The Project Gutenberg eBook of Great Short Stories, Volume III: Romance & Adventure (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74550 ***

Guy de Maupassant

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

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

"The Attack on the Mill" is Zola's contributionto a volume entitled "Les Soirées deMedan," made up of stories written by severalfriends at his country home. Maupassant'scelebrated story, "Boule de Suif," made itsfirst appearance in this volume. An ardentadmirer and disciple of Balzac, Zola earlyconceived the idea of writing a connectedhistory of a family and its branches, somewhat asBalzac had done in the "Comédie Humaine." Hepossessed remarkable power to analyzehuman nature and wrote in a style so realisticthat he was often called upon to defendit. "The Attack on the Mill" is frequentlycited 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 thatpleasant summer afternoon. Three tables had beenbrought out into the garden and placed end to endin the shade of the great elm, and now they wereawaiting the arrival of the guests. It was known throughoutthe length and breadth of the land that that day was towitness the betrothal of old Merlier's daughter, Françoise, toDominique, a young man who was said to be not overfondof work, but whom never a woman for three leagues of thecountry around could look at without sparkling eyes, such awell-favored young fellow was he.

That mill of Father Merlier's was truly a very pleasantspot. It was situated right in the heart of Rocreuse, at theplace where the main road makes a sharp bend. The villagehas but a single street, bordered on either side by a row oflow, 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 groundsof the valley with a most delicious shade. All Lorraine hasno more charming bit of nature to show. To right and leftdense forests, great monarchs of the wood, centuries old,rise from the gentle slopes and fill the horizon with a sea ofwaving, trembling verdure, while away toward the southextends the plain, of wondrous fertility and checkered almostto infinity with its small enclosures, divided off from oneanother by their live hedges. But what makes the crowningglory of Rocreuse is the coolness of this verdurous nook, evenin the hottest days of July and August. The Morelle comesdown from the woods of Gagny, and it would seem as if itgathered to itself on the way all the delicious freshness of thefoliage beneath which it glides for many a league; it bringsdown with it the murmuring sounds, the glacial, solemnshadows of the forest. And that is not the only source ofcoolness; there are running waters of all sorts singing amongthe copses; one can not take a step without coming on agushing spring, and, as he makes his way along the narrow paths,seems to be treading above subterrene lakes that seek theair and sunshine through the moss above and profit by everysmallest crevice, at the roots of trees or among the chinks andcrannies of the rocks, to burst forth in fountains of crystallineclearness. So numerous and so loud are the whisperingvoices of these streams that they silence the song of thebullfinches. It is as if one were in an enchanted park, withcascades falling and flashing on every side.

The meadows below are never athirst. The shadows beneaththe gigantic chestnut trees are of inky blackness, andalong the edges of the fields long rows of poplars stand likewalls of rustling foliage. There is a double avenue of hugeplane trees ascending across the fields toward the ancientcastle of Gagny, now gone to rack and ruin. In this region,where drought is never known, vegetation of all kinds iswonderfully rank; it is like a flower garden down there in the lowground between those two wooded hills, a natural garden,where the lawns are broad meadows and the giant treesrepresent colossal beds. When the noonday sun pours downhis scorching rays the shadows lie blue upon the ground,vegetation slumbers in the genial warmth, while every nowand then a breath of almost icy coldness rustles the foliage.

Such was the spot where Father Merlier's mill enlivenednature run riot with its cheerful clack. The building itself,constructed of wood and plaster, looked as if it might becoeval with our planet. Its foundations were in part lavedby the Morelle, which here expands into a clear pool. A dam,a few feet in height, afforded sufficient head of water to drivethe old wheel, which creaked and groaned as it revolved, withthe asthmatic wheezing of a faithful servant who has grownold in her place. Whenever Father Merlier was advised tochange it, he would shake his head and say that like as nota young wheel would be lazier and not so well acquaintedwith its duties, and then he would set to work and patch upthe old one with anything that came to hand, old hogshead-staves,bits of rusty iron, zinc, or lead. The old wheel onlyseemed the gayer for it, with its odd, round countenance, allplumed and feathered with tufts of moss and grass, and whenthe water poured over it in a silvery tide its gaunt blackskeleton was decked out with a gorgeous display of pearlsand diamonds.

That portion of the mill which was bathed by the Morellehad something of the look of a Moorish arch that had beendropped down there by chance. A good half of the structurewas built on piles; the water came in under the floor, andthere were deep holes, famous throughout the whole countryfor the eels and the huge crawfish that were to be caughtthere. Below the fall the pool was as clear as a looking-glass,and when it was not clouded by foam from the wheelone could see great fish swimming about in it with the slow,majestic movements of a fleet. There was a broken stairwayleading down to the stream, near a stake to which a boat wasfastened, and over the wheel was a gallery of wood. Suchwindows as there were were arranged without any attempt atorder. The whole was a quaint conglomeration of nooks andcorners, bits of wall, additions made here and there asafterthoughts, beams and roofs, that gave the mill the aspect ofan old dismantled citadel; but ivy and all sorts of creepingplants had grown luxuriantly and kindly covered up suchcrevices as were too unsightly, casting a mantle of green overthe old dwelling. Young ladies who passed that way used tostop and sketch Father Merlier's mill in their albums.

The side of the house that faced the road was lessirregular. A gateway in stone afforded access to the principalcourtyard, on the right and left hand of which were shedsand stables. Beside a well stood an immense elm that threwits shade over half the court. At the further end, oppositethe gate, stood the house, surmounted by a dovecote, the fourwindows of its first floor symmetrically alined. The onlymanifestation of pride that Father Merlier ever allowed himselfwas to paint this façade every ten years. It had just beenfreshly whitened at the time of our story, and dazzled theeyes of all the village when the sun lighted it up in the middleof the day.

For twenty years had Father Merlier been mayor of Rocreuse.He was held in great consideration on account of hisfortune; he was supposed to be worth something like eightythousand francs, the result of patient saving. When hemarried Madeleine Guilliard, who brought him the mill as herdowry, his entire capital lay in his two strong arms; butMadeleine had never repented of her choice, so manfullyhad 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 restand suffered the old mill-wheel to sleep among its moss, buthe would have found the occupation too irksome and thehouse would have seemed dead to him, so he kept on workingstill, for the pleasure of it. In those days Father Merlier wasa tall old man, with a long, unspeaking face, on which alaugh was never seen, but beneath which there lay, none theless, a large fund of good-humor. He had been elected mayoron account of his money, and also for the impressive air thathe knew how to assume when it devolved on him to marry acouple.

Françoise Merlier had just completed her eighteenthyear. She was small, and for that reason was not accountedone of the beauties of the country. Until she reached theage of fifteen she was even homely; the good folks ofRocreuse could not see how it was that the daughter ofFather and Mother Merlier, such a hale, vigorous couple, hadsuch a hard time of it in getting her growth. When shewas fifteen, however, though still remaining delicate, achange came over her and she took on the prettiest little faceimaginable. She had black eyes, black hair, and was redas a rose withal; her little mouth was always graced with acharming smile, there were delicious dimples in her cheeks,and a crown of sunshine seemed to be ever resting on herfair, candid forehead. Although small as girls went in thatregion, she was far from being slender; she might not havebeen able to raise a sack of wheat to her shoulder, but shebecame quite plump with age and gave promise of becomingeventually as well-rounded and appetizing as a partridge.Her father's habits of taciturnity had made her reflectivewhile yet a young girl; if she always had a smile on herlips it was in order to give pleasure to others. Her naturaldisposition was serious.

As was no more than to be expected, she had every youngman in the countryside at her heels as a suitor, more evenfor her money than for her attractiveness, and she had madea choice at last, a choice that had been the talk and scandalof the entire neighborhood. On the other side of theMorelle lived a strapping young fellow who went by the nameof Dominique Penquer. He was not to the manor born;ten years previously he had come to Rocreuse from Belgiumto receive the inheritance of an uncle who had owned asmall 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 hesaid, and return to his own home again; but he must havefound the land to his liking for he made no move to goaway. He was seen cultivating his bit of a field andgathering the few vegetables that afforded him an existence. Hehunted, he fished; more than once he was near coming incontact with the law through the intervention of the keepers.This independent way of living, of which the peasantscould not very clearly see the resources, had in the endgiven him a bad name. He was vaguely looked on as nothingbetter than a poacher. At all events he was lazy, for hewas frequently found sleeping in the grass at hours whenhe should have been at work. Then, too, the hut in whichhe lived, in the shade of the last trees of the forest, did notseem like the abode of an honest young man; the old womenwould not have been surprised at any time to hear that hewas on friendly terms with the wolves in the ruins of Gagny.Still, the young girls would now and then venture to standup for him, for he was altogether a splendid specimen ofmanhood, was this individual of doubtful antecedents, talland straight as a young poplar, with a milk-white skin andruddy hair and beard that seemed to be of gold when thesun shone on them. Now one fine morning it came to passthat Françoise told Father Merlier that she loved Dominiqueand that never, never would she consent to marry any otheryoung man.

It may be imagined what a knockdown blow it was thatFather Merlier received that day! As was his wont, hesaid never a word; his countenance wore its usual reflectivelook, only the fun that used to bubble up from within nolonger shone in his eyes. Françoise, too, was very serious,and for a week father and daughter scarcely spoke to eachother. What troubled Father Merlier was to know howthat rascal of a poacher had succeeded in bewitching hisdaughter. Dominique had never shown himself at the mill.The miller played the spy a little, and was rewarded bycatching sight of the gallant, on the other side of theMorelle, lying among the grass and pretending to be asleep.Françoise could see him from her chamber window. Thething was clear enough; they had been making sheep's eyesat each other over the old mill-wheel, and so had fallenin love.

A week slipped by; Françoise became more and moreserious. Father Merlier still continued to say nothing.Then, one evening, of his own accord, he brought Dominiqueto the house, without a word. Françoise was justsetting the table. She made no demonstration of surprise;all she did was to add another plate, but her laugh hadcome back to her and the little dimples appeared again uponher cheeks. Father Merlier had gone that morning tolook for Dominique at his hut on the edge of the forest,and there the two men had had a conference, with closeddoors and windows, that lasted three hours. No one everknew what they said to each other; the only thing certainis that when Father Merlier left the hut he already treatedDominique as a son. Doubtless the old man had discoveredthat he whom he had gone to visit was a worthy young man,even though he did lie in the grass to gain the love ofyoung girls.

All Rocreuse was up in arms. The women gathered attheir doors and could not find words strong enough tocharacterize Father Merlier's folly in thus receiving ane'er-do-well into his family. He let them talk. Perhaps hethought of his own marriage. Neither had he possessed apenny to his name at the time when he married Madeleineand her mill, and yet that had not prevented him frombeing a good husband to her. Moreover Dominique put anend to their tittle-tattle by setting to work in suchstrenuous fashion that all the countryside was amazed. It sohappened just then that the boy of the mill drew an unluckynumber and had to go for a soldier, and Dominique wouldnot hear to their engaging another. He lifted sacks, drovethe cart, wrestled with the old wheel when it took anobstinate fit and refused to turn, and all so pluckily andcheerfully that people came from far and near merely forthe pleasure of seeing him. Father Merlier laughed hissilent laugh. He was highly elated that he had read theyoungster aright. There is nothing like love to hearten upyoung men.

In the midst of all that laborious toil Françoise andDominique fairly worshiped each other. They had not muchto say, but their tender smiles conveyed a world ofmeaning. Father Merlier had not said a word thus far on thesubject of their marriage, and they had both respected hissilence, waiting until the old man should see fit to giveexpression to his will. At last, one day along toward themiddle of July, he had had three tables laid in thecourtyard, in the shade of the big elm, and had invited hisfriends of Rocreuse to come that afternoon and drink aglass of wine with him. When the courtyard was filled withpeople and every one there had a full glass in his hand,Father Merlier raised his own high above his head andsaid:

"I have the pleasure of announcing to you that Françoiseand this stripling will be married in a month fromnow, 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, againspoke:

"Dominique, kiss your wife that is to be. It is no morethan customary."

And they kissed, very red in the face, both of them,while the company laughed louder still. It was a regularfête; they emptied a small cask. Then, when only theintimate friends of the house remained, conversation wenton in a calmer strain. Night had fallen, a starlit night andvery clear. Dominique and Françoise sat on a bench, sideby side, and said nothing. An old peasant spoke of thewar that the emperor had declared against Prussia. All thelads 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 aman who is quite happy, "Dominique is a foreigner, hewon't have to go—and if the Prussians come this way, hewill be here to defend his wife."

The idea of the Prussians coming there seemed tothe company an exceedingly good joke. The army wouldgive them one good, conscientious thrashing and the affairwould be quickly ended.

"I have seen them, I have seen them," the old peasantrepeated in a low voice.

There was silence for a little, then they all touchedglasses once again. Françoise and Dominique had heardnothing; they had managed to clasp hands behind the benchin such a way as not to be seen by the others, and thiscondition of affairs seemed so beatific to them that they satthere, mute, their gaze lost in the darkness of the night.

What a magnificent, balmy night! The village lay slumberingon either side of the white road as peacefully as alittle child. The deep silence was undisturbed save by theoccasional crow of a cock in some distant barnyard, actingon a mistaken impression that dawn was at hand. Perfumedbreaths of air, like long-drawn sighs, almost, came down fromthe great woods that lay around and above, sweeping softlyover the roofs, as if caressing them. The meadows, withtheir black intensity of shadow, took on a dim, mysteriousmajesty of their own, while all the springs, all the brooksand watercourses that gargled and trickled in the darkness,might have been taken for the cool and rhythmical breathingof the sleeping country. Every now and then the old dozingmill-wheel, like a watchdog that barks uneasily in hisslumber, seemed to be dreaming as if it were endowed with somestrange form of life; it creaked, it groaned, it talked toitself, rocked by the fall of the Morelle, whose current gaveforth the deep, sustained music of an organ pipe. Never wasthere a more charming or happier nook, never did moreentire or deeper peace come down to cover it.

One month later to a day, on the eve of the fête ofSaint Louis, Rocreuse was in a state of alarm anddismay. The Prussians had beaten the emperor and wereadvancing on the village by forced marches. For a weekpast people passing along the road had brought tidings ofthe enemy: "They are at Lormières, they are at Novelles;"and by dint of hearing so many stories of the rapidity oftheir advance, Rocreuse woke up every morning in the fullexpectation of seeing them swarming down out of Gagnywood. They did not come, however, and that only servedto make the affright the greater. They would certainly fallupon the village in the night-time, and put every soul tothe sword.

There had been an alarm the night before, a little beforedaybreak. The inhabitants had been aroused by a greatnoise of men tramping upon the road. The women werealready throwing themselves upon their knees and makingthe sign of the cross when some one, to whom it happilyoccurred to peep through a half-opened window, caught sightof red trousers. It was a French detachment. The captainhad forthwith asked for the mayor, and, after a longconversation with Father Merlier, had remained at the mill.

The sun rose bright and clear that morning, giving promiseof a warm day. There was a golden light floating overthe woodland, while in the low grounds white mists wererising from the meadows. The pretty village, so neat andtrim, awoke in the cool dawning, and the country, with itsstream and its fountains, was as gracious as a freshly pluckedbouquet. But the beauty of the day brought gladness to theface of no one; the villagers had watched the captain andseen him circle round and round the old mill, examine theadjacent houses, then pass to the other bank of the Morelleand from thence scan the country with a field-glass; FatherMerlier, who accompanied him, appeared to be givingexplanations. After that the captain had posted some of hismen behind walls, behind trees, or in hollows. The mainbody of the detachment had encamped in the courtyard of themill. So there was going to be a fight, then? And whenFather Merlier returned, they questioned him. He spokeno 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 andgave utterance to these few words:

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

Dominique, with lips tight set and an angry frown uponhis forehead, raised himself on tiptoe from time to time andstood with eyes bent on Gagny wood, as if he would havebeen glad to see the Prussians appear and end the suspensethey were in. Françoise, whose face was grave and verypale, was constantly passing back and forth, supplying theneeds of the soldiers. They were preparing their soup in acorner of the courtyard, joking and chaffing one anotherwhile awaiting their meal.

The captain appeared to be highly pleased. He hadvisited the chambers and the great hall of the mill thatlooked out on the stream. Now, seated beside the well, hewas conversing with Father Merlier.

"You have a regular fortress here," he was saying. "Weshall have no trouble in holding it until evening. Thebandits are late; they ought to be here by this time."

The miller looked very grave. He saw his belovedmill going up in flame and smoke, but uttered no word ofremonstrance or complaint, considering that it would beuseless. He only opened his mouth to say:

"You ought to take steps to hide the boat; there isa hole behind the wheel fitted to hold it. Perhaps you mayfind it of use to you."

The captain gave an order to one of his men. This captainwas a tall, fine-looking man of about forty, with anagreeable expression of countenance. The sight ofDominique and Françoise seemed to afford him much pleasure;he watched them as if he had forgotten all about theapproaching conflict. He followed Françoise with his eyesas she moved about the courtyard, and his manner showedclearly enough that he thought her charming. Then,turning to Dominique:

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

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

The captain did not seem particularly pleased with theanswer; he winked his eyes and smiled. Françoise wasdoubtless a more agreeable companion than a musket wouldhave been. Dominique, noticing his smile, made haste to add:

"I am a foreigner, but I can lodge a rifle-bullet in anapple at five hundred yards. See, there's my rifle, behindyou."

"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 heldfirmly clasped in his own the two hands that she heldforth to him, as if committing herself to his protection.The captain smiled again, but said nothing more. Heremained seated, his sword between his legs, his eyes fixedon 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 theshade of the sheds in the courtyard and begun to eattheir soup. Not a sound came from the village, where theinhabitants had all barricaded their houses, doors, andwindows. A dog, abandoned by his master, howled mournfullyupon 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 wanderingbreaths of air there were. A cuckoo sang. Thenthe silence became deeper still.

And all at once, upon that lazy, sleepy air, a shot rangout. The captain rose quickly to his feet, the soldiersleft their half-emptied plates. In a few seconds all wereat 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. Asecond report was heard, and still nothing to be seen, noteven so much as a shadow; but just as he was turning toreenter he chanced to look over toward Gagny and therebeheld a little puff of smoke, floating away on the tranquilair, like thistle-down. The deep peace of the forest wasapparently unbroken.

"The rascals have occupied the wood," the officermurmured. "They know we are here."

Then the firing went on, and became more and morecontinuous, between the French soldiers posted about themill and the Prussians concealed among the trees. Thebullets whistled over the Morelle without doing anymischief on either side. The firing was irregular; every bushseemed to have its marksman, and nothing was to be seensave those bluish smoke wreaths that hung for a momenton the wind before they vanished. It lasted thus fornearly two hours. The officer hummed a tune with acareless air. Françoise and Dominique, who had remained inthe courtyard, raised themselves to look out over a low wall.They were more particularly interested in a little soldierwho had his post on the bank of the Morelle, behind thehull of an old boat; he would lie face downward on theground, watch his chance, deliver his fire, then slip backinto a ditch a few steps in his rear to reload, and hismovements were so comical, he displayed such cunning andactivity, that it was difficult for any one watching him torefrain from smiling. He must have caught sight of aPrussian, for he rose quickly and brought his piece to theshoulder, but before he could discharge it he uttered aloud cry, whirled completely around in his tracks and fellbackward into the ditch, where for an instant his legsmoved convulsively, just as the claws of a fowl do when itis beheaded. The little soldier had received a bulletdirectly through his heart. It was the first casualty of theday. Françoise instinctively seized Dominique's hand andheld it tight in a convulsive grasp.

"Come away from there," said the captain. "The bulletsreach us here."

As if to confirm his words, a slight, sharp sound washeard up in the old elm, and the end of a branch came tothe ground, turning over and over as it fell, but the twoyoung people never stirred, riveted to the spot as theywere by the interest of the spectacle. On the edge of thewood a Prussian had suddenly emerged from behind a tree,as an actor comes upon the stage from the wings, beatingthe air with his arms and falling over upon his back. Andbeyond that there was no movement; the two dead menappeared to be sleeping in the bright sunshine; there wasnot a soul to be seen in the fields on which the heat layheavy. 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 astonishedair, as if to inquire whether that were the end of it.

"Here comes their attack," the officer murmured. "Lookout for yourself! Don't stand there!"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a terribledischarge of musketry ensued. The great elm wasriddled, its leaves came eddying down as thick assnowflakes. Fortunately the Prussians had aimed too high.Dominique dragged, almost carried Françoise from thespot, 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 theirway to the main hall, where ten or a dozen soldiers weresilently waiting, watching events outside through thechinks of the closed shutters. The captain was left alone inthe courtyard, where he sheltered himself behind the lowwall, while the furious fire was maintained uninterruptedly.The soldiers whom he had posted outside only yielded theirground inch by inch; they came crawling in, however, oneafter another, as the enemy dislodged them from theirpositions. Their instructions were to gain all the time theycould, taking care not to show themselves, in order that thePrussians might remain in ignorance of the force they hadopposed to them. Another hour passed, and at> a sergeantcame in, reporting that there were now only two or threemen left outside, the officer took his watch from his pocket,murmuring:

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

He caused the great gate of the courtyard to be tightlysecured and everything was made ready for an energeticdefense. The Prussians were on the other side of the Morelle,consequently there was no reason to fear an assault at themoment. There was a bridge, indeed, a mile and a quarteraway, but they were probably unaware of Its existence, andit was hardly to be supposed that they would attempt tocross the stream by fording. The officer therefore simplycaused the road to be watched; the attack, when it came, wasto be looked for from the direction of the fields.

The firing had ceased again. The mill appeared to liethere in the sunlight, void of all life. Not a shutter wasopen, not a sound came from within. Gradually, however,the Prussians began to show themselves at the edge ofGagny wood. Heads were protruded here and there; theyseemed to be mustering up their courage. Several of thesoldiers 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 hardlyto know what to make of the old structure, so lifeless andgloomy, with its curtains of ivy. Still, they kept onadvancing. 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, tremblingviolently, involuntarily raised her hands to her ears.Dominique, from his position behind the soldiers, pressed out uponthe field, and when the smoke drifted away a little, countedthree Prussians extended on their backs in the middle of themeadow. The others had sought shelter among the willowsand 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 noisethey made was plainly audible as they struck the stone-work,were flattened, and fell back into the water; theyburied themselves in the woodwork with a dull thud.Occasionally a creaking sound would announce that the wheelhad been hit. Within the building the soldiers husbandedtheir ammunition, firing only when they could see somethingto aim at. The captain kept consulting his watch every fewminutes, and as a ball split one of the shutters in halves andthen lodged in the ceiling:

"Four o'clock," he murmured. "We shall never be ableto hold the position."

