. Laughing heartily, I shut the window.

Another Vandal punished by Venus! May all the desecrators of our old

monuments thus get their due!

With this charitable wish I fell asleep.

When I awoke it was broad day. On one side of my bed stood M. de

Peyrehorade in a dressing-gown; a servant sent by his wife was on the

other side with a cup of chocolate in his hand.

"Come, come, you Parisian, get up! This is quite the laziness of the

capital!" said my host, while I dressed in haste. "It is eight

o'clock, and you are still in bed! I have been up since six. This

is the third time I have been to your door. I approached on tiptoe:

no one, not a sign of life. It is bad for you to sleep too much at

your age. And my Venus, which you have not yet seen! Come, hurry up

and take this cup of Barcelona chocolate. It is real contraband

chocolate, such as can not be found in Paris. Prepare yourself, for

when you are once before my Venus no one will be able to tear you

away from her."

I was ready in five minutes, that is to say, I was half shaved, half

dressed, and burned by the boiling chocolate I had swallowed. I

descended to the garden and saw an admirable statue before me. It

was truly a Venus, and of marvelous beauty. The upper part of the

body was nude, as great divinities were usually represented by the

ancients. The right hand was raised as high as the breast, the palm

turned inward, the thumb and two first fingers extended, and the

others slightly bent. The other hand, drawn close to the hip, held

the drapery which covered the lower half of the body. The attitude

of this statue reminded one of that of the _mourre_ player which is

called, I hardly know why, by the name of Germanicus. Perhaps it had

been intended to represent the goddess as playing at _mourre_.

However that may be, it is impossible to find anything more perfect

than the form of this Venus, anything softer and more voluptuous than

her outlines, or more graceful and dignified than her drapery. I had

expected a work of the decadence; I saw a masterpiece of statuary's

best days.

What struck me most was the exquisite reality of the figure; one

might have thought it molded from life, that is, if Nature ever

produced such perfect models.

The hair, drawn back from the brow, seemed once to have been gilded.

The head was small, like nearly all those Greek statues, and bent

slightly forward. As to the face, I shall never succeed in

describing its strange character; it was of a type belonging to no

other Greek statue which I can remember. It had not the calm, severe

beauty of the Greek sculptors, who systematically gave a majestic

immobility to all the features. On the contrary, I noticed here,

with surprise, a marked intention on the artist's part to reproduce

malice verging on viciousness. All the features were slightly

contracted. The eyes were rather oblique, the mouth raised at the

corners, the nostrils a trifle dilated. Disdain, irony, and cruelty

were to be read in the nevertheless beautiful face.

Truly, the more one gazed at the statue the more one experienced a

feeling of pain that such wonderful beauty could be allied to such an

absence of all sensibility.

"If the model ever existed," I said to M. de Peyrehorade, "and I

doubt if heaven ever produced such a woman, how I pity her lovers!

She must have taken pleasure in making them die of despair. There is

something ferocious in her expression, and yet I have never seen

anything more beautiful."

"'C'est Venus tout entière à sa proie attachée!'" cried M. de

Peyrehorade, delighted with my enthusiasm.

But the expression of demoniac irony was perhaps increased by the

contrast of the bright silver eyes with the dusky green hue which

time had given to the statue. The shining eyes produced a sort of

illusion which simulated reality and life. I remembered what my

guide had said, that those who looked at her were forced to lower

their eyes. It was almost true, and I could not prevent a movement

of anger at myself when I felt ill at ease before this bronze figure.

"Now that you have seen everything in detail, my dear colleague in

antiquities, let us, if you please, open a scientific conference.

What do you say to this inscription which you have not yet noticed?"

He pointed to the base of the statue, and I read these words:

CAVE AMANTEM.

"Quid dicis doctissime?" he asked, rubbing his hands. "Let us see if

we agree as to the meaning of _cave amantem_!"

"But," I replied, "it has two meanings. You can translate it: 'Guard

against him who loves thee,' that is, 'distrust lovers.' But in this

sense I do not know if _cave amantem_ would be good Latin. After

seeing the diabolical expression of the lady I should sooner believe

that the artist meant to warn the spectator against this terrible

beauty. I should then translate it: 'Take care of thyself if _she_

loves thee.'"

"Humph!" said M. de Peyrehorade; "yes, it is an admissible meaning:

but, if you do not mind, I prefer the first translation, which I

would, however, develop. You know Venus's lover?"

"There are several."

"Yes; but the first is Vulcan. Why should it not mean:

'Notwithstanding all thy beauty, thine air of disdain, thou wilt have

a blacksmith, a wretched cripple, for a lover'? A profound lesson,

sir, for coquettes!"

The explication seemed so far-fetched that I could not help smiling.

To avoid formally contradicting my antiquarian friend, I observed,

"Latin is a terrible language in its conciseness," and I drew back

several steps to better contemplate the statue.

"Wait a moment, colleague!" said M. de Peyrehorade, catching hold of

my arm; "you have not seen all. There is another inscription. Climb

up on the pedestal and look at the right arm." So saying, he helped

me up, and without much ceremony I clung to the neck of the Venus,

with whom I was becoming more familiar. For a second I even looked

her straight in the eyes, and on close inspection she appeared more

wicked, and, if possible, more beautiful than before. Then I noticed

that on the arm were engraved, as it seemed to me, characters in

ancient script. With the aid of my spectacles I spelled out what

follows, and M. de Peyrehorade, approving with voice and gesture,

repeated each word as I uttered it. Thus I read:

VENERI TVRBVL ...

EVTVCHES MYRO.

IMPERIO FECIT.

After the word 'Tvrbvl' in the first line it looked to me as if there

were several letters effaced; but 'Tvrbvl' was perfectly legible.

"Which means to say?" my host asked radiantly, with a mischievous

smile, for he thought the 'Tvrbvl' would puzzle me.

"There is one word which I do not yet understand," I answered; "all

the rest is simple. Eutyches Myron has made this offering to Venus

by her command."

"Quite right. But 'Tvrbvl,' what do you make of it? What does it

mean?"

"'Tvrbvl' perplexes me very much. I am trying to think of one of

Venus's familiar characteristics which may enlighten me. But what do

you say to 'Tvrbvlenta'? The Venus who troubles, agitates. You see

I am still preoccupied by her wicked expression. 'Tvrbvlenta' is not

too bad a quality for Venus," I added modestly, for I was not too

well satisfied with my explanation.

"A turbulent Venus! A noisy Venus! Ah! then you think my Venus is a

public-house Venus? Nothing of the kind, sir; she is a Venus of good

society. I will explain 'Tvrbvl' to you--that is, if you promise me

not to divulge my discovery before my article appears in print.

Because, you see, I pride myself on such a find, and, after all, you

Parisian erudites are rich enough to leave a few ears for us poor

devils of provincials to glean!"

From the top of the pedestal, where I was still perched, I promised

him solemnly that I would never be so base as to filch from him his

discovery.

"'Tvrbvl'--sir," said he, coming nearer and lowering his voice for

fear some one besides myself might hear him, "read 'Tvrbvlneræ.'"

"I understand no better."

"Listen to me attentively. Three miles from here, at the foot of the

mountain, is a village called Boulternère. The name is a corruption

of the Latin word 'Tvrbvlnera.' Nothing is more common than these

transpositions. Boulternère was a Roman town. I always suspected

it, but I could get no proof till now, and here it is. This Venus

was the local goddess of the city of Boulternére; and the word

Boulternére, which I have shown is of ancient origin, proves

something very curious, namely, that Boulternére was a Phenician town

before it was Roman!"

He paused a moment to take breath and enjoy my surprise. I succeeded

in overcoming a strong inclination to laugh.

"'Tvrbvlnera' is, in fact, pure Phenician," he continued. "'Tvr,'

pronounce 'tour'--'Tour' and 'Sour' are the same word, are they not?

'Sour' is the Phenician name of Tyr; I do not need to recall the

meaning to you. 'Bvl' is Baal; Bal, Bel, Bui are slight differences

of pronunciation. As to 'Nera,' that troubles me a little. I am

tempted to believe, for want of a Phenician word, that it comes from

the Greek νηρόϛ, moist, marshy. In that case, it is a mongrel word.

To justify νηρόϛ I will show you at Boulternère how the mountain

streams form stagnant pools. Then, again, the ending 'Nera' may have

been added much later in honor of Nera Pivesuvia, wife of Tetricus,

who may have benefited the city of Turbul. But on account of the

marshes, I prefer the etymology of νηρόϛ."

He took a pinch of snuff in a complacent way, and continued:

"But let us leave the Phenicians and return to the inscription. I

translate it then: 'To Venus of Boulternère Myron dedicates by her

order this statue, his work.'"

I took good care not to criticize his etymology, but I wished in my

turn to give a proof of penetration, so I said:

"Stop a moment, M. de Peyrehorade. Myron has dedicated something,

but I by no means see that it is this statue."

"What!" he cried, "was not Myron a famous Greek sculptor? The talent

was perpetuated in his family, and it must have been one of his

descendants who executed this statue. Nothing can be more certain."

"But," I replied, "on this arm I see a small hole. I think it served

to fasten something, a bracelet for example, which this Myron, being

an unhappy lover, gave to Venus as an expiatory offering. Venus was

irritated against him; he appeased her by consecrating to her a gold

bracelet. Notice that 'fecit' is often used for 'consecravit.' The

terms are synonymous. I could show you more than one example if I

had at hand Gruter or Orellius. It is natural that a lover should

see Venus in a dream and imagine that she commands him to give a gold

bracelet to her statue. Myron consecrated the bracelet to her. Then

the barbarians or some other sacrilegious thieves--"

"Ah! it is easy to see you have written romances!" cried my host,

helping me down from the pedestal. "No, sir; it is a work of Myron's

school. You have only to look at the workmanship to be convinced of

that."

Having made it a rule never to contradict self-opinionated

antiquarians, I bowed with an air of conviction, saying:

"It is an admirable piece of work."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed M. de Peyrehorade, "another act of

vandalism! Some one must have thrown a stone at my statue!"

He had just perceived a white mark a little above the bosom of the

Venus. I noticed a similar mark on the fingers of the right hand. I

supposed it had been touched by the stone as it passed, or that a bit

of the stone had been broken off as it struck the statue, and had

rebounded on the hand. I told my host of the insult I had witnessed,

and the prompt punishment which had followed it.

He laughed heartily, and, comparing the apprentice to Diomede, wished

he might, like the Greek hero, see all his comrades turned into white

birds.

The breakfast bell interrupted this classical conversation, and, as

on the preceding evening, I was obliged to eat enough for four. Then

came M. de Peyrehorade's farmers, and, while he was giving them an

audience, his son led me to inspect an open carriage, which he had

bought at Toulouse for his betrothed, and which it is needless to say

I duly admired. After that I went into the stable with him, where he

kept me a half-hour, boasting about his horses, giving me their

genealogy, and telling me of the prizes they had won at the county

races. At last he began to talk to me about his betrothed in

connection with a gray mare which he intended for her.

"We will see her to-day," he said. "I do not know if you will find

her pretty. In Paris people are hard to please. But every one here

and in Perpignan thinks her lovely. The best of it is that she is

very rich. Her aunt from Prades left her a fortune. Oh! I shall be

very happy."

I was profoundly shocked to see a young man appear more affected by

the dower than by the beauty of his bride.

"You are a judge of jewels," continued M. Alphonse; "what do you

think of this? Here is the ring I shall give her to-morrow."

He drew from his little finger a heavy ring, enriched with diamonds,

and fashioned into two clasped hands, an allusion which seemed to me

infinitely poetic. The workmanship was antique, but I fancied it had

been retouched to insert the diamonds. Inside the ring these words

in Gothic characters could be discerned: 'Sempr' ab ti,' which means,

'Thine forever.'

"It is a pretty ring," I said, "but the diamonds which have been

added have made it lose a little of its style."

"Oh! it is much handsomer now," he answered, smiling. "There are

twelve hundred francs' worth of diamonds in it. My mother gave it to

me. It is a very old family ring--it dates from the days of

chivalry. It was my grandmother's, who had it from her grandmother.

Heaven knows when it was made."

"The custom in Paris," I said, "is to give a perfectly plain ring,

usually composed of two different metals, such as gold and platina.

The other ring which you have on would be very suitable. This one

with its diamonds and its clasped hands is so thick that it would be

impossible to wear a glove over it."

"Madame Alphonse must arrange that as she pleases. I think she will

be very glad to have it, all the same. Twelve hundred francs on the

finger is pleasant. That other little ring," he added, looking in a

contented way at the plain ring he wore, "that one a woman in Paris

gave me on Shrove Tuesday. How I did enjoy myself when I was in

Paris two years ago! That is the place to have a good time!" and he

sighed regretfully.

We were to dine that day at Puygarrig, with the relations of the

bride; so we got in the carriage, and drove to the château, which was

four or five miles from Ille. I was presented and received as the

friend of the family. I will not speak of the dinner, or the

conversation which followed. I took but little part in it. M.

Alphonse was seated beside his betrothed, and whispered a word or two

in her ear now and then. As for her, she hardly raised her eyes; and

every time her lover spoke to her she blushed modestly, but answered

without embarrassment.

Mademoiselle de Puygarrig was eighteen years of age. Her slender,

graceful figure formed a striking contrast to the stalwart frame of

her future husband. She was not only beautiful, she was alluring. I

admired the perfect naturalness of all her replies. Her kind look,

which yet was not free from a touch of malice, reminded me, in spite

of myself, of my host's Venus. While making this inward comparison,

I asked myself if the incontestably superior beauty of the statue did

not in great measure come from its tigress-like expression; for

strength, even in evil passions, always arouses in us astonishment,

and a sort of involuntary admiration.

"What a pity," I thought, on leaving Puygarrig, "that such an

attractive girl should be rich, and that her dowry makes her sought

by a man quite unworthy of her."

While returning to Ille, I spoke to Mme. de Peyrehorade, to whom I

thought it only proper to address myself now and then, though I did

not very well know what to say to her: "You must be strong-minded

people in Roussillon," I said. "How is it, madam, that you have a

wedding on a Friday? We would be more superstitious in Paris; no one

would dare be married on that day."

"Do not speak of it," she replied; "if it had depended on me,

certainly another day would have been chosen. But Peyrehorade wished

it, and I had to give in. All the same, it troubles me very much.

Supposing an accident should happen? There must be some reason in

it, or else why is every one afraid of Friday?"

"Friday!" cried her husband, "is Venus's day! Just the day for a

wedding! You see, my dear colleague, I think only of my Venus. I

chose Friday on her account. To-morrow, if you like, before the

wedding, we will make a little sacrifice to her--a sacrifice of two

doves--and if I only knew where to get some incense--"

"For shame, Peyrehorade!" interrupted his wife, scandalized to the

last degree. "Incense to an idol! It would be an abomination! What

would they say of us in the neighborhood?"

"At least," answered M. de Peyrehorade, "you will allow me to place a

wreath of roses and lilies on her head: _Manibus date lilia plenis_.

You see, sir, freedom is an empty word. We have not liberty of

worship!"

The next day's arrangements were ordered in the following manner:

Every one was to be dressed and ready at ten o'clock punctually.

After the chocolate had been served we were to be driven to

Puygarrig. The civil marriage was to take place in the town hall of

the village, and the religious ceremony in the chapel of the château.

Afterward there would be a breakfast. After the breakfast people

would pass the time as they liked until seven o'clock. At that hour

every one would return to M. de Peyrehorade's at Ille, where the two

families were to assemble and have supper. It was natural that being

unable to dance they should wish to eat as much as possible.

By eight o'clock I was seated in front of the Venus, pencil in hand,

recommencing the head of the statue for the twentieth time without

being able to catch the expression. M. de Peyrehorade came and went

about me, giving me advice, repeating his Phenician etymology, and

laying Bengal roses on the pedestal of the statue while he addressed

vows to it in a tragi-comic tone for the young couple who were to

live under his roof. Toward nine o'clock he went in to put on his

best, and at the same moment M. Alphonse appeared looking very stiff

in a new coat, white gloves, chased sleeve-buttons, and varnished

shoes. A rose decorated his buttonhole.

"Will you make my wife's portrait?" he asked, leaning over my

drawing. "She also is pretty."

On the racquet-court of which I have spoken there now began a game

which immediately attracted M. Alphonse's attention. And I, tired,

and despairing of ever being able to copy the diabolical face, soon

left my drawing to look at the players. There were among them some

Spanish muleteers who had arrived the night before. They were from

Aragon and Navarre, and were nearly all marvelously skilful at the

game. Therefore the Illois, though encouraged by the presence and

advice of M. Alphonse, were promptly beaten by the foreign champions.

The native spectators were disheartened. M. Alphonse looked at his

watch. It was only half-past nine. His mother's hair he knew was

not dressed. He hesitated no longer, but taking off his coat asked

for a jacket, and defied the Spaniards. I looked on smiling and a

little surprised. "The honor of the country must be sustained," he

said.

Then I thought him really handsome. He seemed full of life, and his

costume, which but now occupied him so entirely, no longer concerned

him. A few minutes before he would have dreaded to turn his head for

fear of disarranging his cravat. Now he did not give a thought to

his curled hair or his fine shirt-front. And his betrothed? If it

had been necessary I think he would have postponed the wedding. I

saw him hurriedly put on a pair of sandals, roll up his sleeves, and,

with an assured air, take his stand at the head of the vanquished

party like Cæsar rallying his soldiers at Dyrrachium. I leaped the

hedge and placed myself comfortably in the shade of a tree so as to

command a good view of both sides.

Contrary to general expectation, M. Alphonse missed the first ball.

It came skimming along the ground, it is true, and was thrown with

astonishing force by an Aragonese who appeared to be the leader of

the Spaniards.

He was a man of about forty, nervous and agile, and at least six feet

tall. His olive skin was almost as dark as the bronze of the Venus.

M. Alphonse threw his racquet angrily on the ground.

"It is this cursed ring," he cried, "which squeezes my finger, and

makes me miss a sure ball."

He drew off his diamond ring with some difficulty; I approached to

take it, but he forestalled me by running to the Venus and shoving it

on her fourth finger. He then resumed his post at the head of the

Illois.

He was pale, but calm and resolute. From that moment he did not miss

a single ball, and the Spaniards were completely beaten. The

enthusiasm of the spectators was a fine sight: some threw their caps

in the air and shouted for joy, while others wrung M. Alphonse's

hands, calling him the honor of the country. If he had repulsed an

invasion I doubt if he would have received warmer or sincerer

congratulations. The vexation of the vanquished added to the

splendor of the victory.

"We will play other games, my good fellow," he said to the Aragonese

in a tone of superiority, "but I will give you points."

I should have wished M. Alphonse to be more modest, and I was almost

pained by his rival's humiliation.

The Spanish giant felt the insult deeply. I saw him pale beneath his

tan. He looked sullenly at his racquet and clinched his teeth, then,

in a smothered voice he muttered:

"Me lo pagarás."

M. de Peyrehorade's voice interrupted his son's triumph. Astonished

at not finding him presiding over the preparation of the new

carriage, my host was even more surprised on seeing him racquet in

hand and bathed in perspiration. M. Alphonse hurried to the house,

washed his hands and face, put on again his new coat and

patent-leather shoes, and in five minutes we were galloping on the

road to Puygarrig. All the racquet players of the town and a crowd

of spectators followed us with shouts of joy. The strong horses

which drew us could hardly keep ahead of the intrepid Catalans.

We were at Puygarrig, and the procession was about to set out for the

town-hall, when M. Alphonse, striking his forehead, whispered to me:

"What a mess! I have forgotten the ring! It is on the finger of the

Venus; may the devil carry her off! Do not tell my mother at any

rate. Perhaps she will not notice it."

"You can send some one for it," I replied.

"My servant remained at Ille. I do not trust these here. Twelve

hundred francs' worth of diamonds might well tempt almost any one.

Moreover, what would they think of my forgetfulness? They would

laugh at me. They would call me the husband of the statue. If it

only is not stolen! Fortunately, the rascals are afraid of the idol.

They do not dare approach it by an arm's length. After all, it does

not matter; I have another ring."

The two ceremonies, civil and religious, were accomplished with

suitable pomp, and Mademoiselle de Puygarrig received the ring of a

Parisian milliner without suspecting that her betrothed was making

her the sacrifice of a love-token. Then we seated ourselves at

table, where we ate, drank, and even sang, all at great length. I

suffered for the bride at the coarse merriment which exploded around

her; still, she faced it better than I would have expected, and her

embarrassment was neither awkward nor affected.

Perhaps courage comes with difficult situations.

The breakfast ended when Heaven pleased. It was four o'clock. The

men went to walk in the park, which was magnificent, or watched the

peasants, in their holiday attire, dance on the lawn of the château.

In this way we passed several hours. Meanwhile, the women were

eagerly attentive to the bride, who showed them her presents. Then

she changed her dress, and I noticed that she had covered her

beautiful hair with a befeathered bonnet; for women are in no greater

hurry than to assume, as soon as possible, the attire which custom

forbids their wearing while they are still young girls.

It was nearly eight o'clock when preparations were made to start for

Ille. But first a pathetic scene took place. Mlle. de Puygarrig's

aunt, a very old and pious woman, who stood to her in a mother's

place, was not to go with us. Before the departure she gave her

niece a touching sermon on her wifely duties, from which sermon

resulted a flood of tears and endless embraces.

M. de Peyrehorade compared this separation to the Rape of the Sabines.

At last, however, we got off, and, on the way, every one exerted

himself to amuse the bride and make her laugh; but all in vain.

At Ille supper awaited us, and what a supper! If the coarse jokes of

the morning had shocked me, I was now much more so by the

equivocations and pleasantries of which the bride and groom were the

principal objects. The bridegroom, who had disappeared for a moment

before seating himself at the table, was pale, cold, and grave.

He drank incessantly some old Collioure wine almost as strong as

brandy. I sat next to him, and thought myself obliged to warn him.

"Be careful! they say that wine--" I hardly know what stupid

nonsense I said to be in harmony with the other guests.

He touched my knee, and whispered:

"When we have left the table ... let me have two words with you."

His solemn tone surprised me. I looked more closely at him, and

noticed a strange alteration in his features.

"Do you feel ill?" I asked.

"No."

And he began to drink again.

Meanwhile, amid much shouting and clapping of hands, a child of

twelve, who had slipped under the table, held up to the company a

pretty pink and white ribbon which he had untied from the bride's

ankle. It was called her garter, and was at once cut into pieces and

distributed among the young men, who, following an old custom still

preserved in some patriarchal families, ornamented their buttonholes

with it. This was the time for the bride to flush up to the whites

of her eyes. But her confusion was at its height when M. de

Peyrehorade, having called for silence, sang several verses in

Catalan, which he said were impromptu. Here is the meaning, if I

understood it correctly:

"What is this, my friends? Has the wine I have drunk made me see

double? There are two Venuses here..."

The bridegroom turned his head suddenly with a frightened look, which

made every one laugh.

"Yes," continued M. de Peyrehorade, "there are two Venuses under my

roof. The one I found in the ground like a truffle; the other,

descended from heaven, has just divided among us her belt."

He meant her garter.

"My son, choose between the Roman Venus and the Catalan the one you

prefer. The rascal takes the Catalan, and his choice is the best.

The Roman is black, the Catalan is white. The Roman is cold, the

Catalan inflames all who approach her."

This equivocal allusion excited such a shout, such noisy applause,

and sonorous laughter, that I thought the ceiling would fall on our

heads. Around the table there were but three serious faces, those of

the newly married couple and mine. I had a terrible headache; and

besides, I do not know why, a wedding always saddens me. This one,

moreover, even disgusted me a little.

The final verses having been sung, and very lively they were, I must

say, every one adjourned to the drawing-room to enjoy the withdrawal

of the bride, who, as it was nearly midnight, was soon to be

conducted to her room.

M. Alphonse drew me into the embrasure of a window, and, turning away

his eyes, said:

"You will laugh at me--but I don't know what is the matter with me

... I am bewitched!"

My first thought was that he fancied himself threatened with one of

those misfortunes of which Montaigne and Madame de Sevigne speak:

"All the world of love is full of tragic histories," etc.

"I thought only clever people were subject to this sort of accident,"

I said to myself.

To him I said: "You drank too much Collioure wine, my dear Monsieur

Alphonse; I warned you against it."

"Yes, perhaps. But something much more terrible than that has

happened."

His voice was broken. I thought him completely inebriated.

"You know about my ring?" he continued, after a pause.

"Well, has it been stolen?"

"No."

"Then you have it?"

"No--I--I can not get it off the finger of that infernal Venus."

"You did not pull hard enough."

"Yes, indeed I did. But the Venus--she has bent her finger."

He stared at me wildly, and leaned against the window-sash to prevent

himself from falling.

"What nonsense!" I said. "You pushed the ring on too far. You can

get it off to-morrow with pincers. But be careful not to damage the

statue."

"No, I tell you. The Venus's finger is crooked, bent under; she

clinches her hand, do you hear me? ... She is my wife apparently,

since I have given her my ring.... She will not return it."

I shivered, and, for a moment, I was all goose-flesh. Then a great

sigh from him brought me a whiff of wine, and all my emotion

disappeared.

The wretch, I thought, is dead drunk.

"You are an antiquarian, sir," added the bridegroom in a mournful

tone; "you understand those statues; there is, perhaps, some hidden

spring, some deviltry which I do not know about. Will you go and

see?"

"Certainly," I replied. "Come with me."

"No, I would prefer to have you go alone."

I left the drawing-room.

The weather had changed during supper, and a heavy rain had begun to

fall. I was about to ask for an umbrella when a sudden thought

stopped me. I should be a great fool, I reflected, to go and verify

what had been told me by a drunken man! Besides, he may have wished

to play some silly trick on me to give cause for laughter to the

honest country people; and the least that can happen to me from it is

to be drenched to the bone and catch a bad cold.

From the door I cast a glance at the statue running with water, and I

went up to my room without returning to the drawing-room. I went to

bed; but sleep was long in coming. All the scenes of the day passed

through my mind. I thought of the young girl, so pure and lovely,

abandoned to a drunken brute. What an odious thing a marriage of

convenience is! A mayor dons a tricolored scarf, a priest a stole,

and then the most virtuous girl in the world is delivered over to the

Minotaur! What can two people who do not love each other find to say

at a moment which two lovers would buy at the price of their lives?

Can a woman ever love a man whom she has once seen coarse? First

impressions are never effaced, and I am sure M. Alphonse will deserve

to be hated.

During my monologue, which I abridge very much, I had heard a great

deal of coming and going in the house. Doors opened and shut, and

carriages drove away. Then I seemed to hear on the stairs the light

steps of a number of women going toward the end of the hall opposite

my room. It was probably the bride's train of attendants leading her

to bed. After that they went downstairs again. Madame de

Peyrehorade's door closed. "How troubled and ill at ease that poor

girl must be," I thought. I tossed about in my bed with bad temper.

A bachelor plays a stupid part in a house where a marriage is

accomplished.

Silence had reigned for some time when it was disturbed by a heavy

tread mounting the stairs. The wooden steps creaked loudly.

"What a clown!" I cried to myself. "I wager that he will fall on the

stairs." All was quiet again. I took up a book to change the

current of my thoughts. It was the county statistics, supplemented

with an address by M. de Peyrehorade on the Druidical remains of the

district of Prades. I grew drowsy at the third page. I slept badly,

and awoke repeatedly. It might have been five o'clock in the

morning, and I had been awake more than twenty minutes, when the cock

crew. Day was about to dawn. Then I heard distinctly the same heavy

footsteps, the same creaking of the stairs which I had heard before I

fell asleep. I thought it strange. Yawning, I tried to guess why M.

Alphonse got up so early. I could imagine no likely reason. I was

about to close my eyes again when my attention was freshly excited by

a singular trampling of feet, which was soon intermingled with the

ringing of bells and the sound of doors opened noisily; then I

distinguished confused cries.

"My drunkard has set something on fire," I thought, jumping out of

bed. I dressed quickly and went into the hall. From the opposite

end came cries and lamentations, and a heartrending voice dominated

all the others: "My son! my son!" It was evident that an accident

had happened to M. Alphonse. I ran to the bridal apartment: it was

full of people. The first sight which struck my gaze was the young

man partly dressed and stretched across the bed, the woodwork of

which was broken. He was livid and motionless. His mother sobbed

and wept beside him. M. de Peyrehorade moved about frantically; he

rubbed his son's temples with cologne water, or held salts to his

nose. Alas! his son had long been dead. On a sofa at the other side

of the room lay the bride, a prey to dreadful convulsions. She was

making inarticulate cries, and two robust maid-servants had all the

trouble in the world to hold her down. "Good heavens!" I exclaimed,

"what has happened?"

I approached the bed and raised the body of the unfortunate young

man: it was already stiff and cold. His clenched teeth and black

face expressed the most fearful anguish. It was evident enough that

his death had been violent and his agony terrible.

Nevertheless, no sign of blood was on his clothes. I opened his

shirt, and on his chest I found a livid mark which extended around

the ribs to the back. One would have said he had been squeezed in an

iron ring. My foot touched something hard on the carpet; I stooped

and saw it was the diamond ring. I dragged M. de Peyrehorade and his

wife into their room, and had the bride carried there.

"You still have a daughter," I said to them. "You owe her your

care." Then I left them alone.

To me it did not seem to admit of a doubt that M. Alphonse had been

the victim of a murder whose authors had discovered a way to

introduce themselves into the bride's room during the night. The

bruises on the chest and their circular direction, however, perplexed

me, for they could not have been made either by a club or an iron

bar. Suddenly I remembered having heard that at Valencia _bravi_

used long leather bags filled with sand to stun people whom they had

been paid to kill. Immediately I thought of the Aragonese muleteer

and his threat. Yet I hardly dared suppose he would have taken such

a terrible revenge for a trifling jest.

I went through the house seeking everywhere for traces of

house-breaking, but could find none. I descended to the garden to

see if the assassins could have made their entrance from there; but

there were no conclusive signs of it. In any case, the evening's

rain had so softened the ground that it could not have retained any

very clear impress. Nevertheless, I noticed some deeply marked

footprints; they ran in two contrary directions, but on the same

path. They started from the corner of the hedge next the

racquet-court and ended at the door of the house. They might have

been made by M. Alphonse when he went to get his ring from the finger

of the statue. Then again, the hedge at this spot was narrower than

elsewhere, and it must have been here that the murderers got over it.

Passing and repassing before the statue, I stopped a moment to

consider it. This time, I must confess, I could not contemplate its

expression of vicious irony without fear; and, my mind being filled

with the horrible scene I had just witnessed, I seemed to see in it a

demoniacal goddess applauding the sorrow fallen on the house.

I returned to my room and stayed there till noon. Then I left it to

ask news of my hosts. They were a little calmer. Mlle. de

Puygarrig, or I should say the widow of M. Alphonse, had regained

consciousness. She had even spoken to the procureur du roi from

Perpignan, then in circuit at Ille, and this magistrate had received

her deposition. He asked for mine. I told him what I knew, and did

not hide from him my suspicions about the Aragonese muleteer. He

ordered him to be arrested on the spot.

"Have you learned anything from Mme. Alphonse?" I asked the procureur

du roi when my deposition was written and signed.

"That unfortunate young woman has gone crazy," he said, smiling

sadly. "Crazy, quite crazy. This is what she says:

"She had been in bed for several minutes with the curtains drawn,

when the door of her room opened and some one entered. Mme. Alphonse

was on the inside of the bed with her face turned to the wall.

Assured that it was her husband, she did not move. Presently the bed

creaked as if laden with a tremendous weight. She was terribly

frightened, but dared not turn her head. Five minutes, or ten

minutes perhaps--she has no idea of the time--passed in this way.

Then she made an involuntary movement, or else it was the other

person who made one, and she felt the contact of something as cold as

ice, that is her expression. She buried herself against the wall

trembling in all her limbs.

"Shortly afterward, the door opened a second time, and some one came

in who said: 'Good-evening, my little wife.' Then the curtains were

drawn back. She heard a stifled cry. The person who was in the bed

beside her sat up apparently with extended arms. Then she turned her

head and saw her husband, kneeling by the bed with his head on a

level with the pillow, held close in the arms of a sort of

greenish-colored giant. She says, and she repeated it to me twenty

times, poor woman!--she says that she recognized--do you guess

whom?--the bronze Venus, M. de Peyrehorade's statue. Since it has

been here every one dreams about it. But to continue the poor

lunatic's story. At this sight she lost consciousness, and probably

she had already lost her mind. She can not tell how long she

remained in this condition. Returned to her senses, she saw the

phantom, or the statue as she insists on calling it, lying immovable,

the legs and lower part of the body on the bed, the bust and arms

extended forward, and between the arms her husband, quite motionless.

A cock crew. Then the statue left the bed, let fall the body, and

went out. Mme. Alphonse rushed to the bell, and you know the rest."

The Spaniard was brought in; he was calm, and defended himself with

much coolness and presence of mind. He did not deny the remark which

I had overheard, but he explained it, pretending that he did not mean

anything except that the next day, when rested, he would beat his

victor at a game of racquets. I remember that he added:

"An Aragonese when insulted does not wait till the next day to

revenge himself. If I had believed that M. Alphonse wished to insult

me I would have ripped him up with my knife on the spot."

His shoes were compared with the footprints in the garden; the shoes

were much the larger.

Finally, the innkeeper with whom the man lodged asserted that he had

spent the entire night rubbing and dosing one of his mules which was

sick. And, moreover, the Aragonese was a man of good reputation,

well known in the neighborhood, where he came every year on business.

So he was released with many apologies.

I have forgotten to mention the statement of a servant who was the

last person to see M. Alphonse alive. It was just as he was about to

join his wife, and calling to this man he asked him in an anxious way

if he knew where I was. The servant answered that he had not seen

me. M. Alphonse sighed, and stood a minute without speaking, then he

said: "Well! the devil must have carried him off also!"

I asked the man if M. Alphonse had on his diamond ring. The servant

hesitated; at last he said he thought not; but for that matter he had

not noticed.

"If the ring had been on M. Alphonse's finger," he added, recovering

himself, "I should probably have noticed it, for I thought he had

given it to Mme. Alphonse."

When questioning the man I felt a little of the superstitious terror

which Mme. Alphonse's statement had spread through the house. The

procureur du roi smiled at me, and I was careful not to insist

further.

A few hours after the funeral of M. Alphonse I prepared to leave

Ille. M. de Peyrehorade's carriage was to take me to Perpignan.

Notwithstanding his feeble condition, the poor old man wished to

accompany me as far as the garden gate. We crossed the garden in

silence, he creeping along supported by my arm. As we were about to

part I threw a last glance at the Venus. I foresaw that my host,

though he did not share the fear and hatred which it inspired in his

family, would wish to rid himself of an object which must ceaselessly

recall to him a dreadful misfortune. My intention was to induce him

to place it in a museum. As I hesitated to open the subject, M. de

Peyrehorade turned his head mechanically in the direction he saw I

was looking so fixedly. He perceived the statue, and immediately

melted into tears. I embraced him, and got into the carriage without

daring to say a word.

Since my departure I have not learned that any new light has been

thrown on this mysterious catastrophe.

M. de Peyrehorade died several months after his son. In his will he

left me his manuscripts, which I may publish some day. I did not

find among them the article relative to the inscriptions on the Venus.

P.S.--My friend M. de P. has just written to me from Perpignan that

the statue no longer exists. After her husband's death Madame de

Peyrehorade's first care was to have it cast into a bell, and in this

new shape it does duty in the church at Ille. "But," adds M. de P.,

"it seems as if bad luck pursues those who own the bronze. Since the

bell rings at Ille the vines have twice been frozen."

THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

_This splendid tale of adventure is selected from the author's "New

Arabian Nights." Though a part of his earliest work, it is a good

example of his exquisite and finished style. Stevenson as a writer

was as purely romantic as Scott, but in structure, method of

description and narrative, and brilliancy of style, is considered to

have marked the technical advance which had been made since the time

of the "Waverley Novels." His charming personality--a certain

undaunted cheerfulness in face of all human difficulty--shines

through his work and endears him to his readers._

THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS

By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

I

_Tells How I Camped in Graden Sea-Wood, and Beheld a

Light in the Pavilion_

I was a great solitary when I was young. I made it my pride to keep

aloof and suffice for my own entertainment; and I may say that I had

neither friends nor acquaintances until I met that friend who became

my wife and the mother of my children. With one man only was I on

private terms; this was R. Northmour, Esquire, of Graden Easter, in

Scotland. We had met at college; and though there was not much

liking between us, nor even much intimacy, we were so nearly of a

humor that we could associate with ease to both. Misanthropes, we

believed ourselves to be; but I have thought since that we were only

sulky fellows. It was scarcely a companionship, but a co-existence

in unsociability. Northmour's exceptional violence of temper made it

no easy affair for him to keep the peace with any one but me; and as

he respected my silent ways, and let me come and go as I pleased, I

could tolerate his presence without concern. I think we called each

other friends.

When Northmour took his degree and I decided to leave the university

without one, he invited me on a long visit to Graden Easter; and it

was thus that I first became acquainted with the scene of my

adventures. The mansion house of Graden stood in a bleak stretch of

country some three miles from the shore of the German Ocean. It was

as large as a barrack; and as it had been built of a soft stone,

liable to consume in the eager air of the seaside, it was damp and

drafty within and half ruinous without. It was impossible for two

young men to lodge with comfort in such a dwelling. But there stood

in the northern part of the estate, in a wilderness of links and

blowing sand-hills, and between a plantation and the sea, a small

Pavilion or Belvedere, of modern design, which was exactly suited to

our wants; and in this hermitage, speaking little, reading much, and

rarely associating except at meals, Northmour and I spent four

tempestuous winter months. I might have stayed longer; but one March

night there sprang up between us a dispute, which rendered my

departure necessary. Northmour spoke hotly, I remember, and I

suppose I must have made some tart rejoinder. He leaped from his

chair and grappled me; I had to fight, without exaggeration, for my

life; and it was only with a great effort that I mastered him, for he

was near as strong in body as myself, and seemed filled with the

devil. The next morning, we met on our usual terms; but I judged it

more delicate to withdraw; nor did he attempt to dissuade me.

It was nine years before I revisited the neighborhood. I traveled at

that time with a tilt cart, a tent, and a cooking-stove, tramping all

day beside the wagon, and at night, whenever it was possible,

gipsying in a cove of the hills, or by the side of a wood. I believe

I visited in this manner most of the wild and desolate regions both

in England and Scotland; and, as I had neither friends nor relations,

I was troubled with no correspondence, and had nothing in the nature

of headquarters, unless it was the office of my solicitors, from whom

I drew my income twice a year. It was a life in which I delighted;

and I fully thought to have grown old upon the march, and at last die

in a ditch.

It was my whole business to find desolate corners, where I could camp

without the fear of interruption; and hence, being in another part of

the same shire, I bethought me suddenly of the Pavilion on the Links.

No thoroughfare passed within three miles of it. The nearest town,

and that was but a fisher village, was at a distance of six or seven.

For ten miles of length, and from a depth varying from three miles to

half a mile, this belt of barren country lay along the sea. The

beach, which was the natural approach, was full of quicksands.

Indeed I may say there is hardly a better place of concealment in the

United Kingdom. I determined to pass a week in the Sea-Wood of

Graden Easter, and making a long stage, reached it about sundown on a

wild September day.