The old mill, in truth, was gradually going to pieces beneaththat terrific fire. A shutter that had been perforatedagain and again until it looked like a piece of lace, fell offits hinges into the water and had to be replaced by amattress. Every moment, almost, Father Merlier exposedhimself to the fire in order to take account of the damagesustained by his poor wheel, every wound of which was likea bullet in his own heart. Its period of usefulness wasended this time, for certain; he would never be able to patchit up again. Dominique had besought Françoise to retire toa place of safety, but she was determined to remain withhim; she had taken a seat behind a great oaken clothes-press,which afforded her protection. A ball struck thepress, however, the sides of which gave out a dull, hollowsound, whereupon Dominique stationed himself in front ofFrançoise. He had as yet taken no part in the firing,although he had his rifle in his hand; the soldiers occupiedthe whole breadth of the windows, so that he could not getnear them. At every discharge the floor trembled.

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

He had just descried a dark mass emerging from thewood. As soon as they gained the open they set up a tellingplatoon fire. It struck the mill like a tornado. Anothershutter parted company and the bullets came whistling inthrough the yawning aperture. Two soldiers rolled upon thefloor; one lay where he fell and never moved a limb; hiscomrades pushed him up against the wall because he was intheir way. The other writhed and twisted, beseeching someone to end his agony, but no one had ears for the poorwretch; the bullets were still pouring in and every one waslooking out for himself and searching for a loop-hole whencehe might answer the enemy's fire. A third soldier waswounded; that one said not a word, but with staring, haggardeyes sank down beneath a table. François, horror-strickenby the dreadful spectacle of the dead and dying men,mechanically pushed away her chair and seated herself onthe floor, against the wall; it seemed to her that she wouldbe smaller there and less exposed. In the meantime men hadgone and secured all the mattresses in the house; theopening of the window was partially closed again. The hall wasfilled with débris of every description, broken weapons,dislocated furniture.

"Five o'clock," said the captain. "Stand fast, boys. Theyare going to make an attempt to pass the stream."

Just then Françoise gave a shriek. A bullet had struckthe floor and, rebounding, grazed her forehead on thericochet. A few drops of blood appeared. Dominique looked ather, then went to the window and fired his first shot, andfrom that time kept on firing uninterruptedly. He kepton loading and discharging his piece mechanically, payingno attention to what was passing at his side, only pausingfrom time to time to cast a look at Françoise. He did notfire hurriedly or at random, moreover, but took deliberateaim. As the captain had predicted, the Prussians wereskirting the belt of poplars and attempting the passage ofthe Morelle, but each time that one of them showed himselfhe fell with one of Dominique's bullets in his brain. Thecaptain, who was watching the performance, was amazed; hecomplimented the young man, telling him that he would liketo have many more marksmen of his skill. Dominique didnot hear a word he said. A ball struck him in the shoulder,another raised a contusion on his arm. And still he kepton firing.

There were two more deaths. The mattresses were tornto shreds and no longer availed to stop the windows. Thelast volley that was poured in seemed as if it would carryaway the mill bodily, so fierce it was. The position was nolonger tenable. Still, the officer kept repeating:

"Stand fast. Another half-hour yet."

He was counting the minutes, one by one, now. He hadpromised his commanders that he would hold the enemythere until nightfall, and he would not budge a hair's-breadthbefore the moment that he had fixed on for his withdrawal.He maintained his pleasant air of good-humor, smiling atFrançoise by way of reassuring her. He had picked up themusket of one of the dead soldiers and was firing away withthe rest.

There were but four soldiers left in the room. ThePrussians were showing themselves en masse on the other bankof the Morelle, and it was evident that they might now passthe stream at any moment. A few moments more elapsed;the captain was as determined as ever and would not givethe order to retreat, when a sergeant came running into theroom, saying:

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

The Prussians must have discovered the bridge. Thecaptain drew out his watch again.

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

Then exactly at six o'clock, he at last withdrew his menthrough a little postern that opened on a narrow lane,whence they threw themselves into the ditch and in thatway reached the forest of Sauval. The captain took leaveof Father Merlier with much politeness, apologizingprofusely 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 alonein 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 remotestidea of the fact; he aimed and brought down his man atevery shot. All at once there was a great tumult. ThePrussians had entered the courtyard from the rear. He firedhis last shot, and they fell upon him with his weapon stillsmoking in his hand.

It required four men to hold him; the rest of themswarmed about him, vociferating like madmen in their horribledialect. Françoise rushed forward to intercede with herprayers. They were on the point of killing him on the spot,but an officer came in and made them turn the prisoner overto him. After exchanging a few words in German with hismen he turned to Dominique and said to him roughly, invery good French:

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

III

It was the standing regulation, laid down by the Germanstaff, that every Frenchman, not belonging to the regulararmy, taken with arms in his hands, should be shot. Eventhe compagnies franches were not recognized as belligerents.It was the intention of the Germans, in making such terribleexamples of the peasants who attempted to defend theirfiresides, to prevent a rising en masse, which they greatlydreaded.

The officer, a tall, spare man about fifty years old,subjected Dominique to a brief examination. Although hespoke French fluently, he was unmistakably Prussian in thestiffness of his manner.

"You are a native of this country?"

"No, I am a Belgian."

"Why did you take up arms? These are matters withwhich you have no concern."

Dominique made no reply. At this moment the officercaught sight of Françoise where she stood listening, verypale; her slight wound had marked her white forehead with astreak of red. He looked from one to the other of the youngpeople and appeared to understand the situation; he merelyadded:

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

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

The admission was scarcely necessary, for he was blackwith powder, wet with sweat, and the blood from thewound in his shoulder had trickled down and stained hisclothing.

"Very well," the officer repeated. "You will be shot twohours hence."

Françoise uttered no cry. She clasped her hands andraised them above her head in a gesture of mute despair.Her action was not lost upon the officer. Two soldiers hadled Dominique away to an adjacent room where their orderswere to guard him and not lose sight of him. The girl hadsunk upon a chair; her strength had failed her; her legsrefused to support her; she was denied the relief of tears; itseemed as if her emotion was strangling her. The officercontinued to examine her attentively and finally addressedher:

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

She shook her head in negation. He was as rigid and unbendingas 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 abouthere?"

This time she made a verbal answer. "Yes, sir," shesaid, looking at him with some astonishment.

He said nothing more, but turned on his heel, requestingthat the mayor of the village should be brought before him.But Françoise had risen from her chair, a faint tinge of coloron her cheeks, believing that she had caught the significanceof his questions, and with renewed hope she ran off to lookfor her father.

As soon as the firing had ceased Father Merlier hadhurriedly descended by the wooden gallery to have a look athis wheel. He adored his daughter and had a strong feelingof affection for Dominique, his son-in-law who was tobe: but his wheel also occupied a large space in his heart.Now that the two little ones, as he called them, had comesafe and sound out of the fray, he thought of his other love,which must have suffered sorely, poor thing, and bendingover the great wooden skeleton he was scrutinizing itswounds with a heartbroken air. Five of the buckets werereduced to splinters, the central framework was honeycombed.He was thrusting his fingers into the cavities thatthe bullets had made to see how deep they were, andreflecting how he was ever to repair all that damage. WhenFrançoise found him he was already plugging up the creviceswith 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 justheard. Father Merlier shook his head. It was notcustomary to shoot people like that. He would have to lookinto the matter. And he reentered the mill with his usualplacid, silent air. When the officer made his demand forsupplies for his men, he answered that the people ofRocreuse were not accustomed to be ridden roughshod, and thatnothing would be obtained from them through violence; hewas willing to assume all the responsibility, but only oncondition that he was allowed to act independently. The officerat first appeared to take umbrage at this easy way of viewingmatters, but finally gave way before the old man's brief anddistinct representations. As the latter was leaving the roomthe 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 notknow," he replied.

And he withdrew. An hour later the subvention in moneyand provisions that the officer had demanded was in thecourtyard of the mill. Night was closing in; Françoisefollowed every movement of the soldiers with an anxious eye.She never once left the vicinity of the room in whichDominique was imprisoned. About seven o'clock she had aharrowing emotion; she saw the officer enter the prisoner'sapartment and for a quarter of an hour heard their voicesraised in violent discussion. The officer came to the doorfor a moment and gave an order in German which she didnot understand, but when twelve men came and formed inthe courtyard with shouldered muskets, she was seized witha fit of trembling and felt as if she should die. It was allover, then; the execution was about to take place. Thetwelve men remained there ten minutes; Dominique's voicekept rising higher and higher in a tone of vehement denial.Finally the officer came out, closing the door behind himwith a vicious bang and saying:

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

And he ordered the twelve men to break ranks by a motionof his hand. Françoise was stupefied. Father Merlier, whohad continued to puff away at his pipe while watching theplatoon with a simple, curious air, came and took her bythe 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. Itwas a fixed principle with him that women are good fornothing and that they spoil everything whenever they meddlein important matters. Françoise did not retire to her couch,however; she remained a long time seated on her bed, listeningto the various noises in the house. The German soldiersquartered in the courtyard were singing and laughing; theymust have kept up their eating and drinking until eleveno'clock, for the riot never ceased for an instant. Heavyfootsteps 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 shecould catch in the room that lay directly under her own;several times she threw herself prone upon the floor andapplied her ear to the boards. That room was the one inwhich they had locked up Dominique. He must have beenpacing the apartment, for she could hear for a long time hisregular, cadenced tread passing from the wall to the windowand back again; then there was a deep silence; doubtless hehad seated himself. The other sounds ceased, too; everythingwas still. When it seemed to her that the house wassunk in slumber she raised her window as noiselessly aspossible and leaned out.

Without, the night was serene and balmy. The slendercrescent of the moon, which was just setting behind Sauvalwood, cast a dim radiance over the landscape. The lengtheningshadows of the great trees stretched far athwart thefields in bands of blackness, while in such spots as wereunobscured the grass appeared of a tender green, soft asvelvet. But Françoise did not stop to consider the mysteriouscharm of night. She was scrutinizing the country andlooking to see where the Germans had posted their sentinels.She could clearly distinguish their dark forms outlinedalong the course of the Morelle. There was only onestationed opposite the mill, on the far bank of the stream, bya willow whose branches dipped in the water. Françoisehad 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 localitiesshe 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 heardin the house. She went again to the window and tookanother look outside, but one of the moon's horns was stillhanging above the edge of the forest, and this circumstancedoubtless appeared to her unpropitious, for she resumed herwaiting. At last the moment seemed to have arrived; thenight was now quite dark; she could no longer discern thesentinel opposite her, the landscape lay before her black asa sea of ink. She listened intently for a moment, thenformed her resolve. Close beside her window was an ironladder made of bars set in the wall, which ascended from themill-wheel to the granary at the top of the building and hadformerly served the miller as a means of inspecting certainportions of the gearing, but a change having been made inthe machinery the ladder had long since become lost to sightbeneath the thick ivy that covered all that side of the mill.Françoise bravely climbed over the balustrade of thelittle balcony in front of her window, grasped one of theiron bars and found herself suspended in space. Shecommenced the descent; her skirts were a great hindrance toher. Suddenly a stone became loosened from the wall andfell into the Morelle with a loud splash. She stopped,benumbed with fear, but reflection quickly told her that thewaterfall, with its continuous roar, was sufficient to deadenany noise that she could make, and then she descended moreboldly, putting aside the ivy with her foot, testing eachround of her ladder. When she was on a level with theroom that had been converted into a prison for her lovershe stopped. An unforeseen difficulty came near deprivingher of all her courage: the window of the room beneath wasnot situated directly under the window of her bedroom, therewas a wide space between it and the ladder, and when sheextended her hand it only encountered the naked wall.

Would she have to go back the way she came and leaveher project unaccomplished? Her arms were growing verytired, the murmuring of the Morelle, far down below, wasbeginning to make her dizzy. Then she broke off bits ofplaster from the wall and threw them against Dominique'swindow. He did not hear; perhaps he was asleep. Againshe crumbled fragments from the wall, until the skin waspeeled from her fingers. Her strength was exhausted, shefelt 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 tofall." Leaning from the window he grasped her and drewher 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 heremotion.

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

Dominique, not yet recovered from his stupefaction atseeing her there, made answer by simply pointing towardhis door. There was a sound of snoring audible on theoutside; it was evident that the sentinel had been overpoweredby sleep and had thrown himself upon the floor close againstthe door in such a way that it could not be opened withoutarousing him.

"You must fly," she continued earnestly. "I came here tobid 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 gaveme! 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 onlything I feared was that I might die without seeing youagain, but you are here, and now they may shoot me whenthey will. Let me but have a quarter of an hour with you andI am ready."

He had gradually drawn her to him; her head was restingon his shoulder. The peril that was so near at hand broughtthem closer to each other, and they forgot everything in thatlong embrace.

"Ah, François!" Dominique went on in low, caressingtones, "to-day is the fête of Saint Louis, our wedding-day,that we have been waiting for so long. Nothing has beenable to keep us apart, for we are both here, faithful toour appointment, are we not? It is now our weddingmorning."

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

They shuddered as they exchanged a kiss. But suddenlyshe tore herself from his arms; the terrible reality arosebefore her eyes.

"You must fly, you must fly," she murmured breathlessly."There is not a moment to lose." And as he stretched outhis arms in the darkness to draw her to him again, she wenton in tender, beseeching tones: "Oh! listen to me, I entreatyou. 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 ironladder extended downward to the wheel; once he had got thatfar he could climb down by means of the buckets and getinto the boat, which was hidden in a recess. Then it wouldbe an easy matter for him to reach the other bank of thestream and make his escape.

"But are there no sentinels?" said he.

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

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

Françoise shuddered. She placed in his hand a knife thatshe 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. WhenI am no longer here those soldiers are capable of murderingyou. You do not know them. They offered to spare my lifeif I would guide them into Sauval forest. When theydiscover that I have escaped their fury will be such that theywill be ready for every atrocity."

The girl did not stop to argue the question. To all theconsiderations that he adduced, her one simple answer was:"Fly. For love of me, fly. If you love me, Dominique, donot linger here a single moment longer."

She promised that she would return to her bedroom; noone should know that she had assisted him. She concludedby 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 youare doing and that he counsels my flight?"

"It was my father who sent me to you," Françoiseunhesitatingly replied.

She told a falsehood. At that moment she had but onegreat, overmastering longing, to know that he was in safety,to escape from the horrible thought that the morning's sunwas to be the signal for his death. When he should be faraway, 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 aboveall other considerations, the selfishness of her love demandedthat he should be saved.

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

No further word was spoken. Dominique went to thewindow to raise it again. But suddenly there was a noisethat chilled them with affright. The door was shakenviolently, they thought that some one was about to open it;it was evidently a party going the rounds who had heardtheir voices. They stood by the window, close locked ineach other's arms, awaiting the event with anguish unspeakable.Again there came the rattling at the door, but it didnot open. Each of them drew a deep sigh of relief; theysaw how it was; the soldier lying across the threshold hadturned over in his sleep. Silence was restored, indeed, andpresently the snoring commenced again, sounding likesweetest music in their ears.

Dominique insisted that Françoise should return to herroom first of all. He took her in his arms, he bade her asilent farewell, then assisted her to grasp the ladder, andhimself climbed out on it in turn. He refused to descend asingle step, however, until he knew that she was in herchamber. When she was safe in her room she let fall, ina 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 stillvery dark. She looked for the sentinel, but could see nothingof him; the willow alone was dimly visible, a pale spot uponthe surrounding blackness. For a moment she heard therustling of the ivy as Dominique descended, then the wheelcreaked, and there was a faint plash which told that theyoung man had found the boat. This was confirmed when,a minute later, she descried the shadowy outline of the skiffon the gray bosom of the Morelle. Then a horrible feelingof dread seemed to clutch her by the throat and deprive herof power to breathe; she momently expected to hear thesentry give the alarm; every faintest sound among the duskyshadows seemed to her overwrought imagination to be thehurrying tread of soldiers, the clash of steel, the click ofmusket-locks. The seconds slipped by, however; the landscapestill preserved its solemn peace. Dominique must havelanded safely on the other bank. Françoise no longer hadeyes for anything. The silence was oppressive. And sheheard the sound of trampling feet, a hoarse cry, the dullthud of a heavy body falling. This was followed by anothersilence, even deeper than that which had gone before. Then,as if conscious that Death had passed that way, she becamevery cold in presence of the impenetrable night.

At early daybreak the repose of the mill was disturbed bythe clamor of angry voices. Father Merlier had gone andunlocked Françoise's door. She descended to the courtyard,pale and very calm, but when there could not repress ashudder upon being brought face to face with the body of aPrussian soldier that lay on the ground beside the well,stretched out upon a cloak.

Soldiers were shouting and gesticulating angrily about thecorpse. Several of them shook their fists threateningly inthe direction of the village. The officer had just sent asummons to Father Merlier to appear before him in hiscapacity as mayor of the commune.

"Here is one of our men," he said, in a voice that wasalmost unintelligible from anger, "who was found murderedon the bank of the stream. The murderer must be found, sothat we may make a salutary example of him, and I shallexpect you to cooperate with us in finding him."

"Whatever you desire," the miller replied, with hiscustomary impassiveness. "Only it will be no easy matter."

The officer stooped down and drew aside the skirt of thecloak which concealed the dead man's face, disclosing as hedid so a frightful wound. The sentinel had been struck inthe throat and the weapon had not been withdrawn from thewound. 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 himselfat once; not a muscle of his face moved as he replied:

"Every one about here has knives like that. Like enoughyour 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 knowwhat it is that keeps me from applying the torch to the fourcorners of your village."

His rage fortunately kept him from noticing the greatchange that had come over Françoise's countenance. Herfeelings had compelled her to sit down upon the stone benchbeside the well. Do what she would she could not removeher eyes from the body that lay stretched upon the ground,almost at her feet. He had been a tall, handsome young manin life, very like Dominique in appearance, with blue eyesand golden hair. The resemblance went to her heart. Shethought that perhaps the dead man had left behind him inhis German home some loved one who would weep for hisloss. And she recognized her knife in the dead man's throat.She had killed him.

The officer, meantime, was talking of visiting Rocreusewith some terrible punishment, when two or three soldierscame running in. The guard had just that moment ascertainedthe fact of Dominique's escape. The agitation causedby the tidings was extreme. The officer went to inspect thelocality, looked out through the still open window, saw atonce how the event had happened, and returned in a stateof exasperation.

Father Merlier appeared greatly vexed by Dominique'sflight. "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!" criedthe officer. "He has got away to the woods; but he mustbe found, or by ——, the village shall stand theconsequences." And addressing himself to the miller: "Come, youmust know where he is hiding?"

Father Merlier laughed in his silent way and pointed tothe 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 areacquainted with. I am going to give you ten men; you shallact as guide to them."

"I am perfectly willing. But it will take a week to beatup 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 wasat that moment that he caught sight of Françoise where shesat, pale and trembling, on her bench. His attention wasaroused by the girl's anxious attitude. He was silent for amoment, glancing suspiciously from father to daughter andback 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 appearedfor a moment as if about to throw himself on the officer andthrottle him. He straightened himself up and made noreply. Françoise had hidden her face in her hands.

"Yes, that is how it is," the Prussian continued; "youor your daughter have assisted him to escape. You arehis accomplices. For the last time, will you surrenderhim?"

The miller did not answer. He had turned away and waslooking at the distant landscape with an air of supremeindifference, just as if the officer were talking to some otherperson. That put the finishing touch to the latter's wrath.

"Very well, then!" he declared, "you shall be shot in hisstead."

And again he ordered out the firing-party. Father Merlierwas as imperturbable as ever. He scarcely did so much asshrug his shoulders; the whole drama appeared to him to bein very doubtful taste. He probably believed that they wouldnot take a man's life in that unceremonious manner. Whenthe platoon was on the ground he gravely said:

"So, then, you are in earnest?—Very well, I am willingit should be so. If you feel you must have a victim, it mayas well be I as another."

But Françoise arose, greatly troubled, stammering: "Havemercy, good sir; do not harm my father. Take my lifeinstead of his. It was I who assisted Dominique to escape; Iam the only guilty one."

"Hold your tongue, my girl," Father Merlier exclaimed."Why do you tell such a falsehood? She passed the nightlocked in her room, monsieur; I assure you that she doesnot speak the truth."

"I am speaking the truth," the girl eagerly replied. "Ileft my room by the window; I incited Dominique to fly. Itis the truth, the whole truth."

The old man's face was very white. He could read inher eyes that she was not lying and her story terrified him.Ah, those children, those children! how they spoiledeverything, with their hearts and their feelings! Then he saidangrily:

"She is crazy; do not listen to her. It is a lot of trashshe is giving you. Come, let us get through with thisbusiness."

She persisted in her protestations; she kneeled, she raisedher clasped hands in supplication. The officer stoodtranquilly by and watched the harrowing scene.

"Mon Dieu," he said at last, "I take your father becausethe other has escaped me. Bring me back the other manand your father shall have his liberty."

She looked at him for a moment with eyes dilated by thehorror which his proposal inspired in her.

"It is dreadful," she murmured. "Where can I look forDominique now? He is gone; I know nothing beyond that."

"Well, make your choice between them; him or yourfather."

"Oh! my God! how can I choose? Even if I knew whereto find Dominique I could not choose. You are breaking myheart. I would rather die at once. Yes, it would be morequickly ended thus. Kill me, I beseech you, kill me—"

The officer finally became weary of this scene of despairand tears. He cried:

"Enough of this! I wish to treat you kindly. I will giveyou 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 thathad served as a prison for Dominique. The old man askedfor tobacco and began to smoke. There was no trace ofemotion to be descried on his impassive face. Only whenhe was alone he wept two big tears that coursed slowly downhis cheeks as he smoked his solitary pipe. His poor, dearchild, what a fearful trial she was enduring!

Françoise remained in the courtyard. Prussian soldierspassed back and forth, laughing. Some of them addressedher with coarse pleasantries which she did not understand.Her gaze was bent upon the door through which her fatherhad disappeared, and with a slow movement she raised herhand to her forehead, as if to keep it from bursting. Theofficer 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 inher ears. Then she went forth mechanically from the courtyard;she walked straight ahead with no definite end. Wherewas she to go? what was she to do? She did not evenendeavor to arrive at any decision, for she felt how utterlyuseless were her efforts. And yet she would have liked tosee Dominique; they could have come to some understandingtogether. Perhaps they might have hit on some plan toextricate them from their difficulties. And so, amid theconfusion of her whirling thoughts, she took her way downwardto the bank of the Morelle, which she crossed below the damby means of some stepping-stones which were there. Proceedingonward, still involuntarily, she came to the first willow,at the corner of the meadow, and stooping down, behelda sight that made her grow deathly pale—a pool ofblood. It was the spot. And she followed the trace thatDominique had left in the tall grass; it was evident that hehad run, for the footsteps that crossed the meadow in adiagonal line were separated from one another by wide intervals.Then, beyond that point, she lost the trace, but thoughtshe had discovered it again in an adjoining field. It led heronward to the border of the forest, where the trail cameabruptly to an end.

Though conscious of the futility of the proceeding, Françoisepenetrated into the wood. It was a comfort to her tobe alone. She sat down for a moment, then, reflecting thattime was passing, rose again to her feet. How long was itsince she left the mill? Five minutes? or a half-hour? Shehad lost all idea of time. Perhaps Dominique had soughtconcealment in a clearing that she knew of, where they hadgone together one afternoon and eaten hazel-nuts. Shedirected her steps toward the clearing, she searched itthoroughly. A blackbird flew out, whistling his sweet andmelancholy note; that was all. Then she thought that he mighthave taken refuge in a hollow among the rocks where hewent sometimes with his gun to secure a bird or a rabbit,but the spot was untenanted. What use was there in lookingfor him? She would never find him, and little by little thedesire to discover his hiding-place became a passionatelonging. She proceeded at a more rapid pace. The idea suddenlytook possession of her that he had climbed into a tree, andthenceforth she went along with eyes raised aloft and calledhim by name every fifteen or twenty steps, so that he mightknow she was near him. The cuckoos answered her; abreath of air that rustled the leaves made her think that hewas there and was coming down to her. Once she evenimagined that she saw him; she stopped, with a sense ofsuffocation, with a desire to run away. What was she to say tohim? Had she come there to take him back with her andhave him shot? Oh! no, she would not mention those things;she would tell him that he must fly, that he must not remainin the neighborhood. Then she thought of her father awaitingher return, and the reflection caused her most bitteranguish. She sank upon the turf, weeping hot tears, cryingaloud:

"My God! My God! why am I here!"

It was a mad thing for her to have come. And as ifseized with sudden panic, she ran hither and thither, shesought to make her way out of the forest. Three times shelost her way, and had begun to think she was never to seethe mill again, when she came out into a meadow, directlyopposite Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of thevillage she stopped. Was she going to return alone?

She was standing there when she heard a voice calling herby name, softly:

"Françoise! Françoise!"

And she beheld Dominique, raising his head above theedge of a ditch. Just God! she had found him!

Could it be, then, that heaven willed his death? Shesuppressed a cry that rose to her lips and slipped into theditch beside him.

"You were looking for me?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied bewilderedly, scarce knowing what shewas saying.

"Ah! what has happened?"

She stammered, with eyes downcast: "Why, nothing; Iwas anxious, I wanted to see you."

Thereupon, his fears alleviated, he went on to tell herhow it was that he had remained in the vicinity. He wasalarmed for them. Those rascally Prussians were not abovewreaking their vengeance on women and old men. All hadended well, however, and he added, laughing:

"The wedding will be deferred for a week, that's all."

He became serious, however, upon noticing that herdejection did not pass away.

"But what is the matter? You are concealing somethingfrom me."

"No, I give you my word I am not. I am tired; I ranall the way here."

He kissed her, saying it was imprudent for them both toremain there longer, and was about to climb out of theditch in order to return to the forest. She stopped him;she was trembling violently.

"Listen, Dominique; perhaps it will be as well for youto remain here, after all. There is no one looking for you,you have nothing to fear."

"Françoise, you are concealing something from me," hesaid again.

Again she protested that she was concealing nothing.She only liked to know that he was near her. And therewere other reasons still that she gave in stammering accents.Her manner was so strange that no consideration could nowhave induced him to go away. He believed, moreover, thatthe French would return presently. Troops had been seenover toward Sauval.

"Ah! let them make haste; let them come as quickly aspossible," she murmured fervently.

At that moment the clock of the church at Rocreusestruck eleven; the strokes reached them, clear and distinct.She arose in terror; it was two hours since she had left themill.

"Listen," she said, with feverish rapidity, "should weneed you I will go up to my room and wave my handkerchieffrom the window."

And she started off homeward on a run, while Dominique,greatly disturbed in mind, stretched himself at length besidethe ditch to watch the mill. Just as she was about to enterthe village Françoise encountered an old beggarman, FatherBontemps, who knew every one and everything in that partof the country. He saluted her; he had just seen the miller,he said, surrounded by a crowd of Prussians; then, makingnumerous signs of the cross and mumbling some inarticulatewords, he went his way.

"The two hours are up," the officer said, whenFrançoise made her appearance.

Father Merlier was there, seated on the bench beside thewell. He was smoking still. The young girl again profferedher supplication, kneeling before the officer and weeping.Her wish was to gain time. The hope that she might yetbehold the return of the French had been gaining strengthin her bosom, and amid her tears and sobs she thought shecould distinguish in the distance the cadenced tramp of anadvancing army. Oh! if they would but come and deliverthem 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 mento lay hold of her and take her away, in order that theymight proceed undisturbed with the execution of the oldman. Then a dreadful conflict took place in Françoise's heart.She could not allow her father to be murdered in thatmanner; no, no, she would die in company with Dominiquerather, and she was just darting away in the direction ofher room in order to signal her fiance, when Dominiquehimself 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, andhis face wore a slight expression of sternness.

"You did wrong," he said. "Why did you not bring meback with you? Had it not been for Father Bontemps Ishould have known nothing of all this. Well, I am here,at all events."

It was three o'clock. The heavens were piled high withgreat black clouds, the tail-end of a storm that had beenraging somewhere in the vicinity. Beneath the coppery skyand ragged scud the valley of Rocreuse, so bright andsmiling in the sunlight, became a grim chasm, full of sinistershadows. The Prussian officer had done nothing withDominique beyond placing him in confinement, giving noindication 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 thecourtyard. She was waiting for the French troops toappear, but the hours slipped by, night was approaching, andshe suffered all the more since it appeared as if the timethus gained would have no effect on the final result.

About three o'clock, however, the Prussians began tomake their preparations for departure. The officer had goneto Dominique's room and remained closeted with him forsome minutes, as he had done the day before. Françoiseknew that the young man's life was hanging in the balance;she clasped her hands and put up fervent prayers. Besideher sat Father Merlier, rigid and silent, declining, like thetrue peasant he was, to attempt any interference withaccomplished facts.

"Oh! my God! my God!" Françoise exclaimed, "theyare going to kill him!"

The miller drew her to him and took her on his lap as ifshe had been a little child. At this juncture the officer camefrom the room, followed by two men conducting Dominiquebetween them.

"Never, never!" the latter exclaimed. "I am ready todie."

"You had better think the matter over," the officerreplied. "I shall have no trouble in finding some one else torender us the service which you refuse. I am generous withyou; I offer you your life. It is simply a matter of guidingus 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 withclasped hands; she was forgetful of all considerations saveone, she would have had him commit a treason. But FatherMerlier seized her hands that the Prussians might not seethe wild gestures of a woman whose mind was disordered byher distress.

"He is right," he murmured, "it is best for him to die."

The firing-party was in readiness. The officer still hadhopes of bringing Dominique over, and was waiting tosee him exhibit some signs of weakness. Deep silenceprevailed. 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 thatsuddenly the cry arose:

"The French; the French!"

It was a fact; they were coming. The line of red trouserscould be seen advancing along the Sauval road, at the edgeof the forest. In the mill the confusion was extreme; thePrussian 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 herhands for joy. She was like a woman possessed. She hadescaped 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 athunder-clap caused her to suddenly turn her head. The officerhad muttered: "We will finish this business first," and withhis own hands pushing Dominique up against the wall of ashed, had given the command to the squad to fire. WhenFrançoise turned Dominique was lying on the ground,pierced by a dozen bullets.

She did not shed a tear, she stood there like one suddenlyrendered senseless. Her eyes were fixed and staring,and she went and seated herself beneath the shed, a fewsteps from the lifeless body. She looked at it wistfully;now and then she would make a movement with her handin an aimless, childish way. The Prussians had seized FatherMerlier as a hostage.

It was a pretty fight. The officer, perceiving that hecould not retreat without being cut to pieces, rapidly madethe best disposition possible of his men; it was as well tosell their lives dearly. The Prussians were now thedefenders of the mill and the French were the attacking party.The musketry fire began with unparalleled fury; for half anhour there was no lull in the storm. Then a deep reportwas heard and a ball carried away a large branch of theold elm. The French had artillery; a battery, in positionjust beyond the ditch where Dominique had concealed himself,commanded the main street of Rocreuse. The conflictcould not last long after that.

Ah! the poor old mill! The cannon-balls raked it fromwall to wall. Half the roof was carried away; two of thewalls fell in. But it was on the side toward the Morelle thatthe damage was greatest. The ivy, torn from the totteringwalls, hung in tatters, débris of every description floatedaway upon the bosom of the stream, and through a greatbreach Françoise's chamber was visible with its little bed,the snow-white curtains of which were carefully drawn. Twoballs struck the old wheel in quick succession and it gaveone parting groan; the buckets were carried away downstream, the frame was crushed into a shapeless mass. Itwas the soul of the stout old mill parting from the body.

Then the French came forward to carry the place bystorm. There was a mad hand-to-hand conflict with thebayonet. Under the dull sky the pretty valley became ahuge 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 theforest was like the walls of a tilting-ground enclosing thecombatants, and in nature's universal panic the gentlemurmur of the springs and watercourses sounded like sobsand wails.

Françoise had not stirred from the shed, where sheremained hanging over Dominique's body. Father Merlierhad met his death from a stray bullet. Then the Frenchcaptain, the Prussians being exterminated and the mill onfire, entered the courtyard at the head of his men. It was thefirst success that he had gained since the breaking out of thewar, so, all afire with enthusiasm, drawing himself up to thefull height of his lofty stature, he laughed pleasantly, as ahandsome cavalier like him might laugh, and, perceivingpoor idiotic Françoise where she crouched between thecorpses of her father and her betrothed, among the smokingruins of the mill, he saluted her gallantly with his swordand shouted:

"Victory! victory!"

VENUS OF ILLE

BY PROSPER MERIMEE

Prosper Mérimée, novelist, historian, dramatist,critic, was born in Paris in 1803, the sonof an artist of recognized talent. Rarely giftedand highly educated, he held various officesin the civil service, was an Academician, anda Senator of the Empire in 1853. A greattraveler, and admitted through his adaptablenessand engaging personality to all classesof society, from that of Napoleon III to thatof the humblest peasants, observing whereverhe 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 considereda 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

I was descending the last slope of the Canigou,and though the sun was already set I coulddistinguish on the plain the houses of the small townof Ille, toward which I directed my steps.

"Of course," I said to the Catalan who since the day beforeserved as my guide, "you know where M. de Peyrehoradelives?"

"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 thefinest in Ille. He is rich, M. de Peyrehorade is, and hemarries 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 forthe wedding. To-night perhaps, to-morrow or the next day,how do I know? It will take place at Puygarrig, for it isMademoiselle de Puygarrig that the son is to marry. It willbe a sight, I can tell you."

I was recommended to M. de Peyrehorade by my friendM. de P. He was, I had been told, an antiquarian of muchlearning and a man of charming affability. He would takedelight 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, upsetall my plans.

"I shall be a troublesome guest," I told myself. "But Iam expected; my arrival has been announced by M. de P.: Imust present myself."

When we reached the plain the guide said, "Wager acigar, sir, that I can guess what you are going to do atM. de Peyrehorade's."

Offering him one, I answered, "It is not very hard toguess. At this hour, when one has made six leagues in theCanigou, supper is the great thing after all."

"Yes, but to-morrow? Here I wager that you have cometo Ille to see the idol. I guessed that when I saw you drawthe 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. dePeyrehorade 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 itto make a lot of big pennies. She weighs as much as achurch-bell. It was deep in the ground at the foot of anolive-tree that we got her."

"You were present at the discovery?"

"Yes, sir. Two weeks ago M. de Peyrehorade told JeanColl and me to uproot an old olive-tree which was frozenlast 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 hadstruck a bell—and I said, 'What is that?' We dug on and on,and there was a black hand, which looked like the hand ofa corpse, sticking out of the earth. I was scared to death.I ran to M. de Peyrehorade and I said to him: 'There aredead people, master, under the olive-tree! The priest mustbe called.'

"'What dead people?' said he to me. He came, and hehad no sooner seen the hand than he cried out, 'An antique! anantique!' 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 respectto you, sir. She was all in copper, and M. de Peyrehoradetold us it was an idol of pagan times—the time ofCharlemagne."

"I see what it is—some virgin or other in bronze from adestroyed 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 fixesyou with her great white eyes—one might say she stares atyou. One lowers one's eyes, yes, indeed, one does, onlooking at her."

"White eyes? Doubtless they are set in the bronze. Perhapsit 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 andbetter finished than the bust of Louis Philippe in coloredplaster which is in the town-hall. But with all that the faceof 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 hadgotten down on all fours to stand her upright, and M. dePeyrehorade was also pulling on the rope, though he has notmuch more strength than a chicken. With much troublewe got her up straight. I reached for a broken tile tosupport her, when if she doesn't tumble over backward all in aheap. I said, 'Take care,' but not quick enough, for Jeandid not have time to draw away his leg—"

"And it was hurt?"

"Broken as clean as a vine-prop. When I saw that I wasfurious; I wanted to take my pickax and smash the statue topieces, but M. de Peyrehorade stopped me. He gave JeanColl some money, but all the same, he is in bed still, thoughit is two weeks since it happened, and the physician saysthat he will never walk as well with that leg as with theother. It is a pity, for he was our best runner, and, afterM. de Peyrehorade's son, the cleverest racquet player.M. Alphonse de Peyrehorade was sorry, I can tell you, for Collalways played on his side. It was beautiful to see how theyreturned each other the balls. They never touched theground."

Chatting in this way we entered Ille, and I soon foundmyself in the presence of M. de Peyrehorade. He was a littleold man, still hale and active, with powdered hair, a red nose,and a jovial, bantering manner. Before opening M. de P.'sletter he had seated me at a well-spread table, and hadpresented me to his wife and son as a celebrated archeologistwho was to draw Roussillon from the neglect in which theindifference of erudites had left it.

While eating heartily, for nothing makes one hungrierthan the keen air of the mountains, I scrutinized my hosts.I have said a word about M. de Peyrehorade. I must addthat he was activity personified. He talked, got up, ran tohis library, brought me books, showed me engravings, andfilled my glass, all at the same time. He was never twominutes in repose. His wife was a trifle stout, as are mostCatalans when they are over forty years of age. Sheappeared to me a thorough provincial, solely occupied withher housekeeping. Though the supper was sufficient for atleast six persons, she hurried to the kitchen and had pigeonskilled and a number broiled, and she opened I do not knowhow many jars of preserves. In no time the table wasladen with dishes and bottles, and if I had but tasted ofeverything offered me I should certainly have died ofindigestion. Nevertheless, at each dish I refused they madefresh excuses. They feared I found myself very badly offat Ille. In the provinces there were so few resources, andof course Parisians were fastidious!

In the midst of his parent's comings and goingsM. Alphonse de Peyrehorade was as immovable as rent-day.He was a tall young man of twenty-six, with a regular andhandsome countenance, but lacking in expression. Hisheight and his athletic figure well justified the reputation ofan 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 thelast number of the "Journal des Modes." But he seemed tome ill at ease in his clothes; he was as stiff as a post inhis velvet collar, and could only turn all of a piece. Instriking contrast to his costume were his large sunburnthands and blunt nails. They were a laborer's hands issuingfrom the sleeves of an exquisite. Moreover, though heexamined me in my quality of Parisian most curiously fromhead to foot, he only spoke to me once during the wholeevening, and that was to ask me where I had bought mywatch-chain.

As the supper was drawing to an end M. de Peyrehoradesaid to me: "Ah! my dear guest, you belong to me nowyou are here. I shall not let go of you until you have seeneverything of interest in our mountains. You must learn toknow our Roussillon, and to do it justice. You do notsuspect all that we have to show you, Phenician, Celtic,Roman, Arabian, and Byzantine monuments; you shall seethem all from the cedar to the hyssop. I shall drag youeverywhere, and will not spare you a single stone."

A fit of coughing obliged him to pause. I took advantageof it to tell him that I should be sorry to disturb him on anoccasion of so much interest to his family. If he wouldbut give me his excellent advice about the excursions to bemade, I could go without his taking the trouble toaccompany me.

"Ah! you mean the marriage of that boy there," heexclaimed, interrupting me; "stuff and nonsense, it will beover the day after to-morrow. You will go to the weddingwith us, which is to be informal, as the bride is in mourningfor an aunt whose heiress she is. Therefore, there will beno festivities, no ball. It is a pity, though; you might haveseen our Catalans dance. They are pretty, and might havegiven you the desire to imitate Alphonse. One marriage, theysay, leads to another. The young people once married Ishall be free, and we will bestir ourselves. I beg yourpardon for boring you with a provincial wedding. For aParisian tired of entertainments—and a wedding without aball at that! Still, you will see a bride—a bride—well, youshall tell me what you think of her. But you are a thinkerand no longer notice women. I have better than that toshow you. You shall see something; in fact, I have a finesurprise in store for you to-morrow."

"Good heavens!" said I; "it is difficult to have a treasurein the house without the public being aware of it. I thinkI know the surprise in reserve for me. But if it is yourstatue which is in question, the description my guide gaveme of it only served to excite my curiosity and preparedme to admire."

"Ah! So he spoke to you about the idol, as he callsmy beautiful Venus Tur: but I will tell you nothing.To-morrow you shall see her by daylight and tell me if Iam right in thinking the statue a masterpiece. You could nothave arrived more opportunely. There are inscriptions onit which I, poor ignoramus that I am, explain after my ownfashion; but you a Parisian erudite, will probably laugh atmy interpretation: for I have actually written a paperabout it—I, an old provincial antiquary, have launchedmyself in literature. I wish to make the press groan. If youwould kindly read and correct it I might have some hope.For example, I am very anxious to know how you translatethis inscription from the base of the statue: 'CAVE.' ButI 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 youridol. Can you not see that you prevent our guest fromeating? You may be sure that he has seen in Paris much finerstatues than yours. In the Tuileries there are dozens, andthey also are in bronze."

"There you have the saintly ignorance of the provinces!"interrupted M. de Peyrehorade. "The idea of comparing anadmirable 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 intoa 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 sheis! to break a man's leg."

"Madam, do you see that?" said M. de Peyrehorade, in aresolute tone, extending toward her his right leg in itschangeable silk stocking; "if my Venus had broken that legthere for me I should not regret it."

"Good gracious! Peyrehorade, how can you say such athing? Fortunately, the man is better. And yet I can notbring myself to look at a statue which has caused so greata disaster. Poor Jean Coll!"

"Wounded by Venus, sir," said M. de Peyrehorade, with aloud 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 meas if to ask, "And you, Parisian, do you understand?"

The supper came to an end. I had ceased eating an hourbefore. I was weary, and I could not manage to hide thefrequent yawns which escaped me. Madame de Peyrehoradewas the first to notice them, and remarked that it wastime to go to bed. Then followed fresh apologies for thepoor accommodations I would have. I would not be as welloff as in Paris. It was so uncomfortable in the provinces!Indulgence was needed for the Roussillonnais. Notwithstandingmy protests that after a tramp in the mountains abundle of straw would seem to me a delicious couch, theycontinued begging me to pardon poor country people if theydid not treat me as well as they could have wished.

Accompanied by M. de Peyrehorade I ascended at lastto the room arranged for me. The staircase, the upper halfof which was in wood, ended in the centre of a hall, out ofwhich opened several rooms.

"To the right," said my host, "is the apartment which Ipropose to give the future Madame Alphonse. Your room isat the opposite end of the corridor. You understand," headded in a manner which he meant to be sly—"you understandthat newly married people must be alone. You are atone end of the house, they at the other."

We entered a well-furnished room where the first objecton which my gaze rested was a bed seven feet long, sixwide, and so high that one needed a chair to climb up into it.Having shown me where the bell was, and assured himselfthat the sugar-bowl was full and the cologne bottlesduly placed on the toilet-stand, my host asked me a numberof times if anything was lacking, wished me good-night, andleft me alone.

The windows were closed. Before undressing I openedone to breathe the fresh night air so delightful after a longsupper. Facing me was the Canigou. Always magnificent,it appeared to me on that particular evening, lighted as itwas by a resplendent moon, as the most beautiful mountainin the world. I remained a few minutes contemplatingits marvelous silhouette, and was about to close the windowwhen, lowering my eyes, I perceived, a dozen yards fromthe house, the statue on its pedestal. It was placed at thecorner of a hedge that separated a small garden from avast, perfectly level quadrangle, which I learned later wasthe racquet court of the town. This ground was the propertyof M. de Peyrehorade, and had been given by him to theparish at the solicitation of his son.

Owing to the distance it was difficult for me to distinguishthe attitude of the statue; I could only judge of its height,which seemed to be about six feet. At that moment twoscamps of the town, whistling the pretty Roussillon tune,"Montagnes régalades," were crossing the racquet court quitenear the hedge. They paused to look at the statue, and oneof them even apostrophized it aloud. He spoke Catalonian,but I had been long enough in Roussillon to understandpretty well what he said.

"There you are, you wench!" (The Catalonian word wasmuch more forcible.) "There you are!" he said. "It wasyou, then, who broke Jean Coll's leg! If you belonged to meI'd break your neck."

"Bah! what with?" said the other youth. "It is of thecopper of pagan times, and harder than I don't know what."

"If I had my chisel" (it seems he was a locksmith'sapprentice), "I would soon force out its big white eyes, as Iwould pop an almond from its shell. There are more than ahundred pennies' worth of silver in them."

They went on a few steps.

"I must wish the idol good-night," said the taller of theapprentices, stopping suddenly.

He stooped and probably picked up a stone. I saw himunbend his arm and throw something. A blow resounded onthe bronze, and immediately the apprentice raised his handto his head with a cry of pain.

"She threw it back at me!" he exclaimed. And my tworascals ran off as fast as they could. It was evident that thestone had rebounded from the metal and had punished thewag for the outrage he had done the goddess. Laughingheartily, I shut the window.

Another Vandal punished by Venus! May all thedesecrators 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 bedstood M. de Peyrehorade in a dressing-gown; a servant sentby his wife was on the other side with a cup of chocolate inhis hand.

"Come, come, you Parisian, get up! This is quite thelaziness of the capital!" said my host, while I dressed inhaste. "It is eight o'clock, and you are still in bed! I havebeen up since six. This is the third time I have been to yourdoor. I approached on tiptoe: no one, not a sign of life. Itis bad for you to sleep too much at your age. And my Venus,which you have not yet seen! Come, hurry up and take thiscup of Barcelona chocolate. It is real contraband chocolate,such as can not be found in Paris. Prepare yourself, forwhen you are once before my Venus no one will be able totear you away from her."