The country, I have said, was mixed sand-hill and links; links being

a Scottish name for sand which has ceased drifting and become more or

less solidly covered with turf. The pavilion stood on an even space;

a little behind it, the wood began in a hedge of elders huddled

together by the wind; in front, a few tumbled sand-hills stood

between it and the sea. An outcropping of rock had formed a bastion

for the sand, so that there was here a promontory in the coast-line

between two shallow bays; and just beyond the tides, the rock again

cropped out and formed an islet of small dimensions but strikingly

designed. The quicksands were of great extent at low water, and had

an infamous reputation in the country. Close inshore, between the

islet and the promontory, it was said they would swallow a man in

four minutes and a half; but there may have been little ground for

this precision. The district was alive with rabbits, and haunted by

gulls which made a continual piping about the pavilion. On summer

days the outlook was bright and even gladsome; but at sundown in

September, with a high wind, and a heavy surf rolling in close along

the links, the place told of nothing but dead mariners and sea

disaster. A ship beating to windward on the horizon, and a huge

truncheon of wreck half buried in the sands at my feet, completed the

innuendo of the scene.

The pavilion--it had been built by the last proprietor, Northmour's

uncle, a silly and prodigal virtuoso--presented little signs of age.

It was two stories in height, Italian in design, surrounded by a

patch of garden in which nothing had prospered but a few coarse

flowers; and looked, with its shuttered windows, not like a house

that had been deserted, but like one that had never been tenanted by

man. Northmour was plainly from home; whether, as usual, sulking in

the cabin of his yacht, or in one of his fitful and extravagant

appearances in the world of society, I had, of course, no means of

guessing. The place had an air of solitude that daunted even a

solitary like myself; the wind cried in the chimneys with a strange

and wailing note; and it was with a sense of escape, as if I were

going indoors, that I turned away and, driving my cart before me,

entered the skirts of the wood.

The Sea-Wood of Graden had been planted to shelter the cultivated

fields behind, and check the encroachments of the blowing sand. As

you advanced into it from coastward, elders were succeeded by other

hardy shrubs; but the timber was all stunted and bushy; it led a life

of conflict; the trees were accustomed to swing there all night long

in fierce winter tempests; and even in early spring, the leaves were

already flying, and autumn was beginning, in this exposed plantation.

Inland the ground rose into a little hill, which, along with the

islet, served as a sailing mark for seamen. When the hill was open

of the islet to the north, vessels must bear well to the eastward to

clear Graden Ness and the Graden Bullets. In the lower ground, a

streamlet ran among the trees, and, being dammed with dead leaves and

clay of its own carrying, spread out every here and there, and lay in

stagnant pools. One or two ruined cottages were dotted about the

wood; and, according to Northmour, these were ecclesiastical

foundations, and in their time had sheltered pious hermits.

I found a den, or small hollow, where there was a spring of pure

water; and there, clearing away the brambles, I pitched the tent, and

made a fire to cook my supper. My horse I picketed further in the

wood where there was a patch of sward. The banks of the den not only

concealed the light of my fire, but sheltered me from the wind, which

was cold as well as high.

The life I was leading made me both hardy and frugal. I never drank

but water, and rarely ate anything more costly than oatmeal; and I

required so little sleep, that, although I rose with the peep of day,

I would often lie long awake in the dark or starry watches of the

night. Thus in Graden Sea-Wood, although I fell thankfully asleep by

eight in the evening I was awake again before eleven with a full

possession of my faculties, and no sense of drowsiness or fatigue. I

rose and sat by the fire, watching the trees and clouds tumultuously

tossing and fleeing overhead, and hearkening to the wind and the

rollers along the shore; till at length, growing weary of inaction, I

quitted the den, and strolled toward the borders of the wood. A

young moon, buried in mist, gave a faint illumination to my steps;

and the light grew brighter as I walked forth into the links. At the

same moment, the wind, smelling salt of the open ocean and carrying

particles of sand, struck me with its full force, so that I had to

bow my head.

When I raised it again to look about me, I was aware of a light in

the pavilion. It was not stationary; but passed from one window to

another, as though some one were reviewing the different apartments

with a lamp or candle. I watched it for some seconds in great

surprise. When I had arrived in the afternoon the house had been

plainly deserted; now it was as plainly occupied. It was my first

idea that a gang of thieves might have broken in and be now

ransacking Northmour's cupboards, which were many and not ill

supplied. But what should bring thieves to Graden Easter? And,

again, all the shutters had been thrown open, and it would have been

more in the character of such gentry to close them. I dismissed the

notion, and fell back upon another. Northmour himself must have

arrived, and was now airing and inspecting the pavilion.

I have said that there was no real affection between this man and me;

but, had I loved him like a brother, I was then so much more in love

with solitude that I should none the less have shunned his company.

As it was, I turned and ran for it; and it was with genuine

satisfaction that I found myself safely back beside the fire. I had

escaped an acquaintance; I should have one more night in comfort. In

the morning I might either slip away before Northmour was abroad or

pay him as short a visit as I chose.

But when morning came I thought the situation so diverting that I

forgot my shyness. Northmour was at my mercy; I arranged a good

practical jest, though I knew well that my neighbor was not the man

to jest with in security; and, chuckling beforehand over its success,

took my place among the elders at the edge of the wood, whence I

could command the door of the pavilion. The shutters were all once

more closed, which I remember thinking odd; and the house, with its

white walls and green Venetians, looked spruce and habitable in the

morning light. Hour after hour passed, and still no sign of

Northmour. I knew him for a sluggard in the morning; but, as it drew

on toward noon, I lost my patience. To say the truth, I had promised

myself to break my fast in the pavilion, and hunger began to prick me

sharply. It was a pity to let the opportunity go by without some

cause for mirth; but the grosser appetite prevailed, and I

relinquished my jest with regret, and sallied from the wood.

The appearance of the house affected me, as I drew near, with

disquietude. It seemed unchanged since last evening; and I had

expected it, I scarce knew why, to wear some external signs of

habitation. But no: the windows were all closely shuttered, the

chimneys breathed no smoke, and the front door itself was closely

padlocked. Northmour, therefore, had entered by the back; this was

the natural, and, indeed, the necessary conclusion; and you may judge

of my surprise when, on turning the house, I found the back door

similarly secured.

My mind at once reverted to the original theory of thieves; and I

blamed myself sharply for my last night's inaction. I examined all

the windows on the lower story, but none of them had been tampered

with; I tried the padlocks, but they were both secure. It thus

became a problem how the thieves, if thieves they were, had managed

to enter the house. They must have got, I reasoned, upon the roof of

the outhouse where Northmour used to keep his photographic battery;

and from thence, either by the window of the study or that of my old

bedroom, completed their burglarious entry.

I followed what I supposed was their example; and, getting on the

roof, tried the shutters of each room. Both were secure; but I was

not to be beaten; and, with a little force, one of them flew open,

grazing, as it did so, the back of my hand. I remember, I put the

wound to my mouth, and stood for perhaps half a minute licking it

like a dog, and mechanically gazing behind me over the waste links

and the sea; and, in that space of time, my eye made note of a large

schooner yacht some miles to the northeast. Then I threw up the

window and climbed in.

I went over the house, and nothing can express my mystification.

There was no sign of disorder, but, on the contrary, the rooms were

unusually clean and pleasant. I found fires laid, ready for

lighting; three bedrooms prepared with a luxury quite foreign to

Northmour's habits, and with water in the ewers and the beds turned

down; a table set for three in the dining-room; and an ample supply

of cold meats, game, and vegetables on the pantry shelves. There

were guests expected, that was plain; but why guests, when Northmour

hated society? And, above all, why was the house thus stealthily

prepared at dead of night? and why were the shutters closed and the

doors padlocked?

I effaced all traces of my visit, and came forth from the window

feeling sobered and concerned.

The schooner yacht was still in the same place; and it flashed for a

moment through my mind that this might be the "Red Earl" bringing the

owner of the pavilion and his guests. But the vessel's head was set

the other way.

II

_Tells of the Nocturnal Landing from the Yacht_

I returned to the den to cook myself a meal, of which I stood in

great need, as well as to care for my horse, whom I had somewhat

neglected in the morning. From time to time I went down to the edge

of the wood; but there was no change in the pavilion, and not a human

creature was seen all day upon the links. The schooner in the offing

was the one touch of life within my range of vision. She, apparently

with no set object, stood off and on or lay to, hour after hour; but

as the evening deepened, she drew steadily nearer. I became more

convinced that she carried Northmour and his friends, and that they

would probably come ashore after dark; not only because that was of a

piece with the secrecy of the preparations, but because the tide

would not have flowed sufficiently before eleven to cover Graden Floe

and the other sea-quags that fortified the shore against invaders.

All day the wind had been going down, and the sea along with it; but

there was a return toward sunset of the heavy weather of the day

before. The night set in pitch dark. The wind came off the sea in

squalls, like the firing of a battery of cannon; now and then there

was a flaw of rain, and the surf rolled heavier with the rising tide.

I was down at my observatory among the elders, when a light was run

up to the masthead of the schooner, and showed she was closer in than

when I had last seen her by the dying daylight. I concluded that

this must be a signal to Northmour's associates on shore; and,

stepping forth into the links, looked around me for something in

response.

A small footpath ran along the margin of the wood, and formed the

most direct communication between the pavilion and the mansion-house;

and, as I cast my eyes to that side, I saw a spark of light, not a

quarter of a mile away, and rapidly approaching. From its uneven

course it appeared to be the light of a lantern carried by a person

who followed the windings of the path, and was often staggered and

taken aback by the more violent squalls. I concealed myself once

more among the elders, and waited eagerly for the new-comer's

advance. It proved to be a woman; and, as she passed within half a

rod of my ambush, I was able to recognize the features. The deaf and

silent old dame, who had nursed Northmour in his childhood, was his

associate in this underhand affair.

I followed her at a little distance, taking advantage of the

innumerable heights and hollows, concealed by the darkness, and

favored not only by the nurse's deafness, but by the uproar of the

wind and surf. She entered the pavilion, and, going at once to the

upper story, opened and set a light in one of the windows that looked

toward the sea. Immediately afterward the light at the schooner's

masthead was run down and extinguished. Its purpose had been

attained, and those on board were sure that they were expected. The

old woman resumed her preparations; although the other shutters

remained closed, I could see a glimmer going to and fro about the

house; and a gush of sparks from one chimney after another soon told

me that the fires were being kindled. Northmour and his guests, I

was now persuaded, would come ashore as soon as there was water on

the floe. It was a wild night for boat service; and I felt some

alarm mingle with my curiosity as I reflected on the danger of the

landing. My old acquaintance, it was true, was the most eccentric of

men; but the present eccentricity was both disquieting and lugubrious

to consider. A variety of feelings thus led me toward the beach,

where I lay flat on my face in a hollow within six feet of the track

that led to the pavilion. Thence, I should have the satisfaction of

recognizing the arrivals, and, if they should prove to be

acquaintances, greeting them as soon as they had landed.

Some time before eleven, while the tide was still dangerously low, a

boat's lantern appeared close inshore; and, my attention being thus

awakened, I could perceive another still far to seaward, violently

tossed, and sometimes hidden by the billows. The weather, which was

getting dirtier as the night went on, and the perilous situation of

the yacht upon a lee-shore, had probably driven them to attempt a

landing at the earliest possible moment.

A little afterward, four yachtsmen carrying a very heavy chest, and

guided by a fifth with a lantern, passed close in front of me as I

lay, and were admitted to the pavilion by the nurse. They returned

to the beach, and passed me a third time with another chest, larger

but apparently not so heavy as the first. A third time they made the

transit; and on this occasion one of the yachtsmen carried a leather

portmanteau, and the others a lady's trunk and carriage bag. My

curiosity was sharply excited. If a woman were among the guests of

Northmour, it would show a change in his habits and an apostasy from

his pet theories of life well calculated to fill me with surprise.

When he and I dwelt there together, the pavilion had been a temple of

misogyny. And now, one of the detested sex was to be installed under

its roof. I remembered one or two particulars, a few notes of

daintiness and almost of coquetry which had struck me the day before

as I surveyed the preparations in the house; their purpose was now

clear, and I thought myself dull not to have perceived it from the

first.

While I was thus reflecting, a second lantern drew near me from the

beach. It was carried by a yachtsman whom I had not yet seen, and

who was conducting two other persons to the pavilion. These two

persons were unquestionably the guests for whom the house was made

ready; and, straining eye and ear, I set myself to watch them as they

passed. One was an unusually tall man, in a traveling hat slouched

over his eyes, and a highland cape closely buttoned and turned up so

as to conceal his face. You could make out no more of him than that

he was, as I have said, unusually tall, and walked feebly with a

heavy stoop. By his side, and either clinging to him or giving him

support--I could not make out which--was a young, tall, and slender

figure of a woman. She was extremely pale; but in the light of the

lantern her face was so marred by strong and changing shadows that

she might equally well have been as ugly as sin or as beautiful as I

afterward found her to be.

When they were just abreast of me, the girl made some remark which

was drowned by the noise of the wind.

"Hush!" said her companion; and there was something in the tone with

which the word was uttered that thrilled and rather shook my spirits.

It seemed to breathe from a bosom laboring under the deadliest

terror; I have never heard another syllable so expressive; and I

still hear it again when I am feverish at night, and my mind runs

upon old times. The man turned toward the girl as he spoke; I had a

glimpse of much red beard and a nose which seemed to have been broken

in youth; and his light eyes seemed shining in his face with some

strong and unpleasant emotion.

But these two passed on and were admitted in their turn to the

pavilion.

One by one, or in groups, the seamen returned to the beach. The wind

brought me the sound of a rough voice crying, "Shove off!" Then,

after a pause, another lantern drew near. It was Northmour alone.

My wife and I, a man and a woman, have often agreed to wonder how a

person could be, at the same time, so handsome and so repulsive as

Northmour. He had the appearance of a finished gentleman; his face

bore every mark of intelligence and courage; but you had only to look

at him, even in his most amiable moment, to see that he had the

temper of a slaver captain. I never knew a character that was both

explosive and revengeful to the same degree; he combined the vivacity

of the south with the sustained and deadly hatreds of the north; and

both traits were plainly written on his face, which was a sort of

danger signal. In person, he was tall, strong, and active; his hair

and complexion very dark; his features handsomely designed, but

spoiled by a menacing expression.

At that moment he was somewhat paler than by nature; he wore a heavy

frown; and his lips worked, and he looked sharply round him as he

walked, like a man besieged with apprehensions. And yet I thought he

had a look of triumph underlying all, as though he had already done

much, and was near the end of an achievement.

Partly from a scruple of delicacy--which I dare say came too

late--partly from the pleasure of startling an acquaintance, I

desired to make my presence known to him without delay.

I got suddenly to my feet, and stepped forward.

"Northmour!" said I.

I have never had so shocking a surprise in all my days. He leaped on

me without a word; something shone in his hand; and he struck for my

heart with a dagger. At the same moment I knocked him head over

heels. Whether it was my quickness, or his own uncertainty, I know

not; but the blade only grazed my shoulder, while the hilt and his

fist struck me violently on the mouth.

I fled, but not far. I had often and often observed the capabilities

of the sand-hills for protracted ambush or stealthy advances and

retreats; and, not ten yards from the scene of the scuffle, plumped

down again upon the grass. The lantern had fallen and gone out. But

what was my astonishment to see Northmour slip at a bound into the

pavilion, and hear him bar the door behind him with a clang of iron!

He had not pursued me. He had run away. Northmour, whom I knew for

the most implacable and daring of men, had run away! I could scarce

believe my reason; and yet in this strange business, where all was

incredible, there was nothing to make a work about in an

incredibility more or less. For why was the pavilion secretly

prepared? Why had Northmour landed with his guests at dead of night,

in half a gale of wind, and with the floe scarce covered? Why had he

sought to kill me? Had he not recognized my voice? I wondered. And,

above all, how had he come to have a dagger ready in his hand? A

dagger, or even a sharp knife, seemed out of keeping with the age in

which we lived; and a gentleman landing from his yacht on the shore

of his own estate, even although it was at night and with some

mysterious circumstances, does not usually, as a matter of fact, walk

thus prepared for deadly onslaught. The more I reflected, the

further I felt at sea. I recapitulated the elements of mystery,

counting them on my fingers: the pavilion secretly prepared for

guests; the guests landed at the risk of their lives and to the

imminent peril of the yacht; the guests, or at least one of them, in

undisguised and seemingly causeless terror; Northmour with a naked

weapon; Northmour stabbing his most intimate acquaintance at a word;

last, and not least strange, Northmour fleeing from the man whom he

had sought to murder, and barricading himself, like a hunted

creature, behind the door of the pavilion. Here were at least six

separate causes for extreme surprise; each part and parcel with the

others, and forming all together one consistent story. I felt almost

ashamed to believe my own senses.

As I thus stood, transfixed with wonder, I began to grow painfully

conscious of the injuries I had received in the scuffle; skulked

round among the sand-hills; and, by a devious path, regained the

shelter of the wood. On the way, the old nurse passed again within

several yards of me, still carrying her lantern, on the return

journey to the mansion-house of Graden. This made a seventh

suspicious feature in the case. Northmour and his guests, it

appeared, were to cook and do the cleaning for themselves, while the

old woman continued to inhabit the big empty barrack among the

policies. There must surely be great cause for secrecy, when so many

inconveniences were confronted to preserve it.

So thinking, I made my way to the den. For greater security, I trod

out the embers of the fire, and lighted my lantern to examine the

wound upon my shoulder. It was a trifling hurt, although it bled

somewhat freely, and I dressed it as well as I could (for its

position made it difficult to reach) with some rag and cold water

from the spring. While I was thus busied, I mentally declared war

against Northmour and his mystery. I am not an angry man by nature,

and I believe there was more curiosity than resentment in my heart.

But war I certainly declared; and, by way of preparation, I got out

my revolver, and, having drawn the charges, cleaned and reloaded it

with scrupulous care. Next I became preoccupied about my horse. It

might break loose, or fall to neighing, and so betray my camp in the

Sea-Wood. I determined to rid myself of its neighborhood; and long

before dawn I was leading it over the links in the direction of the

fisher village.

III

_Tells How I Became Acquainted with my Wife_

For two days I skulked round the pavilion, profiting by the uneven

surface of the links. I became an adept in the necessary tactics.

These low hillocks and shallow dells, running one into another,

became a kind of cloak of darkness for my enthralling, but perhaps

dishonorable, pursuit. Yet, in spite of this advantage, I could

learn but little of Northmour or his guests.

Fresh provisions were brought under cover of darkness by the old

woman from the mansion-house. Northmour, and the young lady,

sometimes together, but more often singly, would walk for an hour or

two at a time on the beach beside the quicksand. I could not but

conclude that this promenade was chosen with an eye to secrecy; for

the spot was open only to the seaward. But it suited me not less

excellently; the highest and most accidented of the sand-hills

immediately adjoined; and from these, lying flat in a hollow, I could

overlook Northmour or the young lady as they walked.

The tall man seemed to have disappeared. Not only did he never cross

the threshold, but he never so much as showed face at a window; or,

at least, not so far as I could see; for I dared not creep forward

beyond a certain distance in the day, since the upper floor commanded

the bottoms of the links; and at night, when I could venture further,

the lower windows were barricaded as if to stand a siege. Sometimes

I thought the tall man must be confined to bed, for I remembered the

feebleness of his gait; and sometimes I thought he must have gone

clear away, and that Northmour and the young lady remained alone

together in the pavilion. The idea, even then, displeased me.

Whether or not this pair were man and wife, I had seen abundant

reason to doubt the friendliness of their relation. Although I could

hear nothing of what they said, and rarely so much as glean a decided

expression on the face of either, there was a distance, almost a

stiffness, in their bearing which showed them to be either unfamiliar

or at enmity. The girl walked faster when she was with Northmour

than when she was alone; and I conceived that any inclination between

a man and a woman would rather delay than accelerate the step.

Moreover, she kept a good yard free of him, and trailed her umbrella,

as if it were a barrier, on the side between them. Northmour kept

sidling closer; and, as the girl retired from his advance, their

course lay at a sort of diagonal across the beach, and would have

landed them in the surf had it been long enough continued. But, when

this was imminent, the girl would unostentatiously change sides and

put Northmour between her and the sea. I watched these maneuvres,

for my part, with high enjoyment and approval, and chuckled to myself

at every move.

On the morning of the third day, she walked alone for some time, and

I perceived, to my great concern, that she was more than once in

tears. You will see that my heart was already interested more than I

supposed. She had a firm yet airy motion of the body, and carried

her head with unimaginable grace; every step was a thing to look at,

and she seemed in my eyes to breathe sweetness and distinction.

The day was so agreeable, being calm and sunshiny, with a tranquil

sea, and yet with a healthful piquancy and vigor in the air, that,

contrary to custom, she was tempted forth a second time to walk. On

this occasion she was accompanied by Northmour, and they had been but

a short while on the beach when I saw him take forcible possession of

her hand. She struggled, and uttered a cry that was almost a scream.

I sprang to my feet, unmindful of my strange position; but, ere I had

taken a step, I saw Northmour bare-headed and bowing very low, as if

to apologize; and dropped again at once into my ambush. A few words

were interchanged; and then, with another bow, he left the beach to

return to the pavilion. He passed not far from me, and I could see

him, flushed and lowering, and cutting savagely with his cane among

the grass. It was not without satisfaction that I recognized my own

handiwork in a great cut under his right eye, and a considerable

discoloration round the socket.

For some time the girl remained where he had left her, looking out

past the islet and over the bright sea. Then with a start, as one

who throws off preoccupation and puts energy again upon its mettle,

she broke into a rapid and decisive walk. She also was much incensed

by what had passed. She had forgotten where she was. And I beheld

her walk straight into the borders of the quicksand where it is most

abrupt and dangerous. Two or three steps further and her life would

have been in serious jeopardy, when I slid down the face of the

sand-hill, which is there precipitous, and, running half-way forward,

called to her to stop.

She did so, and turned round. There was not a tremor of fear in her

behavior, and she marched directly up to me like a queen. I was

barefoot, and clad like a common sailor, save for an Egyptian scarf

round my waist; and she probably took me at first for some one from

the fisher village, straying after bait. As for her, when I thus saw

her face to face, her eyes set steadily and imperiously upon mine, I

was filled with admiration and astonishment, and thought her even

more beautiful than I had looked to find her. Nor could I think

enough of one who, acting with so much boldness, yet preserved a

maidenly air that was both quaint and engaging; for my wife kept an

old-fashioned precision of manner through all her admirable life--an

excellent thing in woman, since it sets another value on her sweet

familiarities.

"What does this mean?" she asked.

"You were walking," I told her, "directly into Graden Floe."

"You do not belong to these parts," she said again. "You speak like

an educated man."

"I believe I have right to that name," said I, "although in this

disguise."

But her woman's eye had already detected the sash.

"Oh!" she said; "your sash betrays you."

"You have said the word _betray_," I resumed. "May I ask you not to

betray me? I was obliged to disclose myself in your interest; but if

Northmour learned my presence it might be worse than disagreeable for

me."

"Do you know," she asked, "to whom you are speaking?"

"Not to Mr. Northmour's wife?" I asked, by way of answer.

She shook her head. All this while she was studying my face with an

embarrassing intentness. Then she broke out:

"You have an honest face. Be honest like your face, sir, and tell me

what you want and what you are afraid of. Do you think I could hurt

you? I believe you have far more power to injure me! And yet you do

not look unkind. What do you mean--you, a gentleman--by skulking

like a spy about this desolate place? Tell me," she said, "who is it

you hate?"

"I hate no one," I answered; "and I fear no one face to face. My

name is Cassilis--Frank Cassilis. I lead the life of a vagabond for

my own good pleasure. I am one of Northmour's oldest friends; and

three nights ago, when I addressed him on these links, he stabbed me

in the shoulder with a knife."

"It was you!" she said.

"Why he did so," I continued, disregarding the interruption, "is more

than I can guess, and more than I care to know. I have not many

friends, nor am I very susceptible to friendship; but no man shall

drive me from a place by terror. I had camped in Graden Sea-Wood ere

he came; I camp in it still. If you think I mean harm to you or

yours, madam, the remedy is in your hand. Tell him that my camp is

in the Hemlock Den, and to-night he can stab me in safety while I

sleep."

With this I doffed my cap to her, and scrambled up once more among

the sand-hills. I do not know why, but I felt a prodigious sense of

injustice, and felt like a hero and a martyr; while, as a matter of

fact, I had not a word to say in my defense, nor so much as one

plausible reason to offer for my conduct. I had stayed at Graden out

of a curiosity natural enough, but undignified; and though there was

another motive growing in along with the first, it was not one which,

at that period, I could have properly explained to the lady of my

heart.

Certainly, that night, I thought of no one else; and, though her

whole conduct and position seemed suspicious, I could not find it in

my heart to entertain a doubt of her integrity. I could have staked

my life that she was clear of blame, and, though all was dark at the

present, that the explanation of the mystery would show her part in

these events to be both right and needful. It was true, let me

cudgel my imagination as I pleased, that I could invent no theory of

her relations to Northmour; but I felt none the less sure of my

conclusion because it was founded on instinct in place of reason,

and, as I may say, went to sleep that night with the thought of her

under my pillow.

Next day she came out about the same hour alone, and, as soon as the

sand-hills concealed her from the pavilion, drew nearer to the edge,

and called me by name in guarded tones. I was astonished to observe

that she was deadly pale, and seemingly under the influence of strong

emotion. "Mr. Cassilis!" she cried; "Mr. Cassilis!"

I appeared at once, and leaped down upon the beach. A remarkable air

of relief overspread her countenance as soon as she saw me.

"Oh!" she cried, with a hoarse sound, like one whose bosom has been

lightened of a weight. And then, "Thank God you are still safe!" she

added; "I knew, if you were, you would be here." (Was not this

strange? So swiftly and wisely does Nature prepare our hearts for

these great life-long intimacies, that both my wife and I had been

given a presentiment on this the second day of our acquaintance. I

had even then hoped that she would seek me; she had felt sure that

she would find me.) "Do not," she went on swiftly, "do not stay in

this place. Promise me that you will sleep no longer in that wood.

You do not know how I suffer; all last night I could not sleep for

thinking of your peril."

"Peril?" I repeated. "Peril from whom? From Northmour?"

"Not so," she said. "Did you think I would tell him after what you

said?"

"Not from Northmour?" I repeated. "Then how? From whom? I see none

to be afraid of."

"You must not ask me," was her reply, "for I am not free to tell you.

Only believe me, and go hence--believe me, and go away quickly,

quickly for your life!"

An appeal to his alarm is never a good plan to rid one's self of a

spirited young man. My obstinacy was but increased by what she said,

and I made it a point of honor to remain. And her solicitude for my

safety still more confirmed me in the resolve.

"You must not think me inquisitive, madam," I replied; "but, if

Graden is so dangerous a place, you yourself perhaps remain here at

some risk."

She only looked at me reproachfully.

"You and your father--" I resumed; but she interrupted me almost with

a gasp.

"My father! How do you know that?" she cried.

"I saw you together when you landed," was my answer; and I do not

know why, but it seemed satisfactory to both of us, as indeed it was

the truth. "But," I continued, "you need have no fear from me. I

see you have some reason to be secret, and, you may believe me, your

secret is as safe with me as if I were in Graden Floe. I have scarce

spoken to any one for years; my horse is my only companion, and even

he, poor beast, is not beside me. You see, then, you may count on me

for silence. So tell me the truth, my dear young lady, are you not

in danger?"

"Mr. Northmour says you are an honorable man," she returned, "and I

believe it when I see you. I will tell you so much; you are right;

we are in dreadful, dreadful danger, and you share it by remaining

where you are."

"Ah!" said I; "you have heard of me from Northmour? And he gives me

a good character?"

"I asked him about you last night," was her reply. "I pretended,"

she hesitated, "I pretended to have met you long ago, and spoken to

you of him. It was not true; but I could not help myself without

betraying you, and you had put me in a difficulty. He praised you

highly."

"And--you may permit me one question--does this danger come from

Northmour?" I asked.

"From Mr. Northmour?" she cried. "Oh, no; he stays with us to share

it."

"While you propose that I should run away?" I said. "You do not rate

me very high."

"Why should you stay?" she asked. "You are no friend of ours."

I know not what came over me, for I had not been conscious of a

similar weakness since I was a child, but I was so mortified by this

retort that my eyes pricked and filled with tears, as I continued to

gaze upon her face.

"No, no," she said, in a changed voice; "I did not mean the words

unkindly."

"It was I who offended," I said; and I held out my hand with a look

of appeal that somehow touched her, for she gave me hers at once, and

even eagerly. I held it for a while in mine, and gazed into her

eyes. It was she who first tore her hand away, and, forgetting all

about her request and the promise she had sought to extort, ran at

the top of her speed, and without turning, till she was out of sight.

And then I knew that I loved her, and thought in my glad heart that

she--she herself--was not indifferent to my suit. Many a time she

has denied it in after days, but it was with a smiling and not a

serious denial. For my part, I am sure our hands would not have lain

so closely in each other if she had not begun to melt to me already.

And, when all is said, it is no great contention, since, by her own

avowal, she began to love me on the morrow.

And yet on the morrow very little took place. She came and called me

down as on the day before, upbraided me for lingering at Graden, and,

when she found I was still obdurate, began to ask me more

particularly as to my arrival. I told her by what series of

accidents I had come to witness their disembarkation, and how I had

determined to remain, partly from the interest which had been wakened

in me by Northmour's guests, and partly because of his own murderous

attack. As to the former, I fear I was disingenuous, and led her to

regard herself as having been an attraction to me from the first

moment that I saw her on the links. It relieves my heart to make

this confession even now, when my wife is with God, and already knows

all things, and the honesty of my purpose even in this; for while she

lived, although it often pricked my conscience, I had never the

hardihood to undeceive her. Even a little secret, in such a married

life as ours, is like the rose-leaf which kept the Princess from her

sleep.

From this the talk branched into other subjects, and I told her much

about my lonely and wandering existence; she, for her part, giving

ear, and saying little. Although we spoke very naturally, and

latterly on topics that might seem indifferent, we were both sweetly

agitated. Too soon it was time for her to go; and we separated, as

if by mutual consent, without shaking hands, for both knew that,

between us, it was no idle ceremony.

The next, and that was the fourth day of our acquaintance, we met in

the same spot, but early in the morning, with much familiarity and

yet much timidity on either side. When she had once more spoken

about my danger--and that, I understood, was her excuse for

coming--I, who had prepared a great deal of talk during the night,

began to tell her how highly I valued her kind interest, and how no

one had ever cared to hear about my life, nor had I ever cared to

relate it; before yesterday. Suddenly she interrupted me, saying

with vehemence:

"And yet, if you knew who I was, you would not so much as speak to

me!"

I told her such a thought was madness, and, little as we had met, I

counted her already a dear friend; but my protestations seemed only

to make her more desperate.

"My father is in hiding!" she cried.

"My dear," I said, forgetting for the first time to add "young lady,"

"what do I care? If he were in hiding twenty times over, would it

make one thought of change in you?"

"Ah, but the cause!" she cried, "the cause! It is"--she faltered for

a second--"it is disgraceful to us!"

IV

_Tells in what a Startling Manner I Learned that I was not

Alone in Graden Sea-Wood_

This was my wife's story, as I drew it from her among tears and sobs.

Her name was Clara Huddlestone: it sounded very beautiful in my ears;

but not so beautiful as that other name of Clara Cassilis, which she

wore during the longer and, I thank God, the happier portion of her

life. Her father, Bernard Huddlestone, had been a private banker in

a very large way of business. Many years before, his affairs

becoming disordered, he had been led to try dangerous, and at last

criminal, expedients to retrieve himself from ruin. All was in vain;

he became more and more cruelly involved, and found his honor lost at

the same moment with his fortune. About this period, Northmour had

been courting his daughter with great assiduity, though with small

encouragement; and to him, knowing him thus disposed in his favor,

Bernard Huddlestone turned for help in his extremity. It was not

merely ruin and dishonor, nor merely a legal condemnation, that the

unhappy man had brought upon his head. It seems he could have gone

to prison with a light heart. What he feared, what kept him awake at

night or recalled him from slumber into frenzy, was some secret,

sudden, and unlawful attempt upon his life. Hence, he desired to

bury his existence and escape to one of the islands in the South

Pacific, and it was in Northmour's yacht, the "Red Earl," that he

designed to go. The yacht picked them up clandestinely upon the

coast of Wales, and had once more deposited them at Graden, till she

could be refitted and provisioned for the longer voyage. Nor could

Clara doubt that her hand had been stipulated as the price of

passage. For, although Northmour was neither unkind nor even

discourteous, he had shown himself in several instances somewhat

overbold in speech and manner.

I listened, I need not say, with fixed attention, and put many

questions as to the more mysterious part. It was in vain. She had

no clear idea of what the blow was, nor of how it was expected to

fall. Her father's alarm was unfeigned and physically prostrating,

and he had thought more than once of making an unconditional

surrender to the police. But the scheme was finally abandoned, for

he was convinced that not even the strength of our English prisons

could shelter him from his pursuers. He had had many affairs with

Italy, and with Italians resident in London, in the later years of

his business; and these last, as Clara fancied, were somehow

connected with the doom that threatened him. He had shown great

terror at the presence of an Italian seaman on board the "Red Earl,"

and had bitterly and repeatedly accused Northmour in consequence.

The latter had protested that Beppo (that was the seaman's name) was

a capital fellow, and could be trusted to the death; but Mr.

Huddlestone had continued ever since to declare that all was lost,

that it was only a question of days, and that Beppo would be the ruin

of him yet.

I regarded the whole story as the hallucination of a mind shaken by

calamity. He had suffered heavy loss by his Italian transactions;

and hence the sight of an Italian was hateful to him, and the

principal part in his nightmare would naturally enough be played by

one of that nation.

"What your father wants," I said, "is a good doctor and some calming

medicine."

"But Mr. Northmour?" objected Clara. "He is untroubled by losses,

and yet he shares in this terror."

I could not help laughing at what I considered her simplicity.

"My dear," said I, "you have told me yourself what reward he has to

look for. All is fair in love, you must remember; and if Northmour

foments your father's terrors, it is not at all because he is afraid

of any Italian man, but simply because he is infatuated with a

charming Englishwoman."

She reminded me of his attack upon myself on the night of the

disembarkation, and this I was unable to explain. In short, and from

one thing to another, it was agreed between us that I should set out

at once for the fisher village, Graden Wester, as it was called, look

up all the newspapers I could find, and see for myself if there

seemed any basis of fact for these continued alarms. The next

morning, at the same hour and place, I was to make my report to

Clara. She said no more on that occasion about my departure; nor,

indeed, did she make it a secret that she clung to the thought of my

proximity as something helpful and pleasant; and, for my part, I

could not have left her, if she had gone upon her knees to ask it.

I reached Graden Wester before ten in the forenoon; for in those days

I was an excellent pedestrian, and the distance, as I think I have

said, was little over seven miles; fine walking all the way upon the

springy turf. The village is one of the bleakest on that coast,

which is saying much: there is a church in a hollow; a miserable

haven in the rocks, where many boats have been lost as they returned

from fishing; two or three score of stone houses arranged along the

beach and in two streets, one leading from the harbor, and another

striking out from it at right angles; and, at the corner of these

two, a very dark and cheerless tavern, by way of principal hotel.

I had dressed myself somewhat more suitably to my station in life,

and at once called upon the minister in his little manse beside the

graveyard. He knew me, although it was more than nine years since we

had met; and when I told him that I had been long upon a walking

tour, and was behind with the news, readily lent me an armful of

newspapers, dating from a month back to the day before. With these I

sought the tavern, and, ordering some breakfast, sat down to study

the "Huddlestone Failure."

It had been, it appeared, a very flagrant case. Thousands of persons

were reduced to poverty; and one in particular had blown out his

brains as soon as payment was suspended. It was strange to myself

that, while I read these details, I continued rather to sympathize

with Mr. Huddlestone than with his victims; so complete already was

the empire of my love for Clara. A price was naturally set upon the

banker's head; and, as the case was inexcusable and the public

indignation thoroughly aroused, the unusual figure of 750_l._ was

offered for his capture. He was reported to have large sums of money

in his possession. One day, he had been heard of in Spain; the next,

there was sure intelligence that he was still lurking between

Manchester and Liverpool, or along the border of Wales; and the day

after, a telegram would announce his arrival in Cuba or Yucatan. But

in all this there was no word of an Italian, nor any sign of mystery.

In the very last paper, however, there was one item not so clear.

The accountants who were charged to verify the failure had, it

seemed, come upon the traces of a very large number of thousands,

which figured for some time in the transactions of the house of

Huddlestone; but which came from nowhere, and disappeared in the same

mysterious fashion. It was only once referred to by name, and then

under the initials "X.X."; but it had plainly been floated for the

first time into the business at a period of great depression some six

years ago. The name of a distinguished royal personage had been

mentioned by rumor in connection with this sum. "The cowardly

desperado"--such, I remember, was the editorial expression--was

supposed to have escaped with a large part of this mysterious fund

still in his possession.

I was still brooding over the fact, and trying to torture it into

some connection with Mr. Huddlestone's danger, when a man entered the

tavern and asked for some bread and cheese with a decided foreign

accent.

"_Siete Italiano?_" said I.

"_Si, Signor_," was his reply.

I said it was unusually far north to find one of his compatriots; at

which he shrugged his shoulders, and replied that a man would go

anywhere to find work. What work he could hope to find at Graden

Wester, I was totally unable to conceive; and the incident struck so

unpleasantly upon my mind that I asked the landlord, while he was

counting me some change, whether he had ever before seen an Italian

in the village. He said he had once seen some Norwegians, who had

been shipwrecked on the other side of Graden Ness and rescued by the

lifeboat from Cauld-haven.

"No!" said I; "but an Italian, like the man who has just had bread

and cheese."

"What?" cried he, "yon black-avised fellow wi' the teeth? Was he an

I-talian? Weel, yon's the first that ever I saw, an' I daresay he's

like to be the last."

Even as he was speaking, I raised my eyes, and, casting a glance into

the street, beheld three men in earnest conversation together, and

not thirty yards away. One of them was my recent companion in the

tavern parlor; the other two, by their handsome, sallow features and

soft hats, should evidently belong to the same race. A crowd of

village children stood around them, gesticulating and talking

gibberish in imitation. The trio looked singularly foreign to the

bleak dirty street in which they were standing, and the dark gray

heaven that overspread them; and I confess my incredulity received at

that moment a shock from which it never recovered. I might reason

with myself as I pleased, but I could not argue down the effect of

what I had seen, and I began to share in the Italian terror.

It was already drawing toward the close of the day before I had

returned the newspapers at the manse, and got well forward on to the

links on my way home. I shall never forget that walk. It grew very

cold and boisterous; the wind sang in the short grass about my feet;

thin rain showers came running on the gusts; and an immense mountain

range of clouds began to arise out of the bosom of the sea. It would

be hard to imagine a more dismal evening; and whether it was from

these external influences, or because my nerves were already affected

by what I had heard and seen, my thoughts were as gloomy as the

weather.

The upper windows of the pavilion commanded a considerable spread of

links in the direction of Graden Wester. To avoid observation, it

was necessary to hug the beach until I had gained cover from the

higher sand-hills on the little headland, when I might strike across,

through the hollows, for the margin of the wood. The sun was about

setting; the tide was low, and all the quicksands uncovered; and I

was moving along, lost in unpleasant thought, when I was suddenly

thunderstruck to perceive the prints of human feet. They ran

parallel to my own course, but low down upon the beach instead of

along the border of the turf; and, when I examined them, I saw at

once, by the size and coarseness of the impression, that it was a

stranger to me and to those in the pavilion who had recently passed

that way. Not only so; but from the recklessness of the course which

he had followed, steering near to the most formidable portions of the

sand, he was as evidently a stranger to the country and to the

ill-repute of Graden beach.