I was ready in five minutes, that is to say, I was halfshaved, half dressed, and burned by the boiling chocolate Ihad swallowed. I descended to the garden and saw anadmirable statue before me. It was truly a Venus, and ofmarvelous beauty. The upper part of the body was nude, asgreat divinities were usually represented by the ancients.The right hand was raised as high as the breast, the palmturned inward, the thumb and two first fingers extended, andthe others slightly bent. The other hand, drawn close tothe hip, held the drapery which covered the lower half of thebody. The attitude of this statue reminded one of that of themourre player which is called, I hardly know why, by thename of Germanicus. Perhaps it had been intended torepresent the goddess as playing at mourre. However that maybe, it is impossible to find anything more perfect than theform of this Venus, anything softer and more voluptuousthan her outlines, or more graceful and dignified than herdrapery. I had expected a work of the decadence; I saw amasterpiece of statuary's best days.

What struck me most was the exquisite reality of thefigure; 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 havebeen gilded. The head was small, like nearly all thoseGreek statues, and bent slightly forward. As to the face, Ishall never succeed in describing its strange character; itwas of a type belonging to no other Greek statue which Ican remember. It had not the calm, severe beauty of theGreek sculptors, who systematically gave a majestic immobilityto all the features. On the contrary, I noticed here,with surprise, a marked intention on the artist's part toreproduce malice verging on viciousness. All the featureswere slightly contracted. The eyes were rather oblique, themouth raised at the corners, the nostrils a trifle dilated.Disdain, irony, and cruelty were to be read in the neverthelessbeautiful face.

Truly, the more one gazed at the statue the more oneexperienced a feeling of pain that such wonderful beautycould 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, howI pity her lovers! She must have taken pleasure in makingthem die of despair. There is something ferocious in herexpression, and yet I have never seen anything morebeautiful."

"'C'est Venus tout entière à sa proie attachée!'" criedM. de Peyrehorade, delighted with my enthusiasm.

But the expression of demoniac irony was perhapsincreased by the contrast of the bright silver eyes with thedusky green hue which time had given to the statue. Theshining eyes produced a sort of illusion which simulatedreality and life. I remembered what my guide had said, thatthose who looked at her were forced to lower their eyes. Itwas almost true, and I could not prevent a movement ofanger at myself when I felt ill at ease before this bronzefigure.

"Now that you have seen everything in detail, my dearcolleague in antiquities, let us, if you please, open ascientific conference. What do you say to this inscription whichyou have not yet noticed?" He pointed to the base of thestatue, 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 translateit: 'Guard against him who loves thee,' that is, 'distrustlovers.' But in this sense I do not know if caveamantem would be good Latin. After seeing the diabolicalexpression of the lady I should sooner believe that the artistmeant to warn the spectator against this terrible beauty. Ishould then translate it: 'Take care of thyself if she lovesthee.'"

"Humph!" said M. de Peyrehorade; "yes, it is an admissiblemeaning: but, if you do not mind, I prefer the firsttranslation, which I would, however, develop. You know Venus'slover?"

"There are several."

"Yes; but the first is Vulcan. Why should it not mean:'Notwithstanding all thy beauty, thine air of disdain, thouwilt have a blacksmith, a wretched cripple, for a lover'? Aprofound lesson, sir, for coquettes!"

The explication seemed so far-fetched that I could nothelp smiling.

To avoid formally contradicting my antiquarian friend, Iobserved, "Latin is a terrible language in its conciseness,"and I drew back several steps to better contemplate thestatue.

"Wait a moment, colleague!" said M. de Peyrehorade,catching hold of my arm; "you have not seen all. There isanother inscription. Climb up on the pedestal and look atthe right arm." So saying, he helped me up, and withoutmuch ceremony I clung to the neck of the Venus, with whomI was becoming more familiar. For a second I even lookedher straight in the eyes, and on close inspection sheappeared more wicked, and, if possible, more beautiful thanbefore. Then I noticed that on the arm were engraved, asit seemed to me, characters in ancient script. With the aidof my spectacles I spelled out what follows, and M. dePeyrehorade, approving with voice and gesture, repeatedeach 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 asif there were several letters effaced; but 'Tvrbvl' wasperfectly legible.

"Which means to say?" my host asked radiantly, with amischievous smile, for he thought the 'Tvrbvl' would puzzleme.

"There is one word which I do not yet understand," Ianswered; "all the rest is simple. Eutyches Myron has madethis offering to Venus by her command."

"Quite right. But 'Tvrbvl,' what do you make of it? Whatdoes it mean?"

"'Tvrbvl' perplexes me very much. I am trying to thinkof one of Venus's familiar characteristics which mayenlighten me. But what do you say to 'Tvrbvlenta'? TheVenus who troubles, agitates. You see I am still preoccupiedby her wicked expression. 'Tvrbvlenta' is not too bad aquality for Venus," I added modestly, for I was not too wellsatisfied with my explanation.

"A turbulent Venus! A noisy Venus! Ah! then you thinkmy 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 discoverybefore my article appears in print. Because, you see,I pride myself on such a find, and, after all, you Parisianerudites are rich enough to leave a few ears for us poordevils 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 asto filch from him his discovery.

"'Tvrbvl'—sir," said he, coming nearer and lowering hisvoice for fear some one besides myself might hear him, "read'Tvrbvlneræ.'"

"I understand no better."

"Listen to me attentively. Three miles from here, at thefoot of the mountain, is a village called Boulternère. Thename is a corruption of the Latin word 'Tvrbvlnera.' Nothingis more common than these transpositions. Boulternèrewas a Roman town. I always suspected it, but Icould get no proof till now, and here it is. This Venus wasthe local goddess of the city of Boulternére; and the wordBoulternére, which I have shown is of ancient origin, provessomething very curious, namely, that Boulternére was aPhenician town before it was Roman!"

He paused a moment to take breath and enjoy my surprise.I succeeded in overcoming a strong inclination tolaugh.

"'Tvrbvlnera' is, in fact, pure Phenician," he continued."'Tvr,' pronounce 'tour'—'Tour' and 'Sour' are the sameword, are they not? 'Sour' is the Phenician name of Tyr; Ido not need to recall the meaning to you. 'Bvl' is Baal;Bal, Bel, Bui are slight differences of pronunciation. Asto 'Nera,' that troubles me a little. I am tempted tobelieve, for want of a Phenician word, that it comes from theGreek νηρόϛ, moist, marshy. In that case, it is a mongrelword. To justify νηρόϛ I will show you at Boulternère howthe mountain streams form stagnant pools. Then, again,the ending 'Nera' may have been added much later inhonor of Nera Pivesuvia, wife of Tetricus, who may havebenefited 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, andcontinued:

"But let us leave the Phenicians and return to the inscription.I translate it then: 'To Venus of Boulternère Myrondedicates by her order this statue, his work.'"

I took good care not to criticize his etymology, but Iwished in my turn to give a proof of penetration, so Isaid:

"Stop a moment, M. de Peyrehorade. Myron has dedicatedsomething, but I by no means see that it is thisstatue."

"What!" he cried, "was not Myron a famous Greek sculptor?The talent was perpetuated in his family, and it musthave 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. Ithink it served to fasten something, a bracelet for example,which this Myron, being an unhappy lover, gave to Venusas 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 termsare synonymous. I could show you more than one exampleif I had at hand Gruter or Orellius. It is natural that alover should see Venus in a dream and imagine that shecommands him to give a gold bracelet to her statue. Myronconsecrated the bracelet to her. Then the barbarians orsome other sacrilegious thieves—"

"Ah! it is easy to see you have written romances!" criedmy host, helping me down from the pedestal. "No, sir; itis a work of Myron's school. You have only to look at theworkmanship to be convinced of that."

Having made it a rule never to contradict self-opinionatedantiquarians, I bowed with an air of conviction, saying:

"It is an admirable piece of work."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed M. de Peyrehorade, "anotheract of vandalism! Some one must have thrown a stone atmy statue!"

He had just perceived a white mark a little above thebosom of the Venus. I noticed a similar mark on thefingers of the right hand. I supposed it had been touchedby the stone as it passed, or that a bit of the stone hadbeen broken off as it struck the statue, and had reboundedon 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 toDiomede, wished he might, like the Greek hero, see all hiscomrades turned into white birds.

The breakfast bell interrupted this classical conversation,and, as on the preceding evening, I was obliged to eat enoughfor four. Then came M. de Peyrehorade's farmers, and,while he was giving them an audience, his son led me toinspect an open carriage, which he had bought at Toulouse forhis betrothed, and which it is needless to say I dulyadmired. After that I went into the stable with him, where hekept me a half-hour, boasting about his horses, giving metheir genealogy, and telling me of the prizes they had wonat the county races. At last he began to talk to me abouthis betrothed in connection with a gray mare which heintended for her.

"We will see her to-day," he said. "I do not know ifyou 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 fromPrades left her a fortune. Oh! I shall be very happy."

I was profoundly shocked to see a young man appearmore 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 giveher to-morrow."

He drew from his little finger a heavy ring, enriched withdiamonds, and fashioned into two clasped hands, an allusionwhich seemed to me infinitely poetic. The workmanship wasantique, but I fancied it had been retouched to insert thediamonds. Inside the ring these words in Gothic characterscould be discerned: 'Sempr' ab ti,' which means, 'Thineforever.'

"It is a pretty ring," I said, "but the diamonds which havebeen 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—itdates from the days of chivalry. It was my grandmother's,who had it from her grandmother. Heaven knows when itwas made."

"The custom in Paris," I said, "is to give a perfectlyplain ring, usually composed of two different metals, suchas gold and platina. The other ring which you have onwould be very suitable. This one with its diamonds and itsclasped hands is so thick that it would be impossible towear a glove over it."

"Madame Alphonse must arrange that as she pleases. Ithink she will be very glad to have it, all the same. Twelvehundred francs on the finger is pleasant. That other littlering," he added, looking in a contented way at the plainring he wore, "that one a woman in Paris gave me onShrove Tuesday. How I did enjoy myself when I was inParis two years ago! That is the place to have a goodtime!" and he sighed regretfully.

We were to dine that day at Puygarrig, with the relationsof the bride; so we got in the carriage, and drove tothe château, which was four or five miles from Ille. I waspresented and received as the friend of the family. I willnot speak of the dinner, or the conversation which followed.I took but little part in it. M. Alphonse was seated besidehis betrothed, and whispered a word or two in her ear nowand then. As for her, she hardly raised her eyes; and everytime her lover spoke to her she blushed modestly, butanswered without embarrassment.

Mademoiselle de Puygarrig was eighteen years of age.Her slender, graceful figure formed a striking contrast tothe stalwart frame of her future husband. She was not onlybeautiful, she was alluring. I admired the perfect naturalnessof all her replies. Her kind look, which yet was not freefrom a touch of malice, reminded me, in spite of myself, ofmy host's Venus. While making this inward comparison,I asked myself if the incontestably superior beauty of thestatue did not in great measure come from its tigress-likeexpression; for strength, even in evil passions, alwaysarouses in us astonishment, and a sort of involuntaryadmiration.

"What a pity," I thought, on leaving Puygarrig, "thatsuch an attractive girl should be rich, and that her dowrymakes 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 andthen, 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 woulddare be married on that day."

"Do not speak of it," she replied; "if it had depended onme, certainly another day would have been chosen. ButPeyrehorade wished it, and I had to give in. All the same,it troubles me very much. Supposing an accident shouldhappen? There must be some reason in it, or else why isevery one afraid of Friday?"

"Friday!" cried her husband, "is Venus's day! Justthe day for a wedding! You see, my dear colleague, I thinkonly of my Venus. I chose Friday on her account. To-morrow,if you like, before the wedding, we will make a littlesacrifice to her—a sacrifice of two doves—and if I onlyknew where to get some incense—"

"For shame, Peyrehorade!" interrupted his wife, scandalizedto the last degree. "Incense to an idol! It wouldbe an abomination! What would they say of us in theneighborhood?"

"At least," answered M. de Peyrehorade, "you will allowme to place a wreath of roses and lilies on her head:Manibus date lilia plenis. You see, sir, freedom is an emptyword. We have not liberty of worship!"

The next day's arrangements were ordered in the followingmanner: Every one was to be dressed and ready at teno'clock punctually. After the chocolate had been served wewere to be driven to Puygarrig. The civil marriage wasto take place in the town hall of the village, and the religiousceremony in the chapel of the château. Afterward therewould be a breakfast. After the breakfast people would passthe time as they liked until seven o'clock. At that hourevery 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 wishto eat as much as possible.

By eight o'clock I was seated in front of the Venus, pencilin hand, recommencing the head of the statue for thetwentieth 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 Bengalroses on the pedestal of the statue while he addressed vowsto it in a tragi-comic tone for the young couple who wereto live under his roof. Toward nine o'clock he went in toput on his best, and at the same moment M. Alphonseappeared looking very stiff in a new coat, white gloves, chasedsleeve-buttons, and varnished shoes. A rose decorated hisbuttonhole.

"Will you make my wife's portrait?" he asked, leaningover my drawing. "She also is pretty."

On the racquet-court of which I have spoken there nowbegan a game which immediately attracted M. Alphonse'sattention. And I, tired, and despairing of ever being ableto copy the diabolical face, soon left my drawing to look atthe players. There were among them some Spanish muleteerswho had arrived the night before. They were fromAragon and Navarre, and were nearly all marvelously skilfulat the game. Therefore the Illois, though encouraged bythe presence and advice of M. Alphonse, were promptlybeaten by the foreign champions. The native spectatorswere disheartened. M. Alphonse looked at his watch. Itwas only half-past nine. His mother's hair he knew wasnot dressed. He hesitated no longer, but taking off hiscoat asked for a jacket, and defied the Spaniards. I lookedon smiling and a little surprised. "The honor of thecountry must be sustained," he said.

Then I thought him really handsome. He seemed full oflife, and his costume, which but now occupied him soentirely, no longer concerned him. A few minutes before hewould have dreaded to turn his head for fear of disarranginghis cravat. Now he did not give a thought to his curledhair or his fine shirt-front. And his betrothed? If it hadbeen necessary I think he would have postponed the wedding.I saw him hurriedly put on a pair of sandals, roll uphis sleeves, and, with an assured air, take his stand at thehead of the vanquished party like Cæsar rallying hissoldiers at Dyrrachium. I leaped the hedge and placed myselfcomfortably in the shade of a tree so as to command a goodview of both sides.

Contrary to general expectation, M. Alphonse missed thefirst ball. It came skimming along the ground, it is true, andwas thrown with astonishing force by an Aragonese whoappeared to be the leader of the Spaniards.

He was a man of about forty, nervous and agile, and atleast six feet tall. His olive skin was almost as dark as thebronze of the Venus.

M. Alphonse threw his racquet angrily on the ground.

"It is this cursed ring," he cried, "which squeezes myfinger, and makes me miss a sure ball."

He drew off his diamond ring with some difficulty; Iapproached to take it, but he forestalled me by running tothe Venus and shoving it on her fourth finger. He thenresumed his post at the head of the Illois.

He was pale, but calm and resolute. From that momenthe did not miss a single ball, and the Spaniards werecompletely beaten. The enthusiasm of the spectators was a finesight: some threw their caps in the air and shouted forjoy, while others wrung M. Alphonse's hands, calling him thehonor of the country. If he had repulsed an invasion Idoubt if he would have received warmer or sincerercongratulations. The vexation of the vanquished added to thesplendor of the victory.

"We will play other games, my good fellow," he said tothe Aragonese in a tone of superiority, "but I will give youpoints."

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 palebeneath his tan. He looked sullenly at his racquet andclinched 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 preparationof the new carriage, my host was even more surprised onseeing 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 infive minutes we were galloping on the road to Puygarrig.All the racquet players of the town and a crowd of spectatorsfollowed us with shouts of joy. The strong horses whichdrew us could hardly keep ahead of the intrepid Catalans.

We were at Puygarrig, and the procession was about toset out for the town-hall, when M. Alphonse, striking hisforehead, whispered to me:

"What a mess! I have forgotten the ring! It is on thefinger of the Venus; may the devil carry her off! Do nottell 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 temptalmost any one. Moreover, what would they think of myforgetfulness? They would laugh at me. They would callme the husband of the statue. If it only is not stolen!Fortunately, the rascals are afraid of the idol. They do not dareapproach it by an arm's length. After all, it does not matter;I have another ring."

The two ceremonies, civil and religious, were accomplishedwith suitable pomp, and Mademoiselle de Puygarrigreceived the ring of a Parisian milliner without suspectingthat her betrothed was making her the sacrifice of alove-token. Then we seated ourselves at table, where we ate,drank, and even sang, all at great length. I suffered forthe bride at the coarse merriment which exploded aroundher; still, she faced it better than I would have expected, andher embarrassment was neither awkward nor affected.

Perhaps courage comes with difficult situations.

The breakfast ended when Heaven pleased. It was fouro'clock. The men went to walk in the park, which wasmagnificent, or watched the peasants, in their holiday attire,dance on the lawn of the château. In this way we passedseveral hours. Meanwhile, the women were eagerly attentiveto the bride, who showed them her presents. Then shechanged her dress, and I noticed that she had covered herbeautiful hair with a befeathered bonnet; for women are inno greater hurry than to assume, as soon as possible, theattire which custom forbids their wearing while they arestill young girls.

It was nearly eight o'clock when preparations were madeto start for Ille. But first a pathetic scene took place.Mlle. de Puygarrig's aunt, a very old and pious woman, whostood to her in a mother's place, was not to go with us.Before the departure she gave her niece a touching sermonon her wifely duties, from which sermon resulted a flood oftears and endless embraces.

M. de Peyrehorade compared this separation to the Rapeof the Sabines.

At last, however, we got off, and, on the way, every oneexerted himself to amuse the bride and make her laugh; butall in vain.

At Ille supper awaited us, and what a supper! If thecoarse jokes of the morning had shocked me, I was nowmuch more so by the equivocations and pleasantries ofwhich the bride and groom were the principal objects. Thebridegroom, who had disappeared for a moment beforeseating himself at the table, was pale, cold, and grave.

He drank incessantly some old Collioure wine almostas strong as brandy. I sat next to him, and thought myselfobliged to warn him. "Be careful! they say that wine—" Ihardly know what stupid nonsense I said to be in harmonywith the other guests.

He touched my knee, and whispered:

"When we have left the table ... let me have twowords with you."

His solemn tone surprised me. I looked more closely athim, 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 upto the company a pretty pink and white ribbon which hehad untied from the bride's ankle. It was called her garter,and was at once cut into pieces and distributed among theyoung men, who, following an old custom still preserved insome patriarchal families, ornamented their buttonholes withit. This was the time for the bride to flush up to the whitesof her eyes. But her confusion was at its height when M. dePeyrehorade, having called for silence, sang several versesin Catalan, which he said were impromptu. Here is themeaning, if I understood it correctly:

"What is this, my friends? Has the wine I have drunkmade me see double? There are two Venuses here..."

The bridegroom turned his head suddenly with afrightened look, which made every one laugh.

"Yes," continued M. de Peyrehorade, "there are twoVenuses under my roof. The one I found in the groundlike a truffle; the other, descended from heaven, has justdivided among us her belt."

He meant her garter.

"My son, choose between the Roman Venus and theCatalan the one you prefer. The rascal takes the Catalan,and his choice is the best. The Roman is black, theCatalan is white. The Roman is cold, the Catalan inflames allwho approach her."

This equivocal allusion excited such a shout, such noisyapplause, and sonorous laughter, that I thought the ceilingwould fall on our heads. Around the table there were butthree serious faces, those of the newly married couple andmine. I had a terrible headache; and besides, I do not knowwhy, a wedding always saddens me. This one, moreover,even disgusted me a little.

The final verses having been sung, and very lively theywere, I must say, every one adjourned to the drawing-roomto enjoy the withdrawal of the bride, who, as it was nearlymidnight, 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 thematter with me ... I am bewitched!"

My first thought was that he fancied himself threatenedwith one of those misfortunes of which Montaigne andMadame de Sevigne speak:

"All the world of love is full of tragic histories," etc.

"I thought only clever people were subject to this sort ofaccident," I said to myself.

To him I said: "You drank too much Collioure wine, mydear Monsieur Alphonse; I warned you against it."

"Yes, perhaps. But something much more terrible thanthat 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 infernalVenus."

"You did not pull hard enough."

"Yes, indeed I did. But the Venus—she has bent herfinger."

He stared at me wildly, and leaned against the window-sashto prevent himself from falling.

"What nonsense!" I said. "You pushed the ring on toofar. You can get it off to-morrow with pincers. But becareful not to damage the statue."

"No, I tell you. The Venus's finger is crooked, bentunder; she clinches her hand, do you hear me? ... She ismy 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. Thena great sigh from him brought me a whiff of wine, and allmy emotion disappeared.

The wretch, I thought, is dead drunk.

"You are an antiquarian, sir," added the bridegroom in amournful tone; "you understand those statues; there is,perhaps, some hidden spring, some deviltry which I do notknow 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 heavyrain had begun to fall. I was about to ask for an umbrellawhen a sudden thought stopped me. I should be a greatfool, I reflected, to go and verify what had been told me bya drunken man! Besides, he may have wished to play somesilly trick on me to give cause for laughter to the honestcountry people; and the least that can happen to me from itis to be drenched to the bone and catch a bad cold.

From the door I cast a glance at the statue running withwater, and I went up to my room without returning to thedrawing-room. I went to bed; but sleep was long in coming.All the scenes of the day passed through my mind. I thoughtof the young girl, so pure and lovely, abandoned to a drunkenbrute. What an odious thing a marriage of convenience is!A mayor dons a tricolored scarf, a priest a stole, and thenthe most virtuous girl in the world is delivered over to theMinotaur! What can two people who do not love each otherfind to say at a moment which two lovers would buy at theprice of their lives? Can a woman ever love a man whomshe has once seen coarse? First impressions are nevereffaced, and I am sure M. Alphonse will deserve to be hated.

During my monologue, which I abridge very much, I hadheard a great deal of coming and going in the house. Doorsopened and shut, and carriages drove away. Then I seemedto hear on the stairs the light steps of a number of womengoing toward the end of the hall opposite my room. It wasprobably the bride's train of attendants leading her to bed.After that they went downstairs again. Madame de Peyrehorade'sdoor closed. "How troubled and ill at ease that poorgirl must be," I thought. I tossed about in my bed with badtemper. A bachelor plays a stupid part in a house where amarriage is accomplished.

Silence had reigned for some time when it was disturbedby a heavy tread mounting the stairs. The wooden stepscreaked loudly.

"What a clown!" I cried to myself. "I wager that he willfall on the stairs." All was quiet again. I took up a bookto change the current of my thoughts. It was the countystatistics, supplemented with an address by M. de Peyrehoradeon the Druidical remains of the district of Prades. Igrew drowsy at the third page. I slept badly, and awokerepeatedly. It might have been five o'clock in the morning,and I had been awake more than twenty minutes, when thecock crew. Day was about to dawn. Then I heard distinctlythe same heavy footsteps, the same creaking of thestairs which I had heard before I fell asleep. I thought itstrange. Yawning, I tried to guess why M. Alphonse gotup so early. I could imagine no likely reason. I was aboutto close my eyes again when my attention was freshlyexcited by a singular trampling of feet, which was soonintermingled with the ringing of bells and the sound of doorsopened 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 thehall. From the opposite end came cries and lamentations,and a heartrending voice dominated all the others: "Myson! my son!" It was evident that an accident had happened toM. Alphonse. I ran to the bridal apartment: it was full ofpeople. The first sight which struck my gaze was the youngman partly dressed and stretched across the bed, thewoodwork of which was broken. He was livid and motionless.His mother sobbed and wept beside him. M. de Peyrehorademoved about frantically; he rubbed his son's temples withcologne water, or held salts to his nose. Alas! his son hadlong been dead. On a sofa at the other side of the roomlay the bride, a prey to dreadful convulsions. She wasmaking inarticulate cries, and two robust maid-servants had allthe 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 unfortunateyoung man: it was already stiff and cold. His clenchedteeth and black face expressed the most fearful anguish. Itwas evident enough that his death had been violent and hisagony terrible.

Nevertheless, no sign of blood was on his clothes. Iopened his shirt, and on his chest I found a livid mark whichextended around the ribs to the back. One would have saidhe had been squeezed in an iron ring. My foot touchedsomething hard on the carpet; I stooped and saw it was thediamond ring. I dragged M. de Peyrehorade and his wifeinto their room, and had the bride carried there.

"You still have a daughter," I said to them. "You oweher your care." Then I left them alone.

To me it did not seem to admit of a doubt that M. Alphonsehad been the victim of a murder whose authors haddiscovered a way to introduce themselves into the bride'sroom during the night. The bruises on the chest and theircircular direction, however, perplexed me, for they could nothave been made either by a club or an iron bar. SuddenlyI remembered having heard that at Valencia bravi used longleather bags filled with sand to stun people whom they hadbeen paid to kill. Immediately I thought of the Aragonesemuleteer and his threat. Yet I hardly dared suppose hewould have taken such a terrible revenge for a trifling jest.

I went through the house seeking everywhere for tracesof house-breaking, but could find none. I descended to thegarden to see if the assassins could have made theirentrance from there; but there were no conclusive signs of it.In any case, the evening's rain had so softened the groundthat it could not have retained any very clear impress.Nevertheless, I noticed some deeply marked footprints; theyran in two contrary directions, but on the same path. Theystarted from the corner of the hedge next the racquet-courtand ended at the door of the house. They might have beenmade by M. Alphonse when he went to get his ring from thefinger of the statue. Then again, the hedge at this spot wasnarrower than elsewhere, and it must have been here thatthe murderers got over it. Passing and repassing before thestatue, I stopped a moment to consider it. This time, Imust confess, I could not contemplate its expression ofvicious irony without fear; and, my mind being filled withthe horrible scene I had just witnessed, I seemed to seein it a demoniacal goddess applauding the sorrow fallen onthe house.

I returned to my room and stayed there till noon. ThenI 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 spokento the procureur du roi from Perpignan, then in circuit atIlle, and this magistrate had received her deposition. Heasked for mine. I told him what I knew, and did not hidefrom him my suspicions about the Aragonese muleteer. Heordered him to be arrested on the spot.

"Have you learned anything from Mme. Alphonse?" Iasked the procureur du roi when my deposition was writtenand 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 thecurtains drawn, when the door of her room opened and someone entered. Mme. Alphonse was on the inside of the bedwith her face turned to the wall. Assured that it was herhusband, she did not move. Presently the bed creaked as ifladen with a tremendous weight. She was terribly frightened,but dared not turn her head. Five minutes, or tenminutes perhaps—she has no idea of the time—passed inthis way. Then she made an involuntary movement, orelse it was the other person who made one, and she felt thecontact 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, andsome one came in who said: 'Good-evening, my little wife.' Thenthe curtains were drawn back. She heard a stifled cry.The person who was in the bed beside her sat up apparentlywith extended arms. Then she turned her head and sawher husband, kneeling by the bed with his head on a levelwith the pillow, held close in the arms of a sort ofgreenish-colored giant. She says, and she repeated it to me twentytimes, poor woman!—she says that she recognized—do youguess whom?—the bronze Venus, M. de Peyrehorade's statue.Since it has been here every one dreams about it. But tocontinue the poor lunatic's story. At this sight she lostconsciousness, 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 statueas she insists on calling it, lying immovable, the legs andlower part of the body on the bed, the bust and armsextended forward, and between the arms her husband, quitemotionless. A cock crew. Then the statue left the bed,let fall the body, and went out. Mme. Alphonse rushedto the bell, and you know the rest."

The Spaniard was brought in; he was calm, and defendedhimself with much coolness and presence of mind. He didnot deny the remark which I had overheard, but he explainedit, pretending that he did not mean anything except that thenext day, when rested, he would beat his victor at a gameof racquets. I remember that he added:

"An Aragonese when insulted does not wait till the nextday to revenge himself. If I had believed that M. Alphonsewished to insult me I would have ripped him up with myknife on the spot."

His shoes were compared with the footprints in thegarden; the shoes were much the larger.

Finally, the innkeeper with whom the man lodged assertedthat he had spent the entire night rubbing and dosingone of his mules which was sick. And, moreover, theAragonese was a man of good reputation, well known in theneighborhood, where he came every year on business.

So he was released with many apologies.

I have forgotten to mention the statement of a servantwho was the last person to see M. Alphonse alive. It wasjust as he was about to join his wife, and calling to thisman he asked him in an anxious way if he knew where Iwas. The servant answered that he had not seen me.M. Alphonse sighed, and stood a minute without speaking, thenhe 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; butfor 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, forI thought he had given it to Mme. Alphonse."

When questioning the man I felt a little of the superstitiousterror which Mme. Alphonse's statement had spreadthrough the house. The procureur du roi smiled at me, andI was careful not to insist further.

A few hours after the funeral of M. Alphonse I preparedto leave Ille. M. de Peyrehorade's carriage was to take meto Perpignan. Notwithstanding his feeble condition, thepoor old man wished to accompany me as far as the gardengate. We crossed the garden in silence, he creeping alongsupported by my arm. As we were about to part I threwa last glance at the Venus. I foresaw that my host, thoughhe did not share the fear and hatred which it inspired in hisfamily, would wish to rid himself of an object which mustceaselessly recall to him a dreadful misfortune. Myintention was to induce him to place it in a museum. As Ihesitated to open the subject, M. de Peyrehorade turned hishead mechanically in the direction he saw I was lookingso fixedly. He perceived the statue, and immediately meltedinto tears. I embraced him, and got into the carriagewithout daring to say a word.

Since my departure I have not learned that any newlight 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 publishsome day. I did not find among them the article relative tothe inscriptions on the Venus.

P.S.—My friend M. de P. has just written to me fromPerpignan that the statue no longer exists. After herhusband's death Madame de Peyrehorade's first care was tohave it cast into a bell, and in this new shape it does dutyin the church at Ille. "But," adds M. de P., "it seems as ifbad luck pursues those who own the bronze. Since the bellrings at Ille the vines have twice been frozen."

THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

This splendid tale of adventure is selectedfrom the author's "New Arabian Nights." Thougha part of his earliest work, it is agood example of his exquisite and finishedstyle. Stevenson as a writer was as purelyromantic as Scott, but in structure, method ofdescription and narrative, and brilliancy ofstyle, is considered to have marked thetechnical advance which had been made since thetime of the "Waverley Novels." His charmingpersonality—a certain undaunted cheerfulnessin face of all human difficulty—shines throughhis work and endears him to his readers.

THE PAVILION ON THE LINKS

By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

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 madeit my pride to keep aloof and suffice for my ownentertainment; and I may say that I had neitherfriends nor acquaintances until I met that friendwho became my wife and the mother of my children. Withone man only was I on private terms; this was R. Northmour,Esquire, of Graden Easter, in Scotland. We had met atcollege; and though there was not much liking between us, noreven much intimacy, we were so nearly of a humor that wecould associate with ease to both. Misanthropes, we believedourselves to be; but I have thought since that we were onlysulky fellows. It was scarcely a companionship, but aco-existence in unsociability. Northmour's exceptionalviolence of temper made it no easy affair for him to keep thepeace with any one but me; and as he respected my silentways, and let me come and go as I pleased, I could toleratehis presence without concern. I think we called each otherfriends.

When Northmour took his degree and I decided to leavethe university without one, he invited me on a long visitto Graden Easter; and it was thus that I first becameacquainted with the scene of my adventures. The mansionhouse of Graden stood in a bleak stretch of country somethree miles from the shore of the German Ocean. It was aslarge as a barrack; and as it had been built of a soft stone,liable to consume in the eager air of the seaside, it wasdamp and drafty within and half ruinous without. It wasimpossible for two young men to lodge with comfort in sucha dwelling. But there stood in the northern part of theestate, in a wilderness of links and blowing sand-hills, andbetween a plantation and the sea, a small Pavilion orBelvedere, of modern design, which was exactly suited to ourwants; and in this hermitage, speaking little, reading much,and rarely associating except at meals, Northmour and Ispent four tempestuous winter months. I might have stayedlonger; but one March night there sprang up between usa dispute, which rendered my departure necessary. Northmourspoke hotly, I remember, and I suppose I must havemade some tart rejoinder. He leaped from his chair andgrappled me; I had to fight, without exaggeration, for mylife; and it was only with a great effort that I masteredhim, for he was near as strong in body as myself, and seemedfilled with the devil. The next morning, we met on ourusual terms; but I judged it more delicate to withdraw; nordid he attempt to dissuade me.

It was nine years before I revisited the neighborhood. Itraveled at that time with a tilt cart, a tent, and acooking-stove, tramping all day beside the wagon, and at night,whenever it was possible, gipsying in a cove of the hills, or bythe side of a wood. I believe I visited in this manner mostof the wild and desolate regions both in England andScotland; and, as I had neither friends nor relations, I wastroubled with no correspondence, and had nothing in thenature of headquarters, unless it was the office of mysolicitors, from whom I drew my income twice a year. It was alife in which I delighted; and I fully thought to have grownold upon the march, and at last die in a ditch.

It was my whole business to find desolate corners, whereI could camp without the fear of interruption; and hence,being in another part of the same shire, I bethought mesuddenly of the Pavilion on the Links. No thoroughfarepassed within three miles of it. The nearest town, and thatwas but a fisher village, was at a distance of six or seven.For ten miles of length, and from a depth varying from threemiles to half a mile, this belt of barren country lay along thesea. The beach, which was the natural approach, was fullof quicksands. Indeed I may say there is hardly a betterplace of concealment in the United Kingdom. I determinedto pass a week in the Sea-Wood of Graden Easter, andmaking a long stage, reached it about sundown on a wildSeptember day.

The country, I have said, was mixed sand-hill and links;links being a Scottish name for sand which has ceased driftingand become more or less solidly covered with turf. Thepavilion stood on an even space; a little behind it, the woodbegan in a hedge of elders huddled together by the wind;in front, a few tumbled sand-hills stood between it and thesea. An outcropping of rock had formed a bastion for thesand, so that there was here a promontory in the coast-linebetween two shallow bays; and just beyond the tides, therock again cropped out and formed an islet of small dimensionsbut strikingly designed. The quicksands were of greatextent at low water, and had an infamous reputation in thecountry. Close inshore, between the islet and the promontory,it was said they would swallow a man in four minutesand a half; but there may have been little ground for thisprecision. The district was alive with rabbits, and hauntedby 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 heavysurf rolling in close along the links, the place told of nothingbut dead mariners and sea disaster. A ship beating towindward on the horizon, and a huge truncheon of wreckhalf buried in the sands at my feet, completed the innuendoof the scene.

The pavilion—it had been built by the last proprietor,Northmour's uncle, a silly and prodigal virtuoso—presentedlittle signs of age. It was two stories in height, Italian indesign, surrounded by a patch of garden in which nothinghad prospered but a few coarse flowers; and looked, with itsshuttered windows, not like a house that had been deserted,but like one that had never been tenanted by man. Northmourwas plainly from home; whether, as usual, sulking inthe cabin of his yacht, or in one of his fitful and extravagantappearances in the world of society, I had, of course, nomeans of guessing. The place had an air of solitude thatdaunted even a solitary like myself; the wind cried in thechimneys with a strange and wailing note; and it was witha sense of escape, as if I were going indoors, that I turnedaway and, driving my cart before me, entered the skirts ofthe wood.

The Sea-Wood of Graden had been planted to shelter thecultivated fields behind, and check the encroachments of theblowing sand. As you advanced into it from coastward,elders were succeeded by other hardy shrubs; but the timberwas all stunted and bushy; it led a life of conflict; the treeswere accustomed to swing there all night long in fiercewinter tempests; and even in early spring, the leaves werealready flying, and autumn was beginning, in this exposedplantation. 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, vesselsmust bear well to the eastward to clear Graden Ness and theGraden Bullets. In the lower ground, a streamlet ran amongthe trees, and, being dammed with dead leaves and clay of itsown carrying, spread out every here and there, and lay instagnant pools. One or two ruined cottages were dottedabout the wood; and, according to Northmour, these wereecclesiastical foundations, and in their time had shelteredpious hermits.

I found a den, or small hollow, where there was a springof pure water; and there, clearing away the brambles, Ipitched the tent, and made a fire to cook my supper. Myhorse I picketed further in the wood where there was apatch of sward. The banks of the den not only concealed thelight of my fire, but sheltered me from the wind, which wascold 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 costlythan oatmeal; and I required so little sleep, that, althoughI rose with the peep of day, I would often lie long awake inthe dark or starry watches of the night. Thus in GradenSea-Wood, although I fell thankfully asleep by eight in theevening I was awake again before eleven with a full possessionof my faculties, and no sense of drowsiness or fatigue.I rose and sat by the fire, watching the trees and cloudstumultuously tossing and fleeing overhead, and hearkeningto the wind and the rollers along the shore; till at length,growing weary of inaction, I quitted the den, and strolledtoward the borders of the wood. A young moon, buriedin mist, gave a faint illumination to my steps; and thelight grew brighter as I walked forth into the links. At thesame moment, the wind, smelling salt of the open oceanand 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 ofa light in the pavilion. It was not stationary; but passedfrom one window to another, as though some one werereviewing the different apartments with a lamp or candle. Iwatched it for some seconds in great surprise. When I hadarrived in the afternoon the house had been plainly deserted;now it was as plainly occupied. It was my first idea thata gang of thieves might have broken in and be now ransackingNorthmour's cupboards, which were many and not illsupplied. But what should bring thieves to Graden Easter?And, again, all the shutters had been thrown open, and itwould have been more in the character of such gentry toclose them. I dismissed the notion, and fell back uponanother. Northmour himself must have arrived, and wasnow airing and inspecting the pavilion.

I have said that there was no real affection between thisman and me; but, had I loved him like a brother, I wasthen so much more in love with solitude that I should nonethe less have shunned his company. As it was, I turned andran for it; and it was with genuine satisfaction that I foundmyself safely back beside the fire. I had escaped anacquaintance; I should have one more night in comfort. Inthe morning I might either slip away before Northmourwas abroad or pay him as short a visit as I chose.

But when morning came I thought the situation sodiverting that I forgot my shyness. Northmour was at mymercy; I arranged a good practical jest, though I knewwell that my neighbor was not the man to jest with insecurity; and, chuckling beforehand over its success, took myplace among the elders at the edge of the wood, whence Icould command the door of the pavilion. The shutters wereall once more closed, which I remember thinking odd; andthe house, with its white walls and green Venetians, lookedspruce and habitable in the morning light. Hour after hourpassed, and still no sign of Northmour. I knew him for asluggard in the morning; but, as it drew on toward noon, Ilost my patience. To say the truth, I had promised myselfto break my fast in the pavilion, and hunger began to prickme sharply. It was a pity to let the opportunity go bywithout some cause for mirth; but the grosser appetiteprevailed, and I relinquished my jest with regret, and salliedfrom the wood.

The appearance of the house affected me, as I drewnear, with disquietude. It seemed unchanged since lastevening; and I had expected it, I scarce knew why, to wearsome external signs of habitation. But no: the windowswere 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 ofmy surprise when, on turning the house, I found the backdoor similarly secured.

My mind at once reverted to the original theory ofthieves; and I blamed myself sharply for my last night'sinaction. I examined all the windows on the lower story, butnone of them had been tampered with; I tried the padlocks,but they were both secure. It thus became a problem howthe thieves, if thieves they were, had managed to enter thehouse. They must have got, I reasoned, upon the roof ofthe outhouse where Northmour used to keep his photographicbattery; and from thence, either by the window ofthe study or that of my old bedroom, completed theirburglarious entry.

I followed what I supposed was their example; and, gettingon the roof, tried the shutters of each room. Both weresecure; 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 myhand. I remember, I put the wound to my mouth, andstood for perhaps half a minute licking it like a dog, andmechanically gazing behind me over the waste links and thesea; and, in that space of time, my eye made note of a largeschooner yacht some miles to the northeast. Then I threwup the window and climbed in.

I went over the house, and nothing can express mymystification. There was no sign of disorder, but, on thecontrary, the rooms were unusually clean and pleasant. Ifound fires laid, ready for lighting; three bedroomsprepared with a luxury quite foreign to Northmour's habits,and with water in the ewers and the beds turned down; atable set for three in the dining-room; and an ample supplyof 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 wasthe house thus stealthily prepared at dead of night? andwhy were the shutters closed and the doors padlocked?

I effaced all traces of my visit, and came forth from thewindow feeling sobered and concerned.

The schooner yacht was still in the same place; and itflashed for a moment through my mind that this might bethe "Red Earl" bringing the owner of the pavilion and hisguests. But the vessel's head was set the other way.

Tells of the Nocturnal Landing from the Yacht

I returned to the den to cook myself a meal, of which Istood in great need, as well as to care for my horse, whom Ihad somewhat neglected in the morning. From time totime I went down to the edge of the wood; but there was nochange in the pavilion, and not a human creature was seenall day upon the links. The schooner in the offing was theone touch of life within my range of vision. She, apparentlywith no set object, stood off and on or lay to, hour afterhour; but as the evening deepened, she drew steadily nearer.I became more convinced that she carried Northmour andhis friends, and that they would probably come ashore afterdark; not only because that was of a piece with the secrecyof the preparations, but because the tide would not haveflowed sufficiently before eleven to cover Graden Floe andthe other sea-quags that fortified the shore against invaders.

All day the wind had been going down, and the seaalong with it; but there was a return toward sunset of theheavy weather of the day before. The night set in pitchdark. The wind came off the sea in squalls, like the firing ofa battery of cannon; now and then there was a flaw of rain,and the surf rolled heavier with the rising tide. I was downat my observatory among the elders, when a light was runup to the masthead of the schooner, and showed she wascloser in than when I had last seen her by the dying daylight.I concluded that this must be a signal to Northmour'sassociates on shore; and, stepping forth into the links, lookedaround me for something in response.

A small footpath ran along the margin of the wood, andformed the most direct communication between the pavilionand 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, andrapidly approaching. From its uneven course it appearedto be the light of a lantern carried by a person who followedthe windings of the path, and was often staggered and takenaback by the more violent squalls. I concealed myself oncemore among the elders, and waited eagerly for thenew-comer's advance. It proved to be a woman; and, as shepassed within half a rod of my ambush, I was able to recognizethe features. The deaf and silent old dame, who hadnursed Northmour in his childhood, was his associate inthis underhand affair.

I followed her at a little distance, taking advantage of theinnumerable heights and hollows, concealed by the darkness,and favored not only by the nurse's deafness, but by theuproar of the wind and surf. She entered the pavilion, and,going at once to the upper story, opened and set a light inone of the windows that looked toward the sea. Immediatelyafterward the light at the schooner's masthead was rundown and extinguished. Its purpose had been attained, andthose on board were sure that they were expected. The oldwoman resumed her preparations; although the other shuttersremained closed, I could see a glimmer going to and froabout the house; and a gush of sparks from one chimneyafter another soon told me that the fires were being kindled.Northmour and his guests, I was now persuaded, wouldcome ashore as soon as there was water on the floe. It wasa wild night for boat service; and I felt some alarm minglewith my curiosity as I reflected on the danger of the landing.My old acquaintance, it was true, was the most eccentric ofmen; but the present eccentricity was both disquieting andlugubrious to consider. A variety of feelings thus led metoward the beach, where I lay flat on my face in a hollowwithin 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 themas soon as they had landed.

Some time before eleven, while the tide was still dangerouslylow, a boat's lantern appeared close inshore; and, myattention being thus awakened, I could perceive anotherstill far to seaward, violently tossed, and sometimes hiddenby the billows. The weather, which was getting dirtier asthe night went on, and the perilous situation of the yachtupon a lee-shore, had probably driven them to attempt alanding at the earliest possible moment.

A little afterward, four yachtsmen carrying a very heavychest, and guided by a fifth with a lantern, passed close infront of me as I lay, and were admitted to the pavilion bythe nurse. They returned to the beach, and passed me athird time with another chest, larger but apparently not soheavy as the first. A third time they made the transit; andon this occasion one of the yachtsmen carried a leatherportmanteau, and the others a lady's trunk and carriage bag.My curiosity was sharply excited. If a woman were amongthe guests of Northmour, it would show a change in hishabits and an apostasy from his pet theories of life wellcalculated to fill me with surprise. When he and I dweltthere together, the pavilion had been a temple of misogyny.And now, one of the detested sex was to be installed underits roof. I remembered one or two particulars, a few notesof daintiness and almost of coquetry which had struck methe day before as I surveyed the preparations in the house;their purpose was now clear, and I thought myself dull notto have perceived it from the first.

While I was thus reflecting, a second lantern drew nearme from the beach. It was carried by a yachtsman whomI had not yet seen, and who was conducting two other personsto the pavilion. These two persons were unquestionablythe guests for whom the house was made ready; and, strainingeye and ear, I set myself to watch them as they passed.One was an unusually tall man, in a traveling hat slouchedover his eyes, and a highland cape closely buttoned andturned up so as to conceal his face. You could make out nomore of him than that he was, as I have said, unusuallytall, and walked feebly with a heavy stoop. By his side, andeither clinging to him or giving him support—I could notmake out which—was a young, tall, and slender figure of awoman. She was extremely pale; but in the light of thelantern her face was so marred by strong and changingshadows that she might equally well have been as ugly assin or as beautiful as I afterward found her to be.

When they were just abreast of me, the girl made someremark which was drowned by the noise of the wind.

"Hush!" said her companion; and there was something inthe tone with which the word was uttered that thrilledand rather shook my spirits. It seemed to breathe from abosom laboring under the deadliest terror; I have neverheard another syllable so expressive; and I still hear itagain when I am feverish at night, and my mind runs uponold times. The man turned toward the girl as he spoke; Ihad a glimpse of much red beard and a nose which seemedto have been broken in youth; and his light eyes seemedshining in his face with some strong and unpleasant emotion.

But these two passed on and were admitted in their turnto the pavilion.