Step by step I followed the prints; until, a quarter of a mile

further, I beheld them die away into the southeastern boundary of

Graden Floe. There, whoever he was, the miserable man had perished.

One or two gulls, who had, perhaps, seen him disappear, wheeled over

his sepulchre with their usual melancholy piping. The sun had broken

through the clouds by a last effort, and colored the wide level of

quicksands with a dusky purple. I stood for some time gazing at the

spot, chilled and disheartened by my own reflections, and with a

strong and commanding consciousness of death. I remember wondering

how long the tragedy had taken, and whether his screams had been

audible at the pavilion. And then, making a strong resolution, I was

about to tear myself away, when a gust fiercer than usual fell upon

this quarter of the beach, and I saw, now whirling high in air, now

skimming lightly across the surface of the sands, a soft black felt

hat, somewhat conical in shape, such as I had remarked already on the

heads of the Italians.

I believe, but I am not sure, that I uttered a cry. The wind was

driving the hat shoreward, and I ran round the border of the floe to

be ready against its arrival. The gust fell, dropping the hat for a

while upon the quicksand, and then, once more freshening, landed it a

few yards from where I stood. I seized it with the interest you may

imagine. It had seen some service; indeed, it was rustier than

either of those I had seen that day upon the street. The lining was

red, stamped with the name of the maker, which I have forgotten, and

that of the place of manufacture, Venedig. This (it is not yet

forgotten) was the name given by the Austrians to the beautiful city

of Venice, then, and for long after, a part of their dominions.

The shock was complete. I saw imaginary Italians upon every side;

and for the first and, I may say, for the last time in my experience

became overpowered by what is called a panic terror. I knew nothing,

that is, to be afraid of, and yet I admit that I was heartily afraid;

and it was with a sensible reluctance that I returned to my exposed

and solitary camp in the Sea-Wood.

There I ate some cold porridge which had been left over from the

night before, for I was disinclined to make a fire; and, feeling

strengthened and reassured, dismissed all these fanciful terrors from

my mind, and lay down to sleep with composure.

How long I may have slept it is impossible for me to guess; but I was

awakened at last by a sudden, blinding flash of light into my face.

It woke me like a blow. In an instant I was upon my knees. But the

light had gone as suddenly as it came. The darkness was intense.

And, as it was blowing great guns from the sea and pouring with rain,

the noises of the storm effectually concealed all others.

It was, I dare say, half a minute before I regained my

self-possession. But for two circumstances, I should have thought I

had been awakened by some new and vivid form of nightmare. First,

the flap of my tent, which I had shut carefully when I retired, was

now unfastened; and, second, I could still perceive, with a sharpness

that excluded any theory of hallucination, the smell of hot metal and

of burning oil. The conclusion was obvious. I had been wakened by

some one flashing a bull's-eye lantern in my face. It had been but a

flash, and away. He had seen my face, and then gone. I asked myself

the object of so strange a proceeding, and the answer came pat. The

man, whoever he was, had thought to recognize me, and he had not.

There was yet another question unresolved; and to this, I may say, I

feared to give an answer; if he had recognized me, what would he have

done?

My fears were immediately diverted from myself, for I saw that I had

been visited in a mistake; and I became persuaded that some dreadful

danger threatened the pavilion. It required some nerve to issue

forth into the black and intricate thicket which surrounded and

overhung the den; but I groped my way to the links, drenched with

rain, beaten upon and deafened by the gusts, and fearing at every

step to lay my hand upon some lurking adversary. The darkness was so

complete that I might have been surrounded by an army and yet none

the wiser, and the uproar of the gale so loud that my hearing was as

useless as my sight.

For the rest of that night, which seemed interminably long, I

patrolled the vicinity of the pavilion, without seeing a living

creature or hearing any noise but the concert of the wind, the sea,

and the rain. A light in the upper story filtered through a cranny

of the shutter, and kept me company till the approach of dawn.

V

_Tells of an Interview between Northmour, Clara, and Myself_

With the first peep of day, I retired from the open to my old lair

among the sand-hills, there to await the coming of my wife. The

morning was gray, wild, and melancholy; the wind moderated before

sunrise, and then went about, and blew in puffs from the shore; the

sea began to go down, but the rain still fell without mercy. Over

all the wilderness of links there was not a creature to be seen. Yet

I felt sure the neighborhood was alive with skulking foes. The light

that had been so suddenly and surprisingly flashed upon my face as I

lay sleeping, and the hat that had been blown ashore by the wind from

over Graden Floe, were two speaking signals of the peril that

environed Clara and the party in the pavilion.

It was, perhaps, half-past seven, or nearer eight, before I saw the

door open, and that dear figure come toward me in the rain. I was

waiting for her on the beach before she had crossed the sand-hills.

"I have had such trouble to come!" she cried. "They did not wish me

to go walking in the rain."

"Clara," I said, "you are not frightened?"

"No," said she, with a simplicity that filled my heart with

confidence. For my wife was the bravest as well as the best of

women; in my experience I have not found the two go always together,

but with her they did; and she combined the extreme of fortitude with

the most endearing and beautiful virtues.

I told her what had happened; and, though her cheek grew visibly

paler, she retained perfect control over her senses.

"You see now that I am safe," said I, in conclusion. "They do not

mean to harm me; for, had they chosen, I was a dead man last night."

She laid her hand upon my arm.

"And I had no presentiment!" she cried.

Her accent thrilled me with delight. I put my arm about her, and

strained her to my side; and, before either of us was aware, her

hands were on my shoulders and my lips upon her mouth. Yet up to

that moment no word of love had passed between us. To this day I

remember the touch of her cheek, which was wet and cold with the

rain; and many a time since, when she has been washing her face, I

have kissed it again for the sake of that morning on the beach. Now

that she is taken from me, and I finish my pilgrimage alone, I recall

our old lovingkindnesses and the deep honesty and attention which

united us, and my present loss seems but a trifle in comparison.

We may have thus stood for some seconds--for time passes quickly with

lovers--before we were startled by a peal of laughter close at hand.

It was not natural mirth, but seemed to be affected in order to

conceal an angrier feeling. We both turned, though I still kept my

left arm about Clara's waist: nor did she seek to withdraw herself;

and there, a few paces off upon the beach, stood Northmour, his head

lowered, his hands behind his back, his nostrils white with passion.

"Ah! Cassilis!" he said, as I disclosed my face.

"That same," said I: for I was not at all put about.

"And so, Miss Huddlestone," he continued slowly but savagely, "this

is hew you keep your faith to your father and to me? This is the

value you set upon father's life? And you are so infatuated with

this young gentleman that you must brave ruin, and decency, and

common human caution--"

"Miss Huddlestone--" I was beginning to interrupt him, when he, in

his turn, cut in brutally--

"You hold your tongue," said he: "I am speaking to that girl."

"That girl, as you call her, is my wife." said I; and my wife only

leaned a little nearer, so that I knew she had affirmed my words.

"Your what?" he cried, "You lie!"

"Northmour," I said, "we all know you have a bad temper, and I am the

last man to be irritated by words. For all that, I propose that you

speak lower, for I am convinced that we are not alone."

He looked round him, and it was plain my remark had in some degree

sobered his passion, "What do you mean?" he asked.

I only said one word: "Italians."

He swore a round oath, and looked at us, from one to the other.

"Mr. Cassilis knows all that I know," said my wife.

"What I want to know," he broke out, "is where the devil Mr. Cassilis

comes from, and what the devil Mr. Cassilis is doing here. You say

you are married; that I do not believe. If you were, Graden Floe

would soon divorce you; four minutes and a half, Cassilis. I keep my

private cemetery for my friends."

"It took somewhat longer," said I, "for that Italian."

He looked at me for a moment half daunted, and then, almost civilly,

asked me to tell my story. "You have too much the advantage of me,

Cassilis," he added. I complied of course; and he listened, with

several ejaculations, while I told him how I had come to Graden; that

it was I whom he had tried to murder on the night of landing; and

what I had subsequently seen and heard of the Italians.

"Well," said he, when I had done, "it is here at last; there is no

mistake about that. And what, may I ask, do you propose to do?"

"I propose to stay with you and lend a hand," said I.

"You are a brave man," he returned, with a peculiar intonation.

"I am not afraid," said I.

"And so," he continued, "I am to understand that you two are married?

And you stand up to it before my face, Miss Huddlestone?"

"We are not yet married," said Clara; "but we shall be as soon as we

can."

"Bravo!" cried Northmour. "And the bargain? D--n it, you're not a

fool, young woman; I may call a spade a spade with you. How about

the bargain? You know as well as I do what your father's life

depends upon. I have only to put my hands under my coat-tails and

walk away, and his throat would be cut before the evening."

"Yes, Mr. Northmour," returned Clara, with great spirit; "but that is

what you will never do. You made a bargain that was unworthy of a

gentleman; but you are a gentleman for all that, and you will never

desert a man whom you have begun to help."

"Aha!" said he. "You think I will give my yacht for nothing? You

think I will risk my life and liberty for love of the old gentleman;

and then, I suppose, be best man at the wedding, to wind up? Well,"

he added, with an old smile, "perhaps you are not altogether wrong.

But ask Cassilis here. _He_ knows me. Am I a man to trust? Am I

safe and scrupulous? Am I kind?"

"I know you talk a great deal, and sometimes, I think, very

foolishly," replied Clara, "but I know you are a gentleman, and I am

not the least afraid."

He looked at her with a peculiar approval and admiration; then,

turning to me, "Do you think I would give her up without a struggle,

Frank?" said he. "I tell you plainly, you look out. The next time

we come to blows--"

"Will make the third," I interrupted, smiling.

"Ay, true; so it will," he said. "I had forgotten. Well, the third

time's lucky."

"The third time, you mean, you will have the crew of the 'Red Earl'

to help," I said.

"Do you hear him?" he asked, turning to my wife.

"I hear two men speaking like cowards," said she. "I should despise

myself either to think or speak like that. And neither of you

believe one word that you are saying, which makes it the more wicked

and silly."

"She's a trump!" cried Northmour. "But she's not yet Mrs. Cassilis.

I say no more. The present is not for me."

Then my wife surprised me.

"I leave you here," she said suddenly. "My father has been too long

alone. But remember this: you are to be friends, for you are both

good friends to me."

She has since told me her reason for this step. As long as she

remained, she declares that we two would have continued to quarrel;

and I suppose that she was right, for when she was gone we fell at

once into a sort of confidentiality.

Northmour stared after her as she went away over the sand-hill.

"She is the only woman in the world!" he exclaimed with an oath.

"Look at her action."

I, for my part, leaped at this opportunity for a little further light.

"See here, Northmour," said I; "we are all in a tight place, are we

not?"

"I believe you, my boy," he answered, looking me in the eyes, and

with great emphasis. "We have all hell upon us, that's the truth.

You may believe me or not, but I'm afraid of my life."

"Tell me one thing," said I. "What are they after, these Italians?

What do they want with Mr. Huddlestone?"

"Don't you know?" he cried. "The black old scamp had Carbonaro funds

on a deposit--two hundred and eighty thousand; and of course he

gambled it away on stocks. There was to have been a revolution in

the Tridentino, or Parma; but the revolution is off, and the whole

wasps' nest is after Huddlestone. We shall all be lucky if we can

save our skins."

"The Carbonari!" I exclaimed; "God help him indeed!"

"Amen!" said Northmour. "And now, look here: I have said that we are

in a fix; and, frankly, I shall be glad of your help. If I can't

save Huddlestone, I want at least to save the girl. Come and stay in

the pavilion; and, there's my hand on it, I shall act as your friend

until the old man is either clear or dead. But," he added, "once

that is settled, you become my rival once again, and I warn you--mind

yourself."

"Done!" said I; and we shook hands.

"And now let us go directly to the fort," said Northmour; and he

began to lead the way through the rain.

VI

_Tells of my Introduction to the Tall Man_

We were admitted to the pavilion by Clara, and I was surprised by the

completeness and security of the defenses. A barricade of great

strength, and yet easy to displace, supported the door against any

violence from without; and the shutters of the dining-room, into

which I was led directly, and which was feebly illuminated by a lamp,

were even more elaborately fortified. The panels were strengthened

by bars and cross-bars; and these, in their turn, were kept in

position by a system of braces and struts, some abutting on the

floor, some on the roof, and others, in fine, against the opposite

wall of the apartment. It was at once a solid and well-designed

piece of carpentry; and I did not seek to conceal my admiration.

"I am the engineer," said Northmour. "You remember the planks in the

garden? Behold them!"

"I did not know you had so many talents," said I.

"Are you armed?" he continued, pointing to an array of guns and

pistols, all in admirable order, which stood in line against the wall

or were displayed upon the sideboard.

"Thank you," I returned; "I have gone armed since our last encounter.

But, to tell you the truth, I have had nothing to eat since early

yesterday evening."

Northmour produced some cold meat, to which I eagerly set myself, and

a bottle of good Burgundy, by which, wet as I was, I did not scruple

to profit. I have always been an extreme temperance man on

principle; but it is useless to push principle to excess, and on this

occasion I believe that I finished three-quarters of the bottle. As

I ate, I still continued to admire the preparations for defense.

"We could stand a siege," I said at length.

"Ye--es," drawled Northmour; "a very little one, per--haps. It is

not so much the strength of the pavilion I misdoubt; it is the double

danger that kills me. If we get to shooting, wild as the country is,

some one is sure to hear it, and then--why then it's the same thing,

only different, as they say: caged by law, or killed by Carbonari.

There's the choice. It is a devilish bad thing to have the law

against you in this world, and so I tell the old gentleman upstairs.

He is quite of my way of thinking."

"Speaking of that," said I, "what kind of person is he?"

"Oh, he!" cried the other; "he's a rancid fellow, as far as he goes.

I should like to have his neck wrung to-morrow by all the devils in

Italy. I am not in this affair for him. You take me? I made a

bargain for Missy's hand, and I mean to have it, too."

"That, by the way," said I. "I understand. But how will Mr.

Huddlestone take my intrusion?"

"Leave that to Clara," returned Northmour.

I could have struck him in the face for this coarse familiarity; but

I respected the truce, as, I am bound to say, did Northmour, and so

long as the danger continued not a cloud arose in our relation. I

bear him this testimony with the most unfeigned satisfaction; nor am

I without pride when I look back upon my own behavior. For surely no

two men were ever left in a position so invidious and irritating.

As soon as I had done eating, we proceeded to inspect the lower

floor. Window by window we tried the different supports, now and

then making an inconsiderable change; and the strokes of the hammer

sounded with startling loudness through the house. I proposed, I

remember, to make loopholes; but he told me they were already made in

the windows of the upper story. It was an anxious business this

inspection, and left me down-hearted. There were two doors and five

windows to protect, and, counting Clara, only four of us to defend

them against an unknown number of foes. I communicated my doubts to

Northmour, who assured me, with unmoved composure, that he entirely

shared them.

"Before morning," said he, "we shall all be butchered and buried in

Graden Floe. For me, that is written."

I could not help shuddering at the mention of the quicksands, but

reminded Northmour that our enemies had spared me in the wood.

"Do not flatter yourself," said he. "Then you were not in the same

boat with the old gentleman; now you are. It's the floe for all of

us, mark my words."

I trembled for Clara; and just then her dear voice was heard calling

us to come upstairs. Northmour showed me the way, and, when he had

reached the landing, knocked at the door of what used to be called

_My Uncle's Bedroom_, as the founder of the pavilion had designed it

especially for himself.

"Come in, Northmour; come in, dear Mr. Cassilis," said a voice from

within.

Pushing open the door, Northmour admitted me before him into the

apartment. As I came in I could see the daughter slipping out by the

side door into the study, which had been prepared as her bedroom. In

the bed, which was drawn back against the wall, instead of standing,

as I had last seen it, boldly across the window, sat Bernard

Huddlestone, the defaulting banker. Little as I had seen of him by

the shifting light of the lantern on the links, I had no difficulty

in recognizing him for the same. He had a long and sallow

countenance, surrounded by a long red beard and side-whiskers. His

broken nose and high cheekbones gave him somewhat the air of a

Kalmuck, and his light eyes shone with the excitement of a high

fever. He wore a skullcap of black silk; a huge Bible lay open

before him on the bed, with a pair of gold spectacles in the place,

and a pile of other books lay on the stand by his side. The green

curtains lent a cadaverous shade to his cheek; and, as he sat propped

on pillows, his great stature was painfully hunched, and his head

protruded till it overhung his knees. I believe if he had not died

otherwise, he must have fallen a victim to consumption in the course

of but a very few weeks.

He held out to me a hand, long, thin, and disagreeably hairy.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis," said he. "Another

protector--ahem!--another protector. Always welcome as a friend of

my daughter's, Mr. Cassilis. How they have rallied about me, my

daughter's friends! May God in heaven bless and reward them for it!"

I gave him my hand, of course, because I could not help it; but the

sympathy I had been prepared to feel for Clara's father was

immediately soured by his appearance, and the wheedling, unreal tones

in which he spoke.

"Cassilis is a good man," said Northmour; "worth ten."

"So I hear," cried Mr. Huddlestone eagerly; "so my girl tells me.

Ah, Mr. Cassilis, my sin has found me out, you see! I am very low,

very low; but I hope equally penitent. We must all come to the

throne of grace at last, Mr. Cassilis. For my part, I come late

indeed; but with unfeigned humility. I trust."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Northmour roughly.

"No, no, dear Northmour!" cried the banker. "You must not say that;

you must not try to shake me. You forget, my dear, good boy, you

forget I may be called this very night before my Maker."

His excitement was pitiful to behold; and I felt myself grow

indignant with Northmour, whose infidel opinions I well knew and

heartily derided, as he continued to taunt the poor sinner out of his

humor of repentance.

"Pooh, my dear Huddlestone!" said he. "You do yourself injustice.

You are a man of the world inside and out, and were up to all kinds

of mischief before I was born. Your conscience is tanned like South

American leather--only you forgot to tan your liver, and that, if you

will believe me, is the seat of the annoyance."

"Rogue, rogue! bad boy!" said Mr. Huddlestone, shaking his finger.

"I am no precisian, if you come to that; I always hated a precisian;

but I never lost hold of something better through it all. I have

been a bad boy, Mr. Cassilis; I do not seek to deny that; but it was

after my wife's death, and you know, with a widower, it's a different

thing: sinful--I won't say no; but there is a gradation, we shall

hope. And talking of that--Hark!" he broke out suddenly, his hand

raised, his fingers spread, his face racked with interest and terror.

"Only the rain, bless God!" he added, after a pause, and with

indescribable relief.

For some seconds he lay back among the pillows like a man near to

fainting; then he gathered himself together, and, in somewhat

tremulous tones, began once more to thank me for the share I was

prepared to take in his defense.

"One question, sir," said I, when he had paused. "Is it true that

you have money with you?"

He seemed annoyed by the question, but admitted with reluctance that

he had a little.

"Well," I continued, "it is their money they are after, is it not?

Why not give it up to them?"

"Ah!" replied he, shaking his head, "I have tried that already, Mr.

Cassilis; and alas that it should be so! but it is blood they want."

"Huddlestone, that's a little less than fair," said Northmour. "You

should mention that what you offered them was upward of two hundred

thousand short. The deficit is worth a reference; it is for what

they call a cool sum, Frank. Then, you see, the fellows reason in

their clear Italian way; and it seems to them, as indeed it seems to

me, that they may just as well have both while they're about

it--money and blood together, by George, and no more trouble for the

extra pleasure."

"Is it in the pavilion?" I asked.

"It is; and I wish it were in the bottom of the sea instead," said

Northmour; and then suddenly--"What are you making faces at me for?"

he cried to Mr. Huddlestone, on whom I had unconsciously turned my

back. "Do you think Cassilis would sell you?"

Mr. Huddlestone protested that nothing had been further from his mind.

"It is a good thing," retorted Northmour in his ugliest manner. "You

might end by wearying us. What were you going to say?" he added,

turning to me.

"I was going to propose an occupation for the afternoon," said I.

"Let us carry that money out, piece by piece, and lay it down before

the pavilion door. If the Carbonari come, why, it's theirs at any

rate."

"No, no," cried Mr. Huddlestone; "it does not, it can not belong to

them! It should be distributed _pro rata_ among all my creditors."

"Come now, Huddlestone," said Northmour, "none of that."

"Well, but my daughter," moaned the wretched man.

"Your daughter will do well enough. Here are two suitors, Cassilis

and I, neither of us beggars, between whom she has to choose. And as

for yourself, to make an end of arguments, you have no right to a

farthing, and, unless I'm much mistaken, you are going to die."

It was certainly very cruelly said; but Mr. Huddlestone was a man who

attracted little sympathy; and, although I saw him wince and shudder,

I mentally indorsed the rebuke; nay, I added a contribution of my own.

"Northmour and I," I said, "are willing enough to help you to save

your life, but not to escape with stolen property."

He struggled for a while with himself, as though he were on the point

of giving way to anger, but prudence had the best of the controversy.

"My dear boys," he said, "do with me or my money what you will. I

leave all in your hands. Let me compose myself."

And so we left him, gladly enough I am sure. The last that I saw, he

had once more taken up his great Bible, and with tremulous hands was

adjusting his spectacles to read.

VII

_Tells How a Word was Cried, through the Pavilion Window_

The recollection of that afternoon will always be graven on my mind.

Northmour and I were persuaded that an attack was imminent; and if it

had been in our power to alter in any way the order of events, that

power would have been used to precipitate rather than delay the

critical moment. The worst was to be anticipated, yet we could

conceive no extremity so miserable as the suspense we were now

suffering. I have never been an eager, though always a great,

reader; but I never knew books so insipid as those which I took up

and cast aside that afternoon in the pavilion. Even talk became

impossible, as the hours went on. One or other was always listening

for some sound or peering from an upstairs' window over the links.

And yet not a sign indicated the presence of our foes.

We debated over and over again my proposal with regard to the money;

and had we been in complete possession of our faculties, I am sure we

should have condemned it as unwise; but we were flustered with alarm,

grasped at a straw, and determined, although it was as much as

advertising Mr. Huddlestone's presence in the pavilion, to carry my

proposal into effect.

The sum was part in specie, part in bank paper, and part in circular

notes payable to the name of James Gregory. We took it out, counted

it, enclosed it once more in a despatch-box belonging to Northmour,

and prepared a letter in Italian which he tied to the handle. It was

signed by both of us under oath, and declared that this was all the

money which had escaped the failure of the house of Huddlestone.

This was, perhaps, the maddest action ever perpetrated by two persons

professing to be sane. Had the despatch-box fallen into other hands

than those for which it was intended, we stood criminally convicted

on our own written testimony; but, as I have said, we were neither of

us in a condition to judge soberly, and had a thirst for action that

drove us to do something, right or wrong, rather than endure the

agony of waiting. Moreover, as we were both convinced that the

hollows of the links were alive with hidden spies upon our movements,

we hoped that our appearance with the box might lead to a parley,

and, perhaps, a compromise.

It was nearly three when we issued from the pavilion. The rain had

taken off; the sun shone quite cheerfully. I have never seen the

gulls fly so close about the house or approach so fearlessly to human

beings. On the very doorstep one flapped heavily past our heads, and

uttered its wild cry in my very ear.

"There is an omen for you," said Northmour, who like all freethinkers

was much under the influence of superstition. "They think we are

already dead."

I made some light rejoinder, but it was with half my heart; for the

circumstance had impressed me.

A yard or two before the gate, on a patch of smooth turf, we set down

the despatch-box; and Northmour waved a white handkerchief over his

head. Nothing replied. We raised our voices, and cried aloud in

Italian that we were there as ambassadors to arrange the quarrel; but

the stillness remained unbroken save by the sea-gulls and the surf.

I had a weight at my heart when we desisted; and I saw that even

Northmour was unusually pale. He looked over his shoulder nervously,

as though he feared that some one had crept between him and the

pavilion door.

"By God," he said in a whisper, "this is too much for me!"

I replied in the same key: "Suppose there should be none, after all!"

"Look there," he returned, nodding with his head, as though he had

been afraid to point.

I glanced in the direction indicated; and there, from the northern

quarter of the Sea-Wood, beheld a thin column of smoke rising

steadily against the now cloudless sky.

"Northmour," I said (we still continued to talk in whispers), "it is

not possible to endure this suspense. I prefer death fifty times

over. Stay you here to watch the pavilion; I will go forward and

make sure, if I have to walk right into their camp."

He looked once again all round him with puckered eyes, and then

nodded assentingly to my proposal.

My heart beat like a sledge-hammer as I set out walking rapidly in

the direction of the smoke; and, though up to that moment I had felt

chill and shivering, I was suddenly conscious of a glow of heat over

all my body. The ground in this direction was very uneven; a hundred

men might have lain hidden in as many square yards about my path.

But I had not practised the business in vain, chose such routes as

cut at the very root of concealment, and, by keeping along the most

convenient ridges, commanded several hollows at a time. It was not

long before I was rewarded for my caution. Coming suddenly on to a

mound somewhat more elevated than the surrounding hummocks, I saw,

not thirty yards away, a man bent almost double, and running as fast

as his attitude permitted, along the bottom of a gully. I had

dislodged one of the spies from his ambush. As soon as I sighted

him, I called loudly both in English and Italian; and he, seeing

concealment was no longer possible, straightened himself out, leaped

from the gully, and made off as straight as an arrow for the borders

of the wood.

It was none of my business to pursue; I had learned what I

wanted--that we were beleaguered and watched in the pavilion; and I

returned at once, walking as nearly as possible in my old footsteps,

to where Northmour awaited me beside the despatch-box. He was even

paler than when I had left him, and his voice shook a little.

"Could you see what he was like?" he asked.

"He kept his back turned," I replied.

"Let us get into the house, Frank. I don't think I'm a coward, but I

can stand no more of this," he whispered.

All was still and sunshiny about the pavilion as we turned to reenter

it; even the gulls had flown in a wider circuit, and were seen

flickering along the beach and sand-hills; and this loneliness

terrified me more than a regiment under arms. It was not until the

door was barricaded that I could draw a full inspiration and relieve

the weight that lay upon my bosom. Northmour and I exchanged a

steady glance; and I suppose each made his own reflections on the

white and startled aspect of the other.

"You were right," I said. "All is over. Shake hands, old man, for

the last time."

"Yes," replied he, "I will shake hands; for, as sure as I am here, I

bear no malice. But, remember, if, by some impossible accident, we

should give the slip to these blackguards, I'll take the upper hand

of you by fair or foul."

"Oh," said I, "you weary me!"

He seemed hurt, and walked away in silence to the foot of the stairs,

where he paused.

"You do not understand," said he. "I am not a swindler, and I guard

myself; that is all. It may weary you or not, Mr. Cassilis, I do not

care a rush; I speak for my own satisfaction, and not for your

amusement. You had better go upstairs and court the girl; for my

part, I stay here."

"And I stay with you," I returned. "Do you think I would steal a

march, even with your permission?"

"Frank," he said, smiling, "it's a pity you are an ass, for you have

the makings of a man. I think I must be fey to-day; you can not

irritate me even when you try. Do you know," he continued softly, "I

think we are the two most miserable men in England, you and I? we

have got on to thirty without wife or child, or so much as a shop to

look after--poor, pitiful, lost devils, both! And now we clash about

a girl! As if there were not several millions in the United Kingdom!

Ah, Frank, Frank, the one who loses this throw, be it you or me, he

has my pity! It were better for him--how does the Bible say?--that a

millstone were hanged about his neck and he were cast into the depths

of the sea. Let us take a drink," he concluded suddenly, but without

any levity of tone.

I was touched by his words, and consented. He sat down on the table

in the dining-room, and held up the glass of sherry to his eye.

"If you beat me, Frank," he said, "I shall take to drink. What will

you do, if it goes the other way?"

"God knows," I returned.

"Well," said he, "here is a toast in the meantime: '_Italia

irredenta!_'"

The remainder of the day was passed in the same dreadful tedium and

suspense. I laid the table for dinner, while Northmour and Clara

prepared the meal together in the kitchen. I could hear their talk

as I went to and fro, and was surprised to find it ran all the time

upon myself. Northmour again bracketed us together, and rallied

Clara on a choice of husbands; but he continued to speak of me with

some feeling, and uttered nothing to my prejudice unless he included

himself in the condemnation. This awakened a sense of gratitude in

my heart, which combined with the immediateness of our peril to fill

my eyes with tears. After all, I thought--and perhaps the thought

was laughably vain--we were here three very noble human beings to

perish in defense of a thieving banker.

Before we sat down to table, I looked forth from an upstairs window.

The day was beginning to decline; the links were utterly deserted;

the despatch-box still lay untouched where we had left it hours

before.

Mr. Huddlestone, in a long yellow dressing-gown, took one end of the

table, Clara the other; while Northmour and I faced each other from

the sides. The lamp was brightly trimmed; the wine was good; the

viands, although mostly cold, excellent of their sort. We seemed to

have agreed tacitly; all reference to the impending catastrophe was

carefully avoided; and, considering our tragic circumstances, we made

a merrier party than could have been expected. From time to time, it

is true, Northmour or I would rise from the table and make a round of

the defenses; and, on each of these occasions, Mr. Huddlestone was

recalled to a sense of his tragic predicament, glanced up with

ghastly eyes, and bore for an instant on his countenance the stamp of

terror. But he hastened to empty his glass, wiped his forehead with

his handkerchief, and joined again in the conversation.

I was astonished at the wit and information he displayed. Mr.

Huddlestone's was certainly no ordinary character; he had read and

observed for himself; his gifts were sound; and, though I could never

have learned to love the man, I began to understand his success in

business, and the great respect in which he had been held before his

failure. He had, above all, the talent of society; and though I

never heard him speak but on this one and most unfavorable occasion,

I set him down among the most brilliant conversationalists I ever met.

He was relating with great gusto, and seemingly no feeling of shame,

the maneuvres of a scoundrelly commission merchant whom he had known

and studied in his youth, and we were all listening with an odd

mixture of mirth and embarrassment, when our little party was brought

abruptly to an end in the most startling manner.

A noise like that of a wet finger on the window-pane interrupted Mr.

Huddlestone's tale; and in an instant we were all four as white as

paper, and sat tongue-tied and motionless around the table.

"A snail," I said at last; for I had heard that these animals make a

noise somewhat similar in character.

"Snail be d--d!" said Northmour. "Hush!"

The same sound was repeated twice at regular intervals; and then a

formidable voice shouted through the shutters the Italian word

"_Traditore!_"

Mr. Huddlestone threw his head in the air; his eyelids quivered; next

moment he fell insensible below the table. Northmour and I had each

run to the armory and seized a gun. Clara was on her feet with her

hand at her throat.

So we stood waiting, for we thought the hour of attack was certainly

come; but second passed after second, and all but the surf remained

silent in the neighborhood of the pavilion.

"Quick," said Northmour; "upstairs with him before they come."

VIII

_Tells the Last of the Tall Man_

Somehow or other, by hook and crook, and between the three of us, we

got Bernard Huddlestone bundled upstairs and laid upon the bed in My

Uncle's Room. During the whole process, which was rough enough, he

gave no sign of consciousness, and he remained, as we had thrown him,

without changing the position of a finger. His daughter opened his

shirt and began to wet his head and bosom; while Northmour and I ran

to the window. The weather continued clear; the moon, which was now

about full, had risen and shed a very clear light upon the links;

yet, strain our eyes as we might, we could distinguish nothing

moving. A few dark spots, more or less, on the uneven expanse were

not to be identified; they might be crouching men, they might be

shadows; it was impossible to be sure.

"Thank God," said Northmour, "Aggie is not coming to-night."

Aggie was the name of the old nurse; he had not thought of her till

now; but that he should think of her at all was a trait that

surprised me in the man.

We were again reduced to waiting. Northmour went to the fireplace

and spread his hands before the red embers, as if he were cold. I

followed him mechanically with my eyes, and in so doing turned my

back upon the window. At that moment a very faint report was audible

from without, and a ball shivered a pane of glass, and buried itself

in the shutter two inches from my head. I heard Clara scream; and

though I whipped instantly out of range and into a corner, she was

there, so to speak, before me, beseeching to know if I were hurt. I

felt that I could stand to be shot at every day and all day long,

with such marks of solicitude for a reward; and I continued to

reassure her with the tenderest caresses and in complete

forgetfulness of our situation till the voice of Northmour recalled

me to myself.

"An air-gun," he said. "They wish to make no noise."

I put Clara aside and looked at him. He was standing with his back

to the fire and his hands clasped behind him; and I knew by the black

look on his face that passion was boiling within. I had seen just

such a look before he attacked me, that March night, in the adjoining

chamber; and, though I could make every allowance for his anger, I

confess I trembled for the consequences. He gazed straight before

him; but he could see us with the tail of his eye, and his temper

kept rising like a gale of wind. With regular battle awaiting us

outside, this prospect of an internecine strife within the walls

began to daunt me.

Suddenly, as I was thus closely watching his expression and prepared

against the worst, I saw a change, a flash, a look of relief, upon

his face. He took up the lamp which stood beside him on the table,

and turned to us with an air of some excitement.

"There is one point that we must know," said he. "Are they going to

butcher the lot of us, or only Huddlestone? Did they take you for

him, or fire at you for your own _beaux yeux_?"

"They took me for him, for certain," I replied. "I am near as tall,

and my head is fair."

"I am going to make sure," returned Northmour; and he stepped up to

the window, holding the lamp above his head, and stood there, quietly

affronting death, for half a minute.

Clara sought to rush forward and pull him from the place of danger;

but I had the pardonable selfishness to hold her back by force.

"Yes," said Northmour, turning coolly from the window; "it's only

Huddlestone they want."

"Oh, Mr. Northmour!" cried Clara; but found no more to add; the

temerity she had just witnessed seeming beyond the reach of words.

He, on his part, looked at me, cocking his head with a fire of

triumph in his eyes; and I understood at once that he had thus

hazarded his life merely to attract Clara's notice, and depose me

from my position as the hero of the hour. He snapped his fingers.

"The fire is only beginning," said he. "When they warm up to their

work, they won't be so particular."

A voice was now heard hailing us from the entrance. From the window

we could see the figure of a man in the moonlight; he stood

motionless, his face uplifted to ours, and a rag of something white

on his extended arm; and as we looked right down upon him, though he

was a good many yards distant on the links, we could see the

moonlight glitter on his eyes.

He opened his lips again, and spoke for some minutes on end, in a key

so loud that he might have been heard in every corner of the

pavilion, and as far away as the borders of the wood. It was the

same voice that had already shouted "_Traditore!_" through the

shutters of the dining-room; this time it made a complete and clear

statement. If the traitor "Oddlestone" were given up, all others

should be spared; if not, no one should escape to tell the tale.

"Well, Huddlestone, what do you say to that?" asked Northmour,

turning to the bed.

Up to that moment the banker had given no sign of life, and I, at

least, had supposed him to be still lying in a faint; but he replied

at once, and in such tones as I have never heard elsewhere, save from

a delirious patient, adjured and besought us not to desert him. It

was the most hideous and abject performance that my imagination can

conceive.

"Enough," cried Northmour; and then he threw open the window, leaned

out into the night, and in a tone of exultation, and with a total

forgetfulness of what was due to the presence of a lady, poured out

upon the ambassador a string of the most abominable raillery both in

English and Italian, and bade him begone where he had come from. I

believe that nothing so delighted Northmour at that moment as the

thought that we must all infallibly perish before the night was out.

Meantime the Italian put his flag of truce into his pocket, and

disappeared, at a leisurely pace, among the sand-hills.

"They make honorable war," said Northmour. "They are all gentlemen

and soldiers. For the credit of the thing, I wish we could change

sides--you and I, Frank, and you too, missy, my darling--and leave

that being on the bed to some one else. Tut! Don't look shocked!

We are all going post to what they call eternity, and may as well be

aboveboard while there's time. As far as I'm concerned, if I could

first strangle Huddlestone and then get Clara in my arms, I could die

with some pride and satisfaction. And as it is, by God, I'll have a

kiss!"

Before I could do anything to interfere, he had rudely embraced and

repeatedly kissed the resisting girl. Next moment I had pulled him

away with fury, and flung him heavily against the wall. He laughed

loud and long, and I feared his wits had given way under the strain;

for even in the best of days he had been a sparing and a quiet

laugher.

"Now, Frank," said he, when his mirth was somewhat appeased, "it's

your turn. Here's my hand. Good-by; farewell!" Then, seeing me

stand rigid and indignant, and holding Clara to my side--"Man!" he

broke out, "are you angry? Did you think we were going to die with

all the airs and graces of society? I took a kiss; I'm glad I had

it; and now you can take another if you like, and square accounts."

I turned from him with a feeling of contempt which I did not seek to

dissemble.

"As you please," said he. "You've been a prig in life; a prig you'll

die."

And with that he sat down in a chair, a rifle over his knee, and

amused himself with snapping the lock; but I could see that his

ebullition of light spirits (the only one I ever knew him to display)

had already come to an end, and was succeeded by a sullen, scowling

humor.

All this time our assailants might have been entering the house, and

we been none the wiser; we had in truth almost forgotten the danger

that so imminently overhung our days. But just then Mr. Huddlestone

uttered a cry, and leaped from the bed.

I asked him what was wrong.

"Fire!" he cried. "They have set the house on fire!"

Northmour was on his feet in an instant, and he and I ran through the

door of communication with the study. The room was illuminated by a

red and angry light. Almost at the moment of our entrance, a tower

of flame arose in front of the window, and, with a tingling report, a

pane fell inward on the carpet. They had set fire to the lean-to

outhouse, where Northmour used to nurse his negatives.

"Hot work," said Northmour. "Let us try in your old room."

We ran thither in a breath, threw up the casement, and looked forth.

Along the whole back wall of the pavilion piles of fuel had been

arranged and kindled; and it is probable they had been drenched with

mineral oil, for, in spite of the morning's rain, they all burned

bravely. The fire had taken a firm hold already on the outhouse,

which blazed higher and higher every moment; the back door was in the

centre of a red-hot bonfire; the eaves we could see, as we looked

upward, were already smoldering, for the roof overhung, and was

supported by considerable beams of wood. At the same time, hot,

pungent, and choking volumes of smoke began to fill the house. There

was not a human being to be seen to right or left.

"Ah, well!" said Northmour, "here's the end, thank God."

And we returned to My Uncle's Room. Mr. Huddlestone was putting on

his boots, still violently trembling, but with an air of

determination such as I had not hitherto observed. Clara stood close

by him, with her cloak in both hands ready to throw about her

shoulders, and a strange look in her eyes, as if she were half

hopeful, half doubtful of her father.

"Well, boys and girl," said Northmour, "how about a sally? The oven

is heating; it is not good to stay here and be baked; and, for my

part, I want to come to my hands with them, and be done."

"There is nothing else left," I replied.

And both Clara and Mr. Huddlestone, though with a very different

intonation, added, "Nothing."

As we went downstairs the heat was excessive, and the roaring of the

fire filled our ears; and we had scarce reached the passage before

the stairs window fell in, a branch of flame shot brandishing through

the aperture, and the interior of the pavilion became lighted up with

that dreadful and fluctuating glare. At the same moment we heard the

fall of something heavy and inelastic in the upper story. The whole

pavilion, it was plain, had gone alight like a box of matches, and

now not only flamed sky-high to land and sea, but threatened with

every moment to crumble and fall in about our ears.