One by one, or in groups, the seamen returned to thebeach. The wind brought me the sound of a rough voicecrying, "Shove off!" Then, after a pause, another lanterndrew near. It was Northmour alone.

My wife and I, a man and a woman, have often agreed towonder how a person could be, at the same time, so handsomeand so repulsive as Northmour. He had the appearanceof a finished gentleman; his face bore every mark ofintelligence and courage; but you had only to look at him,even in his most amiable moment, to see that he had thetemper of a slaver captain. I never knew a character thatwas both explosive and revengeful to the same degree; hecombined the vivacity of the south with the sustained anddeadly hatreds of the north; and both traits were plainlywritten on his face, which was a sort of danger signal. Inperson, he was tall, strong, and active; his hair andcomplexion very dark; his features handsomely designed, butspoiled 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 lookedsharply round him as he walked, like a man besieged withapprehensions. And yet I thought he had a look of triumphunderlying all, as though he had already done much, andwas near the end of an achievement.

Partly from a scruple of delicacy—which I dare say cametoo late—partly from the pleasure of startling anacquaintance, I desired to make my presence known to him withoutdelay.

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 hishand; and he struck for my heart with a dagger. At thesame moment I knocked him head over heels. Whether itwas my quickness, or his own uncertainty, I know not; butthe blade only grazed my shoulder, while the hilt and hisfist struck me violently on the mouth.

I fled, but not far. I had often and often observed thecapabilities of the sand-hills for protracted ambush orstealthy advances and retreats; and, not ten yards from thescene of the scuffle, plumped down again upon the grass.The lantern had fallen and gone out. But what was myastonishment to see Northmour slip at a bound into thepavilion, and hear him bar the door behind him with a clangof iron!

He had not pursued me. He had run away. Northmour,whom I knew for the most implacable and daring ofmen, had run away! I could scarce believe my reason; andyet in this strange business, where all was incredible, therewas nothing to make a work about in an incredibility moreor less. For why was the pavilion secretly prepared? Whyhad Northmour landed with his guests at dead of night, inhalf a gale of wind, and with the floe scarce covered? Whyhad he sought to kill me? Had he not recognized myvoice? I wondered. And, above all, how had he come to have adagger ready in his hand? A dagger, or even a sharp knife,seemed out of keeping with the age in which we lived; anda gentleman landing from his yacht on the shore of his ownestate, even although it was at night and with some mysteriouscircumstances, does not usually, as a matter of fact,walk thus prepared for deadly onslaught. The more Ireflected, the further I felt at sea. I recapitulated theelements of mystery, counting them on my fingers: the pavilionsecretly prepared for guests; the guests landed at the riskof their lives and to the imminent peril of the yacht; theguests, or at least one of them, in undisguised and seeminglycauseless terror; Northmour with a naked weapon; Northmourstabbing his most intimate acquaintance at a word;last, and not least strange, Northmour fleeing from the manwhom he had sought to murder, and barricading himself,like a hunted creature, behind the door of the pavilion. Herewere at least six separate causes for extreme surprise; eachpart and parcel with the others, and forming all togetherone consistent story. I felt almost ashamed to believe myown senses.

As I thus stood, transfixed with wonder, I began to growpainfully conscious of the injuries I had received in thescuffle; skulked round among the sand-hills; and, by a deviouspath, regained the shelter of the wood. On the way, theold nurse passed again within several yards of me, stillcarrying her lantern, on the return journey to the mansion-houseof Graden. This made a seventh suspicious feature inthe case. Northmour and his guests, it appeared, were tocook and do the cleaning for themselves, while the old womancontinued to inhabit the big empty barrack among thepolicies. There must surely be great cause for secrecy, whenso many inconveniences were confronted to preserve it.

So thinking, I made my way to the den. For greatersecurity, I trod out the embers of the fire, and lighted mylantern to examine the wound upon my shoulder. It was atrifling hurt, although it bled somewhat freely, and I dressedit as well as I could (for its position made it difficult toreach) with some rag and cold water from the spring. WhileI was thus busied, I mentally declared war against Northmourand his mystery. I am not an angry man by nature,and I believe there was more curiosity than resentment inmy heart. But war I certainly declared; and, by way ofpreparation, I got out my revolver, and, having drawn thecharges, cleaned and reloaded it with scrupulous care. NextI 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 longbefore dawn I was leading it over the links in the directionof the fisher village.

III

Tells How I Became Acquainted with my Wife

For two days I skulked round the pavilion, profiting bythe uneven surface of the links. I became an adept in thenecessary tactics. These low hillocks and shallow dells,running one into another, became a kind of cloak of darknessfor my enthralling, but perhaps dishonorable, pursuit.Yet, in spite of this advantage, I could learn but little ofNorthmour or his guests.

Fresh provisions were brought under cover of darknessby the old woman from the mansion-house. Northmour,and the young lady, sometimes together, but more oftensingly, would walk for an hour or two at a time on thebeach beside the quicksand. I could not but conclude thatthis promenade was chosen with an eye to secrecy; for thespot was open only to the seaward. But it suited me notless excellently; the highest and most accidented of thesand-hills immediately adjoined; and from these, lying flatin a hollow, I could overlook Northmour or the young ladyas they walked.

The tall man seemed to have disappeared. Not only didhe never cross the threshold, but he never so much asshowed face at a window; or, at least, not so far as I couldsee; for I dared not creep forward beyond a certain distancein the day, since the upper floor commanded the bottomsof the links; and at night, when I could venture further, thelower windows were barricaded as if to stand a siege.Sometimes I thought the tall man must be confined to bed, for Iremembered the feebleness of his gait; and sometimes Ithought he must have gone clear away, and that Northmourand the young lady remained alone together in thepavilion. The idea, even then, displeased me.

Whether or not this pair were man and wife, I had seenabundant reason to doubt the friendliness of their relation.Although I could hear nothing of what they said, and rarelyso much as glean a decided expression on the face of either,there was a distance, almost a stiffness, in their bearingwhich showed them to be either unfamiliar or at enmity.The girl walked faster when she was with Northmour thanwhen she was alone; and I conceived that any inclinationbetween a man and a woman would rather delay thanaccelerate the step. Moreover, she kept a good yard free ofhim, and trailed her umbrella, as if it were a barrier, onthe side between them. Northmour kept sidling closer; and,as the girl retired from his advance, their course lay at asort of diagonal across the beach, and would have landedthem in the surf had it been long enough continued. But,when this was imminent, the girl would unostentatiouslychange sides and put Northmour between her and the sea.I watched these maneuvres, for my part, with high enjoymentand approval, and chuckled to myself at every move.

On the morning of the third day, she walked alone forsome time, and I perceived, to my great concern, that shewas more than once in tears. You will see that my heartwas already interested more than I supposed. She had afirm yet airy motion of the body, and carried her head withunimaginable grace; every step was a thing to look at, andshe seemed in my eyes to breathe sweetness and distinction.

The day was so agreeable, being calm and sunshiny, witha tranquil sea, and yet with a healthful piquancy and vigorin the air, that, contrary to custom, she was tempted fortha second time to walk. On this occasion she was accompaniedby Northmour, and they had been but a short whileon the beach when I saw him take forcible possession of herhand. She struggled, and uttered a cry that was almost ascream. I sprang to my feet, unmindful of my strangeposition; but, ere I had taken a step, I saw Northmourbare-headed and bowing very low, as if to apologize; and droppedagain at once into my ambush. A few words were interchanged;and then, with another bow, he left the beach toreturn to the pavilion. He passed not far from me, and Icould see him, flushed and lowering, and cutting savagelywith his cane among the grass. It was not withoutsatisfaction that I recognized my own handiwork in a greatcut under his right eye, and a considerable discolorationround the socket.

For some time the girl remained where he had left her,looking out past the islet and over the bright sea. Thenwith a start, as one who throws off preoccupation and putsenergy again upon its mettle, she broke into a rapid anddecisive walk. She also was much incensed by what hadpassed. She had forgotten where she was. And I beheldher walk straight into the borders of the quicksandwhere it is most abrupt and dangerous. Two or three stepsfurther and her life would have been in serious jeopardy,when I slid down the face of the sand-hill, which is thereprecipitous, and, running half-way forward, called to herto stop.

She did so, and turned round. There was not a tremor offear in her behavior, and she marched directly up to melike a queen. I was barefoot, and clad like a common sailor,save for an Egyptian scarf round my waist; and she probablytook me at first for some one from the fisher village, strayingafter bait. As for her, when I thus saw her face to face, hereyes set steadily and imperiously upon mine, I was filledwith admiration and astonishment, and thought her evenmore beautiful than I had looked to find her. Nor could Ithink enough of one who, acting with so much boldness, yetpreserved a maidenly air that was both quaint and engaging;for my wife kept an old-fashioned precision of mannerthrough 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 GradenFloe."

"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 inthis 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. "MayI ask you not to betray me? I was obliged to disclose myselfin your interest; but if Northmour learned my presence itmight 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 ofanswer.

She shook her head. All this while she was studyingmy face with an embarrassing intentness. Then she brokeout:

"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 farmore power to injure me! And yet you do not look unkind.What do you mean—you, a gentleman—by skulking like aspy about this desolate place? Tell me," she said, "whois it you hate?"

"I hate no one," I answered; "and I fear no one face toface. My name is Cassilis—Frank Cassilis. I lead the lifeof a vagabond for my own good pleasure. I am one ofNorthmour's oldest friends; and three nights ago, when Iaddressed him on these links, he stabbed me in the shoulderwith 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 toknow. I have not many friends, nor am I very susceptibleto friendship; but no man shall drive me from a place byterror. I had camped in Graden Sea-Wood ere he came; Icamp in it still. If you think I mean harm to you or yours,madam, the remedy is in your hand. Tell him that my campis in the Hemlock Den, and to-night he can stab me insafety while I sleep."

With this I doffed my cap to her, and scrambled uponce more among the sand-hills. I do not know why, butI felt a prodigious sense of injustice, and felt like a hero anda martyr; while, as a matter of fact, I had not a word tosay in my defense, nor so much as one plausible reason tooffer for my conduct. I had stayed at Graden out of acuriosity natural enough, but undignified; and though therewas another motive growing in along with the first, it wasnot one which, at that period, I could have properlyexplained 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 herintegrity. I could have staked my life that she was clearof blame, and, though all was dark at the present, that theexplanation of the mystery would show her part in theseevents to be both right and needful. It was true, let mecudgel my imagination as I pleased, that I could invent notheory of her relations to Northmour; but I felt none theless sure of my conclusion because it was founded on instinctin place of reason, and, as I may say, went to sleep thatnight 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 guardedtones. I was astonished to observe that she was deadlypale, and seemingly under the influence of strong emotion."Mr. Cassilis!" she cried; "Mr. Cassilis!"

I appeared at once, and leaped down upon the beach. Aremarkable air of relief overspread her countenance as soonas she saw me.

"Oh!" she cried, with a hoarse sound, like one whose bosomhas been lightened of a weight. And then, "Thank God youare still safe!" she added; "I knew, if you were, you would behere." (Was not this strange? So swiftly and wisely doesNature prepare our hearts for these great life-long intimacies,that both my wife and I had been given a presentimenton this the second day of our acquaintance. I hadeven then hoped that she would seek me; she had felt surethat she would find me.) "Do not," she went on swiftly,"do not stay in this place. Promise me that you willsleep no longer in that wood. You do not know how Isuffer; all last night I could not sleep for thinking of yourperil."

"Peril?" I repeated. "Peril from whom? From Northmour?"

"Not so," she said. "Did you think I would tell him afterwhat you said?"

"Not from Northmour?" I repeated. "Then how? Fromwhom? I see none to be afraid of."

"You must not ask me," was her reply, "for I am notfree to tell you. Only believe me, and go hence—believeme, and go away quickly, quickly for your life!"

An appeal to his alarm is never a good plan to rid one'sself of a spirited young man. My obstinacy was butincreased by what she said, and I made it a point of honor toremain. And her solicitude for my safety still moreconfirmed me in the resolve.

"You must not think me inquisitive, madam," I replied;"but, if Graden is so dangerous a place, you yourselfperhaps remain here at some risk."

She only looked at me reproachfully.

"You and your father—" I resumed; but she interruptedme 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 bothof us, as indeed it was the truth. "But," I continued, "youneed have no fear from me. I see you have some reasonto be secret, and, you may believe me, your secret is as safewith me as if I were in Graden Floe. I have scarce spokento any one for years; my horse is my only companion, andeven he, poor beast, is not beside me. You see, then, youmay count on me for silence. So tell me the truth, my dearyoung lady, are you not in danger?"

"Mr. Northmour says you are an honorable man," shereturned, "and I believe it when I see you. I will tellyou so much; you are right; we are in dreadful, dreadfuldanger, 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. "Ipretended," she hesitated, "I pretended to have met you longago, and spoken to you of him. It was not true; but I couldnot help myself without betraying you, and you had putme in a difficulty. He praised you highly."

"And—you may permit me one question—does this dangercome from Northmour?" I asked.

"From Mr. Northmour?" she cried. "Oh, no; he stayswith 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 friendof ours."

I know not what came over me, for I had not been consciousof a similar weakness since I was a child, but I wasso mortified by this retort that my eyes pricked and filledwith tears, as I continued to gaze upon her face.

"No, no," she said, in a changed voice; "I did not meanthe words unkindly."

"It was I who offended," I said; and I held out my handwith a look of appeal that somehow touched her, for shegave me hers at once, and even eagerly. I held it for awhile in mine, and gazed into her eyes. It was she whofirst tore her hand away, and, forgetting all about herrequest and the promise she had sought to extort, ran at thetop of her speed, and without turning, till she was out ofsight. And then I knew that I loved her, and thought inmy glad heart that she—she herself—was not indifferent tomy suit. Many a time she has denied it in after days, butit was with a smiling and not a serious denial. For mypart, I am sure our hands would not have lain so closely ineach other if she had not begun to melt to me already. And,when all is said, it is no great contention, since, by herown avowal, she began to love me on the morrow.

And yet on the morrow very little took place. Shecame and called me down as on the day before, upbraidedme for lingering at Graden, and, when she found I was stillobdurate, began to ask me more particularly as to my arrival.I told her by what series of accidents I had come to witnesstheir disembarkation, and how I had determined to remain,partly from the interest which had been wakened in meby Northmour's guests, and partly because of his ownmurderous attack. As to the former, I fear I was disingenuous,and led her to regard herself as having been an attraction tome from the first moment that I saw her on the links. Itrelieves my heart to make this confession even now, whenmy wife is with God, and already knows all things, and thehonesty of my purpose even in this; for while she lived,although it often pricked my conscience, I had never thehardihood to undeceive her. Even a little secret, in sucha married life as ours, is like the rose-leaf which kept thePrincess from her sleep.

From this the talk branched into other subjects, and Itold her much about my lonely and wandering existence;she, for her part, giving ear, and saying little. Although wespoke very naturally, and latterly on topics that might seemindifferent, we were both sweetly agitated. Too soon itwas time for her to go; and we separated, as if by mutualconsent, 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, withmuch familiarity and yet much timidity on either side. Whenshe had once more spoken about my danger—and that, Iunderstood, was her excuse for coming—I, who had prepareda great deal of talk during the night, began to tell her howhighly I valued her kind interest, and how no one had evercared to hear about my life, nor had I ever cared to relate it;before yesterday. Suddenly she interrupted me, saying withvehemence:

"And yet, if you knew who I was, you would not so muchas speak to me!"

I told her such a thought was madness, and, little as wehad met, I counted her already a dear friend; but myprotestations 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 hidingtwenty times over, would it make one thought of changein you?"

"Ah, but the cause!" she cried, "the cause! It is"—shefaltered for a second—"it is disgraceful to us!"

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 amongtears and sobs. Her name was Clara Huddlestone: it soundedvery beautiful in my ears; but not so beautiful as that othername of Clara Cassilis, which she wore during the longerand, I thank God, the happier portion of her life. Her father,Bernard Huddlestone, had been a private banker in a verylarge way of business. Many years before, his affairsbecoming disordered, he had been led to try dangerous, and atlast criminal, expedients to retrieve himself from ruin. Allwas in vain; he became more and more cruelly involved, andfound his honor lost at the same moment with his fortune.About this period, Northmour had been courting his daughterwith great assiduity, though with small encouragement; andto him, knowing him thus disposed in his favor, BernardHuddlestone turned for help in his extremity. It was notmerely ruin and dishonor, nor merely a legal condemnation,that the unhappy man had brought upon his head. Itseems he could have gone to prison with a light heart. Whathe feared, what kept him awake at night or recalled him fromslumber into frenzy, was some secret, sudden, and unlawfulattempt upon his life. Hence, he desired to bury hisexistence and escape to one of the islands in the South Pacific,and it was in Northmour's yacht, the "Red Earl," that hedesigned to go. The yacht picked them up clandestinelyupon the coast of Wales, and had once more deposited themat Graden, till she could be refitted and provisioned for thelonger voyage. Nor could Clara doubt that her hand hadbeen stipulated as the price of passage. For, althoughNorthmour was neither unkind nor even discourteous, he hadshown himself in several instances somewhat overbold inspeech and manner.

I listened, I need not say, with fixed attention, and putmany questions as to the more mysterious part. It was invain. She had no clear idea of what the blow was, nor ofhow it was expected to fall. Her father's alarm wasunfeigned and physically prostrating, and he had thought morethan once of making an unconditional surrender to the police.But the scheme was finally abandoned, for he was convincedthat not even the strength of our English prisons couldshelter him from his pursuers. He had had many affairs withItaly, and with Italians resident in London, in the later yearsof his business; and these last, as Clara fancied, weresomehow connected with the doom that threatened him. He hadshown great terror at the presence of an Italian seaman onboard the "Red Earl," and had bitterly and repeatedlyaccused Northmour in consequence. The latter had protestedthat Beppo (that was the seaman's name) was a capitalfellow, and could be trusted to the death; but Mr. Huddlestonehad continued ever since to declare that all was lost,that it was only a question of days, and that Beppo would bethe ruin of him yet.

I regarded the whole story as the hallucination of a mindshaken by calamity. He had suffered heavy loss by hisItalian transactions; and hence the sight of an Italian washateful to him, and the principal part in his nightmarewould naturally enough be played by one of that nation.

"What your father wants," I said, "is a good doctor andsome calming medicine."

"But Mr. Northmour?" objected Clara. "He is untroubledby 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 rewardhe has to look for. All is fair in love, you must remember;and if Northmour foments your father's terrors, it isnot at all because he is afraid of any Italian man, but simplybecause he is infatuated with a charming Englishwoman."

She reminded me of his attack upon myself on the nightof the disembarkation, and this I was unable to explain. Inshort, and from one thing to another, it was agreed betweenus that I should set out at once for the fisher village, GradenWester, as it was called, look up all the newspapers I couldfind, and see for myself if there seemed any basis of fact forthese continued alarms. The next morning, at the same hourand place, I was to make my report to Clara. She said nomore on that occasion about my departure; nor, indeed, didshe make it a secret that she clung to the thought of myproximity as something helpful and pleasant; and, for mypart, I could not have left her, if she had gone upon herknees to ask it.

I reached Graden Wester before ten in the forenoon; forin those days I was an excellent pedestrian, and the distance,as I think I have said, was little over seven miles; finewalking all the way upon the springy turf. The village isone of the bleakest on that coast, which is saying much: thereis a church in a hollow; a miserable haven in the rocks,where many boats have been lost as they returned fromfishing; two or three score of stone houses arranged alongthe beach and in two streets, one leading from the harbor,and another striking out from it at right angles; and, at thecorner of these two, a very dark and cheerless tavern, byway of principal hotel.

I had dressed myself somewhat more suitably to my stationin life, and at once called upon the minister in his littlemanse beside the graveyard. He knew me, although it wasmore than nine years since we had met; and when I toldhim that I had been long upon a walking tour, and wasbehind with the news, readily lent me an armful of newspapers,dating from a month back to the day before. With these Isought the tavern, and, ordering some breakfast, sat down tostudy the "Huddlestone Failure."

It had been, it appeared, a very flagrant case. Thousandsof persons were reduced to poverty; and one in particularhad blown out his brains as soon as payment was suspended.It was strange to myself that, while I read these details, Icontinued rather to sympathize with Mr. Huddlestone thanwith his victims; so complete already was the empire of mylove for Clara. A price was naturally set upon the banker'shead; and, as the case was inexcusable and the publicindignation thoroughly aroused, the unusual figure of 750l. wasoffered for his capture. He was reported to have large sumsof money in his possession. One day, he had been heard ofin Spain; the next, there was sure intelligence that he wasstill lurking between Manchester and Liverpool, or along theborder of Wales; and the day after, a telegram wouldannounce his arrival in Cuba or Yucatan. But in allthis there was no word of an Italian, nor any sign ofmystery.

In the very last paper, however, there was one item notso clear. The accountants who were charged to verify thefailure had, it seemed, come upon the traces of a very largenumber of thousands, which figured for some time in thetransactions of the house of Huddlestone; but which camefrom nowhere, and disappeared in the same mysteriousfashion. It was only once referred to by name, and then underthe initials "X.X."; but it had plainly been floated for thefirst time into the business at a period of great depressionsome six years ago. The name of a distinguished royalpersonage had been mentioned by rumor in connection withthis sum. "The cowardly desperado"—such, I remember,was the editorial expression—was supposed to have escapedwith a large part of this mysterious fund still in hispossession.

I was still brooding over the fact, and trying to tortureit into some connection with Mr. Huddlestone's danger, whena man entered the tavern and asked for some bread andcheese 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 hiscompatriots; at which he shrugged his shoulders, and replied thata man would go anywhere to find work. What work hecould hope to find at Graden Wester, I was totally unableto conceive; and the incident struck so unpleasantly upon mymind that I asked the landlord, while he was counting mesome change, whether he had ever before seen an Italian inthe village. He said he had once seen some Norwegians,who had been shipwrecked on the other side of GradenNess and rescued by the lifeboat from Cauld-haven.

"No!" said I; "but an Italian, like the man who has justhad 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, castinga glance into the street, beheld three men in earnestconversation together, and not thirty yards away. One of them wasmy recent companion in the tavern parlor; the other two,by their handsome, sallow features and soft hats, shouldevidently belong to the same race. A crowd of villagechildren stood around them, gesticulating and talking gibberishin imitation. The trio looked singularly foreign to the bleakdirty street in which they were standing, and the dark grayheaven that overspread them; and I confess my incredulityreceived at that moment a shock from which it never recovered.I might reason with myself as I pleased, but I couldnot argue down the effect of what I had seen, and I beganto share in the Italian terror.