Northmour and I cocked our revolvers. Mr. Huddlestone, who had

already refused a firearm, put us behind him with a manner of command.

"Let Clara open the door," said he. "So, if they fire a volley, she

will be protected. In the meantime stand behind me. I am the

scapegoat; my sins have found me out."

I heard him, as I stood breathless by his shoulder, with my pistol

ready, pattering off prayers in a tremulous, rapid whisper; and I

confess, horrid as the thought may seem, I despised him for thinking

of supplications in a moment so critical and thrilling. In the

meantime, Clara, who was dead white but still possessed her

faculties, had displaced the barricade from the front door. Another

moment, and she had pulled it open. Firelight and moonlight

illuminated the links with confused and changeful lustre, and far

away against the sky we could see a long trail of glowing smoke.

Mr. Huddlestone, filled for the moment with a strength greater than

his own, struck Northmour and myself a back-hander in the chest; and

while we were thus for the moment incapacitated from action, lifting

his arms above his head like one about to dive, he ran straight

forward out of the pavilion.

"Here am I!" he cried--"Huddlestone! Kill me, and spare the others!"

His sudden appearance daunted, I suppose, our hidden enemies; for

Northmour and I had time to recover, to seize Clara between us, one

by each arm, and to rush forth to his assistance, ere anything

further had taken place. But scarce had we passed the threshold when

there came near a dozen reports and flashes from every direction

among the hollows of the links. Mr. Huddlestone staggered, uttered a

weird and freezing cry, threw up his arms over his head, and fell

backward on the turf.

"_Traditore! Traditore!_" cried the invisible avengers.

And just then, a part of the roof of the pavilion fell in, so rapid

was the progress of the fire. A loud, vague, and horrible noise

accompanied the collapse, and a vast volume of flame went soaring up

to heaven. It must have been visible at that moment from twenty

miles out to sea, from the shore at Graden Wester, and far inland

from the peak of Graystiel, the most eastern summit of the Caulder

Hills. Bernard Huddlestone, although God knows what were his

obsequies, had a fine pyre at the moment of his death.

IX

_Tells how Northmour Carried out His Threat_

I should have the greatest difficulty to tell you what followed next

after this tragic circumstance. It is all to me, as I look back upon

it, mixed, strenuous, and ineffectual, like the struggles of a

sleeper in a nightmare. Clara, I remember, uttered a broken sigh and

would have fallen forward to earth, had not Northmour and I supported

her insensible body. I do not think we were attacked; I do not

remember even to have seen an assailant; and I believe we deserted

Mr. Huddlestone without a glance. I only remember running like a man

in a panic, now carrying Clara altogether in my own arms, now sharing

her weight with Northmour, now scuffling confusedly for the

possession of that dear burden. Why we should have made for my camp

in the Hemlock Den, or how we reached it, are points lost forever to

my recollection. The first moment at which I became definitely sure,

Clara had been suffered to fall against the outside of my little

tent, Northmour and I were tumbling together on the ground, and he,

with contained ferocity, was striking for my head with the butt of

his revolver. He had already twice wounded me on the scalp; and it

is to the consequent loss of blood that I am tempted to attribute the

sudden clearness of my mind.

I caught him by the wrist.

"Northmour," I remember saying, "you can kill me afterward. Let us

first attend to Clara."

He was at that moment uppermost. Scarcely had the words passed my

lips, when he had leaped to his feet and ran toward the tent; and the

next moment, he was straining Clara to his heart and covering her

unconscious hands and face with his caresses.

"Shame!" I cried. "Shame to you, Northmour!"

And, giddy though I still was, I struck him repeatedly upon the head

and shoulders.

He relinquished his grasp, and faced me in the broken moonlight.

"I had you under, and I let you go," said he; "and now you strike me!

Coward!"

"You are the coward," I retorted. "Did she wish your kisses while

she was still sensible of what she wanted? Not she! And now she may

be dying; and you waste this precious time, and abuse her

helplessness. Stand aside, and let me help her."

He confronted me for a moment, white and menacing; then suddenly he

stepped aside.

"Help her then," said he.

I threw myself on my knees beside her, and loosened, as well as I was

able, her dress and corset; but while I was thus engaged, a grasp

descended on my shoulder.

"Keep your hands off her," said Northmour fiercely. "Do you think I

have no blood in my veins."

"Northmour," I cried, "if you will neither help her yourself, nor let

me do so, do you know that I shall have to kill you?"

"That is better!" he cried. "Let her die also, where's the harm?

Step aside from that girl! and stand up to fight."

"You will observe," said I, half rising, "that I have not kissed her

yet."

"I dare you to," he cried.

I do not know what possessed me; it was one of the things I am most

ashamed of in my life, though, as my wife used to say, I knew that my

kisses would be always welcome were she dead or living; down I fell

again upon my knees, parted the hair from her forehead, and, with the

dearest respect, laid my lips for a moment on that cold brow. It was

such a caress as a father might have given; it was such a one as was

not unbecoming from a man soon to die to a woman already dead.

"And now," said I, "I am at your service, Mr. Northmour."

But I saw, to my surprise, that he had turned his back upon me.

"Do you hear?" I asked.

"Yes," said he, "I do. If you wish to fight, I am ready. If not, go

on and save Clara. All is one to me."

I did not wait to be twice bidden; but, stooping again over Clara,

continued my efforts to revive her. She still lay white and

lifeless; I began to fear that her sweet spirit had indeed fled

beyond recall, and horror and a sense of utter desolation seized upon

my heart. I called her by name with the most endearing inflections;

I chafed and beat her hands; and now I laid her head low, now

supported it against my knee; but all seemed to be in vain, and the

lids still lay heavy on her eyes.

"Northmour," I said, "there is my hat. For God's sake bring some

water from the spring."

Almost in a moment he was by my side with the water.

"I have brought it in my own," he said. "You do not grudge me the

privilege?"

"Northmour," I was beginning to say, as I laved her head and breast;

but he interrupted me savagely.

"Oh, you hush up!" he said. "The best thing you can do is to say

nothing."

I had certainly no desire to talk, my mind being swallowed up in

concern for my dear love and her condition; so I continued in silence

to do my best toward her recovery, and, when the hat was empty,

returned it to him, with one word--"More." He had, perhaps, gone

several times upon this errand, when Clara reopened her eyes.

"Now," said he, "since she is better, you can spare me, can you not?

I wish you a good-night, Mr. Cassilis."

And with that he was gone among the thicket. I made a fire, for I

had now no fear of the Italians, who had even spared all the little

possessions left in my encampment; and, broken as she was by the

excitement and the hideous catastrophe of the evening, I managed, in

one way or another--by persuasion, encouragement, warmth, and such

simple remedies as I could lay my hand on--to bring her back to some

composure of mind and strength of body.

Day had already come, when a sharp "Hist!" sounded from the thicket.

I started from the ground; but the voice of Northmour was heard

adding, in the most tranquil tones: "Come here, Cassilis, and alone;

I want to show you something."

I consulted Clara with my eyes, and, receiving her tacit permission,

left her alone, and clambered out of the den. At some distance off I

saw Northmour leaning against an elder; and, as soon as he perceived

me, he began walking seaward. I had almost overtaken him as he

reached the outskirts of the wood.

"Look," said he, pausing.

A couple of steps more brought me out of the foliage. The light of

the morning lay cold and clear over that well-known scene. The

pavilion was but a blackened wreck; the roof had fallen in, one of

the gables had fallen out; and, far and near, the face of the links

was cicatrized with little patches of burned furze. Thick smoke

still went straight upward in the windless air of the morning, and a

great pile of ardent cinders filled the bare walls of the house, like

coals in an open grate. Close by the islet a schooner yacht lay to,

and a well-manned boat was pulling vigorously for the shore.

"The 'Red Earl!'" I cried. "The 'Red Earl,' twelve hours too late!"

"Feel in your pocket, Frank. Are you armed?" asked Northmour.

I obeyed him, and I think I must have become deadly pale. My

revolver had been taken from me.

"You see I have you in my power," he continued. "I disarmed you last

night while you were nursing Clara; but this morning--here--take your

pistol. No thanks!" he cried, holding up his hand. "I do not like

them; that is the only way you can annoy me now."

He began to walk forward across the links to meet the boat, and I

followed a step or two behind. In front of the pavilion I paused to

see where Mr. Huddlestone had fallen; but there was no sign of him,

nor so much as a trace of blood.

"Graden Floe," said Northmour.

He continued to advance till we had come to the head of the beach.

"No further, please," said he. "Would you like to take her to Graden

House?"

"Thank you," replied I; "I shall try to get her to the minister's at

Graden Wester."

The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and a sailor jumped

ashore with a line in his hand.

"Wait a minute, lads!" cried Northmour; and then lower and to my

private ear: "You had better say nothing of all this to her," he

added.

"On the contrary," I broke out, "she shall know everything that I can

tell."

"You do not understand," he returned, with an air of great dignity.

"It will be nothing to her; she expects it of me. Good-by!" he

added, with a nod.

I offered him my hand.

"Excuse me," said he. "It's small, I know; but I can't push things

quite so far as that. I don't wish any sentimental business, to sit

by your hearth a white-haired wanderer, and all that. Quite the

contrary: I hope to God I shall never again clap eyes on either one

of you."

"Well, God bless you, Northmour!" I said heartily.

"Oh, yes," he returned.

He walked down the beach; and the man who was ashore gave him an arm

on board, and then shoved off and leaped into the bows himself.

Northmour took the tiller; the boat rose to the waves, and the oars

between the thole-pins sounded crisp and measured in the morning air.

They were not yet half-way to the "Red Earl," and I was still

watching their progress, when the sun rose out of the sea.

One word more, and my story is done. Years after, Northmour was

killed fighting under the colors of Garibaldi for the liberation of

the Tyrol.

THE PRISONERS

BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT

_Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant, a French novelist, was born in

1850, and died, insane, in 1893. He served a long apprenticeship

under the instruction of Flaubert (his godfather), before publishing

any of his writings. When his first story, "Boule de Suif," appeared

in the collection entitled "Les Soirées de Médan," in 1880, he was

greeted as a master. Notwithstanding his pessimism, he is one of the

most highly esteemed French story-writers of the Nineteenth Century._

THE PRISONERS

By GUY DE MAUPASSANT

There was no sound in the forest except the slight rustle of the snow

as it fell upon the trees. It had been falling, small and fine,

since midday; it powdered the branches with a frosty moss, cast a

silver veil over the dead leaves in the hollow, and spread upon the

pathways a great, soft, white carpet that thickened the immeasurable

silence amid this ocean of trees.

Before the door of the keeper's lodge stood a bare-armed young woman,

chopping wood with an ax upon a stone. She was tall, thin and

strong--a child of the forest, a daughter and wife of gamekeepers.

A voice called from within the house: "Come in, Berthine; we are

alone to-night, and it is getting dark. There may be Prussians or

wolves about."

She who was chopping wood replied by splitting another block; her

bosom rose and fell with the heavy blows, each time she lifted her

arm.

"I have finished, mother. I'm here. There's nothing to be

frightened at; it isn't dark yet."

Then she brought in her fagots and her logs, and piled them up at the

chimney-side, went out again to close the shutters--enormous shutters

of solid oak--and then, when she again came in, pushed the heavy

bolts of the door.

Her mother was spinning by the fire, a wrinkled old woman who had

grown timorous with age.

"I don't like father to be out," said she. "Two women have no

strength."

The younger answered: "Oh, I could very well kill a wolf or a

Prussian, I can tell you." And she turned her eyes to a large

revolver hanging over the fireplace. Her husband had been put into

the army at the beginning of the Prussian invasion, and the two women

had remained alone with her father, the old gamekeeper, Nicholas

Pichou, who had obstinately refused to leave his home and go into the

town.

The nearest town was Rethel, an old fortress perched on a rock. It

was a patriotic place, and the townspeople had resolved to resist the

invaders, to close their gates and stand a siege, according to the

traditions of the city. Twice before, under Henry IV and under Louis

XIV, the inhabitants of Rethel had won fame by heroic defenses. They

would do the same this time; by Heaven, they would, or they would be

burned within their walls.

So they had bought cannons and rifles, and equipped a force, and

formed battalions and companies, and they drilled all day long in the

Place d'Armes. All of them--bakers, grocers, butchers, notaries,

attorneys, carpenters, booksellers, even the chemists--went through

their maneuvres in due rotation at regular hours, under the orders of

M. Lavigne, who had once been a non-commissioned officer in the

dragoons, and now was a draper, having married the daughter and

inherited the shop of old M. Ravaudan.

He had taken the rank of major in command of the place, and all the

young men having gone to join the army, he enrolled all the others

who were eager for resistance. The stout men now walked the streets

at the pace of professional pedestrians, in order to bring down their

fat, and to lengthen their breath; the weak ones carried burdens, in

order to strengthen their muscles.

The Prussians were expected. But the Prussians did not appear. Yet

they were not far off; for their scouts had already twice pushed

across the forest as far as Nicholas Pichou's lodge.

The old keeper, who could run like a fox, had gone to warn the town.

The guns had been pointed, but the enemy had not shown.

The keeper's lodge served as a kind of outpost in the forest of

Aveline. Twice a week the man went for provisions, and carried to

the citizens news from the outlying country.

He had gone that day to announce that a small detachment of German

infantry had stopped at his house, the day before, about two in the

afternoon, and had gone away again almost directly. The subaltern in

command spoke French.

When the old man went on such errands he took with him his two

dogs--two great beasts with the jaws of lions--because of the wolves

who were beginning to get fierce; and he left his two women, advising

them to lock themselves into the house as soon as night began to fall.

The young one was afraid of nothing, but the old one kept on

trembling and repeating:

"It will turn out badly, all this sort of thing. You'll see, it will

turn out badly."

This evening she was more anxious even than usual.

"Do you know what time your father will come back?" said she.

"Oh, not before eleven for certain. When he dines with the Major he

is always late."

She was hanging her saucepan over the fire to make the soup, when she

stopped short, listened to a vague sound which had reached her by way

of the chimney, and murmured:

"There's some one walking in the wood--seven or eight men at least."

Her mother, alarmed, stopped her wheel and muttered: "Oh, good Lord!

And father not here!"

She had not finished speaking when violent blows shook the door.

The women made no answer, and a loud guttural voice called out: "Open

the door."

Then, after a pause, the same voice repeated: "Open the door, or I'll

break it in."

Then Berthine slipped into her pocket the big revolver from over the

mantelpiece, and, having put her ear to the crack of the door, asked:

"Who are you?"

The voice answered: "I am the detachment that came the other day."

The woman asked again: "What do you want?"

"I have lost my way, ever since the morning, in the forest, with my

detachment. Open the door, or I will break it in."

The keeper's wife had no choice; she promptly drew the great bolt,

and pulling back the door she beheld six men in the pale

snow-shadows--six Prussian men, the same who had come the day before.

She said in a firm tone: "What do you want here at this time of

night?"

The officer answered: "I had lost my way, lost it completely; I

recognized the house. I have had nothing to eat since the morning,

nor my men either."

Berthine replied: "But I am all alone with mother, this evening."

The soldier, who seemed a good sort of fellow, answered: "That makes

no difference. I shall not do any harm; but you must give us

something to eat. We are faint and tired to death."

The keeper's wife stepped back.

"Come in," said she.

They came in, powdered with snow and with a sort of mossy cream on

their helmets that made them look like meringues. They seemed tired,

worn out.

The young woman pointed to the wooden benches on each side of the big

table.

"Sit down," said she, "and I'll make you some soup. You do look

quite knocked up."

Then she bolted the door again.

She poured some more water into her saucepan, threw in more butter

and potatoes; then, unhooking a piece of bacon that hung in the

chimney, she cut off half, and added that also to the stew. The eyes

of the six men followed her every movement with an air of awakened

hunger. They had set their guns and helmets in a corner, and sat

waiting on their benches, like well-behaved school children. The

mother had begun to spin again, but she threw terrified glances at

the invading soldiers. There was no sound except the slight purring

of the wheel, the crackle of the fire, and the bubbling of the water

as it grew hot.

But all at once a strange noise made them all start--something like a

horse breathing at the door, the breathing of an animal, deep and

snorting.

One of the Germans had sprung toward the guns. The woman with a

movement and a smile stopped him.

"It is the wolves," said she. "They are like you; they are wandering

about, hungry."

The man would hardly believe, he wanted to see for himself; and as

soon as the door was opened, he perceived two great gray beasts

making off at a quick, long trot.

He came back to his seat, murmuring: "I should not have believed it."

And he sat waiting for his meal.

They ate voraciously; their mouths opened from ear to ear to take the

largest of gulps; their round eyes opened sympathetically with their

jaws, and their swallowing was like the gurgle of rain in a

water-pipe.

The two silent women watched the rapid movements of the great red

beards; the potatoes seemed to melt away into these moving fleeces.

Then, as they were thirsty, the keeper's wife went down into the

cellar to draw cider for them. She was a long time gone; it was a

little vaulted cellar, said to have served both as prison and

hiding-place in the days of the Revolution. The way down was by a

narrow winding stair, shut in by a trap-door at the end of the

kitchen.

When Berthine came back, she was laughing, laughing slyly to herself.

She gave the Germans her pitcher of drink. Then she, too, had her

supper, with her mother, at the other end of the kitchen.

The soldiers had finished eating and were falling asleep, all six,

around the table. From time to time, a head would fall heavily on

the board, then the man, starting awake, would sit up.

Berthine said to the officer: "You may just as well lie down here

before the fire. There's plenty of room for six. I'm going up to my

room with my mother."

The two women went to the upper floor. They were heard to lock their

door and to walk about for a little while, then they made no further

sound.

The Prussians stretched themselves on the stone floor, their feet to

the fire, their heads on their rolled-up cloaks, and soon all six

were snoring on six different notes, sharp or deep, but all sustained

and alarming.

They had certainly been asleep for a considerable time when a shot

sounded, and so loud that it seemed to be fired close against the

walls of the house. The soldiers sat up instantly. There were two

more shots, and then three more.

The door of the staircase opened hastily, and the keeper's wife

appeared, barefooted, a short petticoat over her night-dress, a

candle in her hand, and a face of terror. She whispered: "Here are

the French--two hundred of them at least. If they find you here,

they will burn the house. Go down, quick, into the cellar, and don't

make a noise. If you make a noise, we are lost." The officer,

scared, murmured: "I will, I will. Which way do we go down?"

The young woman hurriedly raised the narrow square trap-door, and the

men disappeared by the winding stair, one after another going

underground, backward, so as to feel the steps with their feet. But

when the point of the last helmet had disappeared, Berthine, shutting

down the heavy oaken plank, thick as a wall, and hard as steel, kept

in place by clamps and a padlock, turned the key twice, slowly, and

then began to laugh with a laugh of silent rapture, and with a wild

desire to dance over the heads of her prisoners.

They made no noise, shut in as if they were in a stone box, only

getting air through a grating.

Berthine at once relighted her fire, put on her saucepan once more,

and made more soup, murmuring: "Father will be tired to-night."

Then she sat down and waited. Nothing but the deep-toned pendulum of

the clock went to and fro with its regular tick in the silence. From

time to time, the young woman cast a look at the dial--an impatient

look, which seemed to say: "How slowly it goes!"

Presently she thought she heard a murmur under her feet; low,

confused words reached her through the vaulted masonry of the cellar.

The Prussians were beginning to guess her trick, and soon the officer

came up the little stair, and thumped the trap-door with his fist.

Once more he cried: "Open the door."

She rose, drew near, and imitating his accent, asked: "What do you

want?"

"Open the door!"

"I shall not open it."

The man grew angry.

"Open the door, or I'll break it in."

She began to laugh.

"Break away, my man; break away."

Then he began to beat, with the butt end of his gun, upon the oaken

trap-door closed over his head; but it would have resisted a

battering-ram.

The keeper's wife heard him go down again. Then, one after another,

the soldiers came up to try their strength and inspect the

fastenings. But, concluding no doubt that their efforts were in

vain, they all went back into the cellar and began to talk again.

The young woman listened to them; then she went to open the outer

door, and stood straining her ears for a sound.

A distant barking reached her. She began to whistle like a huntsman,

and almost immediately two immense dogs loomed through the shadows

and jumped upon her with signs of joy. She held them by the neck, to

keep them from running away, and called with all her might: "Halloa,

father!"

A voice, still very distant, answered: "Halloa, Berthine!"

She waited some moments, then called again: "Halloa, father!"

The voice repeated, nearer: "Halloa, Berthine!"

The keeper's wife returned: "Don't pass in front of the grating.

There are Prussians in the cellar."

All at once the black outline of the man showed on the left, where he

had paused between two tree-trunks. He asked, uneasily: "Prussians

in the cellar! What are they doing there?"

The young woman began to laugh.

"It is those that came yesterday. They got lost in the forest ever

since the morning; I put them in the cellar to keep cool."

And she related the whole adventure; how she had frightened them with

shots of the revolver, and shut them up in the cellar.

The old man, still grave, asked: "What do you expect me to do with

them at this time of night?"

She answered: "Go and fetch M. Lavigne and his men. He'll take them

prisoners; and won't he be pleased!"

Then Father Pichou smiled: "Yes; he will be pleased."

His daughter resumed: "Here's some soup for you; eat it quick and go

off again."

The old keeper sat down and began to eat his soup, after having put

down two plates full for his dogs.

The Prussians, hearing voices, had become silent.

A quarter of an hour later, Pichou started again. Berthine, with her

head in her hands, waited.

The prisoners were moving about again. They shouted and called, and

beat continually with their guns on the immovable trap-door of the

cellar.

Then they began to fire their guns through the grating, hoping, no

doubt, to be heard if any German detachment were passing in the

neighborhood.

The keeper's wife did not stir; but all this noise tried her nerves,

and irritated her. An evil anger awoke in her; she would have liked

to kill them, the wretches, to keep them quiet.

Then, as her impatience increased, she began to look at the clock and

count the minutes.

At last the hands marked the time which she had fixed for their

coming.

She opened the door once more to listen for them. She perceived a

shadow moving cautiously. She was frightened and screamed.

It was her father.

He said: "They sent me to see if there's any change."

"No, nothing."

Then he in his turn gave a long, strident whistle into the darkness.

And soon, something brown was seen coming slowly through the

trees--the advance guard composed of ten men.

The old man kept repeating: "Don't pass before the grating."

And the first comers pointed out the formidable grating to those who

followed.

Finally, the main body appeared, two hundred men in all, each with

two hundred cartridges.

M. Lavigne, trembling with excitement, posted them so as to surround

the house on all sides, leaving, however, a wide, free space round

the little black hole, level with the earth, which admitted air to

the cellar.

Then he entered the dwelling and inquired into the strength and

position of the enemy, now so silent that it might be thought to have

disappeared, flown away, or evaporated through the grating. M.

Lavigne stamped his foot on the trap-door and called: "Mr. Prussian

officer!"

The German did not reply.

The Major repeated: "Mr. Prussian officer!"

It was in vain. For a whole twenty minutes he summoned this silent

officer to capitulate with arms and baggage, promising him life and

military honors for himself and his soldiers. But he obtained no

sign of consent or of hostility. The situation was becoming

difficult.

The soldier-citizens were stamping their feet and striking wide-armed

blows upon their chests, as coachmen do for warmth, and they were

looking at the grating with an ever-growing childish desire to pass

in front of it. At last one of them risked it, a very nimble fellow

called Potdevin. He took a start and ran past like a stag. The

attempt succeeded. The prisoners seemed dead.

A voice called out: "There's nobody there."

Another soldier crossed the space before the dangerous opening. Then

it became a game. Every minute, a man ran out, passing from one

troop to the other as children at play do, and raising showers of

snow behind him with the quick movement of his feet. They had

lighted fires of dead branches to keep themselves warm, and the

flying profile of each Garde-National showed in a bright illumination

as he passed over to the camp on the left.

Some one called out: "Your turn, Maloison."

Maloison was a big baker whom his comrades laughed at, because he was

so fat.

He hesitated. They teased him. Then, making up his mind, he started

at a regular breathless trot which shook his stout person. All the

detachment laughed till they cried. They called out: "Bravo,

Maloison!" to encourage him.

He had gone about two-thirds of the distance when a long flame, rapid

and red, leaped from the grating. A report followed, and the big

baker fell upon his nose with a frightful shriek.

No one ran to help him. Then they saw him drag himself on all fours

across the snow, moaning, and when he was beyond that terrible

passage he fainted. He had a bullet high up in the flesh of the

thigh.

After the first surprise and alarm there was more laughter.

Major Lavigne appeared upon the threshold of the keeper's lodge. He

had just framed his plan of attack, and gave his word of command in a

ringing voice: "Plumber Planchet and his men!"

Three men drew near.

"Unfasten the gutters of the house."

In a quarter of an hour some twenty yards of leaden gutter-pipe were

brought to the Major.

Then, with innumerable prudent precautions, he had a little round

hole bored in the edge of the trap-door, and having laid out an

aqueduct from the pump to this opening, announced with an air of

satisfaction: "We are going to give these German gentlemen something

to drink." A wild cheer of admiration burst forth, followed by

shouts of delight and roars of laughter. The Major organized gangs

of workers, who were to be employed in relays of five minutes. Then

he commanded: "Pump!"

And the iron handle having been put in motion, a little sound rustled

along the pipes and slipped into the cellar, falling from step to

step with the tinkle of a waterfall, suggestive of rocks and little

red fishes.

They waited.

An hour passed; then two, then three.

The Major walked about the kitchen in a fever, putting his ear to the

floor from time to time, trying to guess what the enemy was doing and

whether it would soon capitulate.

The enemy was moving now. Sounds of rattling, of speaking, of

splashing, could be heard. Then toward eight in the morning a voice

issued from the grating: "I want to speak to the French officer."

Lavigne answered from the window, without putting out his head too

far: "Do you surrender?"

"I surrender."

"Then pass out your guns."

A weapon was immediately seen to appear out of the hole and fall into

the snow; then a second, a third--all; and the same voice declared:

"I have no more. Make haste. I am drowned."

The Major commanded: "Stop."

And the handle of the pump fell motionless.

Then, having filled the kitchen with soldiers, all standing armed, he

slowly lifted the trap-door.

Six drenched heads appeared, six fair heads with long light hair, and

the six Germans were seen issuing forth one by one, shivering,

dripping, scared.

They were seized and bound. Then, as a surprise was apprehended, the

troops set out in two parties, one in charge of the prisoners, the

other in charge of Maloison, on a mattress, carried on poles.

Rethel was entered in triumph.

M. Lavigne received a decoration for having taken prisoner a Prussian

advance-guard; and the fat baker had the military medal for wounds

received in face of the enemy.

THE SIEGE OF BERLIN

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET

_Alphonse Daudet (born 1840, died 1897) has been reckoned for such of

his novels as "Sapho," "Sidonie," "Numa Roumestan," etc., as a stern

censor, unsparing in his exposition and satire of the weakness and

hypocrisy of human nature. In the present selection, however, he

shows us the warm, sympathetic side of his nature. The story is a

political as well as a human document in that it is a moving protest

against Germany's annexation of Alsace and Lorraine._

THE SIEGE OF BERLIN*

By ALPHONSE DAUDET

* Translated for "Great Short Stories" by Mrs. I. L. Meyer.

We were going up the Champs Elysées with Doctor V----, gathering from

the walls pierced by shells, and from the pavements broken by

grape-shot, the story of Paris under siege. Just before we came to

the Place de l'Etoile, the Doctor halted, and, pointing to one of the

great corner houses grouped around the Arch of Triumph, "Do you see

those four closed windows?" he asked. "One of the first days of

August--the terrible month of August of last year, so full of anguish

and disaster--I was called there to a case of apoplexy.

"Colonel Jouve, a cuirassier of the First Empire (a stubborn fellow,

bristling with glory and with patriotism), had leased that flat with

the balcony looking on the Champs Elysées. He had come there at the

beginning of the war (1870-71). Guess for what purpose. To be

present at the triumphal entry of our troops! Poor old man! The

news from Wissembourg arrived one day just as he arose from table; he

read the name of the Napoleon at the foot of the bulletin, of our

defeat, and dropped as if felled by a sledgehammer. I found the old

fellow stretched at full length upon the carpet, livid, apparently

dead. He must have been very tall. As he lay there he looked

gigantic--with fine, clear-cut features, fair teeth, and curling

white hair. Eighty years old! but he did not look sixty. His

granddaughter, a beautiful young girl, knelt close to him, weeping.

She resembled him. Seeing the two faces together you might have

thought them two fine Greek medals of the same impression, one an

antique dimmed by age, somewhat worn around the edges; the other

resplendent in all the velvet gloss of its pristine days. I was

touched by the child's grief; later I became her ally and devoted

friend. She was the daughter and grand-daughter of soldiers. Her

father was on MacMahon's staff; and the man before her, lying, to all

appearances, dead, must have suggested to her mind another equally

terrible possibility. I did my best to give her courage. I had very

little hope. It was an unquestionable hemiplegia, and men eighty

years old never come out of that. The sick man lay in a stupor three

days. During that time the news from Reichshofen reached Paris. You

remember how it reached us! Until that night we had believed it a

great victory--twenty thousand Prussians killed, the Prince Royal a

prisoner.... I do not know by what miracle or stirred by what

magnetic current an echo of the national joy reached the numb brain

and thrilled the paralyzed limbs of my unconscious patient; but when

I approached his bed I found him another man. His eyes were almost

clear, his tongue less thick; he found strength to smile and to

stammer the words: 'Vic-to-ry! Vic-to-ry!'"

"'Yes, Colonel,' I answered, 'a great victory!' In measure as I gave

him the details of our triumph, his features softened and his whole

face brightened. When I went out the granddaughter was waiting for

me. She was very pale. I took her hand in mine. 'Do not weep,' I

said, 'your grandfather is better; he will recover.' And then she

told me the true story of Reichshofen--MacMahon in flight, the army

crushed! We stood there face to face, speechless. She was thinking

of her father. I own that all my thoughts were with her grandfather.

I trembled for him! What could I do? To tell him the truth would

kill him! But what right had I to leave him to the delusive joy that

had called him back from the grave?

"'I can not help it,' said the heroic girl, 'I must tell a lie!' and

drying her eyes, radiant, smiling, she entered the sick room.

"At first it was not so hard; the old fellow was very weak, and as

easily deceived as a child. But as he gained strength our

difficulties increased; his brain cleared; he was impatient for news;

he insisted upon following the movements of the army; and his

granddaughter was forced to sit by his bed and invent bulletins from

the conquered country. It was piteous! The beautiful, tired child

forced to bend over the map of Germany, marking the imaginary

progress of the army with little flags--Bazaine in command in Berlin,

Froissart in Bavaria, MacMahon on the Baltic!

"In her ignorance she came to me for all her details; and I--almost

as ignorant--did what I could for her. But now our best aid came

from the grandfather. He helped us at every point in our imaginary

invasion. He had conquered Germany so many times under the First

Empire he knew the way. He could tell just what was coming.

"'Can you see what they are doing?' he cried. 'They are here! They

turn _right here_, where I place this pin!' As far as the route was

concerned, all that he predicted came true, and when we told him so

he gloried in it. Unhappily for us we could not work fast enough for

him. We might well take cities, win battles, pursue flying

armies--he was insatiable! Every day as soon as I entered the sick

room I was told of new triumphs.

"'Doctor,' cried the young girl, hurrying into the room and facing

me, to bar my progress--'Doctor, we have taken Mayence!' And I cried

as gaily, 'I know it! I heard it this morning!' Sometimes her

joyful voice cried the news to me through the closed door.

"'We are getting on! We are getting on!' laughed the invalid. 'In

less than eight days we shall enter Berlin!'

"We knew that the Prussians were coming, and, as they neared Paris,

we wondered if it would not be safer to get the old man into the

country. But we dared not do it; once out of the house he would look

around him; he would question; he would see and hear. He was too

weak, too numb from his great shock to bear the truth! We decided to

stay where we were. The first day of the investment I went upstairs

with a heavy heart, I remember. I had come through the deserted

streets of Paris, past the ramparts. The troops were dragging up

their cannon. All our suburbs were frontiers. I found my old fellow

sitting up in bed, jubilant and proud.

"'Well,' said he, 'at last the siege is begun!'

"I was stupefied; I stared at him. His granddaughter cried out:

'Yes, Doctor, we have had great news! The siege of Berlin is begun!'

"She said it so pleasantly, threading her needle and taking her

little stitches so calmly! How could he doubt her? He could not

hear the guns; they were too far away. And Paris, wretched,

tortured, sinister under the icy sky. What could he know of that!

Sitting propped up in his bed he could see nothing but a corner of

the Arch of Triumph. In his room everything was of the epoch of the

Empire. Even the bric-à-brac was well fitted to foster his

illusions. Portraits of field-marshals, pictures of battles, the

king of Rome in his cradle; and the stiff consoles ornamented with

brass trophies, and laden with Imperial relics! Medals, bronzes, the

rock of St. Helena under a glass shade, and miniatures (all portraits

of the same pretty woman with curling hair, dressed for a ball, in a

yellow high-necked robe with leg-of-mutton sleeves, and wide belt, in

the stiff fashion of 1806).

"Brave and faithful soldier of Napoleon! his relics formed an

influence stronger for his deception than all our well-meant lies.

He had lived for years in an atmosphere of conquest, and that

atmosphere had prepared him for his dream of Berlin.

"From the beginning of the siege our military movements were simple;

to take Berlin was merely an affair of time. When the old man was

too tired of his enforced idleness, his granddaughter read him

letters from his son--imaginary letters, of course, as nothing was

permitted to enter Paris. Since the battle of Sedan the Colonel's

son, MacMahon's aide, had been ordered to a German fortress.

"You may imagine the anguish of the poor man, separated from his

family, knowing them to be prisoners in Paris, deprived of

everything, possibly sick. Conscious as we were of his sorrow, it

was not easy to pretend that he had written merry letters. Well, we

did our best. The letters were vivacious, somewhat brief.

Naturally, a soldier in the field--nay, more than that, a soldier

always on the march in a conquered country!--could not write long

letters. Sometimes the poor grandchild's heart failed her; try as

she might she could not write; then, for weeks there was no news.

But the old man watched for it; and when we saw that the news must

come, the little one ran into the room, letter in hand. Naturally,

our strategic combinations were chimerical, difficult, even for their

authors, to understand; but the old colonel invented explanations; it

was all practical to him; he listened, smiled knowingly, criticized,

approved. He was admirable when he answered his letters.

"'Never forget that thou art French,' dictated the vibrating voice.

'Be generous to the vanquished. Poor people! do not make them feel

that they have lost! do not bear too heavy in this invasion.'

"Then followed advice oft-repeated, tender and touching little lay

sermons, admonitions calculated to stimulate the young soldier to

every military virtue. Truly, one could find in all that a code of

honor--specially compiled for the use of conquerors; and scattered

here and there throughout the letter were a few general reflections

on politics, the preliminaries of peace, etc.

"'What must be done before the signing of the treaty?' The old man

was not quite decided on the point; he 'must consider' before he

could be sure; he was not exigeant: 'The indemnity of war--nothing

more. Why should we take their provinces? What could we do with

them? Could we ever make France out of Germany?' He dictated it all

so firmly, in so strong a voice, and there was such truth, such

candor, such patriotic zeal in his words, that it was impossible to

listen to him unmoved.

"All that time the siege was in progress; but alas, it was not the

siege of Berlin! It was just at that time of the year when Paris is

bitter cold. The Prussians were shelling the city, and we were shut

in there with epidemics and with famine. But surrounded by our

indefatigable tenderness the old soldier lacked nothing. Even to the

last I was able to provide him with fresh meat and with white bread.

There was no white bread for us. I can not think of anything more

touching than those dinners, so innocently, so ignorantly selfish!

There he was, sitting in his bed fresh and smiling, his napkin under

his chin, and his granddaughter, pale from privation, close to him,

guiding his hand from his plate to his mouth, and holding his glass

while he sipped his drinks with childlike satisfaction! Animated by

the repast and by the calming influence of the warm room, he looked

out on the winter: the tiled roofs; the snow whirling against the

window-pane; and he thought of the far North, and for the hundredth

time told us of the retreat from Russia when they had had nothing to

eat but frozen biscuit and horse-meat.

"Horse-meat!

"'Can you imagine that, little one?'

"You may believe she could imagine that! For two months she had

eaten no other meat. Our task was growing hard. In measure, as his

strength returned, the numbness of all his senses--our chief aid to

deception--was decreasing. Two or three times the volleys fired at

the Porte Maillot had reached his ears, and he had lifted his head

with ears pricked like the ears of a retriever. The last lie must be

told, the last victory reported. Bazaine at Berlin! We told him

that the shot that had startled him had been fired from the Invalides

in honor of the victory.

"Another day they rolled his bed close to the window (I think that it

was the Thursday of Buzenval), and he saw, distinctly, the National

Guards massing on the Avenue de la Grande Armée.

"'What troops are those?' he asked sharply. Then he grumbled under

his breath: 'Badly drilled! Very badly drilled! The whole outfit is

slovenly!'

"Nothing came of it, but it was a warning. We had been warned before

and we had taken precautions; but unfortunately they had fallen short.

"One day, when I arrived, the granddaughter ran to meet me, pale and

anxious. 'They will enter the city to-morrow,' she murmured.

"Was the door of the sick-room open? As I think of it to-night, it

seems to me that there was a strange expression on the fine, old

face. It is probable that he had overheard his granddaughter.

"We had been speaking of the Prussians, but the old man could think

of nothing but the French and their triumphal entry; MacMahon

descending the Avenue in a shower of flowers, to the music of the

fanfares. His son would be riding with the Marshal; and he, the

Colonel, on the balcony, in full uniform, as he was at Lutzen,

saluting the torn flags and the French eagles, dimmed by all the

powder of the war!

"Poor old Jouve! Probably he believed that we had kept the good news

to ourselves, fearing to excite him unduly. He did not say one word

to any one; but the day following, when the victorious battalions of

Prussia timidly entered the long road leading from the Porte Maillot

to the Tuileries, the window was cautiously opened, and the Colonel

appeared on the balcony, with his casque, his lance, and all the

faded glory of the ex-cuirassier of Milhaud. I have often wondered

what subconscious effort of the will, what sudden fanning of the

vital flame, put the old man on his feet and into harness! What is

sure is, that he was there, on foot, erect, looking with wild eyes

over Paris--Paris in her mourning!--the wide, silent streets, the

iron blinds drawn down. Paris, as sinister as a dead-house! He saw

flags everywhere--white flags crossed with red! And not a soul to

greet the returning army! For an instant he thought that he was

dreaming. But, no! from away down there, below the Arch of Triumph,

came a confused, metallic rattling, then a black line, advancing

under the rising sun; then the gleaming combs of brazen helmets. The

little drums of Jena rolled; and through the Arch of the Star of

France, the day-star of the world, rhythmed by the heavy tread of the

German sections, rang the triumphal march of Schubert!...

"Then the mournful silence of the Place de l'Etoile was broken by a

cry:

"'_To arms! To arms! The Prussians!_' and the four Uhlans of the

vanguard, looking up to the balcony, saw a tall, old man throw his

arms above his head, waver, and fall backward.

. . . . . . . . . . .