It was already drawing toward the close of the day beforeI had returned the newspapers at the manse, and got wellforward on to the links on my way home. I shall neverforget that walk. It grew very cold and boisterous; the windsang in the short grass about my feet; thin rain showerscame running on the gusts; and an immense mountain rangeof clouds began to arise out of the bosom of the sea. Itwould be hard to imagine a more dismal evening; andwhether it was from these external influences, or because mynerves 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 considerablespread of links in the direction of Graden Wester. Toavoid observation, it was necessary to hug the beach until Ihad gained cover from the higher sand-hills on the littleheadland, when I might strike across, through the hollows,for the margin of the wood. The sun was about setting; thetide was low, and all the quicksands uncovered; and I wasmoving along, lost in unpleasant thought, when I wassuddenly thunderstruck to perceive the prints of human feet.They ran parallel to my own course, but low down upon thebeach instead of along the border of the turf; and, when Iexamined them, I saw at once, by the size and coarseness ofthe impression, that it was a stranger to me and to those inthe pavilion who had recently passed that way. Not onlyso; but from the recklessness of the course which he hadfollowed, steering near to the most formidable portions ofthe sand, he was as evidently a stranger to the country and tothe ill-repute of Graden beach.

Step by step I followed the prints; until, a quarter of amile further, I beheld them die away into the southeasternboundary of Graden Floe. There, whoever he was, themiserable man had perished. One or two gulls, who had,perhaps, seen him disappear, wheeled over his sepulchre withtheir usual melancholy piping. The sun had broken throughthe clouds by a last effort, and colored the wide level ofquicksands with a dusky purple. I stood for some time gazingat 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, andwhether his screams had been audible at the pavilion. Andthen, making a strong resolution, I was about to tearmyself away, when a gust fiercer than usual fell upon thisquarter of the beach, and I saw, now whirling high in air,now skimming lightly across the surface of the sands, a softblack felt hat, somewhat conical in shape, such as I hadremarked already on the heads of the Italians.

I believe, but I am not sure, that I uttered a cry. The windwas driving the hat shoreward, and I ran round the borderof 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 Istood. I seized it with the interest you may imagine. Ithad seen some service; indeed, it was rustier than either ofthose I had seen that day upon the street. The lining wasred, stamped with the name of the maker, which I haveforgotten, and that of the place of manufacture, Venedig. This(it is not yet forgotten) was the name given by the Austriansto the beautiful city of Venice, then, and for longafter, a part of their dominions.

The shock was complete. I saw imaginary Italians uponevery side; and for the first and, I may say, for the last timein my experience became overpowered by what is called apanic terror. I knew nothing, that is, to be afraid of, andyet I admit that I was heartily afraid; and it was with asensible reluctance that I returned to my exposed andsolitary camp in the Sea-Wood.

There I ate some cold porridge which had been left overfrom the night before, for I was disinclined to make a fire;and, feeling strengthened and reassured, dismissed all thesefanciful terrors from my mind, and lay down to sleep withcomposure.

How long I may have slept it is impossible for me toguess; but I was awakened at last by a sudden, blindingflash of light into my face. It woke me like a blow. In aninstant I was upon my knees. But the light had gone assuddenly as it came. The darkness was intense. And, as itwas 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 myself-possession. But for two circumstances, I should havethought I had been awakened by some new and vivid formof nightmare. First, the flap of my tent, which I had shutcarefully when I retired, was now unfastened; and, second,I could still perceive, with a sharpness that excluded anytheory of hallucination, the smell of hot metal and ofburning oil. The conclusion was obvious. I had been wakenedby some one flashing a bull's-eye lantern in my face. It hadbeen but a flash, and away. He had seen my face, and thengone. I asked myself the object of so strange a proceeding,and the answer came pat. The man, whoever he was, hadthought to recognize me, and he had not. There was yetanother question unresolved; and to this, I may say, I fearedto give an answer; if he had recognized me, what would hehave done?

My fears were immediately diverted from myself, for Isaw that I had been visited in a mistake; and I becamepersuaded that some dreadful danger threatened the pavilion.It required some nerve to issue forth into the black andintricate thicket which surrounded and overhung the den; butI groped my way to the links, drenched with rain, beatenupon and deafened by the gusts, and fearing at every step tolay my hand upon some lurking adversary. The darknesswas so complete that I might have been surrounded by anarmy and yet none the wiser, and the uproar of the gale soloud that my hearing was as useless as my sight.

For the rest of that night, which seemed interminablylong, I patrolled the vicinity of the pavilion, without seeinga living creature or hearing any noise but the concert of thewind, the sea, and the rain. A light in the upper story filteredthrough a cranny of the shutter, and kept me company tillthe approach of dawn.

Tells of an Interview between Northmour, Clara, and Myself

With the first peep of day, I retired from the open to myold lair among the sand-hills, there to await the coming ofmy wife. The morning was gray, wild, and melancholy; thewind moderated before sunrise, and then went about, andblew in puffs from the shore; the sea began to go down, butthe rain still fell without mercy. Over all the wilderness oflinks there was not a creature to be seen. Yet I felt sure theneighborhood was alive with skulking foes. The light thathad been so suddenly and surprisingly flashed upon my faceas I lay sleeping, and the hat that had been blown ashoreby the wind from over Graden Floe, were two speaking signalsof the peril that environed Clara and the party in thepavilion.

It was, perhaps, half-past seven, or nearer eight, beforeI saw the door open, and that dear figure come toward mein the rain. I was waiting for her on the beach before shehad crossed the sand-hills.

"I have had such trouble to come!" she cried. "They didnot 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 withconfidence. For my wife was the bravest as well as the bestof women; in my experience I have not found the two goalways together, but with her they did; and she combinedthe extreme of fortitude with the most endearing andbeautiful virtues.

I told her what had happened; and, though her cheekgrew visibly paler, she retained perfect control over hersenses.

"You see now that I am safe," said I, in conclusion. "Theydo not mean to harm me; for, had they chosen, I was a deadman 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 abouther, and strained her to my side; and, before either of uswas aware, her hands were on my shoulders and my lipsupon her mouth. Yet up to that moment no word of lovehad passed between us. To this day I remember the touchof her cheek, which was wet and cold with the rain; andmany a time since, when she has been washing her face, Ihave kissed it again for the sake of that morning on thebeach. Now that she is taken from me, and I finish mypilgrimage alone, I recall our old lovingkindnesses and thedeep honesty and attention which united us, and my presentloss seems but a trifle in comparison.

We may have thus stood for some seconds—for timepasses quickly with lovers—before we were startled by apeal of laughter close at hand. It was not natural mirth,but seemed to be affected in order to conceal an angrierfeeling. We both turned, though I still kept my left armabout 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 whitewith 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 butsavagely, "this is hew you keep your faith to your fatherand to me? This is the value you set upon father's life?And you are so infatuated with this young gentleman thatyou must brave ruin, and decency, and common humancaution—"

"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 thatgirl."

"That girl, as you call her, is my wife." said I; andmy wife only leaned a little nearer, so that I knew she hadaffirmed 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 weare not alone."

He looked round him, and it was plain my remark had insome degree sobered his passion, "What do you mean?" heasked.

I only said one word: "Italians."

He swore a round oath, and looked at us, from one to theother.

"Mr. Cassilis knows all that I know," said my wife.

"What I want to know," he broke out, "is where the devilMr. Cassilis comes from, and what the devil Mr. Cassilis isdoing here. You say you are married; that I do not believe.If you were, Graden Floe would soon divorce you; four minutesand a half, Cassilis. I keep my private cemetery for myfriends."

"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 toomuch the advantage of me, Cassilis," he added. I compliedof course; and he listened, with several ejaculations, while Itold him how I had come to Graden; that it was I whom hehad tried to murder on the night of landing; and what I hadsubsequently seen and heard of the Italians.

"Well," said he, when I had done, "it is here at last; thereis no mistake about that. And what, may I ask, do youpropose to do?"

"I propose to stay with you and lend a hand," said I.

"You are a brave man," he returned, with a peculiarintonation.

"I am not afraid," said I.

"And so," he continued, "I am to understand that you twoare married? And you stand up to it before my face, MissHuddlestone?"

"We are not yet married," said Clara; "but we shall beas 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 spadewith you. How about the bargain? You know as well as I dowhat your father's life depends upon. I have only to put myhands under my coat-tails and walk away, and his throatwould be cut before the evening."

"Yes, Mr. Northmour," returned Clara, with great spirit;"but that is what you will never do. You made a bargainthat was unworthy of a gentleman; but you are a gentlemanfor all that, and you will never desert a man whom you havebegun to help."

"Aha!" said he. "You think I will give my yacht fornothing? You think I will risk my life and liberty for loveof the old gentleman; and then, I suppose, be best man atthe wedding, to wind up? Well," he added, with an oldsmile, "perhaps you are not altogether wrong. But askCassilis here. He knows me. Am I a man to trust? AmI 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 agentleman, 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 upwithout a struggle, Frank?" said he. "I tell you plainly, youlook 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. "Ishould despise myself either to think or speak like that. Andneither of you believe one word that you are saying, whichmakes it the more wicked and silly."

"She's a trump!" cried Northmour. "But she's notyet Mrs. Cassilis. I say no more. The present is not forme."

Then my wife surprised me.

"I leave you here," she said suddenly. "My father hasbeen too long alone. But remember this: you are to befriends, for you are both good friends to me."

She has since told me her reason for this step. As longas she remained, she declares that we two would havecontinued to quarrel; and I suppose that she was right, forwhen she was gone we fell at once into a sort ofconfidentiality.

Northmour stared after her as she went away over thesand-hill.

"She is the only woman in the world!" he exclaimed withan oath. "Look at her action."

I, for my part, leaped at this opportunity for a littlefurther light.

"See here, Northmour," said I; "we are all in a tightplace, are we not?"

"I believe you, my boy," he answered, looking me inthe eyes, and with great emphasis. "We have all hell uponus, that's the truth. You may believe me or not, but I'mafraid of my life."

"Tell me one thing," said I. "What are they after, theseItalians? What do they want with Mr. Huddlestone?"

"Don't you know?" he cried. "The black old scamp hadCarbonaro funds on a deposit—two hundred and eightythousand; and of course he gambled it away on stocks. Therewas to have been a revolution in the Tridentino, or Parma;but the revolution is off, and the whole wasps' nest is afterHuddlestone. We shall all be lucky if we can save ourskins."

"The Carbonari!" I exclaimed; "God help him indeed!"

"Amen!" said Northmour. "And now, look here: I havesaid that we are in a fix; and, frankly, I shall be glad ofyour help. If I can't save Huddlestone, I want at least tosave the girl. Come and stay in the pavilion; and, there'smy hand on it, I shall act as your friend until the old manis either clear or dead. But," he added, "once that is settled,you become my rival once again, and I warn you—mindyourself."

"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.

Tells of my Introduction to the Tall Man

We were admitted to the pavilion by Clara, and I wassurprised 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 theshutters of the dining-room, into which I was led directly,and which was feebly illuminated by a lamp, were evenmore elaborately fortified. The panels were strengthenedby bars and cross-bars; and these, in their turn, were keptin position by a system of braces and struts, some abuttingon the floor, some on the roof, and others, in fine, againstthe opposite wall of the apartment. It was at once a solidand well-designed piece of carpentry; and I did not seekto conceal my admiration.

"I am the engineer," said Northmour. "You rememberthe 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 ofguns and pistols, all in admirable order, which stood inline against the wall or were displayed upon the sideboard.

"Thank you," I returned; "I have gone armed since ourlast encounter. But, to tell you the truth, I have hadnothing to eat since early yesterday evening."

Northmour produced some cold meat, to which I eagerlyset myself, and a bottle of good Burgundy, by which, wet asI was, I did not scruple to profit. I have always been anextreme temperance man on principle; but it is useless topush principle to excess, and on this occasion I believe that Ifinished three-quarters of the bottle. As I ate, I stillcontinued 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 toshooting, wild as the country is, some one is sure to hear it,and then—why then it's the same thing, only different, asthey say: caged by law, or killed by Carbonari. There'sthe choice. It is a devilish bad thing to have the law againstyou 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, asfar as he goes. I should like to have his neck wrung to-morrowby all the devils in Italy. I am not in this affair forhim. 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 willMr. Huddlestone take my intrusion?"

"Leave that to Clara," returned Northmour.

I could have struck him in the face for this coarsefamiliarity; but I respected the truce, as, I am bound to say,did Northmour, and so long as the danger continued nota cloud arose in our relation. I bear him this testimony withthe most unfeigned satisfaction; nor am I without pridewhen I look back upon my own behavior. For surely notwo men were ever left in a position so invidious andirritating.

As soon as I had done eating, we proceeded to inspectthe lower floor. Window by window we tried the differentsupports, now and then making an inconsiderable change;and the strokes of the hammer sounded with startlingloudness through the house. I proposed, I remember, to makeloopholes; but he told me they were already made in thewindows of the upper story. It was an anxious business thisinspection, and left me down-hearted. There were two doorsand five windows to protect, and, counting Clara, only fourof 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 andburied 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 sparedme in the wood.

"Do not flatter yourself," said he. "Then you were notin the same boat with the old gentleman; now you are. It'sthe floe for all of us, mark my words."

I trembled for Clara; and just then her dear voice washeard calling us to come upstairs. Northmour showed methe way, and, when he had reached the landing, knockedat the door of what used to be called My Uncle's Bedroom,as the founder of the pavilion had designed it especially forhimself.

"Come in, Northmour; come in, dear Mr. Cassilis," saida voice from within.

Pushing open the door, Northmour admitted me beforehim into the apartment. As I came in I could see thedaughter slipping out by the side door into the study, whichhad been prepared as her bedroom. In the bed, which wasdrawn back against the wall, instead of standing, as I hadlast seen it, boldly across the window, sat Bernard Huddlestone,the defaulting banker. Little as I had seen of him bythe shifting light of the lantern on the links, I had nodifficulty in recognizing him for the same. He had a long andsallow countenance, surrounded by a long red beard andside-whiskers. His broken nose and high cheekbones gavehim somewhat the air of a Kalmuck, and his light eyesshone with the excitement of a high fever. He wore askullcap of black silk; a huge Bible lay open before him on thebed, with a pair of gold spectacles in the place, and a pileof other books lay on the stand by his side. The greencurtains lent a cadaverous shade to his cheek; and, as he satpropped on pillows, his great stature was painfully hunched,and his head protruded till it overhung his knees. I believeif he had not died otherwise, he must have fallen a victimto consumption in the course of but a very few weeks.

He held out to me a hand, long, thin, and disagreeablyhairy.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis," said he. "Anotherprotector—ahem!—another protector. Always welcome as afriend of my daughter's, Mr. Cassilis. How they have ralliedabout me, my daughter's friends! May God in heaven blessand reward them for it!"

I gave him my hand, of course, because I could not helpit; but the sympathy I had been prepared to feel for Clara'sfather was immediately soured by his appearance, and thewheedling, unreal tones in which he spoke.

"Cassilis is a good man," said Northmour; "worth ten."

"So I hear," cried Mr. Huddlestone eagerly; "so my girltells me. Ah, Mr. Cassilis, my sin has found me out, yousee! 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 unfeignedhumility. I trust."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Northmour roughly.

"No, no, dear Northmour!" cried the banker. "You mustnot say that; you must not try to shake me. You forget, mydear, good boy, you forget I may be called this very nightbefore my Maker."

His excitement was pitiful to behold; and I felt myselfgrow indignant with Northmour, whose infidel opinions Iwell knew and heartily derided, as he continued to tauntthe poor sinner out of his humor of repentance.

"Pooh, my dear Huddlestone!" said he. "You do yourselfinjustice. 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—onlyyou forgot to tan your liver, and that, if you will believeme, is the seat of the annoyance."

"Rogue, rogue! bad boy!" said Mr. Huddlestone, shakinghis finger. "I am no precisian, if you come to that; Ialways hated a precisian; but I never lost hold of somethingbetter 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—Iwon't say no; but there is a gradation, we shall hope. Andtalking of that—Hark!" he broke out suddenly, his handraised, his fingers spread, his face racked with interest andterror. "Only the rain, bless God!" he added, after a pause,and with indescribable relief.

For some seconds he lay back among the pillows like aman near to fainting; then he gathered himself together, and,in somewhat tremulous tones, began once more to thank mefor the share I was prepared to take in his defense.

"One question, sir," said I, when he had paused. "Is ittrue that you have money with you?"

He seemed annoyed by the question, but admitted withreluctance that he had a little.

"Well," I continued, "it is their money they are after, isit not? Why not give it up to them?"

"Ah!" replied he, shaking his head, "I have tried thatalready, Mr. Cassilis; and alas that it should be so! but it isblood they want."

"Huddlestone, that's a little less than fair," saidNorthmour. "You should mention that what you offered them wasupward of two hundred thousand short. The deficit isworth 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 mayjust as well have both while they're about it—money andblood together, by George, and no more trouble for the extrapleasure."

"Is it in the pavilion?" I asked.

"It is; and I wish it were in the bottom of the seainstead," said Northmour; and then suddenly—"What areyou making faces at me for?" he cried to Mr. Huddlestone,on whom I had unconsciously turned my back. "Do youthink Cassilis would sell you?"

Mr. Huddlestone protested that nothing had been furtherfrom his mind.

"It is a good thing," retorted Northmour in his ugliestmanner. "You might end by wearying us. What were yougoing 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, andlay 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 notbelong to them! It should be distributed pro rata among allmy 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 whomshe has to choose. And as for yourself, to make an end ofarguments, you have no right to a farthing, and, unless I'mmuch mistaken, you are going to die."

It was certainly very cruelly said; but Mr. Huddlestonewas a man who attracted little sympathy; and, although Isaw 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 helpyou to save your life, but not to escape with stolen property."

He struggled for a while with himself, as though hewere on the point of giving way to anger, but prudence hadthe best of the controversy.

"My dear boys," he said, "do with me or my money whatyou will. I leave all in your hands. Let me compose myself."

And so we left him, gladly enough I am sure. The lastthat I saw, he had once more taken up his great Bible, andwith 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 gravenon my mind. Northmour and I were persuaded that an attackwas imminent; and if it had been in our power to alterin any way the order of events, that power would have beenused to precipitate rather than delay the critical moment.The worst was to be anticipated, yet we could conceive noextremity 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 Itook up and cast aside that afternoon in the pavilion. Eventalk became impossible, as the hours went on. One or otherwas always listening for some sound or peering from anupstairs' window over the links. And yet not a sign indicatedthe presence of our foes.

We debated over and over again my proposal with regardto the money; and had we been in complete possessionof our faculties, I am sure we should have condemned it asunwise; but we were flustered with alarm, grasped at astraw, and determined, although it was as much as advertisingMr. Huddlestone's presence in the pavilion, to carry myproposal into effect.

The sum was part in specie, part in bank paper, andpart in circular notes payable to the name of James Gregory.We took it out, counted it, enclosed it once more in adespatch-box belonging to Northmour, and prepared a letterin Italian which he tied to the handle. It was signedby both of us under oath, and declared that this was all themoney which had escaped the failure of the house ofHuddlestone. This was, perhaps, the maddest action everperpetrated by two persons professing to be sane. Had thedespatch-box fallen into other hands than those for which itwas intended, we stood criminally convicted on our ownwritten testimony; but, as I have said, we were neither of usin a condition to judge soberly, and had a thirst for actionthat drove us to do something, right or wrong, rather thanendure the agony of waiting. Moreover, as we were bothconvinced that the hollows of the links were alive withhidden spies upon our movements, we hoped that our appearancewith the box might lead to a parley, and, perhaps, acompromise.

It was nearly three when we issued from the pavilion.The rain had taken off; the sun shone quite cheerfully. Ihave never seen the gulls fly so close about the house orapproach so fearlessly to human beings. On the verydoorstep one flapped heavily past our heads, and utteredits wild cry in my very ear.

"There is an omen for you," said Northmour, who likeall freethinkers was much under the influence ofsuperstition. "They think we are already dead."

I made some light rejoinder, but it was with half myheart; 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 awhite handkerchief over his head. Nothing replied. Weraised our voices, and cried aloud in Italian that we werethere as ambassadors to arrange the quarrel; but thestillness remained unbroken save by the sea-gulls and the surf.I had a weight at my heart when we desisted; and I sawthat even Northmour was unusually pale. He looked overhis shoulder nervously, as though he feared that some onehad 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, asthough he had been afraid to point.

I glanced in the direction indicated; and there, from thenorthern quarter of the Sea-Wood, beheld a thin column ofsmoke 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 preferdeath fifty times over. Stay you here to watch the pavilion;I will go forward and make sure, if I have to walk rightinto 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 walkingrapidly in the direction of the smoke; and, though up tothat moment I had felt chill and shivering, I was suddenlyconscious of a glow of heat over all my body. The groundin this direction was very uneven; a hundred men mighthave lain hidden in as many square yards about my path.But I had not practised the business in vain, chose suchroutes as cut at the very root of concealment, and, by keepingalong the most convenient ridges, commanded several hollowsat a time. It was not long before I was rewarded formy caution. Coming suddenly on to a mound somewhatmore elevated than the surrounding hummocks, I saw, notthirty yards away, a man bent almost double, and runningas fast as his attitude permitted, along the bottom of agully. I had dislodged one of the spies from his ambush.As soon as I sighted him, I called loudly both in Englishand Italian; and he, seeing concealment was no longerpossible, straightened himself out, leaped from the gully, andmade off as straight as an arrow for the borders of thewood.

It was none of my business to pursue; I had learnedwhat I wanted—that we were beleaguered and watched inthe pavilion; and I returned at once, walking as nearly aspossible in my old footsteps, to where Northmour awaitedme beside the despatch-box. He was even paler than whenI 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 acoward, but I can stand no more of this," he whispered.

All was still and sunshiny about the pavilion as we turnedto reenter it; even the gulls had flown in a wider circuit,and were seen flickering along the beach and sand-hills; andthis loneliness terrified me more than a regiment under arms.It was not until the door was barricaded that I could draw afull inspiration and relieve the weight that lay upon mybosom. Northmour and I exchanged a steady glance; andI suppose each made his own reflections on the white andstartled 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 asI am here, I bear no malice. But, remember, if, by someimpossible accident, we should give the slip to theseblackguards, 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 footof 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 ownsatisfaction, and not for your amusement. You hadbetter go upstairs and court the girl; for my part, I stayhere."

"And I stay with you," I returned. "Do you think Iwould steal a march, even with your permission?"

"Frank," he said, smiling, "it's a pity you are an ass, foryou have the makings of a man. I think I must be feyto-day; you can not irritate me even when you try. Do youknow," he continued softly, "I think we are the two mostmiserable men in England, you and I? we have got on tothirty without wife or child, or so much as a shop to lookafter—poor, pitiful, lost devils, both! And now we clashabout a girl! As if there were not several millions in theUnited Kingdom! Ah, Frank, Frank, the one who losesthis throw, be it you or me, he has my pity! It were betterfor him—how does the Bible say?—that a millstone werehanged about his neck and he were cast into the depths ofthe sea. Let us take a drink," he concluded suddenly, butwithout any levity of tone.