"And this time Colonel Jouve was really dead."

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

_The question as to which is Kipling's greatest short story is one

that brings different answers according to the temperament of the

person to whom the question is addressed. Many of those who prefer

sentiment in a story select "Without Benefit of Clergy"--those who

prefer a strong study of character under most unusual circumstances

are apt to say "The Man Who Would be King."_

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

By RUDYARD KIPLING

Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy

The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one not

easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under

circumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether the

other was worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I

once came near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King

and was promised the reversion of a Kingdom--army, law-courts,

revenue, and policy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that

my King is dead, and if I want a crown I must go and hunt it for

myself.

The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road to

Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which

necessitated traveling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear

as First-class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed.

There are no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the population

are either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a

long night journey is nasty, or Loafer, which is amusing though

intoxicated. Intermediates do not patronize refreshment-rooms. They

carry their food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from the native

sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside water. That is why in the

hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in

all weathers are most properly looked down upon.

My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached

Nasirabad, when a huge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and,

following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He

was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste

for whisky. He told tales of things he had seen and done, of

out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated,

and of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days' food.

"If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more than

the crows where they'd get their next day's rations, it isn't seventy

millions of revenue the land would be paying--it's seven hundred

millions," said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was

disposed to agree with him. We talked politics--the politics of

Loaferdom that sees things from the underside where the lath and

plaster are not smoothed off--and we talked postal arrangements

because my friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next

station to Ajmir, which is the turning-off place from the Bombay to

the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond

eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all,

owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I was

going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with the

Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable

to help him in any way.

"We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on

tick," said my friend, "but that'd mean inquiries for you and for me,

and I've got my hands full these days. Did you say you are traveling

back along this line within any days?"

"Within ten," I said.

"Can't you make it eight?" said he. "Mine is rather urgent business."

"I can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve you," I

said.

"I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him, now I think of it. It's

this way. He leaves Delhi on the 23d for Bombay. That means he'll

be running through Ajmir about the night of the 23d."

"But I'm going into the Indian Desert," I explained.

"Well and good," said he. "You'll be changing at Marwar Junction to

get into Jodhpore territory--you must do that--and he'll be coming

through Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the

Bombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time? 'Twon't be

inconveniencing you, because I know that there's precious few

pickings to be got out of these Central India States--even though you

pretend to be correspondent of the 'Backwoodsman.'"

"Have you ever tried that trick?" I asked.

"Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get

escorted to the Border before you've time to get your knife into

them. But about my friend here. I must give him a word o' mouth to

tell him what's come to me, or else he won't know where to go. I

would take it more than kind of you if you was to come out of Central

India in time to catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him: 'He

has gone South for the week.' He'll know what that means. He's a

big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. You'll find him

sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round him in a

Second-class compartment. But don't you be afraid. Slip down the

window, and say: 'He has gone South for the week,' and he'll tumble.

It's only cutting your time to stay in those parts by two days. I

ask you as a stranger--going to the West," he said with emphasis.

"Where have you come from?" said I.

"From the East," said he, "and I am hoping that you will give him the

message on the Square--for the sake of my Mother as well as your own."

Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of their

mothers, but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw

fit to agree.

"It's more than a little matter," said he, "and that's why I ask you

to do it--and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. A

Second-class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleep

in it. You'll be sure to remember. I get out at the next station,

and I must hold on there till he comes or sends me what I want."

"I'll give the message if I catch him," I said, "and for the sake of

your Mother as well as mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don't

try to run the Central India States just now as the correspondent of

the 'Backwoodsman.' There's a real one knocking about here, and it

might lead to trouble."

"Thank you," said he simply, "and when will the swine be gone? I

can't starve because he's ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of

the Degumber Rajah down here about his father's widow, and give him a

jump."

"What did he do to his father's widow, then?"

"Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hung

from a beam. I found that out myself, and I'm the only man that

would dare going into the State to get hush-money for it. They'll

try to poison me, same as they did in Chortumna when I went on the

loot there. But you'll give the man at Marwar Junction my message?"

He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had

heard, more than once, of men personating correspondents of

newspapers and bleeding small Native States with threats of exposure,

but I had never met any of the caste before. They lead a hard life,

and generally die with great suddenness. The Native States have a

wholesome horror of English newspapers, which may throw light on

their peculiar methods of government, and do their best to choke

correspondents with champagne, or drive them out of their mind with

four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that nobody cares a

straw for the internal administration of Native States so long as

oppression and crime are kept within decent limits, and the ruler is

not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end of the year to the

other. Native States were created by Providence in order to supply

picturesque scenery, tigers, and tall-writing. They are the dark

places of the earth, full of unimaginable cruelty, touching the

Railway and the Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the days of

Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the train I did business with divers

Kings, and in eight days passed through many changes of life.

Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted with Princes and

Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver. Sometimes

I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, from a plate

made of a flapjack, and drank the running water, and slept under the

same rug as my servant. It was all in the day's work.

Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as I

had promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction,

where a funny little happy-go-lucky, native-managed railway runs to

Jodhpore. The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar.

She arrived as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her platform

and go down the carriages. There was only one Second-class on the

train. I slipped the window and looked down upon a flaming red

beard, half covered by a railway rug. That was my man, fast asleep,

and I dug him gently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt, and I saw

his face in the light of the lamps. It was a great and shining face.

"Tickets again?" said he.

"No," said I. "I am to tell you that he is gone South for the week.

He is gone South for the week!"

The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. "He

has gone South for the week!" he repeated. "Now that's just like his

impidence. Did he say that I was to give you anything? 'Cause I

won't."

"He didn't," I said, and dropped away and watched the red lights die

out in the dark. It was horribly cold because the wind was blowing

off the sands. I climbed into my own train--not an Intermediate

Carriage this time--and went to sleep.

If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it

as a memento of a rather curious affair. But the consciousness of

having done my duty was my only reward.

Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends could not do

any good if they foregathered and personated Correspondents of

newspapers, and might, if they "stuck up" one of the little rat-trap

states of Central India or Southern Rajputana, get themselves into

serious difficulties. I therefore took some trouble to describe them

as accurately as I could remember to people who would be interested

in deporting them: and succeeded, so I was later informed, in having

them headed back from the Degumber borders.

Then I became respectable, and returned to an Office where there were

no Kings and no incidents except the daily manufacture of a

newspaper. A newspaper office seems to attract every conceivable

sort of person, to the prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission

ladies arrive, and beg that the Editor will instantly abandon all his

duties to describe a Christian prize-giving in a back-slum of a

perfectly inaccessible village; Colonels who have been overpassed for

commands sit down and sketch the outline of a series of ten, twelve,

or twenty-four leading articles on Seniority versus Selection;

missionaries wish to know why they have not been permitted to escape

from their regular vehicles of abuse and swear at a

brother-missionary under special patronage of the editorial We;

stranded theatrical companies troop up to explain that they can not

pay for their advertisements, but on their return from New Zealand or

Tahiti will do so with interest; inventors of patent punkah-pulling

machines, carriage couplings, and unbreakable swords and axle-trees

call with specifications in their pockets and hours at their

disposal; tea-companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses with

the office pens; secretaries of ball-committees clamor to have the

glories of their last dance more fully expounded; strange ladies

rustle in and say: "I want a hundred lady's cards printed at once,

please," which is manifestly part of an Editor's duty; and every

dissolute ruffian that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it his

business to ask for employment as a proof-reader. And, all the time,

the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on

the Continent, and Empires are saying, "You're another," and Mister

Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon the British Dominions, and

the little black copy-boys are whining, "kaa-pi chay-ha-yeh" ("copy

wanted"), like tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as

Modred's shield.

But that is the amusing part of the year. There are other six months

wherein none ever come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by

inch up to the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just

above reading-light, and the press machines are red-hot of touch, and

nobody writes anything but accounts of amusements in the

Hill-stations or obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a

tinkling terror, because it tells you of the sudden deaths of men and

women that you knew intimately, and the prickly-heat covers you as

with a garment, and you sit down and write: "A slight increase of

sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta Khan District. The

outbreak is purely sporadic in its nature, and, thanks to the

energetic efforts of the District authorities, is now almost at an

end. It is, however, with deep regret we record the death," etc.

Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and

reporting the better for the peace of the subscribers. But the

Empires and the Kings continue to divert themselves as selfishly as

before, and the Foreman thinks that a daily paper really ought to

come out once in twenty-four hours, and all the people at the

Hill-stations in the middle of their amusements say: "Good gracious!

Why can't the paper be sparkling? I'm sure there's plenty going on

up here."

That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisements say,

"must be experienced to be appreciated."

It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that the paper

began running the last issue of the week on Saturday night, which is

to say Sunday morning, after the custom of a London paper. This was

a great convenience, for immediately after the paper was put to bed,

the dawn would lower the thermometer from 96° to almost 84° for half

an hour, and in that chill--you have no idea how cold is 84° on the

glass until you begin to pray for it--a very tired man could set off

to sleep ere the heat roused him.

One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the paper to bed

alone. A King or courtier or a courtezan or a community was going to

die or get a new Constitution, or do something that was important on

the other side of the world, and the paper was to be held open till

the latest possible minute in order to catch the telegram. It was a

pitchy black night, as stifling as a June night can be, and the loo,

the red-hot wind from the westward, was booming among the tinder-dry

trees and pretending that the rain was on its heels. Now and again a

spot of almost boiling water would fall on the dust with the flop of

a frog, but all our weary world knew that was only pretense. It was

a shade cooler in the press-room than the office, so I sat there,

while the type ticked and clicked, and the night-jars hooted at the

windows, and the all but naked compositors wiped the sweat from their

foreheads and called for water. The thing that was keeping us back,

whatever it was, would not come off, though the loo dropped and the

last type was set, and the whole round earth stood still in the

choking heat, with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. I

drowsed, and wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, and

whether this dying man, or struggling people, was aware of the

inconvenience the delay was causing. There was no special reason

beyond the heat and worry to make tension, but as the clock-hands

crept up to three o'clock and the machines spun their flywheels two

or three times to see that all was in order, before I said the word

that would set them off, I could have shrieked aloud.

Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet into little

bits. I rose to go away, but two men in white clothes stood in front

of me. The first one said: "It's him!" The second said: "So it is!"

And they both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and

mopped their foreheads. "We see there was a light burning across the

road and we were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I

said to my friend here, 'The office is open. Let's come along and

speak to him as turned us back from the Degumber State,'" said the

smaller of the two. He was the man I had met in the Mhow train, and

his fellow was the red-bearded man of Marwar Junction. There was no

mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the beard of the other.

I was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, not to squabble

with loafers. "What do you want?" I asked.

"Half an hour's talk with you cool and comfortable, in the office,"

said the red-bearded man. "We'd like some drink--the Contrack

doesn't begin yet, Peachey, so you needn't look--but what we really

want is advice. We don't want money. We ask you as a favor, because

you did us a bad turn about Degumber."

I led from the press-room to the stifling office with the maps on the

walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands. "That's something

like," said he. "This was the proper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let

me introduce to you Brother Peachey Carnehan, that's him, and Brother

Daniel Dravot, that is me, and the less said about our professions

the better, for we have been most things in our time. Soldier,

sailor, compositor, photographer, proof-reader, street-preacher, and

correspondents of the 'Backwoodsman' when we thought the paper wanted

one. Carnehan is sober, and so am I. Look at us first and see

that's sure. It will save you cutting into my talk. We'll take one

of your cigars apiece, and you shall see us light."

I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so I gave them

each a tepid peg.

"Well and good," said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wiping the froth from

his mustache. "Let me talk now, Dan. We have been all over India,

mostly on foot. We have been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty

contractors, and all that, and we have decided that India isn't big

enough for such as us."

They certainly were too big for the office. Dravot's beard seemed to

fill half the room and Carnehan's shoulders the other half, as they

sat on the big table. Carnehan continued: "The country isn't half

worked out because they that governs it won't let you touch it. They

spend all their blessed time in governing it, and you can't lift a

spade, nor chip a rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that

without all the Government saying: 'Leave it alone and let us

govern.' Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, and go away

to some other place where a man isn't crowded and can come to his

own. We are not little men, and there is nothing that we are afraid

of except Drink, and we have signed a Contrack on that. Therefore,

we are going away to be Kings."

"Kings in our own right," muttered Dravot.

"Yes, of course," I said. "You've been tramping in the sun, and it's

a very warm night, and hadn't you better sleep over the notion? Come

to-morrow."

"Neither drunk nor sunstruck," said Dravot. "We have slept over the

notion half a year, and require to see Books and Atlases, and we have

decided that there is only one place now in the world that two strong

men can Sar-a-whack. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning it's

the top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three hundred

miles from Peshawar. They have two and thirty heathen idols there,

and we'll be the thirty-third. It's a mountainous country, and the

women of those parts are very beautiful."

"But that is provided against in the Contrack," said Carnehan.

"Neither Women nor Liqu-or, Daniel."

"And that's all we know, except that no one has gone there, and they

fight, and in any place where they fight a man who knows how to drill

men can always be a King. We shall go to those parts and say to any

King we find: 'D'you want to vanquish your foes?' and we will show

him how to drill men; for that we know better than anything else.

Then we will subvert that King and seize his Throne and establish a

Dy-nasty."

"You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty miles across the

Border," I said. "You have to travel through Afghanistan to get to

that country. It's one mass of mountains and peaks and glaciers, and

no Englishman has been through it. The people are utter brutes, and

even if you reached them you couldn't do anything."

"That's more like," said Carnehan. "If you could think us a little

more mad we would be more pleased. We have come to you to know about

this country, to read a book about it, and to be shown maps. We want

you to tell us that we are fools and to show us your books." He

turned to the book-cases.

"Are you at all in earnest?" I said.

"A little," said Dravot sweetly. "As big a map as you have got, even

if it's all blank where Kafiristan is, and any books you've got. We

can read, though we aren't very educated."

I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map of India, and two

smaller Frontier maps, hauled down volume INF-KAN of the

"Encyclopædia Britannica," and the men consulted them.

"See here!" said Dravot, his thumb on the map. "Up to Jagdallak,

Peachey and me know the road. We was there with Roberts's Army.

We'll have to turn off to the right at Jagdallak through Laghmann

territory. Then we get among the hills--fourteen thousand

feet--fifteen thousand--it will be cold work there, but it don't look

very far on the map."

I handed him Wood on the Sources of the Oxus. Carnehan was deep in

the Encyclopædia.

"They're a mixed lot," said Dravot reflectively; "and it won't help

us to know the names of their tribes. The more tribes the more

they'll fight, and the better for us. From Jagdallak to Ashang.

H'mm!"

"But all the information about the country is as sketchy and

inaccurate as can be," I protested. "No one knows anything about it

really. Here's the file of the United Services' Institute. Read

what Bellew says."

"Blow Bellew!" said Carnehan. "Dan, they're an all-fired lot of

heathens, but this book here says they think they're related to us

English."

I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, Wood, the maps, and the

Encyclopædia.

"There is no use your waiting," said Dravot politely. "It's about

four o'clock now. We'll go before six o'clock if you want to sleep,

and we won't steal any of the papers. Don't you sit up. We're two

harmless lunatics, and if you come, to-morrow evening, down to the

Serai we'll say good-by to you."

"You are two fools," I answered. "You'll be turned back at the

Frontier or cut up the minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you

want any money or a recommendation down-country? I can help you to

the chance of work next week."

"Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thank you," said

Dravot. "It isn't so easy being a King as it looks. When we've got

our Kingdom in going order we'll let you know, and you can come up

and help us to govern it."

"Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that?" said Carnehan, with

subdued pride, showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper on which

was written the following. I copied it, then and there, as a

curiosity:

This Contract between me and you persuing witnesseth in the name of

God--Amen and so forth.

(One) That me and you will settle this matter together: i.e., to be

Kings of Kafiristan.

(Two) That you and me will not, while this matter is being settled,

look at any Liquor, nor any Woman black, white, or brown, so as to

get mixed up with one or the other harmful.

(Three) That we conduct ourselves with dignity and discretion, and if

one of us gets into trouble the other will stay by him.

Signed by you and me this day,

Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan.

Daniel Dravot.

Both Gentlemen at Large.

"There was no need for the last article," said Carnehan, blushing

modestly; "but it looks regular. Now you know the sort of men that

loafers are--we are loafers, Dan, until we get out of India--and do

you think that we would sign a Contrack like that unless we was in

earnest? We have kept away from the two things that make life worth

having."

"You won't enjoy your lives much longer if you are going to try this

idiotic adventure. Don't set the office on fire," I said, "and go

away before nine o'clock."

I left them still poring over the maps and making notes on the back

of the "Contrack." "Be sure to come down to the Serai to-morrow,"

were their parting words.

The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink of humanity where

the strings of camels and horses from the North load and unload. All

the nationalities of Central Asia may be found there, and most of the

folk of India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet Bengal and

Bombay, and try to draw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises,

Persian pussy-cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep and musk in the

Kumharsen Serai, and get many strange things for nothing. In the

afternoon I went down there to see whether my friends intended to

keep their word or were lying about drunk.

A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalked up to me,

gravely twisting a child's paper whirligig. Behind him was his

servant, bending under the load of a crate of mud toys. The two were

loading up two camels, and the inhabitants of the Serai watched them

with shrieks of laughter.

"The priest is mad," said a horse-dealer to me. "He is going up to

Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. He will either be raised to honor or

have his head cut off. He came in here this morning and has been

behaving madly ever since."

"The witless are under the protection of God," stammered a

flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. "They foretell future events."

"Would they could have foretold that my caravan would have been cut

up by the Shinwaris almost within shadow of the Pass!" grunted the

Eusufzai agent of a Rajputana trading-house, whose goods had been

feloniously diverted into the hands of other robbers just across the

Border, and whose misfortunes were the laughing-stock of the bazaar.

"Ohe, priest, whence come you and whither do you go?"

"From Roum have I come," shouted the priest, waving his whirligig;

"from Roum, blown by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea!

Oh, thieves, robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs,

and perjurers! Who will take the Protected of God to the North to

sell charms that are never still to the Amir? The camels shall not

gall, the sons shall not fall sick, and the wives shall remain

faithful while they are away, of the men who give me place in their

caravan. Who will assist me to slipper the King of the Roos with a

golden slipper with a silver heel? The protection of Pir Khan be

upon his labors!" He spread out the skirts of his gaberdine and

pirouetted between the lines of tethered horses.

"There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul in twenty days,

Huzrut," said the Eusufzai trader. "My camels go therewith. Do thou

also go and bring us good luck."

"I will go even now!" shouted the priest. "I will depart upon my

winged camels, and be at Peshawar in a day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan," he

yelled to his servant, "drive out the camels, but let me first mount

my own."

He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and, turning round to

me, cried: "Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the road, and I

will sell thee a charm--an amulet that shall make thee King of

Kafiristan."

Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the two camels out of

the Serai till we reached open road and the priest halted.

"What d'you think o' that?" said he in English. "Carnehan can't talk

their patter, so I've made him my servant. He makes a handsome

servant. 'Tisn't for nothing that I've been knocking about the

country for fourteen years. Didn't I do that talk neat? We'll hitch

on to a caravan at Peshawar till we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll

see if we can get donkeys for our camels, and strike into Kafiristan.

Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lord! Put your hand under the camel bags

and tell me what you feel."

I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another.

"Twenty of 'em," said Dravot placidly. "Twenty of 'em, and

ammunition to correspond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls."

"Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!" I said. "A

Martini is worth her weight in silver among the Pathans."

"Fifteen hundred rupees of capital--every rupee we could beg, borrow,

or steal--are invested on these two camels," said Dravot. "We won't

get caught. We're going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan.

Who'd touch a poor mad priest?"

"Have you got everything you want?" I asked, overcome with

astonishment.

"Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a memento of your kindness,

Brother. You did me a service yesterday, and that time in Marwar.

Half my Kingdom shall you have, as the saying is." I slipped a small

charm compass from my watch-chain and handed it up to the priest.

"Good-by," said Dravot, giving me his hand cautiously. "It's the

last time we'll shake hands with an Englishman these many days.

Shake hands with him, Carnehan," he cried, as the second camel passed

me.

Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the camels passed away

along the dusty road, and I was left alone to wonder. My eye could

detect no failure in the disguises. The scene in the Serai attested

that they were complete to the native mind. There was just the

chance, therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wander

through Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond, they would find

death, certain and awful death.

Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving me the news of the day

from Peshawar, wound up his letter with: "There has been much

laughter here on account of a certain mad priest who is going in his

estimation to sell petty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he

ascribes as great charms to H. H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed

through Peshawar and associated himself to the Second Summer caravan

that goes to Kabul. The merchants are pleased, because through

superstition they imagine that such mad fellows bring good fortune."

The two, then, were beyond the Border. I would have prayed for them,

but, that night, a real King died in Europe, and demanded an obituary

notice.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The wheel of the world swings through the same phases again and

again. Summer passed and winter thereafter, and came and passed

again. The daily paper continued and I with it, and upon the third

summer there fell a hot night, a night-issue, and a strained waiting

for something to be telegraphed from the other side of the world,

exactly as had happened before. A few great men had died in the past

two years, the machines worked with more clatter, and some of the

trees in the office garden were a few feet taller. But that was all

the difference.

I passed over to the pressroom, and went through just such a scene as

I have already described. The nervous tension was stronger than it

had been two years before, and I felt the heat more acutely. At

three o'clock I cried, "Print off," and turned to go, when there

crept to my chair what was left of a man. He was bent into a circle,

his head was sunk between his shoulders, and he moved his feet one

over the other like a bear. I could hardly see whether he walked or

crawled--this rag-wrapped, whining cripple who addressed me by name,

crying that he was come back. "Can you give me a drink?" he

whimpered. "For the Lord's sake, give me a drink!"

I went back to the office, the man following with groans of pain, and

I turned up the lamp.

"Don't you know me?" he gasped, dropping into a chair, and he turned

his drawn face, surmounted by a shock of gray hair, to the light.

I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen eyebrows that met

over the nose in an inch-broad black band, but for the life of me I

could not tell where.

"I don't know you," I said, handing him the whisky. "What can I do

for you?"

He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in spite of the

suffocating heat.

"I've come back," he repeated; "and I was the King of Kafiristan--me

and Dravot--crowned Kings we was! In this office we settled it--you

setting there and giving us the books. I am Peachey--Peachey

Taliaferro Carnehan, and you've been setting here ever since--O Lord!"

I was more than a little astonished, and expressed my feelings

accordingly.

"It's true," said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing his feet,

which were wrapped in rags. "True as gospel. Kings we were, with

crowns upon our heads--me and Dravot--poor Dan--oh, poor, poor Dan,

that would never take advice, not though I begged of him!"

"Take the whisky," I said, "and take your own time. Tell me all you

can recollect of everything from beginning to end. You got across

the border on your camels, Dravot dressed as a mad priest and you his

servant. Do you remember that?"

"I ain't mad--yet, but I shall be that way soon. Of course I

remember. Keep looking at me, or maybe my words will go all to

pieces. Keep looking at me in my eyes and don't say anything."

I leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily as I could. He

dropped one hand upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist. It

was twisted like a bird's claw, and upon the back was a ragged, red,

diamond-shaped scar.

"No, don't look there. Look at me," said Carnehan.

"That comes afterward, but for the Lord's sake don't distrack me. We

left with that caravan, me and Dravot playing all sorts of antics to

amuse the people we were with. Dravot used to make us laugh in the

evenings when all the people was cooking their dinners--cooking their

dinners, and ... what did they do then? They lit little fires with

sparks that went into Dravot's beard, and we all laughed--fit to die.

Little red fires they was, going into Dravot's big red beard--so

funny." His eyes left mine and he smiled foolishly.

"You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan," I said at a

venture, "after you had lit those fires. To Jagdallak, where you

turned off to try to get into Kafiristan."

"No, we didn't neither. What are you talking about? We turned off

before Jagdallak, because we heard the roads was good. But they

wasn't good enough for our two camels--mine and Dravot's. When we

left the caravan, Dravot took off all his clothes and mine too, and

said we would be heathen, because the Kaffirs didn't allow

Mohammedans to talk to them. So we dressed betwixt and between, and

such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never saw yet nor expect to see

again. He burned half his beard, and slung a sheep-skin over his

shoulder, and shaved his head into patterns. He shaved mine, too,

and made me wear outrageous things to look like a heathen. That was

in a most mountainous country, and our camels couldn't go along any

more because of the mountains. They were tall and black, and coming

home I saw them fight like wild goats--there are lots of goats in

Kafiristan. And these mountains, they never keep still, no more than

the goats. Always fighting they are, and don't let you sleep at

night."

"Take some more whisky," I said very slowly. "What did you and

Daniel Dravot do when the camels could go no further because of the

rough roads that led into Kafiristan?"

"What did which do? There was a party called Peachey Taliaferro

Carnehan that was with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him? He died

out there in the cold. Slap from the bridge fell old Peachey,

turning and twisting in the air like a penny whirligig that you can

sell to the Amir. No; they was two for three ha'pence, those

whirligigs, or I am much mistaken and woful sore. And then these

camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot: 'For the Lord's sake,

let's get out of this before our heads are chopped off,' and with

that they killed the camels all among the mountains, not having

anything in particular to eat, but first they took off the boxes with

the guns and the ammunition, till two men came along driving four

mules. Dravot up and dances in front of them, singing: 'Sell me four

mules.' Says the first man: 'If you are rich enough to buy, you are

rich enough to rob;' but before ever he could put his hand to his

knife, Dravot breaks his neck over his knee, and the other party runs

away. So Carnehan loaded the mules with the rifles that was taken

off the camels, and together we starts forward into those bitter cold

mountainous parts, and never a road broader than the back of your

hand."

He paused for a moment, while I asked him if he could remember the

nature of the country through which he had journeyed.

"I am telling you as straight as I can, but my head isn't as good as

it might be. They drove nails through it to make me hear better how

Dravot died. The country was mountainous and the mules were most

contrary, and the inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They went

up and up, and down and down, and that other party, Carnehan, was

imploring of Dravot not to sing and whistle so loud, for fear of

bringing down the tremenjus avalanches. But Dravot says that if a

King couldn't sing it wasn't worth being King, and whacked the mules

over the rump, and never took no heed for ten cold days. We came to

a big level valley all among the mountains, and the mules were near

dead, so we killed them, not having anything in special for them or

us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and played odd and even with the

cartridges that was jolted out.

"Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down that valley, chasing

twenty men with bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus. They was

fair men--fairer than you or me--with yellow hair and remarkable well

built. Says Dravot, unpacking the guns--'This is the beginning of

the business. We'll fight for the ten men,' and with that he fires

two rifles at the twenty men, and drops one of them at two hundred

yards from the rock where we was sitting. The other men began to

run, but Carnehan and Dravot sits on the boxes picking them off at

all ranges, up and down the valley. Then we goes up to the ten men

that had run across the snow too, and they fires a footy little arrow

at us. Dravot he shoots above their heads and they all falls down

flat. Then he walks over them and kicks them, and then he lifts them

up and shakes hands all round to make them friendly like. He calls

them and gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his hand for all

the world as though he was King already. They takes the boxes and

him across the valley and up the hill into a pine wood on the top,

where there was half a dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to the

biggest--a fellow they call Imbra--and lays a rifle and a cartridge

at his feet, rubbing his nose respectful with his own nose, patting

him on the head, and saluting in front of it. He turns round to the

men and nods his head, and says: 'That's all right. I'm in the know

too, and all these old jim-jams are my friends.' Then he opens his

mouth and points down it, and when the first man brings him food, he

says: 'No;' and when the second man brings him food, he says: 'No;'

but when one of the old priests and the boss of the village brings

him food, he says: 'Yes,' very haughtily, and eats it slow. That was

how we came to our first village, without any trouble, just as though

we had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from one of those d--d

rope-bridges, you see, and you couldn't expect a man to laugh much

after that."

"Take some more whisky and go on," I said. "That was the first

village you came into. How did you get to the King?"

"I wasn't King," said Carnehan. "Dravot he was the King, and a

handsome man he looked with the gold crown on his head and all. Him

and the other party stayed in that village, and every morning Dravot

sat by the side of old Imbra, and the people came and worshiped.

That was Dravot's order. Then a lot of men came into the valley, and

Carnehan and Dravot picks them off with the rifles before they knew

where they was, and runs down into the valley and up again the other

side, and finds another village, same as the first one, and the

people all falls down flat on their faces, and Dravot says: 'Now what

is the trouble between you two villages?' and the people points to a

woman, as fair as you or me, that was carried off, and Dravot takes

her back to the first village and counts up the dead--eight there

was. For each dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and

waves his arms like a whirligig and 'That's all right,' says he.

Then he and Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by the arm

and walks them down into the valley, and shows them how to scratch a

line with a spear right down the valley, and gives each a sod of turf

from both sides o' the line. Then all the people comes down and

shouts like the devil and all, and Dravot says: 'Go and dig the land,

and be fruitful and multiply,' which they did, though they didn't

understand. Then we asks the names of things in their lingo--bread

and water and fire and idols and such, and Dravot leads the priest of

each village up to the idol, and says he must sit there and judge the

people, and if anything goes wrong he is to be shot.

"Next week they was all turning up the land in the valley as quiet as

bees and much prettier, and the priests heard all the complaints and

told Dravot in dumb show what it was about. 'That's just the

beginning,' says Dravot. 'They think we're Gods.' He and Carnehan

picks out twenty good men and shows them how to click off a rifle,

and form fours, and advance in line, and they was very pleased to do

so, and clever to see the hang of it. Then he takes out his pipe and

his baccy-pouch and leaves one at one village and one at the other,

and off we two goes to see what was to be done in the next valley.

That was all rock, and there was a little village there, and Carnehan

says: 'Send 'em to the old valley to plant,' and takes 'em there and

gives 'em some land that wasn't took before. They were a poor lot,

and we blooded 'em with a kid before letting 'em into the new

Kingdom. That was to impress the people, and then they settled down

quiet, and Carnehan went back to Dravot, who had got into another

valley, all snow and ice and most mountainous. There was no people

there and the Army got afraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes

on till he finds some people in a village, and the Army explains that

unless the people wants to be killed they had better not shoot their

little matchlocks; for they had matchlocks. We makes friends with

the priest and I stays there alone with two of the Army, teaching the

men how to drill, and a thundering big Chief comes across the snow

with kettle-drums and horns twanging, because he heard there was a

new God kicking about. Carnehan sights for the brown of the men half

a mile across the snow and wings one of them. Then he sends a

message to the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, he must

come and shake hands with me and leave his arms behind. The Chief

comes alone first, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and whirls his

arms about, same as Dravot used, and very much surprised that Chief

was, and strokes my eyebrows. Then Carnehan goes alone to the Chief,

and asks him in dumb show if he had an enemy he hated. 'I have,'

says the Chief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick of his men, and sets

two of the Army to show them drill and at the end of two weeks the

men can maneuvre about as well as Volunteers. So he marches with the

Chief to a great big plain on the top of a mountain, and the Chief's

men rushes into a village and takes it; we three Martinis firing into

the brown of the enemy. So we took that village too, and I gives the

Chief a rag from my coat and says, 'Occupy till I come:' which was

scriptural. By way of a reminder, when me and the Army was eighteen

hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him standing on the snow,

and all the people falls flat on their faces. Then I sends a letter

to Dravot, wherever he be, by land or by sea."

At the risk of throwing the creature out of train I interrupted: "How

could you write a letter up yonder?"

"The letter?--Oh!--The letter! Keep looking at me between the eyes,

please. It was a string-talk letter, that we'd learned the way of it

from a blind beggar in the Punjab."

I remembered that there had once come to the office a blind man with

a knotted twig and a piece of string which he wound round the twig

according to some cipher of his own. He could, after the lapse of

days or hours, repeat the sentence which he had reeled up. He had

reduced the alphabet to eleven primitive sounds; and tried to teach

me his method, but failed.

"I sent that letter to Dravot," said Carnehan; "and told him to come

back because this Kingdom was growing too big for me to handle, and

then I struck for the first valley, to see how the priests were

working. They called the village we took along with the Chief,

Bashkai, and the first village we took, Er-Heb. The priests at

Er-Heb was doing all right, but they had a lot of pending cases about

land to show me, and some men from another village had been firing

arrows at night. I went out and looked for that village and fired

four rounds at it from a thousand yards. That used all the

cartridges I cared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, who had been

away two or three months, and I kept my people quiet. One morning I

heard the devil's own noise of drums and horns, and Dan Dravot

marches down the hill with his Army and a tail of hundreds of men,

and, which was the most amazing--a great gold crown on his head. 'My

Gord, Carnehan,' says Daniel, 'this is a tremenjus business, and

we've got the whole country as far as it's worth having. I am the

son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis, and you're my younger brother

and a God too! It's the biggest thing we've ever seen. I've been

marching and fighting for six weeks with the Army, and every footy

little village for fifty miles has come in rejoiceful; and more than

that, I've got the key of the whole show, as you'll see, and I've got

a crown for you! I told 'em to make two of 'em at a place called

Shu, where the gold lies in the rock like suet in mutton. Gold I've

seen, and turquoise I've kicked out of the cliffs, and there's

garnets in the sand of the river, and here's a chunk of amber that a

man brought me. Call up all the priests and, here, take your crown.'

"One of the men opens a black hair bag and I slips the crown on. It

was too small and too heavy, but I wore it for the glory. Hammered

gold it was--five pound weight, like a hoop of a barrel.

"'Peachey,' says Dravot, 'we don't want to fight no more. The

Craft's the trick, so help me!' and he brings forward that same Chief

that I left at Bashkai--Billy Fish we called him afterward, because

he was so like Billy Fish that drove the big tank-engine at Mach on

the Bolan in the old days. 'Shake hands with him,' says Dravot, and

I shook hands and nearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip. I

said nothing, but tried him with the Fellow Craft Grip. He answers,

all right, and I tried the Master's Grip, but that was a slip. 'A

Fellow Craft he is!' I says to Dan. 'Does he know the word?' 'He

does,' says Dan, 'and all the priests know. It's a miracle! The

Chiefs and the priests can work a Fellow Craft Lodge in a way that's

very like ours, and they've cut the marks on the rocks, but they

don't know the Third Degree, and they've come to find out. It's

Gord's Truth. I've known these long years that the Afghans knew up

to the Fellow Craft Degree, but this is a miracle. A God and a

Grand-Master of the Craft am I, and a Lodge in the Third Degree I

will open, and we'll raise the head priests and the Chiefs of the

villages.'

"'It's against all the law,' I says, 'holding a Lodge without warrant

from any one; and we never held office in any Lodge.'

"'It's a masterstroke of policy,' says Dravot. 'It means running the

country as easy as a four-wheeled bogie on a down grade. We can't

stop to inquire now, or they'll turn against us. I've forty Chiefs

at my heel, and passed and raised according to their merit they shall

be. Billet these men on the villages and see that we run up a Lodge

of some kind. The temple of Imbra will do for the Lodge-room. The

women must make aprons as you show them. I'll hold a levee of Chiefs

to-night and Lodge to-morrow.'

"I was fair run off my legs, but I wasn't such a fool as not to see

what a pull this Craft business gave us. I showed the priests'

families how to make aprons of the degrees, but for Dravot's apron

the blue border and marks was made of turquoise lumps on white hide,

not cloth. We took a great square stone in the temple for the

Master's chair, and little stones for the officers' chairs, and

painted the black pavement with white squares, and did what we could

to make things regular.

"At the levee which was held that night on the hillside with big

bonfires, Dravot gives out that him and me were Gods and sons of

Alexander, and Past Grand-Masters in the Craft, and was come to make

Kafiristan a country where every man should eat in peace and drink in

quiet, and specially obey us. Then the Chiefs come round to shake

hands, and they was so hairy and white and fair it was just shaking

hands with old friends. We gave them names according as they was

like men we had known in India--Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky

Kergan that was Bazaar-master when I was at Mhow, and so on, and so

on.

"The most amazing miracle was at Lodge next night. One of the old

priests was watching us continuous, and I felt uneasy, for I knew

we'd have to fudge the Ritual, and I didn't know what the men knew.

The old priest was a stranger come in from beyond the village of

Bashkai. The minute Dravot puts on the Master's apron that the girls

had made for him, the priest fetches a whoop and a howl, and tries to

overturn the stone that Dravot was sitting on. 'It's all up now,' I

says. 'That comes of meddling with the Craft without warrant!'

Dravot never winked an eye, not when ten priests took and tilted over

the Grand-Master's chair--which was to say the stone of Imbra. The

priest begins rubbing the bottom end of it to clear away the black

dirt, and presently he shows all the other priests the Master's Mark,

same as was on Dravot's apron, cut into the stone. Not even the

priests of the temple of Imbra knew it was there. The old chap falls

flat on his face at Dravot's feet and kisses 'em. 'Luck again,' says

Dravot, across the Lodge to me, 'they say it's the missing Mark that

no one could understand the why of. We're more than safe now.' Then

he bangs the butt of his gun for a gavel and says: 'By virtue of the

authority vested in me by my own right hand and the help of Peachey,

I declare myself Grand-Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan in

this the Mother Lodge o' the country, and King of Kafiristan equally

with Peachey!' At that he puts on his crown and I puts on mine--I

was doing Senior Warden--and we opens the Lodge in most ample form.

It was an amazing miracle! The priests moved in Lodge through the

first two degrees almost without telling, as if the memory was coming

back to them. After that, Peachey and Dravot raised such as was

worthy--high priests and Chiefs of far-off villages. Billy Fish was

the first, and I can tell you we scared the soul out of him. It was

not in any way according to Ritual, but it served our turn. We

didn't raise more than ten of the biggest men because we didn't want

to make the Degree common. And they was clamoring to be raised.

"'In another six months,' says Dravot, 'we'll hold another

Communication and see how you are working.' Then he asks them about

their villages, and learns that they was fighting one against the

other and were fair sick and tired of it. And when they wasn't doing

that they was fighting with the Mohammedans. 'You can fight those

when they come into our country,' says Dravot. 'Tell off every tenth

man of your tribes for a Frontier guard, and send two hundred at a

time to this valley to be drilled. Nobody is going to be shot or

speared any more so long as he does well, and I know that you won't

cheat me because you're white people--sons of Alexander--and not like

common black Mohammedans. You are my people and by God,' says he,

running off into English at the end--'I'll make a d-- fine Nation of

you, or I'll die in the making!'

"I can't tell all we did for the next six months, because Dravot did

a lot I couldn't see the hang of, and he learned their lingo in a way

I never could. My work was to help the people plow, and now and

again go out with some of the Army and see what the other villages

were doing, and make 'em throw rope-bridges across the ravines which

cut up the country horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, but when he

walked up and down in the pine wood, pulling that bloody red beard of

his with both fists, I knew he was thinking plans I could not advise

him about, and I just waited for orders.

"But Dravot never showed me disrespect before the people. They were

afraid of me and the Army, but they loved Dan. He was the best of

friends with the priests and the Chiefs; but any one could come

across the hills with a complaint and Dravot would hear him out fair,

and call four priests together and say what was to be done. He used

to call in Billy Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan from Shu, and an

old Chief we called Kafuzelum--it was like enough to his real

name--and hold councils with 'em when there was any fighting to be

done in small villages. That was his Council of War, and the four

priests of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, and Madora was his Privy Council.

Between the lot of 'em they sent me, with forty men and twenty

rifles, and sixty men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband country

to buy those hand-made Martini rifles, that come out of the Amir's

workshops at Kabul, from one of the Amir's Herati regiments that

would have sold the very teeth out of their mouths for turquoises.

"I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave the Governor there the pick

of my baskets for hush-money, and bribed the Colonel of the regiment

some more, and, between the two and the tribes-people, we got more

than a hundred hand-made Martinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails

that'll throw to six hundred yards, and forty man-loads of very bad

ammunition for the rifles. I came back with what I had, and

distributed 'em among the men that the Chiefs sent in to me to drill.

"Dravot was too busy to attend to those things, but the old Army that

we first made helped me, and we turned out five hundred men that

could drill, and two hundred that knew how to hold arms pretty

straight. Even those cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to

them. Dravot talked big about powder-shops and factories, walking up

and down in the pine wood when the winter was coming on.

"'I won't make a Nation,' says he. 'I'll make an Empire! These men

aren't niggers; they're English! Look at their eyes--look at their

mouths. Look at the way they stand up. They sit on chairs in their

own houses. They're the Lost Tribes, or something like it, and

they've grown to be English. I'll take a census in the spring if the

priests don't get frightened. There must be a fair two million of

'em in these hills. The villages are full o' little children. Two

million people--two hundred and fifty thousand fighting men--and all

English! They only want the rifles and a little drilling. Two

hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to cut in on Russia's right

flank when she tries for India! Peachey, man,' he says, chewing his

beard in great hunks, 'we shall be emperors of the Earth! Rajah

Brooke will be a suckling to us. I'll treat with the Viceroy on

equal terms. I'll ask him to send me twelve picked English--twelve

that I know of--to help us govern a bit. There's Mackay,

Sergeant-pensioner at Segowli--many's the good dinner he's given me,

and his wife a pair of trousers. There's Donkin, the Warder of

Tounghoo Jail; there's hundreds that I could lay my hand on if I was

in India. The Viceroy shall do it for me. I'll send a man through

in the spring for those men, and I'll write for a dispensation from

the Grand Lodge for what I've done as Grand-Master. That--and all

the Sniders that'll be thrown out when the native troops in India

take up the Martini. They'll be worn smooth, but they'll do for

fighting in these hills. Twelve English, a hundred thousand Sniders

run through the Amir's country in driblets--I'd be content with

twenty thousand in one year--and we'd be an Empire. When everything

was shipshape, I'd hand over the crown--this crown I'm wearing

now--to Queen Victoria on my knees, and she'd say: "Rise up, Sir

Daniel Dravot." Oh, it's big! It's big, I tell you! But there's so

much to be done in every place--Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhere

else.'

"'What is it?' I says. 'There are no more men coming in to be

drilled this autumn. Look at those fat, black clouds. They're

bringing the snow.'

"'It isn't that,' says Daniel, putting his hand very hard on my

shoulder; 'and I don't wish to say anything that's against you, for

no other living man would have followed me and made me what I am as

you have done. You're a first-class Commander-in-Chief, and the

people know you; but--it's a big country, and somehow you can't help

me, Peachey, in the way I want to be helped.'

"'Go to your blasted priests, then!' I said, and I was sorry when I

made that remark, but it did hurt me sore to find Daniel talking so

superior when I'd drilled all the men, and done all he told me.

"'Don't let's quarrel, Peachey,' says Daniel without cursing.

'You're a King too, and the half of this Kingdom is yours; but can't

you see, Peachey, we want cleverer men than us now--three or four of

'em, that we can scatter about for our Deputies. It's a hugeous

great State, and I can't always tell the right thing to do, and I

haven't time for all I want to do, and here's the winter coming on

and all.' He put half his beard into his mouth, and it was as red as

the gold of his crown.

"'I'm sorry, Daniel,' says I. 'I've done all I could. I've drilled

the men and shown the people how to stack their oats better; and I've

brought in those tinware rifles from Ghorband--but I know what you're

driving at. I take it Kings always feel oppressed that way.'

"'There's another thing too,' says Dravot, walking up and down. 'The

winter's coming and these people won't be giving much trouble, and if

they do we can't move about. I want a wife.'

"'For Gord's sake leave the women alone!' I says. 'We've both got

all the work we can do, though I am a fool. Remember the Contrack,

and keep clear o' women.'

"'The Contrack only lasted till such time as we was Kings; and Kings

we have been these months past,' says Dravot, weighing his crown in

his hand. 'You go get a wife too, Peachey--a nice, strappin', plump

girl that'll keep you warm in the winter. They're prettier than

English girls, and we can take the pick of 'em. Boil 'em once or

twice in hot water, and they'll come as fair as chicken and ham.'

"'Don't tempt me!' I says. 'I will not have any dealings with a

woman not till we are a dam' site more settled than we are now. I've

been doing the work o' two men, and you've been doing the work o'

three. Let's lie off a bit, and see if we can get some better

tobacco from Afghan country and run in some good liquor; but no

women.'

"'Who's talking o' women?' says Dravot. 'I said wife--a Queen to

breed a King's son for the King. A Queen out of the strongest tribe,

that'll make them your blood-brothers, and that'll lie by your side

and tell you all the people thinks about you and their own affairs.

That's what I want.'

"'Do you remember that Bengali woman I kept at Mogul Serai when I was

a plate-layer?' says I. 'A fat lot o' good she was to me. She

taught me the lingo and one or two other things; but what happened?

She ran away with the Station Master's servant and half my month's

pay. Then she turned up at Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste,

and had the impidence to say I was her husband--all among the drivers

in the running-shed!'

"'We've done with that,' says Dravot. 'These women are whiter than

you or me, and a Queen I will have for the winter months.'

"'For the last time o' asking, Dan, do not,' I says. 'It'll only

bring us harm. The Bible says that Kings ain't to waste their

strength on women, 'specially when they've got a new raw Kingdom to

work over.'

"'For the last time of answering I will,' said Dravot, and he went

away through the pine-trees looking like a big red devil. The low

sun hit his crown and beard on one side, and the two blazed like hot

coals.

"But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan thought. He put it before

the Council, and there was no answer till Billy Fish said that he'd

better ask the girls. Dravot d--d them all round. 'What's wrong

with me?' he shouts, standing by the idol Imbra. 'Am I a dog or am I

not enough of a man for your wenches? Haven't I put the shadow of my

hand over this country? Who stopped the last Afghan raid?' It was

me really, but Dravot was too angry to remember. 'Who bought your

guns? Who repaired the bridges? Who's the Grand-Master of the sign

cut in the stone? and he thumped his hand on the block that he used

to sit on in Lodge, and at Council, which opened like Lodge always.

Billy Fish said nothing and no more did the others. 'Keep your hair

on, Dan,' said I; 'and ask the girls. That's how it's done at Home,

and these people are quite English.'

"'The marriage of the King is a matter of state,' says Dan, in a

white-hot rage, for he could feel, I hope, that he was going against

his better mind. He walked out of the Council-room, and the others

sat still, looking at the ground.

"'Billy Fish,' says I to the Chief of Bashkai, 'what's the difficulty

here? A straight answer to a true friend.' 'You know,' says Billy

Fish. 'How should a man tell you who know everything? How can

daughters of men marry Gods or Devils? It's not proper.'

"I remembered something like that in the Bible; but if, after seeing

us as long as they had, they still believed we were Gods, it wasn't

for me to undeceive them.

"'A God can do anything,' says I. 'If the King is fond of a girl

he'll not let her die.' 'She'll have to,' said Billy Fish. 'There

are all sorts of Gods and Devils in these mountains, and now and

again a girl marries one of them and isn't seen any more. Besides,

you two know the Mark cut in the stone. Only the Gods know that. We

thought you were men till you showed the sign of the Master.'

"I wished then that we had explained about the loss of the genuine

secrets of a Master-Mason at the first go-off; but I said nothing.

All that night there was a blowing of horns in a little dark temple

half-way down the hill, and I heard a girl crying fit to die. One of

the priests told us that she was being prepared to marry the King.

"'I'll have no nonsense of that kind,' says Dan. 'I don't want to

interfere with your customs, but I'll take my own wife.' 'The girl's

a little bit afraid,' says the priest. 'She thinks she's going to

die, and they are a-heartening of her up down in the temple.'

"'Hearten her very tender, then,' says Dravot, 'or I'll hearten you

with the butt of a gun so that you'll never want to be heartened

again.' He licked his lips, did Dan, and stayed up walking about

more than half the night, thinking of the wife that he was going to

get in the morning. I wasn't by any means comfortable, for I knew

that dealings with a woman in foreign parts, though you was a crowned

King twenty times over, could not but be risky. I got up very early

in the morning while Dravot was asleep, and I saw the priests talking

together in whispers, and the Chiefs talking together, too, and they

looked at me out of the corners of their eyes.

"'What is up, Fish?' I says to the Bashkai man, who was wrapped up in

his furs and looking splendid to behold.

"I can't rightly say,' says he; 'but if you can induce the King to

drop all this nonsense about marriage you'll be doing him and me and

yourself a great service.'

"'That I do believe,' says I. 'But sure, you know, Billy, as well as

me, having fought against and for us, that the King and me are

nothing more than two of the finest men that God Almighty ever made.

Nothing more, I do assure you.'

"'That may be,' says Billy Fish, 'and yet I should be sorry if it

was.' He sinks his head upon his great fur cloak for a minute and

thinks. 'King,' says he, 'be you man or God or Devil, I'll stick by

you to-day. I have twenty of my men with me, and they will follow

me. We'll go to Bashkai until the storm blows over.'

"A little snow had fallen in the night, and everything was white

except the greasy fat clouds that blew down and down from the north.

Dravot came out with his crown on his head, swinging his arms and

stamping his feet, and looking more pleased than Punch.

"'For the last time, drop it, Dan,' says I in a whisper. 'Billy Fish

here says that there will be a row.'

"'A row among my people!' says Dravot. 'Not much. Peachey, you're a

fool not to get a wife too. Where's the girl?' says he with a voice

as loud as the braying of a jackass. 'Call up all the chiefs and

priests, and let the Emperor see if his wife suits him.'

"There was no need to call any one. They were all there leaning on

their guns and spears round the clearing in the centre of the pine

wood. A deputation of priests went down to the little empire to

bring up the girl, and the horns blew up fit to wake the dead. Billy

Fish saunters round and gets as close to Daniel as he could, and

behind him stood his twenty men with matchlocks. Not a man of them

under six feet. I was next to Dravot, and behind me was twenty men

of the regular army. Up comes the girl, and a strapping wench she

was, covered with silver and turquoises but white as death, and

looking back every minute at the priests.

"'She'll do,' said Dan, looking her over. 'What's to be afraid of,

lass? Come and kiss me.' He puts his arm round her. She shuts her

eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, and down goes her face in the side of

Dan's flaming red beard.

"'The slut's bitten me!' says he, clapping his hand to his neck, and,

sure enough, his hand was red with blood. Billy Fish and two of his

matchlock men catches hold of Dan by the shoulders and drags him into

the Bashkai lot, while the priests howls in their lingo--'Neither God

nor Devil, but a man!' I was all taken aback, for a priest cut at me

in front, and the Army behind began firing into the Bashkai men.

"'God A-mighty!' says Dan. 'What is the meaning o' this?'

"'Come back! Come away!' says Billy Fish. 'Ruin and Mutiny is the

matter. We'll break for Bashkai if we can.'

"I tried to give some sort of orders to my men--the men o' the

regular army--but it was no use, so I fired into the brown of 'em

with an English Martini and drilled three beggars in a line. The

valley was full of shouting, howling creatures, and every soul was

shrieking, 'Not a God nor a Devil, but only a man!' The Bashkai

troops stuck to Billy Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks

wasn't half as good as the Kabul breechloaders, and four of them

dropped. Dan was bellowing like a bull, for he was very wrathy; and

Billy Fish had a hard job to prevent him running out at the crowd.

"'We can't stand,' says Billy Fish. 'Make a run for it down the

valley! The whole place is against us.' The matchlock-men ran, and

we went down the valley in spite of Dravot's protestations. He was

swearing horribly and crying out that he was King. The priests

rolled great stones on us, and the regular army fired hard, and there

wasn't more than six men, not counting Dan, Billy Fish, and Me, that

came down to the bottom of the valley alive.

"Then they stopped firing and the horns in the temple blew again.

'Come away--for Gord's sake come away!' says Billy Fish. 'They'll

send runners out to all the villages before ever we get to Bashkai.

I can protect you there, but I can't do anything now.'

"My own notion is that Dan began to go mad in his head from that

hour. He stared up and down like a stuck pig. Then he was all for

walking back alone and killing the priests with his bare hands; which

he could have done. 'An Emperor am I,' says Daniel, 'and next year I

shall be a Knight of the Queen.'

"'All right, Dan,' says I; 'but come along now while there's time.'

"'It's your fault,' says he, 'for not looking after your army better.

There was mutiny in the midst, and you didn't know--you d--d

engine-driving, plate-laying, missionary's-pass-hunting hound!' He

sat upon a rock and called me every foul name he could lay tongue to.

I was too heart-sick to care, though it was all his foolishness that

brought the smash.

"'I'm sorry, Dan,' says I, 'but there's no accounting for natives.

This business is our Fifty-Seven. Maybe we'll make something out of

it yet, when we've got to Bashkai.'

"'Let's get to Bashkai, then,' says Dan, 'and, by Gord, when I come

back here again I'll sweep the valley so there isn't a bug in a

blanket left!'

"We walked all that day, and all that night Dan was stumping up and

down on the snow, chewing his beard and muttering to himself.

"'There's no hope o' getting clear,' said Billy Fish. 'The priests

will have sent runners to the villages to say that you are only men.

Why didn't you stick on as Gods till things was more settled? I'm a

dead man,' says Billy Fish, and he throws himself down on the snow

and begins to pray to his Gods.

"Next morning we was in a cruel bad country--all up and down, no

level ground at all, and no food either. The six Bashkai men looked

at Billy Fish hungry-wise as if they wanted to ask something, but

they said never a word. At noon we came to the top of a flat

mountain all covered with snow, and when we climbed up into it,

behold, there was an army in position waiting in the middle!

"'The runners have been very quick,' says Billy Fish, with a little

bit of a laugh. 'They are waiting for us.'

"Three or four men began to fire from the enemy's side, and a chance

shot took Daniel in the calf of the leg. That brought him to his

senses. He looks across the snow at the army, and sees the rifles

that we had brought into the country.

"'We're done for,' says he. 'They are Englishmen, these people--and

it's my blasted nonsense that has brought you to this. Get back,

Billy Fish, and take your men away; you've done what you could, and

now cut for it. Carnehan,' says he, 'shake hands with me and go

along with Billy. Maybe they won't kill you. I'll go and meet 'em

alone. It's me that did it. Me, the King!'

"'Go!' says I. 'Go to Hell, Dan. I'm with you here. Billy Fish,

you clear out, and we two will meet those folk.'

"'I'm a Chief,' says Billy Fish, quite quiet. 'I stay with you. My

men can go.'

"The Bashkai fellows didn't wait for a second word but ran off, and

Dan and me and Billy Fish walked across to where the drums were

drumming and the horns were horning. It was cold--awful cold. I've

got that cold in the back of my head now. There's a lump of it

there."

The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two kerosene lamps were

blazing in the office, and the perspiration poured down my face and

splashed on the blotter as I leaned forward. Carnehan was shivering,

and I feared that his mind might go. I wiped my face, took a fresh

grip of the piteously mangled hands, and said: "What happened after

that?"

The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clear current.

"What was you pleased to say?" whined Carnehan. "They took them

without any sound. Not a little whisper all along the snow, not

though the King knocked down the first man that set hand on him--not

though old Peachey fired his last cartridge into the brown of 'em.

Not a single solitary sound did those swines make. They just closed

up tight, and I tell you their furs stunk. There was a man called

Billy Fish, a good friend of us all, and they cut his throat, sir,

then and there, like a pig; and the King kicks up the bloody snow and

says: 'We've had a dashed fine run for our money. What's coming

next?' But Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I tell you, sir, in

confidence as betwixt two friends, he lost his head, sir. No, he

didn't neither. The King lost his head, so he did, all along o' one

of those cunning rope-bridges. Kindly let me have the paper-cutter,

sir. It tilted this way. They marched him a mile across that snow

to a rope-bridge over a ravine with a river at the bottom. You may

have seen such. They prodded him behind like an ox. 'D-- your

eyes!' says the King. 'D'you suppose I can't die like a gentleman?'

He turns to Peachey--Peachey that was crying like a child. 'I've

brought you to this, Peachey,' says he. 'Brought you out of your

happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where you was late

Commander-in-Chief of the Emperor's forces. Say you forgive me,

Peachey.' 'I do,' says Peachey. 'Fully and freely do I forgive you,

Dan.' 'Shake hands, Peachey,' says he. 'I'm going now.' Out he

goes, looking neither right nor left, and when he was plumb in the

middle of those dizzy dancing ropes, 'Cut, you beggars,' he shouts;

and they cut, and old Dan fell, turning round and round and round,

twenty thousand miles, for he took half an hour to fall till he

struck the water, and I could see his body caught on a rock with the

gold crown close beside.

"But do you know what they did to Peachey between two pine-trees?

They crucified him, sir, as Peachey's hand will show. They used

wooden pegs for his hands and his feet; and he didn't die. He hung

there and screamed, and they took him down next day, and said it was

a miracle that he wasn't dead. They took him down--poor old Peachey

that hadn't done them any harm--that hadn't done them any..."

He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping his eyes with the back

of his scarred hands and moaning like a child for some ten minutes.

"They was cruel enough to feed him up in the temple, because they

said he was more of God than old Daniel that was a man. Then they

turned him out on the snow, and told him to go home, and Peachey came

home in about a year, begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel

Dravot he walked before and said: 'Come along, Peachey. 'It's a big

thing we're doing.' The mountains they danced at night, and the

mountains they tried to fall on Peachey's head, but Dan he held up

his hand, and Peachey came along, bent double. He never let go of

Dan's hand, and he never let go of Dan's head. They gave it to him

as a present in the temple, to remind him not to come again, and

though the crown was pure gold, and Peachey was starving, never would

Peachey sell the same. You knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot!

Look at him now!"

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; brought out a

black horsehair bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook

therefrom on to my table--the dried, withered head of Daniel Dravot!

The morning sun that had long been paling the lamps struck the red

beard and blind sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold

studded with raw turquoises, that Carnehan placed tenderly on the

battered temples.

"You behold now," said Carnehan, "the Emperor in his habit as he

lived--the King of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. Poor old

Daniel that was a monarch once!"

I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, I recognized the

head of the man of Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go. I

attempted to stop him. He was not fit to walk abroad. "Let me take

away the whisky, and give me a little money," he gasped. "I was a

King once. I'll go to the Deputy Commissioner and ask to set in the

Poorhouse till I get my health. No, thank you, I can't wait till you

get a carriage for me. I've urgent private affairs--in the south--at

Marwar."

He shambled out of the office and departed in the direction of the

Deputy Commissioner's house. That day at noon I had occasion to go

down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along

the white dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering

dolorously after the fashion of street-singers at Home. There was

not a soul in sight, and he was out of all possible earshot of the

houses. And he sang through his nose, turning his head from right to

left:

"The Son of Man goes forth to war,

A golden crown to gain;

His blood-red banner streams afar--

Who follows in his train?"

I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage

and drove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to

the Asylum. He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me, whom he

did not in the least recognize, and I left him singing it to the

missionary.

Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of

the Asylum.

"He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. He died early yesterday

morning," said the Superintendent. "Is it true that he was half an

hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?"

"Yes," said I, "but do you happen to know if he had anything upon him

by any chance when he died?"

"Not to my knowledge," said the Superintendent.

And there the matter rests.

THE BLACK PEARL

BY VICTORIEN SARDOU

_Victorien Sardou, born in 1831, is the most accomplished French

playwright and dramatist. He is the author of "Divorçons," "Fédora,"

"Théodora," "La Tosca," "Madame Sans-Gêne," and other well-known

plays, most if not all of which were written for Sarah Bernhardt.

The present story is an excellent example of the author's manner in

the use of dramatic material._

THE BLACK PEARL

By VICTORIEN SARDOU

I

When it rains in Amsterdam, it pours; and when the thunder takes a

hand in the performance, things are pretty lively; this is what my

friend Balthazar Van der Lys was saying to himself one summer night,

as he ran along the Amstel on his way home to escape the storm.

Unfortunately, the wind of the Zuyder Zee blew faster than he could

run. A frightful gust tore along the quay, unhinging hundreds of

shutters and twisting scores of signs and lamp posts. At the same

moment, a number of towels and handkerchiefs which had been hung out

to dry were blown pell-mell into the canal, followed by Balthazar's

hat, and it is the greatest wonder in the world that he was not

treated to a bath himself. Then there was another flash of

lightning, a deafening roar of thunder, and the rain came down in

torrents anew, literally wetting our poor friend to the skin, and

causing him to redouble his speed.

On reaching the Orphelinat Straat he rushed under the awning of a

shop to seek refuge from the rain; in his hurry he did not take time

to look where he was going, and the next moment he found himself

fairly in the arms of another man, and the two went rolling over and

over together. The person thus disturbed was seated at the time in

an armchair; this person was no other than our mutual friend,

Cornelius Pump, who was undoubtedly one of the most noted savants of

the age.

"Cornelius! what the mischief were you doing in that chair?" asked

Balthazar, picking himself up.

"Look out!" exclaimed Cornelius, "or you will break the string of my

kite!"

Balthazar turned around, believing that his friend was joking; but,

to his surprise, he saw Cornelius busily occupied in winding up the

string of a gigantic kite, which was floating above the canal at a

tremendous height, and which apparently was struggling fiercely

against all effort made to pull it in. Cornelius pulled away with

all his might in one direction, while the kite pulled away in

another. The monstrous combination of paper and sticks was

ornamented with a tremendous tail, which was decorated with

innumerable pieces of paper.

"A curious idea!" remarked Balthazar, "to fly a kite in such a storm."

"I am not doing so for fun, you fool," answered Cornelius with a

smile; "I wish to verify the presence of nitric acid in yonder

clouds, which are charged with electricity. In proof of which,

behold!" and with a desperate effort the man of science succeeded in

pulling down the kite, and pointed with pride to the bits of paper

which had been burned a dark red.

"Oh, bah!" replied Balthazar in that tone of voice so common to those

who do not understand anything of these little freaks of science. "A

nice time to experiment, upon my word!"

"The best time in the world, my friend," simply answered Cornelius.

"And what an observatory! you can see for yourself! there is not an

obstruction in the way! a glorious horizon! ten lightning-rods in

sight and all on fire! I have been keeping my weather eye open for

this storm and I am delighted that it has put in an appearance at

last!"

A violent thunder-clap shook the ground like an earthquake.

"Go on! grumble away as much as you please," muttered Cornelius. "I

have discovered your secret and will tell it to the world."

"And what is there so interesting in all this, anyway?" asked

Balthazar, who, owing to his drenching, was in anything but a good

humor.

"You poor fool," replied Cornelius, with a smile of pity; "now tell

me, what is that?"

"Why, a flash of lightning, of course!"

"Naturally! but what is the nature of the flash?"

"Why, I always supposed that all flashes were alike."

"That shows how much you know!" answered Cornelius, in a tone of

disgust. "Now, there are several classes of lightning. For

instance, lightning of the first class is generally in the form of a

luminous furrow and is very crooked and forked, effecting a zigzag

movement, and of a white or purple color; then, there is the

lightning of the second class, an extended sheet of flame, usually

red, and which embraces the entire horizon in circumference; and

finally lightning of the third class, which is invariably in the form

of a rebounding, rolling, spherical body; the question is whether it

is really globular in shape or merely an optical illusion? This is

exactly the problem I have been trying to solve! I suppose you will

say that these globes of fire have been sufficiently observed by

Howard, Schubler, Kamtz--"

"Oh, I don't know anything at all about such rot, so I won't venture

an opinion. The rain is coming down again and I want to go home."

"Wait a moment," calmly replied Cornelius; "and as soon as I have

seen a spherical or globular flash I will--"

"I haven't time to wait; besides, I would be a fool when I only have

to go a hundred feet to reach my door. If you want a good fire, a

good supper, a good bed and a good pipe, you will be welcome; and if

you want to look at a globe, why, the globe of my lamp is at your

disposal. I can say no more."

"Stop a moment; my flash will be along presently."

Balthazar, whose patience was now well-nigh exhausted, was preparing

to take his departure, when suddenly the sky was lighted up by a

bright flash, while the thunder burst with a loud report a short

distance away.

The shock was so violent that it almost knocked Balthazar over.

"That was a spherical globe, and no mistake!" joyfully exclaimed

Cornelius. "I have made a wonderful discovery: let's go to supper!"

Balthazar rubbed his eyes and felt of his limbs to assure himself

that he was still in the land of the living.

"The lightning struck near my house!"

"Not at all," replied Cornelius; "it was in the direction of the

Hebrew quarter."

Balthazar did not stop to hear any more, but started off on a dead

run; Cornelius picked up his little bits of paper and was soon

following at his heels, in spite of the drenching rain.

II

An hour later the two friends, having enjoyed a bountiful supper,

seated themselves in comfortable chairs, and, between the whiffs of

their meerschaums, laughed at the storm which was still raging

furiously outside.

"This is what I call real enjoyment," remarked Cornelius. "A good

bottle of white curaçoa, a good fire, good tobacco, and a congenial

friend to talk to; am I not right, Christina?"

Christina came and went; she was here, there, and everywhere at the

same time, removing plates and placing fresh glasses and a huge

earthen jug on the table. At the mention of her name by Cornelius

she blushed a fiery red, but said nothing in reply.

Christina (it is high time that we tell you) was a young girl who had

been raised out of charity, in the house of our friend Balthazar.

Shortly after the death of her husband, Madam Van der Lys,

Balthazar's mother, felt some one tugging at her dress as she was

kneeling at her devotions one Sunday morning. Fearing that some one

was trying to pick her pocket, she grasped the hand of the supposed

offender. The hand belonged to a little girl, and was as cute and

small as it is possible for a hand to be. The good woman was deeply

moved at this exhibition of crime in one so young, and her first

thought was to let the little one go; but she finally decided to give

the waif a home, like the dear, good woman that she was. Then she

led little Christina out of the church and made her accompany her

home, the child crying all the while with fear that her aunt would

whip her. Madame Van der Lys told her not to be afraid, and

succeeded at last in obtaining the information that the child's

parents belonged to that class of idlers who spend their time in

running about fairs and kermesses; that the child had been broken in

at an early age to all the tricks adopted by strolling mountebanks;

that the father had been killed while performing a dangerous feat on

the horizontal bar; that the mother died in want and misery; and

finally that the aunt was an old hag who used to beat her black and

blue, and who was instructing her in all the branches of crime. I do

not know whether you have ever met Madam Van der Lys, but she was as

good a woman as her son is a good man. She therefore decided to keep

the child, whom the aunt never called to reclaim. She brought her up

well and had her educated by an excellent woman. It was not long

before the little waif knew how to spell, read, and write, and she

soon became a model of good manners and refinement. Then, when the

old lady shuffled off this mortal coil, she had the satisfaction of

leaving behind her, in addition to Gudule, the cook, a lass of

fifteen who was as bright as a florin, and who would never permit her

master's fire to go out for want of proper attention. In addition to

all these good qualities, she was polite, refined, clever, and

pretty; at least such was the opinion of our friend Cornelius, who

had discovered in her eyes a look not at all unlike a flash of

lightning of the third class. But, a truce to this! If I gossip any

more I will be divulging family secrets!

I will add, however, that Christina always gave Cornelius a hearty

welcome because he brought her interesting books. The young savant

made a greater fuss over this little housekeeper than over all the

painted beauties of the town. But it seemed as if the storm had

paralyzed the young girl's tongue. She had declined to take her seat

at the table, and, under the pretext of waiting on the two friends,

she came and went, scarcely listening to what they had to say,

replying only in monosyllables, and making the sign of the cross

every time there was a flash of lightning. Shortly after their

supper, Balthazar turned round to ask her a question, but she was no

longer there, having retired to her room. He rose from his chair,

and approaching the door of her room, listened attentively; but as

all was silent he was evidently convinced that the young girl was

already fast asleep, for he returned to his place and sat down beside

Cornelius, who was busily engaged filling his pipe.

"What's wrong with Christina to-night?" he asked, pointing to her

room.

"Oh, it's the storm," replied Balthazar; "women are so timid!"

"If it were otherwise, we would be deprived of the pleasure of

protecting them as we would children--especially Christina, who is

anything but strong. I really can't look at her without crying; she

is so frail, so delicate!"

"Oh, ho, Master Cornelius!" exclaimed Balthazar, with a knowing

smile; "you are almost as enthusiastic over Christina as you were

over the lightning a little while ago!"

Cornelius blushed to the very roots of his hair as he replied: "Oh,

it's not the same kind of enthusiasm, however!"

"I suppose not!" remarked Balthazar with a hearty laugh. Then taking

Cornelius by the hand and looking him square in the face, he added:

"Come, now, you don't imagine that I can't see what is going on? You

don't only amuse yourself at flying your kite over the Amstel,

overgrown boy that you are, but you also play at racquets with

Christina, and your two hearts answer the place of shuttlecocks."

"What, you suppose that--" muttered the savant, evidently confused.

"For over three months I have known that it was not merely to see my

beautiful countenance that you have called here twice a day--at noon,

on your way to the zoölogical garden, and at four on your way home."

"But this is the shortest way," ventured Cornelius.

"Yes, I know--to the heart!"

"But--"

"Come, now, let us reason: Christina is unlike most girls of her age;

she has a wise head and a loving heart, I assure you; she is

certainly clever enough to admire and appreciate such a talented

person as Mijnheer Cornelius Pump, who thinks nothing of lending her

his rare books. You squeeze her hands, you are solicitous for her

health. You read her a regular lecture on chemistry every time you

see a spot on her dress, on natural history whenever you see a pot of

flowers, and on anatomy whenever you see the cat! She listens to

what you have to say with open ears, and a look of attention which is

really charming; and yet you would pretend that love is a minor

consideration in all this, especially when the man of science is only

twenty-five and his pupil just eighteen?"

"Well, then, I do love her, since you will have it so!" answered

Cornelius, with a look of defiance in his eyes. "So kindly tell me

what you propose to do about it!"

"That's for you to say--"

"Oh, I intend to make her my wife!"

"Then, why the mischief don't you tell her so?"

"That's precisely what I intend to do."

"Then embrace me!" exclaimed Balthazar, "and drink to the health of

Cupid, for I, too, am going to get married--"

"I congratulate you, my boy; and who is the fortunate one?"

"--And I am going to marry Mademoiselle Suzanne Van Miellis, the

daughter of the rich banker," continued Balthazar, all in one breath.

Cornelius gave a low whistle, which, translated, means: The devil!

Balthazar continued:

"And just think of it--I have loved her for over six years! I never

wanted to pop the question because I was afraid her father would tell

me that it was his money and not his daughter that I was after. But

my opportunity came at last. Her father died a short time ago,

leaving her his sole heiress: she is one of the wealthiest girls in

the town."

"The wealthiest by far," gravely interrupted Cornelius.

"One day, as we were walking together by the river she stopped for a

moment, and looking into my eyes she said: 'Now, my friend, I don't

want you to bear me any ill-feeling for what I am going to say; but,

since the death of my father, and coming into my inheritance, I

assure you that I am most unhappy. I can no longer distinguish

between those who love me for my riches and those who love me for

myself; there are so many who pretend to adore me that I am

suspicious of them all; and I would rather throw my fortune into the

Amstel than wed a man who would aspire to my hand through mercenary

motives!'"

"'Ah, mademoiselle,' I sighed; 'you can understand that I was not

overanxious to be mistaken for one of these fortune hunters.'

"'Oh, my dear friend,' she exclaimed; 'I know that you are not that

kind of a man. Now I am going to tell you my ideal of a husband. I

would never accept the love of a man who had not cared for me

previous to the death of my father. Ah! I would indeed be confident

of that man's love, and I would return it to him a hundred-fold!'

"'Then I am that man!' I cried out. 'I have loved you for over six

long years, and I never dared to tell you so, although you must have

noticed that I was slowly but surely dying for the want of your

affection!' Then she looked down at the ground, and whispered:

'Maybe I have,' and she looked at me as if trying to read the truth

in my eyes. It was easy to see that she wanted to believe what I

said, but was afraid to do so.

"'Then you can prove the truth of your assertion,' she remarked,

after a pause. 'Do you remember the first time we met, you gave me a

bunch of flowers? One of these was in the shape of a little heart,

with two blue wings on each side. Well, then--'

"'I know what you are going to say. Then as we were looking at this

little flower together, our heads almost touched and your curls

brushed against my face; as you perceived how close we were to one

another, you suddenly drew back, and the flower was detached from its

stem. I can still hear your little cry of disappointment ringing in

my ears. Then you began to cry, and, as you were not looking, I

picked up the little flower.' 'And you have it?' she asked. 'Yes, I

have always kept it as a souvenir of the happiest moment in my

existence. I will bring it with me the next time I call.'

"You should have seen the look of joy which spread over Suzanne's

countenance at that moment! She held out her pretty hand, which I

eagerly grasped and carried to my lips. 'Ah, my friend,' said she,

'this is all I wanted to know, and I am indeed happy! If you picked

up that little flower it was because you loved me already at that

time, and if you have preserved it, 'tis because you love me still!

Bring it to-morrow; it will be the most welcome wedding gift you

could possibly give me!'

"Oh, my dear old Cornelius, judge of my surprise, of my delight when

I heard those words! I was tempted to do something rash; I was wild

with joy. Suddenly her mother happened along. I threw my arms

around the old lady's neck and kissed her on both cheeks--this cooled

me off. Then I grabbed my hat and took to my heels, intending to

return with the flower this very night. But this confounded storm

has upset all my plans, and I will have to postpone my visit until

to-morrow. There, you have the whole story of my courtship in a

nutshell!"

"May Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Cornelius as he threw his arms

around his friend. "Two weddings at the same time! Long live Madame

Balthazar! Long live Madame Cornelius! Here's to the little

Balthazars and the little Corneliuses!"

"Will you be quiet!" laughingly remarked Balthazar, placing his hand

over his friend's mouth in order to silence him. "You will wake up

Christina."

"Oh, I won't say another word, I promise you. And now show me your

celebrated flower with its blue wings."

"I have it locked up in a little steel casket, which is hidden away

with a lot of jewelry in my desk. I have had it framed in a little

locket, surrounded with gold and black pearls. I was looking at it

only this morning; it is charming. You can judge for yourself."

So saying, he took up the lamp, and, taking a huge bunch of keys from

his pocket, he opened the door of his study. He had hardly crossed

the threshold when Cornelius heard him cry out in surprise. He rose

to go to his assistance, when Balthazar, pale as death, reappeared in

the entrance:

"My God! Cornelius."

"What is it? what is wrong?" exclaimed the man of science.

"Great heavens! I am ruined! Come here! Look!"

And Balthazar raised his lamp so as to light up the interior of his

study.

III

What Cornelius saw justified Balthazar's exclamation of surprise.

The floor was literally strewn with papers of all kinds, and this

profusion of documents clearly proved that something extraordinary

had occurred. A large portfolio in which Balthazar kept all his

private papers was torn open, notwithstanding that it had a steel

lock, and was thrown carelessly on the floor, the papers it had

contained being scattered far and wide.

But this was nothing when compared with that which was to follow.

Balthazar now rushed up to his secrétaire. The lock had been forced.

The top of the desk had been completely hacked to pieces, a great

portion being reduced to splinters. The nails were twisted all out

of shape, and the screws and hinges had alike received rough usage.

As to the lid, it had been forced so as to permit the introduction of

a hand in the pigeon-holes and private drawers.

But, strange to relate, most of the drawers containing valuable

papers had not been touched by the thief, his attention evidently

having been entirely absorbed in the contents of those which had

contained gold and silver. About fifteen hundred ducats, two hundred

florins and the little steel casket filled with jewels, of which we

have heard Balthazar speak, were missing. This drawer was completely

empty; everything had disappeared, gold, silver, jewels, without

leaving a trace behind; and Balthazar experienced a still greater

loss when, on picking up the steel casket from the floor, he

perceived that the medallion had been taken along with the rest!

This discovery affected him more than the loss of all his money.

Rushing to the window, he threw it open and cried out at the top of

his voice:

"Help! Help! Stop thief!"

All the population turned out, and, in accordance with the custom,

would have answered this call for aid with, "Fire! Here we come!"

had not the first cry attracted a squad of policemen who were passing

that way. They ran up to Balthazar's house, and M. Tricamp, the

sergeant, realizing that a robbery had been committed, first

cautioned him to make less noise, and then demanded that he and his

men be admitted without further delay.

IV

The door opened noiselessly and M. Tricamp entered on tiptoe,

followed by another of his men, whom he left on guard in the

vestibule with orders not to permit any one either to come in or go

out. It was almost twelve o'clock; the neighbors were fast asleep,

and it was easy to see that Gudule, the deaf cook, and Christina,

fatigued by the emotions caused by the storm, had heard nothing

unusual, as both were sleeping the sleep of the just.

"And now," said the sergeant, lowering his voice; "what is it all

about?"

Balthazar dragged him into the study and pointed to the torn papers

and broken secrétaire.

M. Tricamp was a little man, whose legs were not big enough to

support his unwieldy form; nevertheless, he was very sharp and

unusually active. He had one more little peculiarity--he was

frightfully near-sighted, which compelled him to look at what he was

examining at very short range.

He was evidently surprised, but it was part of his stock in trade not

to exhibit surprise at anything. He therefore contented himself with

muttering: "Very good! Very good!" and he cast a look of contentment

around the room.

"You see, Mijnheer, what has happened!" exclaimed Balthazar, with a

voice choked with emotion.

"Perfectly!" replied M. Tricamp, with an air of importance. "The

secrétaire has been broken open, your portfolio has been tampered

with! Very well, it is superb!"

"Superb! Why, what do you mean?"

"They took all the money, I suppose?" continued the sergeant.

"Yes, all the money which was in my desk."

"Good!"

"And the jewels, and my medallion!"

"Bravo! a case of premeditated robbery! Capital! And you suspect no

one?"

"No one, Mijnheer."

"So much the better. Then we will have the pleasure of discovering

the criminals."

Balthazar and Cornelius looked at each other in surprise; but M.

Tricamp continued in the same unconcerned manner:

"Let us examine the door!"

Balthazar pointed to the massive door of the study, which was

provided with an old-fashioned brass lock, the likes of which are

only found in the Netherlands at the present time.

Tricamp turned the key. Crick! Crack! It was evident that the lock

had not been tampered with.

"And the window?" asked the officer, handing Balthazar the key of the

study.

"The window was closed," said Cornelius; "we opened it when we called

for assistance. Besides, Mijnheer, it has stout iron bars, and no

one could possibly pass through there."

M. Tricamp assured himself that such was the case, and he remarked

that not even a child could effect an entrance through those bars.

Then he closed and bolted the window and turned his attention toward

the fireplace.

Balthazar followed all of his movements without uttering a word.

M. Tricamp leaned over and examined the interior of the fireplace

most minutely; but here again nothing but failure rewarded him for

his trouble. A thick wall had been built there recently, allowing

only enough room for a small stove-pipe.

M. Tricamp did not question for a moment whether this opening would

permit the passage of a human being, for it seemed altogether too

improbable; therefore, when he drew himself up, he appeared to be

anything but pleased.

"Hum! Hum!" he muttered; "the devil," and he looked up at the

ceiling, having replaced his eye-glass with a pair of spectacles.

Then he took the lamp from Balthazar and placed it on the secrétaire,

removing the shade; and this movement suddenly revealed to him a clue

which had entirely escaped their attention until now.

V

An old knife, a gift from a friend in the Dutch Indies, was driven

into the wainscoting, about three feet above the secrétaire and

half-way between the floor and the ceiling.

Now, what was that old knife doing there?

A few hours previous to this discovery it was lying safe and snug in

Balthazar's desk.

At the same moment Tricamp drew attention to the fact that the wire

which was attached to the bell was twisted and broken and was

fastened about the handle of the knife. He sprang upon a chair, and

from there to the top of the desk, from whence he proceeded to

examine this bit of fresh evidence.

Suddenly he gave a cry of triumph. He only had to raise his hand

between the knife and the picture molding to ascertain that a large

piece of wall paper had been cut out, together with the wood and the

plastering, the whole being replaced with a care to defy the closest

inspection.

This discovery was so unexpected that the young men could not

withhold their admiration at the sergeant's skill. M. Tricamp

remarked that the paper had been removed with the greatest skill,

thus denoting the work of a professional thief. Raising himself on

tiptoe, he placed his hand through the opening and assured himself

that the paper in the adjoining room had been tampered with in

precisely the same manner.

There was no longer any room for doubt; the thief had certainly

entered the room through this aperture. M. Tricamp descended from

his pedestal and proceeded to describe the movements of the

malefactors from the moment of their arrival until their departure,

just as if he had witnessed the whole performance.

"The manner in which that knife has been planted in the wall plainly

proves that it was intended as a step to assist the thief in his

descent. The wire was used as a sort of rope by which he guided

himself on his way back. Now, doesn't this strike you as being

rational enough?"

Balthazar and Cornelius listened to this explanation with bated

breath. But the former was not the kind of man to enthuse over a

description of a theft, especially when he was the loser by the

operation. What he wanted to know was where his medallion had gone;

now that he knew how the thief had entered, he was anxious to know

how he had gone out.

"Have patience," remarked M. Tricamp, following up his clue with

professional pride; "now that we know their movements, we must assure

ourselves as to their temperament--"

"What nonsense! We haven't the time to bother our heads about such

rot!"

"Pardon me," replied Tricamp, "but in my estimation this is very

important. The study of psychology in criminals is a more important

feature than all the quack examinations formerly so popular with the

police."

"But, Mijnheer, while you are discussing the methods of the police

the thief is running away with my money."

"Well, let him run; we will catch him fast enough!" coldly replied M.

Tricamp. "I claim that it is necessary to study the nature of the

game in order to run it down. Now, all robberies differ more or less

and it is rarely that murders are committed in the same manner. For

instance, two servant girls were accused of stealing their mistress's

shawl. I discovered the criminal at the first glance. The thief had

the choice of two cashmeres: one was blue and the other white; now,

she stole the blue one. One of the servants was a blonde and the

other had red hair. I was confident that the blonde was guilty--the

red-headed girl would never have selected the blue shawl on account

of the combination."

"Wonderful!" remarked Cornelius.

"Then hurry up and tell me the name of the thief, for patience is

wellnigh exhausted."

"I can't do this at the start, but I claim that this is the

criminal's first robbery. You will no doubt not credit this

assertion, as you will probably say to yourself that it shows the

workmanship of an old hand; but any child could loosen a bit of

dried-up wall paper. I will say nothing regarding your portfolio, or

your broken secrétaire, for that plainly bears the imprint of a

novice's hand."

"Then you are sure it is the work of a novice?" interrupted Cornelius.

"Undoubtedly. I will add that he is a clumsy greenhorn. An

out-and-out thief would never have left your room in such disorder;

he would take more pride in his workmanship. Furthermore, the

criminal is neither very strong nor very tall, otherwise he could

have drawn himself up there without the aid of that knife and bit of

wire."

"But it must have required considerable strength to demolish that

desk in that fashion."

"Not at all; a child, or even a woman--"

"A woman?" exclaimed Balthazar.

"Since I first set my foot in this room, such has been my impression."

Balthazar and Cornelius looked at one another, in doubt as to whom he

could possibly suspect.

"Now then, to sum up: it is a young woman; she must be young or she

would not climb so well--petite, since she needed a wire to pull

herself up with. Then, again, she must be familiar with your habits,

for she took advantage of your absence to commit the felony, and she

went direct to the drawer in which you kept your money, as she

apparently did not bother her head about the others. In a word, if

you have a young housekeeper or servant you need look no further, for

she is the guilty one!"

"Christina!" exclaimed the young men in one breath.

"Ah! so there is a Christina about the premises!" remarked M. Tricamp

smilingly. "Well, then, Christina is guilty!"

VI

Both Cornelius and Balthazar were pale as death. Christina! Little

Christina, so good, so kind, so pretty, a thief--nonsense! And then

they remembered her origin and the manner in which she was adopted.

She was only a Bohemian after all! Balthazar dropped into a chair as

if he had been shot, and Cornelius felt as if his heart had just been

seared with a red-hot iron.

"Will you kindly send for this person?" suddenly remarked M. Tricamp,

awakening them from their reverie. "Or, better still, let us visit

her room."

"Her room--her room," faltered Balthazar; "why, there it is," and he

pointed to the adjoining apartment.

"And it took all this time for you to make up your mind who had

committed the theft!" said the sergeant with a sneer.

"But," ventured Cornelius, "she certainly must have heard us."

Tricamp picked up the lamp and, pushing open the door of the

adjoining room, entered, followed by the young men. The room was

empty! Simultaneously they exclaimed: "She has escaped!"

M. Tricamp felt under the mattress to see whether he could find any

of the stolen property. "She has not even slept on the bed

to-night," he said, after carefully inspecting the couch.

At the same moment they heard the sound of struggling outside, and

the officer who had been left on guard downstairs entered the room,

pushing Christina before him. The poor girl appeared more surprised

than afraid.

"This young woman was attempting to escape, Mijnheer; I arrested her

just as she was drawing the bolts of the back door," said the officer.

Christina looked around her with such an air of innocence that no one

believed in her guilt, excepting, of course, M. Tricamp.

"But do tell me what this all means?" asked she of the officer, who

locked the door after her. "Why don't you tell them who I am?" she

continued, addressing Balthazar.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"I have been upstairs with old Gudule, who, you know, is afraid of

the lightning. As I was very tired, I fell asleep in the armchair in

her room. When I awoke I looked out of the window, and as the storm

had ceased I came downstairs with the intention of going to bed; but

I first desired to assure myself that you had bolted the door, and it

was at that moment that this gentleman placed his hand on my shoulder

and informed me that I was under arrest. And, I assure you, he has

given me a good fright--"

"You lie!" coarsely interrupted M. Tricamp. "You were just going out

when my man arrested you; and I will add that you did not go to bed,

so as to avoid the trouble of dressing when the moment arrived for

you to make your escape."

Christina looked a him in astonishment. "Escape? What escape?" she

asked.

"Ah!" muttered M. Tricamp. "What nerve, what deceit!"

"Come here," said Balthazar, who knew not what to believe, "and I

will tell you what it all means!"

He took the young girl by the arm and dragged her into the adjoining

room.

"My God!" exclaimed the young woman, as she crossed the threshold and

perceived the scene of devastation for the first time; "who could

have done this?"

Her surprise seemed to be so sincere that Balthazar hesitated for a

moment, but M. Tricamp was not so easily affected; he dragged

Christina by the arm up to the secrétaire and exclaimed:

"You did it!"

"I!" cried out Christina, who did not as yet realize what it all

meant.

She looked at Balthazar as if to read his thoughts, then she cast a

glance at the drawer of the secrétaire, and seeing that it was empty,

she realized at last the terrible meaning of their accusation. With

a heartrending cry, she exclaimed:

"My God! And you say I have done this!"

But no one had the courage to answer her. Christina advanced a step

closer to Balthazar, but he only lowered his eyes at her approach.

Suddenly she raised her hand to her heart, as if she were

suffocating--she attempted to speak--she tried to pronounce two or

three words, but all she could say was:

"A thief! They say I am a thief!" and she fell backward on the floor

as if dead! Cornelius precipitated himself toward her and raised her

gently in his arms.

"No!" he cried; "no! it is impossible! This child is innocent!"

Then he carried the young girl into her room and laid her on the bed.

Balthazar followed him, and it was easy to see that he was deeply

affected. M. Tricamp, still smiling, entered immediately after them,

but one of his officers motioned to him that he had something to

communicate to him.

"Mijnheer, we already have obtained some information regarding this

young woman."

"Well, and what do you know?"

"The baker across the way says that a little while before the storm

he saw Mademoiselle Christina at the window of the ground floor. She

slipped a package to a man who was standing outside; this man wore a

long cloak and a slouch hat--"

"A package, eh?" muttered M. Tricamp; "excellent! Now, secure the

witness and keep a sharp watch outside. In the first place, go and

send the cook to me at once."

The officer withdrew, and M. Tricamp entered Christina's room.

The young woman was stretched out on the bed in a dead faint, and

Cornelius was rubbing her hands. Without stopping to notice the

condition of the girl, he proceeded with his examination of the

premises. He started in with the bureau and overhauled all the

drawers. Then he approached Balthazar with a smile of satisfaction

on his face.

"After all, what proof is there that this young girl is guilty?"

asked the latter as he gazed tenderly upon the unconscious woman.

"Why, this!" answered M. Tricamp, as he handed Balthazar one of the

missing pearls.

"Where did you find this?"

"There," and he pointed to the top drawer of Christina's bureau.

Balthazar rushed up to the drawer and began to overhaul all of the

young girl's effects, but his search did not result in his finding

any more of the stolen jewels.

At this moment Christina opened her eyes, and looking around her as

if to recall the situation, burst into tears as she buried her face

in the pillow.

"Oh, ho!" ejaculated M. Tricamp, "tears, eh? She is going to

confess"; and as he leaned over her, he added in his sweetest voice:

"Come, my child, return good for evil and confess the truth.

Confession is good for the soul. After all, we are not all perfect.

Now, I suppose you permitted yourself to be led astray, or you

allowed yourself to succumb to a passion for finery. You wanted to

make yourself look pretty, eh, my dear, to please some one you love?"

"What an idea, Mijnheer!" interrupted Cornelius.

"Hush, young man! I know what I am talking about. This woman has an

accomplice as sure as my name is Tricamp;" and leaning over

Christina, he continued: "Am I not right, my dear?"

"Oh, why don't you kill me, instead of torturing me thus!" cried

Christina with a fresh outburst of tears.

This was so unexpected that M. Tricamp started back in surprise.

"Kindly leave us alone with the girl, Mijnheer; your presence

irritates her," remarked Balthazar. "If she has anything to confess

she will do so to my friend and me."

M. Tricamp bowed himself out of the room.

"Oh, just as you please," he replied, "but be very careful; she is a

clever minx."

VII

Cornelius almost closed the door in the sergeant's face; then the two

young men approached Christina, who had assumed a sitting posture,

and was staring before her into space.

"Come, my child," said Balthazar, as he held out his hand; "we are

now alone; you are with friends, so you need not be afraid."

"I don't want to stay here! I want to go away! Oh, let me--let me

go!"

"No, Christina, you can not leave here until you answer us," said

Cornelius.

"Tell us the truth, I beg of you, Christina," added Balthazar, "and I

promise you no harm will come to you--I swear it on my honor. I will

forgive you, and no one will ever know of this--I swear it,

Christina, I swear it before God!--don't you hear me, my child?"

"Yes!" answered Christina, who did not appear to be listening. "Oh,

if I could only cry--if I could only cry!"

Cornelius seized the young girl's burning hands in his. "Christina,

my child, God forgives us all, and we love you too much not to pardon

you. Listen to me, I beg of you. Don't you recognize me?"

"Yes," said Christina, as her eyes filled with tears.

"Well, then, I love you, do you hear?--I love you with all my heart!"

"Oh!" said the young girl as she burst into tears; "and yet you

believe that I am a thief!"

"No, no!" hastily exclaimed Cornelius, "I do not believe it, I do not

believe it! But, my dear child, you must help me to justify you, you

must assist me to discover the criminal, and to do this you must be

frank and tell me everything."

"Yes, you are good, you alone are kind to me. You pity me and do not

believe what they say! They accuse me because I am a

Bohemian--because I stole when I was a child. And they call me _a

thief!--a thief!_ They call me _a thief!_--"

And she fell backward on the bed, sobbing as if her heart would burst.

Balthazar could stand this no longer: he fell upon his knees by the

side of the bed, and exclaimed in a voice of pity, as if he himself

was the accused instead of the accuser:

"Christina, my sister, my child, my daughter--look at me! I am on my

knees before you! I ask your forgiveness for the wrong I have done

you. No one will say anything, no one will do anything; it is all

over!--do you hear? I hope you do not wish to repay all the kindness

my mother and I have shown you by making me suffer all the tortures

of the damned! Well, then, I beg you to tell me what has become of

my little medallion--(I do not ask you where it is, you

understand?--I do not wish to know that, for I do not suspect you).

But if you do know where it is, I beg of you to help me find it. I

implore you by the love you bore my mother, whom you called your own,

I implore you to find it--this is all I want. My future happiness

depends on the recovery of this jewel--give me back my

medallion--please give me back my medallion."

"Oh!" answered Christina in despair, "I would give my life to be able

to tell you where it is!"

"Christina!"

"But I haven't got it; I haven't got it!" she cried, wringing her

hands.

Balthazar, exasperated, sprang to his feet: "But, wretched woman--"

Cornelius silenced him with a gesture, and Christina raised her hands

to her forehead.

"Ah!" she said, as she burst into a loud laugh, "when I am mad, this

farce will be ended, I suppose?"

And, overcome with emotion, she fell backward, hiding her face in the

pillow as if determined not to utter another word.

VIII

Cornelius dragged Balthazar out of the room; he staggered as though

he had been shot. In the other room they found M. Tricamp, who had

not been wasting his time. He had been cross-examining the old cook,

Gudule, who, most unceremoniously aroused by one of the officers, was

still half asleep.

"Come, come, my good woman," remarked M. Tricamp, "control yourself,

if you please!"

"Oh, my good master, my good master!" she exclaimed as Balthazar

entered the room accompanied by Cornelius. "What's the matter? They

dragged me out of bed, and they are asking me all kinds of questions!

For mercy's sake, tell me what it is all about!"

"Don't be alarmed, my good woman," said Balthazar kindly; "you have

nothing to do with all this. But I have been robbed and we are

looking for the thief."

"You have been robbed?"

"Yes."

"My God! I have lived in this house for over thirty years, and not

as much as a pin was ever stolen before! Oh, Mijnheer, why didn't

they wait until I was dead before they began their thieving!"

"Come, come, don't give way like that, my good woman," said M.

Tricamp.

"You will have to speak a little louder, Mijnheer; the woman is

deaf," remarked Balthazar.

"Now, I want to know whether you were in the house when the robbery

was committed?" continued M. Tricamp, raising his voice.

"But I never go out at all, Mijnheer."

"Didn't you go out at all this evening?"

"I wasn't outside the house; besides, it was very stormy, and at my

age one doesn't venture out in a blinding rainstorm for fun."

"Then you were in your room?"

"No, Mijnheer, I was in the kitchen most of the day, knitting by the

stove."

"And you never left the kitchen for a moment?"

"Not for a minute--until I went upstairs to bed."

"Is your eyesight good?"

"Mijnheer?" questioned Gudule, not having heard aright.

"I asked you if you had good eyes," repeated M. Tricamp.

"Oh! I can see all right, even if I am a little bit hard of hearing.

And I have a good memory, too--"

"So you have a good memory, eh? Then tell me who called here to-day."

"Oh, there was the postman; and a neighbor who called to borrow a

pie-plate--and Petersen who came to ask something of Christina."

"Indeed! And who is this Petersen?"

"A neighbor, Mijnheer; a night-watchman; my master knows him well."

"Yes," said Balthazar, addressing the sergeant, "he is a poor devil

who lost his wife a month ago, and his two little children are both

sick. We help the poor fellow from time to time."

"And this Petersen was in the house to-day?"

"No, Mijnheer," replied Gudule; "he only spoke to Christina from the

sidewalk."

"And what did he tell her?"

"I did not hear, Mijnheer."

"And did no one else call after him?"

Gudule asked him to repeat the question, then she replied:

"No one at all."

"And where was Christina while you were knitting?"

"Why, the dear child was looking after the cooking for me, as I was

too tired to move from my chair. She is so kind and obliging!"

"But she wasn't in the kitchen all the time?"

"No, Mijnheer, she retired to her own room toward evening."

"So you say she retired to her own room toward evening?"

"Yes, Mijnheer, to dress for supper."

"And--did she remain in her room a long time?"

"About an hour, Mijnheer."

"An hour?"

"Yes, fully an hour, Mijnheer."

"And you heard nothing during all this time?"

"I beg your pardon--"

"I asked you if you heard any noise--for instance, the sound of some

one hammering wood?"

"No, Mijnheer."

"Yes, gentlemen, she is as deaf as a door-post," said M. Tricamp,

turning toward the young men. Then he approached Gudule, and raising

his voice he added:

"I suppose the storm was at its height at this time?"

"Oh, yes, Mijnheer; I could hear the thunder plain enough."

"She has no doubt confounded the noise made by the thief, in breaking

in, with the roar of the elements," he muttered to himself. "And

then?" he asked of Gudule in a louder voice.

"And then, Mijnheer, night had fallen and the storm raged furiously;

master had not returned. I was terribly frightened. I got down on

my knees and said my prayers. Just then Christina came down from her

room; she was as white as a ghost, and was trembling all over. Then

the thunder burst overhead and deafened me--"

"Ah! then you noticed that she was nervous?"

"Certainly! And so was I; the storm frightened me almost to death.

Shortly after this, master knocked at the door, and Christina let him

in. Now, Mijnheer, this is all I know, as sure as I am an honest

woman."

"Don't cry, my good woman! I tell you that no one suspects you."

"But then, master, whom do they suspect? Merciful Father!" she

exclaimed, as the truth flashed upon her. "Then they accuse

Christina?"

No one answered her.

"Ah!" continued the old woman, "you do not answer me! Master, is

this true?"

"My poor Gudule!"

"And you let them accuse little Christina!" continued the old woman,

who would not be silenced. "That angel of kindness and loveliness

sent to us from Heaven!"

"Come, come, if it is not you it must be she," brutally interrupted

Tricamp.

"Oh, why don't they blame me? I am an old woman and have not long to

live; but this child is innocent and I won't let them touch a hair of

her head! Ah, Mijnheer Balthazar, do not let them touch Christina,

she is a sacred trust. Don't listen to that bad man--he is the cause

of all this trouble!"

M. Tricamp made a sign to his men, and they seized the old woman by

the arm. Gudule advanced a few steps, then fell on her knees near

the fireplace, weeping and bemoaning her fate. M. Tricamp then

ordered his men not to disturb the woman as she knelt there offering

up a prayer to Heaven that Christina should not suffer for a crime

committed by another.

IX

"You see," remarked the agent of police, turning toward Cornelius,

"that no one has called here whom we might have cause to

suspect--neither the postman, the neighbor, or that fellow Petersen.

It therefore remains between the old woman and the young girl; and,

as I do not believe the old one is sufficiently active to perform

gymnastics, I beg you to draw your own conclusions."

"Oh, do not ask me to form an opinion; I really do not know what to

think; it seems as if it were all a frightful nightmare!"

"I don't know whether it is a dream, but it strikes me that I am

pretty wide awake, and that I reason remarkably well."

"Yes, yes," said Cornelius, pacing nervously up and down the room,

"you reason remarkably well!"

"And my suppositions are logical enough."

"Yes, yes, very logical."

"And so far I have not made a single error. Therefore, you must

admit that the young girl is guilty."

"Well, then, no!" eagerly replied Cornelius, looking the sergeant

square in the face. "No! I will never believe her guilty, unless

she says so herself! And God knows--she might declare that she is

guilty, and yet I would protest that she is innocent!"

"But," objected the sergeant, "what proofs can you produce? I, at

least, have proven the truth of my assertions."

"Ah! I know nothing, I can prove nothing," replied Cornelius, "and

everything you have said, every proof you have produced, is not to be

disputed--"

"Well, then?"

"But my conscience revolts against your assertions nevertheless, and

something seems to cry out: 'No, no; her dear face, her despair, her

agony, are not those of a guilty wretch, and I swear that she is

innocent! I can't prove it--but still I am sure of it, and I will

assert it in the face of the most damaging evidence!' Oh, do not

listen to her accusers! They will lie away the future of a noble

girl! Their logic is born of earthly evidence--mine comes direct

from Heaven, and is therefore true!"

"Then--"

"Do not heed them," continued Cornelius, whose excitement was now

tense; "and remember that when your pride is ready to dispute the

existence of a God something within you cries out to affirm _that He

does exist_! And now, since this voice proclaims the innocence of

the girl, how could I suspect her?"

"If the police reasoned like that, criminals would have an easy time

of it."

"Oh, I will not attempt to convince you," added Cornelius; "continue

your work! Go on with your search for evidence, and pile your proofs

one upon the other in your efforts to crush this unfortunate child.

On the other hand, I will begin my search to discover the proofs of

her innocence!"

"Then I would advise you not to include this among the latter."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I found this black pearl--"

"Where?"

"In her bureau drawer."

"Yes, my friend," interrupted Balthazar, "he found it in my presence

in her drawer."

Cornelius eagerly seized the pearl. The proof was so convincing that

he no longer knew what to believe. The miserable little pearl burned

his hand as though it were a red-hot coal--he looked at it

instinctively without being able to see it--and yet he could not

remove his eyes from this bit of damning evidence! Balthazar took

him by the hand, but Cornelius did not appear to notice him. He

never removed his eyes from the pearl, yet the sight of it filled him

with horror.

"Cornelius!" exclaimed Balthazar, now thoroughly alarmed; but

Cornelius pushed him roughly aside, and leaned over so as to obtain a

better view of the pearl.

"What's the matter with you, Cornelius?" Balthazar asked again.

"Get out of my way!" and he once more pushed his friend aside as he

rushed to the open window.

Balthazar and Tricamp exchanged a knowing glance--while Cornelius,

feverish with excitement, rushed into the study.

"He has gone mad!" grumbled M. Tricamp as he followed him with his

eyes. "Will you permit me to give a drink of curaçoa to my men? It

is daylight now, and the air is somewhat chilly."

"With pleasure. There is the bottle; let the men help themselves."

Tricamp then left the room. As Balthazar turned around, he perceived

old Gudule still kneeling in the corner. A moment later he had

rejoined Cornelius in the study.

Cornelius was examining the handle of the knife with the greatest

attention. This scrutiny lasted several minutes; then, without

offering a word of explanation, he mounted a chair and proceeded to

examine the piece of broken wire.

"Where is the bell?" he suddenly demanded of Balthazar, who really

believed that his friend had taken leave of his senses.

"In the hallway."

Cornelius pulled the wire a number of times, but the bell did not

ring.

"Ah! she did not overlook anything; she has removed the tongue!"

remarked Balthazar with a sneer.

Cornelius, still as silent as a sphinx, continued his examination of

the wire; it passed through a little tin tube about the size of a

putty-blower; the wire moved freely in this groove, therefore there

was nothing out of gear in that direction.

"Now, look at the bell and tell me if it rings when I pull the wire."

Balthazar went out into the hall and did as directed.

"Does it move?" called out Cornelius.

"Just a little," answered Balthazar, "but it can't ring because the

bell is turned upside down, with the tongue in the air."

"Good! We will look into that later. Now, steady the secrétaire

while I get up there."

Then, with the assistance of the knife, Cornelius drew himself up

painfully to where the paper had been removed, as if he desired to

test the practicability of such an ascension.

Just then Gudule set up a frightful howl outside; Balthazar left his

friend in mid-air while he ran out to see what was the matter.

"Oh, master," she cried; "she has just escaped!"

"Christina?"

"Yes, Mijnheer, I saw her as she fled through the garden. Make haste

and follow her before it is too late!"

"The little serpent!" exclaimed M. Tricamp; "she was playing 'possum

then, after all. Now, then, my lads, let me see how soon you will

catch her."

All the officers started off, with Tricamp at their head; while

Balthazar ran into the young girl's room, to assure himself that she

was no longer there.

Instead of Christina, Balthazar was confronted by Cornelius, who had

entered the room through the opening in the partition.

"That's right! Look for her, my friend. You must now admit that she

is guilty, as she has just run away."

"I tell you that she is innocent," exclaimed Cornelius as his eyes

flashed fire; "we alone are guilty--for we have wrongfully accused an

innocent person!"

"You must be mad!"

"You will not say so after I have proven to you that I know the name

of the thief," continued Cornelius as he smiled sarcastically at the

doubts expressed on Balthazar's countenance. "And I am going to tell

you how he entered and how he went out! In the first place, he did

not come in by this window, nor by that opening; he simply glided

down your chimney, and, via the fireplace, reached your study."

"You say that the thief entered my study by the chimney?"

"Certainly! And as he is celebrated for his weakness for metals, his

first move was to gather your gold and your silver; then he forced

the steel lock of your portfolio and the iron lock of your

secrétaire, and gathering together your florins, your ducats, and

your jewels, he carried them off, leaving your knife as a memento of

his little visit. From the study, he jumped into the room of this

unfortunate child, dashing through the woodwork and paper in his mad

flight, and dropping the pearl in this drawer as he passed through

here.--And if you want to know what has become of your medallion,

look!"

He drew aside the curtains of the bed and pointed to the little

copper crucifix suspended on the wall, and which was now completely

gilded in melted gold.

"This is what he did with your medallion!"

And, plunging his hand into the receptacle for the holy water, he

drew out the glass covers of the medallion, which were molded

together with the flower in the centre.

"And this is what he did with the rest!"

Balthazar gazed upon his friend with astonishment. He did not know

what to expect next.

"And now, if you want to know how he went out," continued Cornelius

as he dragged him to the window, "look!"

He pointed to the top pane of the window, which was pierced by a

little hole about the size of a cent.

"But what does all this mean!" exclaimed Balthazar, who began to

believe that he, too, was taking leave of his senses. "Who did this?"

"Why, you fool! Can't you see that _the house has been struck by

lightning_!"

Balthazar might have been struck by lightning, too, for that matter,

as he was more dead than alive, when he at last realized how they had

all been deceived by the hand of Nature. A loud noise was heard

outside. They both rushed to the window and looked out.

A crowd surrounded the house as four officers, carrying a stretcher,

on which Christina was lying, entered the front door!

X

The poor child, in her despair, had thrown herself into the Amstel,

but Petersen the night-watchman, like the brave lad that he was, had

sprung into the water and pulled her out.

After she had been put to bed, and had received a visit from a

physician, who prescribed plenty of rest and quiet, M. Tricamp

approached the young men.

"As the young girl is not in a condition to be removed to-day, my men

and I will retire."

"Why, hasn't Cornelius told you? Christina is innocent and we know

the thief."

"The thief!" exclaimed M. Tricamp, "and who is it?"

"Why, the lightning, of course!" laughingly replied Balthazar.

M. Tricamp opened his eyes in amazement, as he repeated:

"The lightning?"

"Why, naturally!" replied Cornelius. "You apply the study of

psychology in your criminal researches, while I employ my knowledge

of meteorology--that's the only difference in our methods."

"And you pretend to say that all this was caused by lightning?"

demanded M. Tricamp, who was losing his temper.

"Why, all this is as nothing when compared with some of the capers

lightning has been known to cut. How about the tack it tears up from

the carpet and drives through a mirror without cracking the glass;

and the key it takes out of the lock and conceals in the ice-box; and

the package of cigarettes it delicately removes from the bronze

ash-receiver which it has ignited; and the silver it volatilizes

through the silken meshes of a purse without damaging the latter; and

the needles it magnetizes so thoroughly that they run after a hammer;

and the pretty little hole it made in Christina's window; and the

wallpaper it so deftly disarranged to furnish you with your wonderful

clue; and this medallion, the glass of which it melted without

injuring in the least the flower it contained, thus forming the most

beautiful specimen of enamel I have ever seen, and making a finer

wedding gift than the most skilled artist could have turned out; and

finally, the gold of the medallion which gilded Christina's crucifix!"

"Humbug!" protested M. Tricamp, "it is impossible! And how about the

package! The package she was seen to hand a man from out the window?"

"The man is here to answer that question himself!"--and a perfect

colossus entered the room.

"Petersen!"

"At your service. And the package contained some old dresses for my

little children."

"Old clothes, that's excellent!" replied Tricamp, who was fairly

boiling over with rage. "But how about the gold, and the silver, the

ducats and the florins, and the other jewels; where are they?"

"Zounds!" exclaimed Cornelius, striking his forehead; "that reminds

me--"

He sprang on the table, and reaching up to the overturned bell, he

suddenly exclaimed:

"Here they are!"

A huge ingot of gold, silver, and jewels fell on the floor from the

bell, together with the tongue of the bell, which had been detached,

the whole being melted solidly together.

M. Tricamp picked up the ingot and examined it carefully.

"But tell me," he asked, "what put you on the track?"

Cornelius smiled as he replied:

"This black pearl, Mijnheer, which you handed to me, defying me to

prove Christina's innocence in the face of such evidence."

"The black pearl!"

"Exactly, Mijnheer! Do you see this little white speck? Well, that

was caused by electricity! And, thanks to this little speck, I have

succeeded in saving the honor of a fellow-being."

"You must accept my congratulations," said he, bowing humbly; "the

man of science is more far-sighted than the police, and in future I

intend to add the study of natural philosophy and meteorology to my

other acquirements. Were it not for this undoubted proof I might

have committed a still more serious error. I actually began to

suspect that you were her accomplice."

And then M. Tricamp withdrew, in order not to show his embarrassment,

and Gudule rushed in to say that Christina was better and had heard

everything through the partition.

"My little Christina," said Balthazar as he knelt by her bedstead a

little later, "if you do not want to make me unhappy pray do not

refuse to accept this little token of my esteem."

And he placed the ingot of melted gold and jewels on the bed.

Christina hesitated.

"Oh, you must take it, for you need a dower--" exclaimed Balthazar as

he pressed her hand.

"That is, if you will accept me for a husband?" added Cornelius.

Christina did not reply, but she gave the man who had saved her honor

a look which certainly did not mean--No.

THE PRISONER OF ASSIOUT

BY GRANT ALLEN

_Charles Grant Blairfindie Allen (born 1848, died 1899) was a

Canadian of Irish descent. Beginning as a writer of popular

scientific and historical works, he gradually entered the field of

fiction, publishing a number of notable novels, among which may be

mentioned: "Philistia"; "The Devil's Die"; "The Woman Who Did"; and

"A Bride from the Desert." The present tale, so Oriental in its

feeling, is a convincing illustration of the versatility of the

author's genius._

THE PRISONER OF ASSIOUT

By GRANT ALLEN

It was a sultry December day at Medinet Habu. Gray haze spread dim

over the rocks in the desert. The arid red mountains twinkled and

winked through the heated air. I was weary with climbing the great

dry ridge from the Tombs of the Kings. I sat on the broken arm of a

shattered granite Rameses. My legs dangled over the side of that

colossal fragment. In front of me vast colonnades stood out clear

and distinct against the hot, white sky. Beyond lay bare hills; in

the distance, to the left, the muddy Nile, amid green fields, gleamed

like a thin silver thread in the sunlight.

A native, in a single dirty garment, sat sunning himself on a

headless sphinx hard by. He was carving a watermelon with his

knife--thick, red, ripe, juicy. I eyed it hard. With a gesture of

Oriental politeness, he offered me a slice. It was too tempting to

refuse, that baking hot day, in that rainless land, though I knew

acceptance meant ten times its worth in the end in bakshish.

"Arabi?" I asked inquiringly of my Egyptian friend, which is, being

interpreted, "Are you a Mussulman?"

He shook his head firmly, and pointed with many nods to the tiny blue

cross tattooed on his left wrist. "Nusráni," he answered, with a

look of some pride. I smiled my acquiescence. He was a Nazarene, a

Christian.

In a few minutes' time we had fallen into close talk of Egypt, past

and present; the bad old days; the British occupation; the effect of

strong government on the condition of fellahin. To the Christian

population of the Nile valley, of course, the advent of the English

has been a social revolution. For ages downtrodden, oppressed,

despised, these Coptic schismatics at last find themselves suddenly,

in the ends of the earth, co-religionists with the new ruling class

in the country, and able to boast themselves in many ways over their

old Moslem masters.

I speak but little colloquial Arabic myself, though I understand it

with ease when it is spoken, so the conversation between us was

necessarily somewhat one-sided. But my Egyptian friend soon grew

voluble enough for two, and the sight of the piastres laid in his

dusky palm loosed the strings of his tongue to such an alarming

extent that I began to wonder before long whether I should ever get

back again to the Luxor Hotel in time for dinner.

"Ah, yes, excellency," my Copt said slowly, when I asked him at last

about the administration of justice under Ismail's rule, "things were

different then, before the English came, as Allah willed it. It was

stick, stick, stick every month of the year. No prayers availed; we

were beaten for everything. If a fellah didn't pay his taxes when

crops were bad, he was lashed till he found them; if he was a

Christian, and offended the least Moslem official, he was stripped to

the skin, and ruthlessly bastinadoed. And then, for any

insubordination, it was death outright--hanging or beheading, slash,

so, with a simitar." And my companion brought his hand round in a

whirl with swishing force, as if he were decapitating some unseen

criminal on the bare sand before him.

"The innocent must often have been punished with the guilty," I

remarked, in my best Arabic, looking vaguely across at him.

"Ah, yes," he assented, smiling. "So Allah ordained. But sometimes,

even then, the saints were kind; we got off unexpectedly. I could

tell you a strange story that once happened to myself." His eyes

twinkled hard. "It was a curious adventure," he went on; "the

effendi might like, perhaps, to hear it. I was condemned to death,

and all but executed. It shows the wonderful ways of Allah."

These Coptic Christians, indeed, speaking Arabic as they do, and

living so constantly among a Mussulman population, have imbibed many

Mahomedan traits of thought, besides the mere accident of language,

such as speaking of the Christian God as Allah. Fatalism has taken

as strong a hold of their minds as of Islam itself. "Say on," I

answered lightly, drawing a cigarette from my case. "A story is

always of interest to me, my friend. It brings grist to the mill. I

am a man of the pen. I write down in books all the strange things

that are told me."

My Egyptian smiled again. "Then this tale of mine," he said, showing

all his white teeth, and brushing away the flies from his sore eye as

he spoke, "should be worth you money, for it's as strange as any of

the Thousand and One Nights men tell for hire at Cairo. It happened

to me near Assiout, in Ismail's days. I was a bold young man

then--too bold for Egypt. My father had a piece of ground by the

river side that was afterward taken from us by Ismail for the Daira.

"In our village lived a Sheikh, a very hard man; a Mussulman, an

Arab, a descendant of the Prophet. He was the greatest Sheik for

miles and miles around. He had a large white house, with green

blinds to the windows, while all the rest of us in his government

lived in mud-built huts, round and low like beehives. He had date

palms, very many, and doums, and doura patches. Camels were his, and

buffaloes, and asses, and cows; 'twas a very rich man; oh, so rich

and powerful. When he went forth to town he rode on a great white

mule. And he had a harem, too; three wives of his own, who were

beautiful as the day--so girls who had seen them said, for as for us,

we saw them not--plump women every one of them, as the Khedive's at

Cairo, with eyes like a gazelle's, marked round with kohl, and their

nails stained red every day with henna. All the world said the

Sheikh was a happy man, for he had the finest dates of the country to

eat, and servants and camels in plenty to do his bidding.

"Now, there was a girl in our village, a Nusráni like me, a beautiful

young girl; and her name was Laila. Her eyes were like those of that

child there--Zanobi--who carries the effendi's water-gourd on her

head, and her cheeks were round and soft as a grape after the

inundation. I meant to wed her; and she liked me well. In the

evening we sat and talked together under the whispering palm-trees.

But when the time drew near for me to marry her, and I had arranged

with her parents, there came a message from the Sheikh. He had seen

the girl by the river as she went down to draw water with her face

unveiled, and though she was a Nusráni, she fired his soul, and he

wished to take her away from me to put her into his harem.

"When I heard that word I tore my clothes in my rage, and, all

Christian that I was, and of no account with the Moslems, I went up

to the Sheikh's house in a very white anger, and I fell on my face

and asked leave to see him.

"The Sheikh sat in his courtyard, inside his house, and gave audience

to all men, after the fashion of Islam. I entered and spoke to him.

'Oh, Sheikh,' I said boldly, 'Allah and the Khedive have prospered

you with exceeding great prosperity. You have oxen and asses,

buffaloes and camels, men-servants and maid-servants, much millet and

cotton and corn and sugar-cane; you drink Frank wine every day of

your life, and eat the fat of the land; and your harem is full of

beautiful women. Now in the village where I live is a Nusráni girl,

whose name is Laila. Her eyes are bright toward mine, and I love her

as the thirsty land loves water. Yet, hear, O Sheikh; word is

brought me now that you wish to take this girl, who is mine; and I

come to plead with you to-day as Nathan the Prophet pleaded with

David, the King of the Beni Israel. If you take away from me my

Laila, my one ewe lamb--'

"But, at the word, the Sheikh rose up, and clenched his fist, and was

very angry. 'Who is this dog,' he asked, 'that he should dare to

dictate to me?' He called to his slaves that waited on his nod.

'Take this fellow,' he cried in his anger, 'and tie him hand and

foot, and flog him as I bid on his naked back, that he may know,

being a Christian, an infidel dog, not to meddle with the domestic

affairs of Moslems. It were well he were made acquainted with his

own vileness by the instrumentality of a hundred lashes. And go

to-morrow and bring Laila to me, and take care that this Copt shall

never again set eyes on her!'

"Well, effendi, at the words, three strong Arabs seized me--fierce

sons of the desert--and bound me hand and foot, and beat me with a

hundred lashes of the kurbash till my soul was sick and faint within

me. I swooned with the disgrace and with the severity of the blows.

And I was young in those days. And I was very angry.

"That night I went home to my own mud hut, with black blood in my

heart, and took counsel with my brother Sirgeh how I should avenge

this insult. But first I sent word by my brother to Laila's hut that

Laila's father should bring her to meet us in the dusk, in very great

secrecy, by the bank of the river. In the gray twilight she came

down. A dahabiah was passing, and in it was a foreigner, a very

great prince, an American prince of great wealth and wisdom. I

remember his name even. Perhaps the effendi knows him. He was Cyrus

P. Quackenboss, and he came from Cincinnati."

"I have not the honor," I answered, smiling at this very unexpected

Western intrusion.

"Well, anyhow," my Copt continued, unheeding my smile, "we hailed the

dahabiah, and made the American prince understand how the matter

stood. He was very kind. We were brother Christians. He took Laila

on board, and promised to deliver her safe to her aunt at Karnak, so

that the Sheikh might not know where the girl was gone, nor send to

fetch her. And the counsel I took next with my brother was this: In

the dead of night I rose up from my hut, and put a mask of white

linen over the whole of my face to conceal my features, and stole out

alone, with a thick stick in my hands, and went to the Sheikh's

house, down by the bank of the river. As I went, the jackals prowled

around the village for food, and the owls from the tombs flitted high

in the moonlight.

"I broke into the Sheikh's room by the flat-roofed outhouse that led

to his window, and I locked the door; and there, before the Sheikh

could rouse his household, I beat him, blow for blow, within an inch

of his life, in revenge for my own beating, and because of his

injustice in trying to take my Laila from me. The Sheikh was a

powerful man, with muscles like iron, and he grappled me hard, and

tried to wrench the stick from me, and bruised me about the body by

flinging me on the ground; and I was weak with my beating, and very

sore all over. But still, being by nature a strong young man, very

fierce with anger, I fought him hard, and got him under in the end,

and thwacked him till he was as black and blue as I myself was, one

mass of bruises from head to foot with my cudgeling. Then, just as

his people succeeded in forcing the door, I jumped out of the window

upon the flat-roofed outhouse, and leaped lightly to the ground, and

darted like a jackal across the open cotton-fields and between the

plots of doura to my own little hut on the outskirts of the village.

I reached there panting, and I knew the Sheikh would kill me for my

daring.

"Next morning, early, the Sheikh sent to arrest me. He was blind

with rage and with the effect of the blows: his face was livid, and

his cheeks purple. 'By the beard of the Prophet, Athanasio,' he said

to me, hitting me hard on the cheek--my name is Athanasio, effendi,

after our great patriarch--'your blood shall flow for this, you dog

of a Christian. You dare to assault the wearer of a green turban, a

prince in Islam, a descendant of the Prophet! You shall suffer for

it, you cur! Your base blood shall flow for it!'

"I cast myself down, like a slave, on the ground before him--though I

hated him like sin: for it is well to abase one's self in due time

before the face of authority. Besides, by that time, Laila was safe,

and that was all I cared about. 'Suffer for what, O my Sheikh?' I

cried, as though I knew not what he meant. 'What have I done to your

Excellency? Who has told you evil words concerning your poor

servant? Who has slandered me to my lord, that he is so angry

against me?'

"'Take him away!' roared the Sheikh to the three strong Arabs.

'Carry him off to be tried before the Cadi at Assiout.'

"For even in Ismail's days, you see, effendi, before the English

came, the Sheikh himself would not have dared to put me to death

untried. The power of life and death lay with the Cadi at Assiout.

"So they took me to Assiout, into the mosque of Ali, where the Cadi

sat at the seat of judgment and arraigned me before him a week later.

There the Sheikh appeared, end bore witness against me. Those who

spoke for me pleaded that, as the Sheikh himself admitted, the man

who broke into his room, and banged himself so hard, had his face

covered with a linen cloth; how, then, could the Sheikh, in the hurry

and the darkness, be sure he recognized me? Perhaps it was some

other who took this means to ruin me. But the Sheikh, for his part

swore by Allah, and by the Holy Stone of the Kaaba at Mecca, that he

saw me distinctly, and knew it was I. The moonlight through the

window revealed my form to him. And who else in the village but me

had a grudge against his justice?

"The Cadi was convinced. The Cadi gave judgment. I was guilty of

rebellion against the Sheikh and against ul-Islam; and, being a dog

of a Christian, unworthy even to live, his judgment was that after

three days' time I should be beheaded in the prison court of Assiout.

"You may guess, effendi, whether or not I was anxious. But Laila was

safe; and to save my girl from that wretch's harem I was ready, for

my part, to endure anything.

"Two nights long I lay awake and thought strange things by myself in

the whitewashed cells of the jail at Assiout. The governor of the

prison, who was a European--an Italian, he called himself--and a

Christian of Roum, of those who obey the Pope, was very kind indeed

to me. He knew me before (for I had worked in his fields), and was

sorry when I told him the tale about Laila. But what would you have?

Those were Ismail's days. It was the law of Islam. He could not

prevent it.

"On the third evening, my brother came round to the prison to see me.

He came with many tears in his eyes, bringing evil tidings. My poor

old father, he said, was dying at home with grief. They didn't

expect he would live till morning. And Laila, too, had stolen back

from Karnak unperceived, and was hiding in the village. She wished

to see me just once before I died. But if she came to the prison,

the Sheikh would find her out, and carry her off in triumph to his

own harem.

"Would the governor give me leave to go home just that one night, to

bid farewell to Laila and to my dying father?

"Now, the governor, excellency, was a very humane man. And though he

was a Christian of Roum, not a Copt like us, he was kind to the Copts

as his brother Christians. He pondered awhile to himself, and roped

his mustache thus; then he said to me:

"'Athanasio, you are an honest man; the execution is fixed for eight

by the clock to-morrow morning. If I give you leave to go home to

your father to-night, will you pledge me your word of honor before

St. George and the Saints, to return before seven?'

"'Effendi,' I said, kissing his feet, 'you are indeed a good man. I

swear by the mother of God and all the Saints that dwell in heaven,

that if you let me go I will come back again a full hour before the

time fixed for the execution.' And I meant it, too, for I only

wished before I died to say good-by once more to Laila.

"Well, the governor took me secretly into his own house, and telling

me many times over that he trusted to my honor, and would lose his

place if it were known he had let me go, he put me forth, with my

brother, by his own private door, making me swear on no account to be

late for the execution.

"As soon as I got outside, I said to my brother: 'Tell me, Sirgeh, at

whose house is Laila?'

"And my brother answered and smiled, 'Laila is still at Karnak, where

we sent her for safety, and our father is well. But I have a plan

for your escape that I think will serve you.'

"'Never!' I cried, horror-struck, 'if I am to break my word of honor

to the governor of the prison.'

"'That isn't it,' he made reply. 'I have a plan of my own which I

will proceed in words to make clear before you.'

"What happened next would be long to relate, effendi." But I noticed

that the fellah's eyes twinkled as he spoke, like one who passes over

of set purpose an important episode. "All I need tell you now is,

that the whole night through the good governor lay awake, wondering

whether or not I would come home to time, and blaming himself in his

heart for having given such leave to a mere condemned criminal.

Still, effendi, though I am but poor, I am a man of honor. As the

clock struck six in the prison court next morning, I knocked at the

governor's window with the appointed signal; and the governor rose,

and let me into my cell, and praised me for my honor, and was well

pleased to see me. 'I knew, Athanasio,' he said, roping his mustache

once more, 'you were a man to be trusted.'

"At eight o'clock they took me out into the courtyard. The

executioner was there already, a great black Nubian, with a very

sharp simitar. It was terrible to look around; I was greatly

frightened. 'Surely,' said I to myself, 'the bitterness of death is

past. But Laila is saved; and I die for Laila.'

"I knelt down and bent my head. I feared, after all, no respite was

coming. The executioner stood forth and raised the simitar in his

hand. I almost thought I heard it swish through the air; I saw the

bright gleam of the blade as it descended. But just at that moment,

as the executioner delayed, a loud commotion arose in the outer

court. I raised my head and listened. We heard a voice cry, 'In

Allah's name, let me in. There must be no execution!' The gates

opened wide, and into the inner courtyard there strode with long

strides a great white mule, and on its back, scarcely able to sit up,

a sorry figure!

"He was wrapped round in bandages, and swathed from head to foot like

a man sore wounded. His face was bruised, and his limbs swollen.

But he upheld one hand in solemn warning, and in a loud voice again

he cried to the executioner, 'In Allah's name, Hassan, let there be

no execution!'

"The lookers-on, to right and left, raised a mighty cry, and called

out with one voice, 'The Sheikh! The Sheikh! Who can have thus

disfigured him?'

"But the Sheikh himself came forward in great pain, like one whose

bones ache, and, dismounting from the mule, spoke aloud to the

governor. 'In Allah's name,' he said, trembling, 'let this man go;

he is innocent. I swore to him falsely, though I believed it to be

true. For see, last night, about twelve o'clock, the self-same dog

who broke into my house before, entered my room, with violence,

through the open window. He carried in his hands the self-same stick

as last time, and had his face covered, as ever, with a linen cloth.

And I knew by his figure and his voice he was the very same dog that

had previously beaten me. But before I could cry aloud to rouse the

house, the infidel had fallen upon me once more and thwacked me, as

you see, within an inch of my life, and covered me with bruises, and

then bid me take care how I accused innocent people like Athanasio of

hurting me. And after that he jumped through the open window and

went away once more. And I was greatly afraid, fearing the wrath of

Allah, if I let this man Athanasio be killed in his stead, though he

is but an infidel. And I rose and saddled my mule very early, and

rode straight into Assiout, to tell you and the Cadi I had borne

false witness, and to save myself from the guilt of an innocent soul

on my shoulders.'

"Then all the people around cried out with one voice, 'A miracle! a

miracle!' And the Sheikh stood trembling beside, with faintness and

with terror.

"But the governor drew me a few paces apart.

"'Athanasio, you rascal,' he said, half laughing, 'it is you that

have done this thing! It is you that have assaulted him! You got

out last night on your word of honor on purpose to play this scurvy

trick upon us!'

"'Effendi,' I made answer, bowing low, 'life is sweet; he beat me,

unjustly, first, and he would have taken my Laila from me. Moreover,

I swear to you, by St. George and the mother of God, when I left the

prison last night I really believed my father was dying.'

"The governor laughed again. 'Well, you can go, you rogue,' he said.

'The Cadi will soon come round to deliver you. But I advise you to

make yourself scarce as fast as you can, for sooner or later this

trick of yours may be discovered. _I_ can't tell upon you, or I

would lose my place. But you may be found out, for all that. Go, at

once, up the river.'

"That is my hut that you see over yonder, effendi, where Laila and I

live. The Sheikh is dead. And the English are now our real lords in

Egypt."

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE

BY S. R. CROCKETT

_Samuel Rutherford Crockett was born in Duchral, Galloway, Scotland,

in 1860, and was educated in Edinburgh, Heidelberg, and New College,

Oxford. He became a minister of the Free Church of Scotland in 1886.

His successful stories include: "The Stickit Minister"; "The

Play-Actress"; "The Men of the Moss Hags"; "Cleg Kelly"; "The Gray

Man"; "The Red Axe"; "The Black Douglas"; "The Silver Skull"; "The

Dark o' the Moon"; "Flower o' the Corn"; and "Red Cap Tales."_

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE

By S. R. CROCKETT

"Rise, Robin, rise! The partans are on the sands!"

The crying at our little window raised me out of a sound sleep, for I

had been out seeing the lasses late the night before, and was far

from being wakerife at two by the clock on a February morning.

It was the first time the summons had come to me, for I was but

young. Hitherto it was my brother John who had answered the raising

word of the free-traders spoken at the window. But now John had a

farmsteading of his own, thanks to Sir William and to my father's

siller that had paid for the stock.

So with all speed I did my clothes upon me, with much eagerness and a

beating heart--as who would not when, for the first time, he has the

privilege of man. As I went out to the barn I could hear my mother

(with whom I was ever a favorite) praying for me.

"Save the laddie--save the laddie!" she said over and over.

And I think my father prayed too; but, as I went, he also cried to me

counsels.

"Be sure you keep up the chains--dinna let them clatter till ye hae

the stuff weel up the hill. The Lord keep ye! Be a guid lad an'

ride honestly. Gin ye see Sir William, keep your head doon, an' gae

by withoot lookin'. He's a magistrate, ye ken. But he'll no' see

you, gin ye dinna see him. Leave twa ankers a-piece o' brandy an'

rum at our dike back. An' abune a', the Lord be wi' ye, an' bring ye

safe back to your sorrowing parents!"

So, with pride, I did the harness graith upon the sonsy back of Brown

Bess--the pad before where I was to sit--the lintow and the hooked

chains behind. I had a cutlas, the jockteleg, or smuggler's

sheaf-knife, and a pair of brass-mounted pistols ready swung in my

leathern belt. Faith, but I wish Bell of the Mains could have seen

me now, ready to ride with the light-horsemen. She would never scorn

me more for a lingle-backed callant, I'se warrant.

"Haste ye, Robin! Heard ye no that the partans are on the sands?"

It was Geordie of the Clone who cried to me. He meant the

free-traders from the Isle, rolling the barrels ashore.

"I am e'en as ready as ye are yoursel'!" I gave him answer, for I was

not going to let him boast himself prideful all because he had ridden

out with them once or twice before. Besides, his horse and

accoutrement were not one half so good as mine. For my father was an

honest and well-considered man, and in good standing with the laird

and the minister, so that he could afford to do things handsomely.

We made haste to ride along the heuchs, which are very high, steep,

and rocky at this part of the coast.

And at every loaning-end we heard the clinking of the smugglers'

chains, and I thought the sound a livening and a merry one.

"A fair guide-e'en, young Airyolan!" cried one to me, as we came by

Killantrae. And I own the name was sweet to my ears. For it was the

custom to call men by the names of their farms, and Airyolan was my

father's name by rights. But mine for the night, because in my hands

was the honor of the house.

Ere we got down to the Clone, we could hear, all about in the

darkness, athwart and athwart, the clattering of chains, the stir of

many horses, and the voices of men.

Black Taggart was in with his lugger, the "Sea Pyet," and such a

cargo as the Clone men had never run--so ran the talk on every side.

There was not a sleeping wife or a man left indoors in all the parish

of Mochrum, except only the laird and the minister.

By the time that we got down by the shore there was quite a company

of the Men of the Fells, as the shore men called us--all dour, swack,

determined fellows.

"Here come the hill nowt!" said one of the village men, as he caught

sight of us. I knew him for a limber-tongued, ill-livered loon from

the Port, so I delivered him a blow fair and solid between the eyes,

and he dropped without a gurgle. This was to learn him how to speak

to innocent strangers.

Then there was a turmoil indeed, to speak about, for all the men of

the laigh shore crowded about, and knives were drawn. But I cried,

"Corwald, Mochrum, Chippermore, here to me!" And all the stout lads

came about me.

Nevertheless, it looked black for a moment, as the shore men waved

their torches in our faces, and yelled fiercely at us to put us down

by fear.

Then a tall young man on a horse rode straight at the crowd which had

gathered about the loon I had felled. He had a mask over his face

which sometimes slipped awry. But, in spite of the disguise, he

seemed perfectly well known to all there.

"What have we here?" he asked, in a voice of questioning that had

also the power of command in it.

"'Tis these Men of the Fells that have stricken down Jock Webster of

the Port, Maister William!" said one of the crowd.

Then I knew the laird's son, and did my duty to him, telling him of

my provocation, and how I had only given the rascal strength of arm.

"And right well you did," said Maister William, "for these dogs would

swatter in the good brandy, but never help to carry it to the caves,

or bring the well-graithed horses to the shore-side! Carry the loon

away, and stap him into a heather hole till he come to."

So that was all the comfort they got for their tale-telling.

"And you, young Airyolan," said Maister William, "that are so ready

with your strength of arm--there is even a job that you may do.

Muckle Jock, the Preventive man, rides to-night from Isle of

Whithorn, where he has been warning the cutter. Do you meet him and

keep him from doing himself an injury."

"And where shall I meet him, Maister William?" I asked of the young

laird.

"Oh, somewhere on the heuch-taps," said he, carelessly; "and see,

swing these on your horse and leave them at Myrtoun on the bygoing."

He called a man with a torch, who came and stood over me, while I

laid on Brown Bess a pair of small casks of some fine liqueur, of

which more than ordinary care was to be taken, and also a few

packages of soft goods, silks and laces as I deemed.

"Take these to the Loch Yett, and ca' Sandy Fergus to stow them for

ye. Syne do your work with the Exciseman as he comes hame. Gar him

bide till the sun be at its height to-morrow. And a double share o'

the plunder shall be lyin' in the hole at a back of the dike at

Airyolan, when ye ride hame the morn at e'en."

So I bade him a good-night, and rode my ways over the fields and

across many burns to Myrtoun. As I went I looked back, and there,

below me, was a strange sight--all the little harbor of the Clone

lighted up, a hurrying of men down to the shore, the flickering of

torches, and the lappering of the sea making a stir of gallant life

that set the blood to leaping in the veins. It was, indeed, I

thought, worth while living to be a free-trader. Far out, I could

see the dark spars of the lugger, "Sea Pyet," and hear the casks and

ankers dumping into the boats alongside.

Then I began to bethink me that I had a more desperate ploy than any

of them that were down there. For they were many, and I was only

one. Moreover, easily as young Maister William might say, "Meet

Muckle Jock and keep him till the morn at noon!" the matter was not

so easy as supping one's porridge.

Now, I had never seen the Exciseman, but my brother had played at the

cudgels with Jock before this. So I knew more of him than to suppose

that he would bide for the bidding of one man when in the way of his

duty.

When the young laird went away he slipped me a small, heavy packet.

"Half for you and half for the gauger, gin he hears reason," he said.

By the weight and the jingle I judged it to be yellow Geordies, the

best thing that the wee, wee German lairdie ever sent Tory Mochrum.

And not too plenty there, either! Though since the Clone folk did so

well with the clean-run smuggling from the blessed Isle of Man, it is

true that there are more of the Geordies than there used to be.

So I rode round by the back of the White Loch, for Sir William had a

habit of daunering over by the Airlour and Barsalloch, and in my

present ride I had no desire to meet with him.

Yet, as fate would have it, I was not to win clear that night. I had

not ridden more than half-way round the loch when Brown Bess went

floundering into a moss-hole, which are more plenty than paved roads

in that quarter. And what with the weight of the pack, and her

struggling, we threatened to go down altogether. When I thought of

what my father would say, if I went home with my finger in my mouth,

and neither Black Bess nor yet a penny's-worth to the value of her, I

was fairly a-sweat with fear. I cried aloud for help, for there were

cot-houses near by. And, as I had hoped, in a little a man came out

of the shadows of the willow bushes.

"What want ye, yochel?" said he, in a mightily lofty tone.

"I'll 'yochel' ye, gin I had time. Pu' on that rope," I said, for my

spirit was disturbed by the accident. Also, as I have said, I took

ill-talk from no man.

So, with a little laugh, the man laid hold of the rope, and pulled

his best, while I took off what of the packages I could reach, ever

keeping my own feet moving, to clear the sticky glaur of the bog-hole

from off them.

"Tak' that hook out, and ease doon the cask, man!" I cried to him,

for I was in desperation; "I'll gie ye a heartsome gill, even though

the stuff be Sir William's!"

And the man laughed again, being, as I judged, well pleased. For all

that service yet was I not pleased to be called "yochel." But, in

the meantime, I saw not how I could begin to cuff and clout one that

was helping my horse and stuff out of a bog-hole. Yet I resolved

somehow to be even with him, for, though a peaceable man, I never

could abide the calling of ill names.

"Whither gang ye?" said he.

"To the Muckle Hoose o' Myrtoun," said I, "and gang ye wi' me, my

man; and gie me a hand doon wi' the stuff, for I hae nae stomach for

mair wasling in bog-holes. And wha kens but that auld Turk, Sir

William, may happen on us?"

"Ken ye Sir William Maxwell?" said the man.

"Na," said I. "I never so muckle as set e'en on the auld wretch.

But I had sax hard days' wark cutting bushes, and makin' a road for

his carriage wi' wheels, for him to ride in to Mochrum Kirk."

"Saw ye him never there?" said the man as I strapped the packages on

again.

"Na," said I. "My faither is a Cameronian, and gangs to nae Kirk

hereaboots.'

"He has gi'en his son a bonny upbringing, then!" quoth the man.

Now this made me mainly angry, for I can not bide that folk should

meddle with my folk. As far as I am concerned myself, I am a

peaceable man.

"Hear ye," said I, "I ken na wha ye are that speers so mony

questions. Ye may be the de'il, or ye may be the enemy o' Mochrum

himsel', the blackavised Commodore frae Glasserton. But I can

warrant ye that ye'll no mell and claw unyeuked with Robin o'

Airyolan. Hear ye that, my man, and keep a civil tongue within your

ill-lookin' cheek, gin ye want to gang hame in the morning wi' an

uncracked croun!"

The man said no more, and by his gait I judged him to be some

serving-man. For, as far as the light served me, he was not so well

put on as myself. Yet there was a kind of neatness about the

creature that showed him to be no outdoor man either.

However, he accompanied me willingly enough till we came to the

Muckle House of Myrtoun. For I think that he was feared of his head

at my words. And indeed it would not have taken the kittling of a

flea to have garred me draw a staff over his crown. For there is

nothing that angers a Galloway man more than an ignorant, upsetting

town's body, putting in his gab when he desires to live peaceable.

So, when we came to the back entrance, I said to him: "Hear ye to

this. Ye are to make no noise, my mannie, but gie me a lift doon wi'

thae barrels, cannily. For that dour old tod, the laird, is to ken

naething aboot it. Only Miss Peggy and Maister, they ken. 'Deed, it

was William himsel' that sent me on this errand."

So with that the mannie gave a kind of laugh, and helped me down with

the ankers far better than I could have expected. We rolled them

into a shed at the back of the stables, and covered them up snug with

some straw and some old heather thatching.

"Ay, my lad," says I to him, "for a' your douce speech and fair words

ye hae been at this job afore!"

"Well, it is true," he said, "that I hae rolled a barrel or two in my

time."

Then, in the waft of an eye, I knew who he was. I set him down for

Muckle Jock, the Excise officer, that had never gone to the

Glasserton at all, but had been lurking there in the moss, waiting to

deceive honest men. I knew that I needed to be wary with him, for he

was, as I had heard, a sturdy carl, and had won the last throw at the

Stoneykirk wrestling. But all the men of the Fellside have an

excellent opinion of themselves, and I thought I was good for any man

of the size of this one.

So said I to him: "Noo, chiel, ye ken we are no' juist carryin'

barrels o' spring water at this time o' nicht to pleasure King

George. Hearken ye; we are in danger of being laid by the heels in

the jail of Wigton gin the black lawyer corbies get us. Noo, there's

a Preventive man that is crawling and spying ower by on the heights

o' Physgill. Ye' maun e'en come wi' me an' help to keep him oot o'

hairm's way. For it wad not be for his guid that he should gang doon

to the port this nicht!"

The man that I took to be the ganger hummed and hawed a while, till I

had enough of his talk and unstable ways.

"No back-and forrit ways wi' Robin," said I. "Will ye come and help

to catch the King's officer, or will ye not?"

"No a foot will I go," says he. "I have been a King's officer,

myself!"

I laid a pistol to his ear, for I was in some heat.

"Gin you war King Geordie himsel', ay, or Cumberland either, ye shall

come wi' me and help to catch the gauger," said I.

For I bethought me that it would be a bonny ploy, and one long to be

talked about in these parts, thus to lay by the heels the Exciseman

and make him tramp to Glasserton to kidnap himself. The man with the

bandy legs was taking a while to consider, so I said to him: "She is

a guid pistol and new primed!"

"I'll come wi' ye!" said he.

So I set him first on the road, and left my horse in the stables of

Myrtoun. It was the gloam of the morning when we got to the turn of

the road by which, if he were to come at all, the new gauger would

ride from Glasserton. And lo! as if we had set a tryst, there he was

coming over the heathery braes at a brisk trot. So I covered him

with my pistol, and took his horse by the reins, thinking no more of

the other man I had taken for the gauger before.

"Dismount, my lad," I said. "Ye dinna ken me, but I ken you. Come

here, my landlouper, and help to baud him!"

I saw the stranger who had come with me sneaking off, but with my

other pistol I brought him to a stand. So together we got the gauger

into a little thicket or planting. And here, willing or unwilling,

we kept him all day, till we were sure that the stuff would all be

run, and the long trains of honest smugglers on good horses far on

their way to the towns of the north.

Then very honestly I counted out the half of the tale of golden

guineas Maister William had given me, and put them into the pocket of

the gauger's coat.

"Gin ye are a good still-tongued kind of cattle, there is more of

that kind of oats where these came from," said I. "But lie ye here

snug as a paitrick for an hour yet by the clock, lest even yet ye

should come to harm!"

So there we left him, not very sorely angered, for all he had posed

as so efficient and zealous a King's officer.

"Now," said I, to the man that helped me. "I promised ye half o'

Maister William's guineas, that he bade me keep, for I allow that it

micht hae been a different job but for your help. And here they are.

Ye shall never say that Robin of Airyolan roguit ony man--even a

feckless toon's birkie wi' bandy legs!"

The man laughed and took the siller, saying, "Thank'ee!" with an

arrogant air as if he handled bags of them every day. But,

nevertheless, he took them, and I parted from him, wishing him well,

which was more than he did to me. But I know how to use civility

upon occasion.

When I reached home I told my father, and described the man I had

met. But he could make no guess at him. Nor had I myself till the

next rent day, when my father, having a lame leg where the colt had

kicked him, sent me down to pay the owing. The factor I know well,

but I had my money in hand and little I cared for him. But what was

my astonishment to find, sitting at the table with him, the very same

man who had helped me to lay the Exciseman by the heels. But now, I

thought, there was a strangely different air about him.

And what astonished me more, it was this man, and not the factor, who

spoke first to me.

"Ay, Robin of Airyolan, and are you here? Ye are a chiel with birr

and smeddum! There are the bones of a man in ye! Hae ye settled

with the gauger for shackling him by the hill of Physgill?"

Now, as I have said, I thole snash from no man, and I gave him the

word back sharply.

"Hae ye settled wi' him yoursel', sir? For it was you that tied the

ropes!"

My adversary laughed, and looked not at all ill-pleased.

He pointed to the five gold Georges on the table.

"Hark ye, Robin of Airyolan, these are the five guineas ye gied to me

like an honest man. I'll forgie ye for layin' the pistol to my lug,

for ye are some credit to the land that fed ye. Gin ye promise to

wed a decent lass, I'll e'en gie ye a farm. And as sure as my name

is Sir William Maxwell, ye shall sit your lifetime rent free, for the

de'il's errand that ye took me on the nicht of the brandy-running at

the Clone."

I could have sunken through the floor when I heard that it was Sir

William himself--whom, because he had so recently returned from

foreign parts after a sojourn of many years, I had never before seen.

Then both the factor and the laird laughed heartily at my

discomfiture.

"Ken ye o' a lass that wad tak' up wi' ye, Robin?" said Sir William.

"Half a dozen o' them, my lord," said I. "Lasses are neither ill to

seek nor hard to find when Robin of Airyolan gangs a-coortin'!"

"Losh preserve us!" cried the laird, slapping his thigh, "but I never

sallied forth to woo a lass so blithely confident mysel'!"

I said nothing, but dusted my knee-breeks.

"An' mind ye maun see to it that the bairns are a' loons, and as

staunch and stark as yoursel'!" said the factor.

"A man can but do his best," answered I, very modestly as I thought.

For I never can tell why it is that the folk will always say that I

have a good opinion of myself. Nor, on the other hand, can I tell

why I should not.

THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION

BY HONORE DE BALZAC

_This is one of the best known of Balzac's short stories, and may be

said to rank among the half-dozen best of all. It is one of his

"Studies of Women," its French title is "La Grande Breteche," it

forms part of the second volume in the series entitled "Scenes from

Private Life," and was first published in 1830._

THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION

By HONORE DE BALZAC

About a hundred yards from the town of Vendôme, on the borders of the

Loire, there is an old gray house, surmounted by very high gables,

and so completely isolated that neither tanyard nor shabby hostelry,

such as you may find at the entrance to all small towns, exists in

its immediate neighborhood.

In front of this building, overlooking the river, is a garden, where

the once well-trimmed box borders that used to define the walks now

grow wild as they list. Several willows that spring from the Loire

have grown as rapidly as the hedge that encloses it, and half conceal

the house. The rich vegetation of those weeds that we call foul

adorns the sloping shore. Fruit trees, neglected for the last ten

years, no longer yield their harvest, and their shoots form coppices.

The wall-fruit grows like hedges against the walls. Paths once

graveled are overgrown with moss, but, to tell the truth, there is no

trace of a path. From the height of the hill, to which cling the

ruins of the old castle of the Dukes of Vendôme, the only spot whence

the eye can plunge into this enclosure, it strikes you that, at a

time not easy to determine, this plot of land was the delight of a

country gentleman, who cultivated roses and tulips and horticulture

in general, and who was besides a lover of fine fruit. An arbor is

still visible, or rather the débris of an arbor, where there is a

table that time has not quite destroyed. The aspect of this garden

of bygone days suggests the negative joys of peaceful, provincial

life, as one might reconstruct the life of a worthy tradesman by

reading the epitaph on his tombstone. As if to complete the

sweetness and sadness of the ideas that possess one's soul, one of

the walls displays a sun-dial decorated with the following

commonplace Christian inscription: "Ultimam cogita!" The roof of

this house is horribly dilapidated, the shutters are always closed,

the balconies are covered with swallows' nests, the doors are

perpetually shut, weeds have drawn green lines in the cracks of the

flights of steps, the locks and bolts are rusty. Sun, moon, winter,

summer, and snow have worn the paneling, warped the boards, gnawed

the paint. The lugubrious silence which reigns there is only broken

by birds, cats, martins, rats and mice, free to course to and fro, to

fight and to eat each other. Everywhere an invisible hand has graven

the word _mystery_.

Should your curiosity lead you to glance at this house from the side

that points to the road, you would perceive a great door which the

children of the place have riddled with holes. I afterward heard

that this door had been closed for the last ten years. Through the

holes broken by the boys you would have observed the perfect harmony

that existed between the façades of both garden and courtyard. In

both the same disorder prevails. Tufts of weed encircle the

paving-stones. Enormous cracks furrow the walls, round whose

blackened crests twine the thousand garlands of the pellitory. The

steps are out of joint, the wire of the bell is rusted, the spouts

are cracked. What fire from heaven has fallen here? What tribunal

has decreed that salt should be strewn on this dwelling? Has God

been blasphemed, has France been here betrayed? These are the

questions we ask ourselves, but get no answer from the crawling

things that haunt the place. The empty and deserted house is a

gigantic enigma, of which the key is lost. In bygone times it was a

small fief, and bears the name of the Grande Bretêche.

I inferred that I was not the only person to whom my good landlady

had communicated the secret of which I was to be the sole recipient,

and I prepared to listen.

"Sir," she said, "when the Emperor sent the Spanish prisoners of war

and others here, the Government quartered on me a young Spaniard who

had been sent to Vendôme on parole. Parole notwithstanding he went

out every day to show himself to the sous-préfet. He was a Spanish

grandee! Nothing less! His name ended in os and dia, something like

Burgos de Férédia. I have his name on my books; you can read it if

you like. Oh! but he was a handsome young man for a Spaniard; they

are all said to be ugly. He was only five feet and a few inches

high, but he was well-grown; he had small hands that he took such

care of; ah! you should have seen! He had as many brushes for his

hands as a woman for her whole dressing apparatus! He had thick

black hair, a fiery eye, his skin was rather bronzed, but I liked the

look of it. He wore the finest linen I have ever seen on any one,

although I have had princesses staying here, and, among others,

General Bertrand, the Duke and Duchess d'Abrantès, Monsieur Decazes,

and the King of Spain. He didn't eat much; but his manners were so

polite, so amiable, that one could not owe him a grudge. Oh! I was

very fond of him, although he didn't open his lips four times in the

day, and it was impossible to keep up a conversation with him. For

if you spoke to him, he did not answer. It was a fad, a mania with

them all, I heard say. He read his breviary like a priest, he went

to Mass and to all the services regularly. Where did he sit? Two

steps from the chapel of Madame de Merret. As he took his place

there the first time he went to church, nobody suspected him of any

intention in so doing. Besides, he never raised his eyes from his

prayer-book, poor young man! After that, sir, in the evening he

would walk on the mountains, among the castle ruins. It was the poor

man's only amusement, it reminded him of his country. They say that

Spain is all mountains! From the commencement of his imprisonment he

stayed out late. I was anxious when I found that he did not come

home before midnight; but we got accustomed to this fancy of his. He

took the key of the door, and we left off sitting up for him. He

lodged in a house of ours in the Rue des Casernes. After that, one

of our stable-men told us that in the evening when he led the horses

to the water, he thought he had seen the Spanish grandee swimming far

down the river like a live fish. When he returned, I told him to

take care of the rushes; he appeared vexed to have been seen in the

water. At last, one day, or rather one morning, we did not find him

in his room; he had not returned. After searching everywhere, I

found some writing in the drawer of a table, where there were fifty

gold pieces of Spain that are called doubloons and were worth about

five thousand francs; and ten thousand francs' worth of diamonds in a

small sealed box. The writing said, that in case he did not return,

he left us the money and the diamonds, on condition of paying for

Masses to thank God for his escape, and for his salvation. In those

days my husband had not been taken from me; he hastened to seek him

everywhere.

"And now for the strange part of the story. He brought home the

Spaniard's clothes, that he had discovered under a big stone, in a

sort of pilework by the river-side near the castle, nearly opposite

to the Grande Bretêche. My husband had gone there so early that no

one had seen him. After reading the letter, he burned the clothes,

and according to Count Férédia's desire we declared that he had

escaped. The sous-préfet sent all the gendarmerie in pursuit of him;

but brust! they never caught him. Lepas believed that the Spaniard

had drowned himself. I, sir, don't think so; I am more inclined to

believe that he had something to do with the affair of Madame de

Merret, seeing that Rosalie told me that the crucifix that her

mistress thought so much of, that she had it buried with her, was of

ebony and silver. Now in the beginning of his stay here, Monsieur de

Férédia had one in ebony and silver, that I never saw him with later.

Now, sir, don't you consider that I need have no scruples about the

Spaniard's fifteen thousand francs, and that I have a right to them?"

"Certainly; but you haven't tried to question Rosalie?" I said.

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir; but to no purpose! the girl's like a wall.

She knows something, but it is impossible to get her to talk."

After exchanging a few more words with me, my landlady left me a prey

to vague and gloomy thoughts, to a romantic curiosity, and a

religious terror not unlike the profound impression produced on us

when by night, on entering a dark church, we perceive a faint light

under high arches; a vague figure glides by--the rustle of a robe or

cassock is heard, and we shudder.

Suddenly the Grande Bretêche and its tall weeds, its barred windows,

its rusty ironwork, its closed doors, its deserted apartments,

appeared like a fantastic apparition before me. I essayed to

penetrate the mysterious dwelling, and to find the knot of its dark

story--the drama that had killed three persons. In my eyes Rosalie

became the most interesting person in Vendôme. As I studied her, I

discovered the traces of secret care, despite the radiant health that

shone in her plump countenance. There was in her the germ of remorse

or hope; her attitude revealed a secret, like the attitude of a bigot

who prays to excess, or of the infanticide who ever hears the last

cry of her child. Yet her manners were rough and ingenuous--her

silly smile was not that of a criminal, and could you but have seen

the great kerchief that encompassed her portly bust, framed and laced

in by a lilac and blue cotton gown, you would have dubbed her

innocent. No, I thought, I will not leave Vendôme without learning

the history of the Grande Bretêche. To gain my ends I will strike up

a friendship with Rosalie, if needs be.

"Rosalie," said I, one evening.

"Sir?"

"You are not married?"

She started slightly.

"Oh, I can find plenty of men, when the fancy takes me to be made

miserable," she said, laughing.

She soon recovered from the effects of her emotion, for all women,

from the great lady to the maid of the inn, possess a composure that

is peculiar to them.

"You are too good-looking and well favored to be short of lovers.

But tell me, Rosalie, why did you take service in an inn after

leaving Madame de Merret? Did she leave you nothing to live on?"

"Oh, yes! But, sir, my place is the best in all Vendôme."

The reply was one of those that judges and lawyers would call

evasive. Rosalie appeared to me to be situated in this romantic

history like the square in the midst of a chessboard. She was at the

heart of the truth and chief interest; she seemed to me to be bound

in the very knot of it. The conquest of Rosalie was no longer to be

an ordinary siege--in this girl was centred the last chapter of a

novel; therefore from this moment Rosalie became the object of my

preference.

One morning I said to Rosalie: "Tell me all you know about Madame de

Merret."

"Oh!" she replied in terror, "do not ask that of me, Monsieur Horace."

Her pretty face fell--her clear, bright color faded--and her eyes

lost their innocent brightness.

"Well, then," she said, at last, "if you must have it so, I will tell

you about it; but promise to keep my secret!"

"Done! my dear girl, I must keep your secret with the honor of a

thief, which is the most loyal in the world."

Were I to transcribe Rosalie's diffuse eloquence faithfully, an

entire volume would scarcely contain it; so I shall abridge.

The room occupied by Madame de Merret at the Bretêche was on the

ground floor. A little closet about four feet deep, built in the

thickness of the wall, served as her wardrobe. Three months before

the eventful evening of which I am about to speak, Madame de Merret

had been so seriously indisposed that her husband had left her to

herself in her own apartment, while he occupied another on the first

floor. By one of those chances that it is impossible to foresee, he

returned home from the club (where he was accustomed to read the

papers and discuss politics with the inhabitants of the place) two

hours later than usual. His wife supposed him to be at home, in bed

and asleep. But the invasion of France had been the subject of a

most animated discussion; the billiard-match had been exciting, he

had lost forty francs, an enormous sum for Vendôme, where every one

hoards, and where manners are restricted within the limits of a

praiseworthy modesty, which perhaps is the source of the true

happiness that no Parisian covets. For some time past Monsieur de

Merret had been satisfied to ask Rosalie if his wife had gone to bed;

and on her reply, which was always in the affirmative, had

immediately gained his own room with the good temper engendered by

habit and confidence. On entering his house, he took it into his

head to go and tell his wife of his misadventure, perhaps by way of

consolation. At dinner he found Madame de Merret most coquettishly

attired. On his way to the club it had occurred to him that his wife

was restored to health, and that her convalescence had added to her

beauty. He was, as husbands are wont to be, somewhat slow in making

this discovery. Instead of calling Rosalie, who was occupied just

then in watching the cook and coachman play a difficult hand at

brisque,* Monsieur de Merret went to his wife's room by the light of

a lantern that he deposited on the first step of the staircase. His

unmistakable step resounded under the vaulted corridor. At the

moment that the Count turned the handle of his wife's door, he

fancied he could hear the door of the closet I spoke of close; but

when he entered Madame de Merret was alone before the fireplace. The

husband thought ingenuously that Rosalie was in the closet, yet a

suspicion that jangled in his ear put him on his guard. He looked at

his wife and saw in her eyes I know not what wild and hunted

expression.

* A game of cards.

"You are very late," she said. Her habitually pure, sweet voice

seemed changed to him.

Monsieur de Merret did not reply, for at that moment Rosalie entered.

It was a thunderbolt for him. He strode about the room, passing from

one window to the other, with mechanical motion and folded arms.

"Have you heard bad news, or are you unwell?" inquired his wife

timidly, while Rosalie undressed her.

He kept silent.

"You can leave me," said Madame de Merret to her maid; "I will put my

hair in curl papers myself."

From the expression of her husband's face she foresaw trouble, and

wished to be alone with him. When Rosalie had gone, or was supposed

to have gone (for she stayed in the corridor for a few minutes),

Monsieur de Merret came and stood in front of his wife, and said

coldly to her:

"Madame, there is some one in your closet!" She looked calmly at her

husband and replied simply:

"No, sir."

This answer was heartrending to Monsieur de Merret; he did not

believe in it. Yet his wife had never appeared to him purer or more

saintly than at that moment. He rose to open the closet door; Madame

de Merret took his hand, looked at him with an expression of

melancholy, and said in a voice that betrayed singular emotion:

"If you find no one there, remember this, all will be over between

us!" The extraordinary dignity of his wife's manner restored the

Count's profound esteem for her, and inspired him with one of those

resolutions that only lack a vaster stage to become immortal.

"No," said he, "Josephine, I will not go there. In either case it

would separate us forever. Hear me, I know how pure you are at

heart, and that your life is a holy one. You would not commit a

mortal sin to save your life."