I was touched by his words, and consented. He sat downon the table in the dining-room, and held up the glass ofsherry 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: 'Italiairredenta!'"

The remainder of the day was passed in the same dreadfultedium and suspense. I laid the table for dinner, whileNorthmour and Clara prepared the meal together in thekitchen. I could hear their talk as I went to and fro, andwas surprised to find it ran all the time upon myself.Northmour again bracketed us together, and rallied Clara on achoice of husbands; but he continued to speak of me withsome feeling, and uttered nothing to my prejudice unless heincluded himself in the condemnation. This awakened asense of gratitude in my heart, which combined with theimmediateness of our peril to fill my eyes with tears. Afterall, I thought—and perhaps the thought was laughably vain—wewere here three very noble human beings to perish in defenseof a thieving banker.

Before we sat down to table, I looked forth from anupstairs window. The day was beginning to decline; thelinks were utterly deserted; the despatch-box still layuntouched where we had left it hours before.

Mr. Huddlestone, in a long yellow dressing-gown, tookone end of the table, Clara the other; while Northmour andI faced each other from the sides. The lamp was brightlytrimmed; the wine was good; the viands, although mostlycold, excellent of their sort. We seemed to have agreedtacitly; all reference to the impending catastrophe wascarefully 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 risefrom the table and make a round of the defenses; and, oneach of these occasions, Mr. Huddlestone was recalled to asense of his tragic predicament, glanced up with ghastlyeyes, and bore for an instant on his countenance the stampof terror. But he hastened to empty his glass, wiped hisforehead with his handkerchief, and joined again in theconversation.

I was astonished at the wit and information he displayed.Mr. Huddlestone's was certainly no ordinary character; hehad read and observed for himself; his gifts were sound;and, though I could never have learned to love the man, Ibegan to understand his success in business, and the greatrespect in which he had been held before his failure. He had,above all, the talent of society; and though I never heardhim speak but on this one and most unfavorable occasion,I set him down among the most brilliant conversationalistsI ever met.

He was relating with great gusto, and seemingly nofeeling of shame, the maneuvres of a scoundrelly commissionmerchant whom he had known and studied in his youth, andwe were all listening with an odd mixture of mirth andembarrassment, when our little party was brought abruptly toan end in the most startling manner.

A noise like that of a wet finger on the window-paneinterrupted Mr. Huddlestone's tale; and in an instant we wereall four as white as paper, and sat tongue-tied and motionlessaround the table.

"A snail," I said at last; for I had heard that theseanimals 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 theItalian word "Traditore!"

Mr. Huddlestone threw his head in the air; his eyelidsquivered; next moment he fell insensible below the table.Northmour and I had each run to the armory and seized agun. Clara was on her feet with her hand at her throat.

So we stood waiting, for we thought the hour of attackwas certainly come; but second passed after second, and allbut the surf remained silent in the neighborhood of thepavilion.

"Quick," said Northmour; "upstairs with him before theycome."

VIII

Tells the Last of the Tall Man

Somehow or other, by hook and crook, and between thethree of us, we got Bernard Huddlestone bundled upstairsand laid upon the bed in My Uncle's Room. During thewhole process, which was rough enough, he gave no sign ofconsciousness, and he remained, as we had thrown him, withoutchanging the position of a finger. His daughter openedhis shirt and began to wet his head and bosom; whileNorthmour and I ran to the window. The weather continuedclear; the moon, which was now about full, had risen andshed a very clear light upon the links; yet, strain our eyesas we might, we could distinguish nothing moving. A fewdark spots, more or less, on the uneven expanse were notto be identified; they might be crouching men, they mightbe 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 thoughtof her till now; but that he should think of her at all was atrait that surprised me in the man.

We were again reduced to waiting. Northmour went tothe fireplace and spread his hands before the red embers, asif he were cold. I followed him mechanically with my eyes,and in so doing turned my back upon the window. At thatmoment a very faint report was audible from without, and aball shivered a pane of glass, and buried itself in the shuttertwo inches from my head. I heard Clara scream; and thoughI whipped instantly out of range and into a corner, she wasthere, so to speak, before me, beseeching to know if I werehurt. I felt that I could stand to be shot at every day andall day long, with such marks of solicitude for a reward; andI continued to reassure her with the tenderest caresses andin complete forgetfulness of our situation till the voice ofNorthmour 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 standingwith his back to the fire and his hands clasped behind him;and I knew by the black look on his face that passion wasboiling within. I had seen just such a look before he attackedme, that March night, in the adjoining chamber; and, thoughI could make every allowance for his anger, I confess Itrembled for the consequences. He gazed straight beforehim; but he could see us with the tail of his eye, and histemper kept rising like a gale of wind. With regular battleawaiting us outside, this prospect of an internecine strifewithin the walls began to daunt me.

Suddenly, as I was thus closely watching his expressionand prepared against the worst, I saw a change, a flash, alook of relief, upon his face. He took up the lamp whichstood beside him on the table, and turned to us with an airof some excitement.

"There is one point that we must know," said he. "Arethey going to butcher the lot of us, or only Huddlestone?Did they take you for him, or fire at you for your own beauxyeux?"

"They took me for him, for certain," I replied. "I am nearas tall, and my head is fair."

"I am going to make sure," returned Northmour; andhe stepped up to the window, holding the lamp above hishead, and stood there, quietly affronting death, for half aminute.

Clara sought to rush forward and pull him from the placeof danger; but I had the pardonable selfishness to hold herback 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 toadd; the temerity she had just witnessed seeming beyond thereach of words.

He, on his part, looked at me, cocking his head with afire of triumph in his eyes; and I understood at once that hehad 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 warmup 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 themoonlight; he stood motionless, his face uplifted to ours, anda rag of something white on his extended arm; and as welooked right down upon him, though he was a good manyyards distant on the links, we could see the moonlight glitteron his eyes.

He opened his lips again, and spoke for some minutes onend, in a key so loud that he might have been heard in everycorner of the pavilion, and as far away as the borders ofthe wood. It was the same voice that had already shouted"Traditore!" through the shutters of the dining-room; thistime it made a complete and clear statement. If the traitor"Oddlestone" were given up, all others should be spared; ifnot, no one should escape to tell the tale.

"Well, Huddlestone, what do you say to that?" askedNorthmour, 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 neverheard elsewhere, save from a delirious patient, adjured andbesought us not to desert him. It was the most hideous andabject performance that my imagination can conceive.

"Enough," cried Northmour; and then he threw open thewindow, leaned out into the night, and in a tone of exultation,and with a total forgetfulness of what was due to thepresence of a lady, poured out upon the ambassador a stringof the most abominable raillery both in English and Italian,and bade him begone where he had come from. I believethat nothing so delighted Northmour at that moment as thethought that we must all infallibly perish before the nightwas 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 areall gentlemen and soldiers. For the credit of the thing, Iwish we could change sides—you and I, Frank, and you too,missy, my darling—and leave that being on the bed to someone else. Tut! Don't look shocked! We are all going postto what they call eternity, and may as well be aboveboardwhile there's time. As far as I'm concerned, if I could firststrangle Huddlestone and then get Clara in my arms, I coulddie 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 rudelyembraced and repeatedly kissed the resisting girl. Nextmoment I had pulled him away with fury, and flung himheavily against the wall. He laughed loud and long, and Ifeared his wits had given way under the strain; for even inthe best of days he had been a sparing and a quiet laugher.

"Now, Frank," said he, when his mirth was somewhatappeased, "it's your turn. Here's my hand. Good-by;farewell!" Then, seeing me stand rigid and indignant, andholding Clara to my side—"Man!" he broke out, "are you angry?Did you think we were going to die with all the airs andgraces of society? I took a kiss; I'm glad I had it; and nowyou can take another if you like, and square accounts."

I turned from him with a feeling of contempt which I didnot seek to dissemble.

"As you please," said he. "You've been a prig in life; aprig 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 seethat his ebullition of light spirits (the only one I ever knewhim to display) had already come to an end, and wassucceeded by a sullen, scowling humor.

All this time our assailants might have been entering thehouse, and we been none the wiser; we had in truth almostforgotten the danger that so imminently overhung our days.But just then Mr. Huddlestone uttered a cry, and leapedfrom 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 Iran through the door of communication with the study. Theroom was illuminated by a red and angry light. Almost atthe moment of our entrance, a tower of flame arose in frontof the window, and, with a tingling report, a pane fell inwardon 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, andlooked forth. Along the whole back wall of the pavilion pilesof fuel had been arranged and kindled; and it is probablethey had been drenched with mineral oil, for, in spite of themorning's rain, they all burned bravely. The fire had takena firm hold already on the outhouse, which blazed higher andhigher every moment; the back door was in the centre of ared-hot bonfire; the eaves we could see, as we looked upward,were already smoldering, for the roof overhung, and wassupported by considerable beams of wood. At the same time,hot, pungent, and choking volumes of smoke began to fillthe house. There was not a human being to be seen toright or left.

"Ah, well!" said Northmour, "here's the end, thank God."

And we returned to My Uncle's Room. Mr. Huddlestonewas putting on his boots, still violently trembling, but withan air of determination such as I had not hitherto observed.Clara stood close by him, with her cloak in both hands readyto throw about her shoulders, and a strange look in hereyes, as if she were half hopeful, half doubtful of her father.

"Well, boys and girl," said Northmour, "how about asally? The oven is heating; it is not good to stay here andbe baked; and, for my part, I want to come to my handswith them, and be done."

"There is nothing else left," I replied.

And both Clara and Mr. Huddlestone, though with a verydifferent intonation, added, "Nothing."

As we went downstairs the heat was excessive, and theroaring of the fire filled our ears; and we had scarce reachedthe passage before the stairs window fell in, a branch of flameshot brandishing through the aperture, and the interior ofthe pavilion became lighted up with that dreadful andfluctuating glare. At the same moment we heard the fall ofsomething heavy and inelastic in the upper story. The wholepavilion, it was plain, had gone alight like a box of matches,and now not only flamed sky-high to land and sea, but threatenedwith every moment to crumble and fall in about ourears.

Northmour and I cocked our revolvers. Mr. Huddlestone,who had already refused a firearm, put us behind him with amanner of command.

"Let Clara open the door," said he. "So, if they fire avolley, she will be protected. In the meantime stand behindme. I am the scapegoat; my sins have found me out."

I heard him, as I stood breathless by his shoulder, withmy pistol ready, pattering off prayers in a tremulous, rapidwhisper; and I confess, horrid as the thought may seem, Idespised him for thinking of supplications in a moment socritical and thrilling. In the meantime, Clara, who was deadwhite but still possessed her faculties, had displaced thebarricade from the front door. Another moment, and she hadpulled it open. Firelight and moonlight illuminated thelinks with confused and changeful lustre, and far away againstthe sky we could see a long trail of glowing smoke.

Mr. Huddlestone, filled for the moment with a strengthgreater than his own, struck Northmour and myself a back-handerin the chest; and while we were thus for the momentincapacitated from action, lifting his arms above his head likeone about to dive, he ran straight forward out of the pavilion.

"Here am I!" he cried—"Huddlestone! Kill me, and sparethe others!"

His sudden appearance daunted, I suppose, our hiddenenemies; for Northmour and I had time to recover, to seizeClara between us, one by each arm, and to rush forth to hisassistance, ere anything further had taken place. But scarcehad we passed the threshold when there came near a dozenreports and flashes from every direction among the hollowsof the links. Mr. Huddlestone staggered, uttered a weird andfreezing cry, threw up his arms over his head, and fellbackward 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, andhorrible noise accompanied the collapse, and a vast volumeof flame went soaring up to heaven. It must have beenvisible at that moment from twenty miles out to sea, fromthe shore at Graden Wester, and far inland from the peakof Graystiel, the most eastern summit of the Caulder Hills.Bernard Huddlestone, although God knows what were hisobsequies, had a fine pyre at the moment of his death.

Tells how Northmour Carried out His Threat

I should have the greatest difficulty to tell you what followednext after this tragic circumstance. It is all to me, asI look back upon it, mixed, strenuous, and ineffectual, likethe struggles of a sleeper in a nightmare. Clara, I remember,uttered a broken sigh and would have fallen forward toearth, had not Northmour and I supported her insensiblebody. I do not think we were attacked; I do not remembereven to have seen an assailant; and I believe we desertedMr. Huddlestone without a glance. I only remember runninglike a man in a panic, now carrying Clara altogether inmy own arms, now sharing her weight with Northmour, nowscuffling confusedly for the possession of that dear burden.Why we should have made for my camp in the HemlockDen, or how we reached it, are points lost forever to myrecollection. The first moment at which I became definitelysure, Clara had been suffered to fall against the outside ofmy little tent, Northmour and I were tumbling together onthe ground, and he, with contained ferocity, was striking formy head with the butt of his revolver. He had already twicewounded me on the scalp; and it is to the consequent loss ofblood that I am tempted to attribute the sudden clearness ofmy mind.

I caught him by the wrist.

"Northmour," I remember saying, "you can kill meafterward. Let us first attend to Clara."

He was at that moment uppermost. Scarcely had thewords passed my lips, when he had leaped to his feet andran toward the tent; and the next moment, he was strainingClara to his heart and covering her unconscious hands andface with his caresses.

"Shame!" I cried. "Shame to you, Northmour!"

And, giddy though I still was, I struck him repeatedlyupon the head and shoulders.

He relinquished his grasp, and faced me in the brokenmoonlight.

"I had you under, and I let you go," said he; "and nowyou strike me! Coward!"

"You are the coward," I retorted. "Did she wish yourkisses while she was still sensible of what she wanted?Not she! And now she may be dying; and you waste thisprecious time, and abuse her helplessness. Stand aside, andlet 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, aswell as I was able, her dress and corset; but while I was thusengaged, a grasp descended on my shoulder.

"Keep your hands off her," said Northmour fiercely. "Doyou 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 killyou?"

"That is better!" he cried. "Let her die also, where's theharm? Step aside from that girl! and stand up to fight."

"You will observe," said I, half rising, "that I have notkissed her yet."

"I dare you to," he cried.

I do not know what possessed me; it was one of thethings I am most ashamed of in my life, though, as my wifeused to say, I knew that my kisses would be always welcomewere she dead or living; down I fell again upon my knees,parted the hair from her forehead, and, with the dearestrespect, laid my lips for a moment on that cold brow. It wassuch a caress as a father might have given; it was such a oneas was not unbecoming from a man soon to die to a womanalready dead.

"And now," said I, "I am at your service, Mr. Northmour."

But I saw, to my surprise, that he had turned his backupon 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 againover Clara, continued my efforts to revive her. She still laywhite and lifeless; I began to fear that her sweet spirit hadindeed fled beyond recall, and horror and a sense of utterdesolation seized upon my heart. I called her by name withthe most endearing inflections; I chafed and beat her hands;and now I laid her head low, now supported it against myknee; but all seemed to be in vain, and the lids still layheavy on her eyes.

"Northmour," I said, "there is my hat. For God's sakebring 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 notgrudge me the privilege?"

"Northmour," I was beginning to say, as I laved her headand breast; but he interrupted me savagely.

"Oh, you hush up!" he said. "The best thing you can dois to say nothing."

I had certainly no desire to talk, my mind being swallowedup in concern for my dear love and her condition; soI continued in silence to do my best toward her recovery,and, when the hat was empty, returned it to him, with oneword—"More." He had, perhaps, gone several times uponthis 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 madea fire, for I had now no fear of the Italians, who had evenspared all the little possessions left in my encampment; and,broken as she was by the excitement and the hideous catastropheof the evening, I managed, in one way or another—bypersuasion, encouragement, warmth, and such simple remediesas I could lay my hand on—to bring her back to somecomposure of mind and strength of body.

Day had already come, when a sharp "Hist!" soundedfrom the thicket. I started from the ground; but the voiceof Northmour was heard adding, in the most tranquil tones:"Come here, Cassilis, and alone; I want to show yousomething."

I consulted Clara with my eyes, and, receiving her tacitpermission, left her alone, and clambered out of the den.At some distance off I saw Northmour leaning against anelder; and, as soon as he perceived me, he began walkingseaward. I had almost overtaken him as he reached theoutskirts 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 thatwell-known scene. The pavilion was but a blackened wreck; theroof had fallen in, one of the gables had fallen out; and, farand near, the face of the links was cicatrized with littlepatches of burned furze. Thick smoke still went straightupward in the windless air of the morning, and a great pileof ardent cinders filled the bare walls of the house, like coalsin an open grate. Close by the islet a schooner yacht layto, and a well-manned boat was pulling vigorously for theshore.

"The 'Red Earl!'" I cried. "The 'Red Earl,' twelve hourstoo late!"

"Feel in your pocket, Frank. Are you armed?" askedNorthmour.

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. "Idisarmed you last night while you were nursing Clara; butthis morning—here—take your pistol. No thanks!" he cried,holding up his hand. "I do not like them; that is the onlyway you can annoy me now."

He began to walk forward across the links to meet theboat, and I followed a step or two behind. In front of thepavilion I paused to see where Mr. Huddlestone had fallen;but there was no sign of him, nor so much as a trace ofblood.

"Graden Floe," said Northmour.

He continued to advance till we had come to the head ofthe beach.

"No further, please," said he. "Would you like to takeher to Graden House?"

"Thank you," replied I; "I shall try to get her to theminister's at Graden Wester."

The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and asailor jumped ashore with a line in his hand.

"Wait a minute, lads!" cried Northmour; and then lowerand to my private ear: "You had better say nothing of allthis to her," he added.

"On the contrary," I broke out, "she shall knoweverything that I can tell."

"You do not understand," he returned, with an air ofgreat dignity. "It will be nothing to her; she expects it ofme. Good-by!" he added, with a nod.

I offered him my hand.

"Excuse me," said he. "It's small, I know; but I can'tpush things quite so far as that. I don't wish any sentimentalbusiness, to sit by your hearth a white-haired wanderer,and all that. Quite the contrary: I hope to God I shallnever 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 wasashore gave him an arm on board, and then shoved off andleaped into the bows himself. Northmour took the tiller;the boat rose to the waves, and the oars between thethole-pins sounded crisp and measured in the morning air.

They were not yet half-way to the "Red Earl," and I wasstill watching their progress, when the sun rose out of thesea.

One word more, and my story is done. Years after,Northmour was killed fighting under the colors ofGaribaldi for the liberation of the Tyrol.

THE PRISONERS

BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT

Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant, aFrench novelist, was born in 1850, and died,insane, in 1893. He served a long apprenticeshipunder the instruction of Flaubert (hisgodfather), before publishing any of hiswritings. When his first story, "Boule deSuif," appeared in the collection entitled "LesSoirées de Médan," in 1880, he was greetedas a master. Notwithstanding his pessimism,he is one of the most highly esteemed Frenchstory-writers of the Nineteenth Century.

THE PRISONERS

By GUY DE MAUPASSANT

There was no sound in the forest except the slightrustle of the snow as it fell upon the trees. It hadbeen falling, small and fine, since midday; it powderedthe branches with a frosty moss, cast a silverveil over the dead leaves in the hollow, and spread upon thepathways a great, soft, white carpet that thickened theimmeasurable silence amid this ocean of trees.

Before the door of the keeper's lodge stood a bare-armedyoung woman, chopping wood with an ax upon a stone. Shewas tall, thin and strong—a child of the forest, a daughterand 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 bePrussians or wolves about."

She who was chopping wood replied by splitting anotherblock; her bosom rose and fell with the heavy blows, eachtime she lifted her arm.

"I have finished, mother. I'm here. There's nothing tobe frightened at; it isn't dark yet."

Then she brought in her fagots and her logs, and piledthem up at the chimney-side, went out again to close theshutters—enormous shutters of solid oak—and then, whenshe again came in, pushed the heavy bolts of the door.

Her mother was spinning by the fire, a wrinkled oldwoman who had grown timorous with age.

"I don't like father to be out," said she. "Two womenhave no strength."

The younger answered: "Oh, I could very well kill a wolfor a Prussian, I can tell you." And she turned her eyes toa large revolver hanging over the fireplace. Her husband hadbeen put into the army at the beginning of the Prussianinvasion, and the two women had remained alone with herfather, the old gamekeeper, Nicholas Pichou, who hadobstinately refused to leave his home and go into the town.

The nearest town was Rethel, an old fortress perched ona rock. It was a patriotic place, and the townspeople hadresolved to resist the invaders, to close their gates and standa siege, according to the traditions of the city. Twice before,under Henry IV and under Louis XIV, the inhabitants ofRethel had won fame by heroic defenses. They would do thesame this time; by Heaven, they would, or they would beburned within their walls.

So they had bought cannons and rifles, and equipped aforce, and formed battalions and companies, and they drilledall 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 duerotation at regular hours, under the orders of M. Lavigne,who had once been a non-commissioned officer in thedragoons, and now was a draper, having married the daughterand 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, heenrolled all the others who were eager for resistance. Thestout men now walked the streets at the pace of professionalpedestrians, in order to bring down their fat, and to lengthentheir breath; the weak ones carried burdens, in order tostrengthen their muscles.

The Prussians were expected. But the Prussians did notappear. Yet they were not far off; for their scouts hadalready twice pushed across the forest as far as NicholasPichou's lodge.

The old keeper, who could run like a fox, had gone towarn the town. The guns had been pointed, but the enemyhad not shown.

The keeper's lodge served as a kind of outpost in theforest of Aveline. Twice a week the man went for provisions,and carried to the citizens news from the outlyingcountry.

He had gone that day to announce that a small detachmentof German infantry had stopped at his house, the daybefore, about two in the afternoon, and had gone away againalmost directly. The subaltern in command spoke French.

When the old man went on such errands he took with himhis two dogs—two great beasts with the jaws of lions—becauseof the wolves who were beginning to get fierce; andhe left his two women, advising them to lock themselves intothe house as soon as night began to fall.

The young one was afraid of nothing, but the old onekept 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 withthe Major he is always late."

She was hanging her saucepan over the fire to make thesoup, when she stopped short, listened to a vague soundwhich had reached her by way of the chimney, and murmured:

"There's some one walking in the wood—seven or eightmen 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 shookthe door.

The women made no answer, and a loud guttural voicecalled out: "Open the door."

Then, after a pause, the same voice repeated: "Open thedoor, or I'll break it in."

Then Berthine slipped into her pocket the big revolverfrom over the mantelpiece, and, having put her ear to thecrack of the door, asked: "Who are you?"

The voice answered: "I am the detachment that came theother 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 thegreat bolt, and pulling back the door she beheld six men inthe pale snow-shadows—six Prussian men, the same who hadcome the day before. She said in a firm tone: "What do youwant 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 eatsince the morning, nor my men either."

Berthine replied: "But I am all alone with mother, thisevening."

The soldier, who seemed a good sort of fellow, answered:"That makes no difference. I shall not do any harm; butyou must give us something to eat. We are faint and tiredto death."

The keeper's wife stepped back.

"Come in," said she.

They came in, powdered with snow and with a sort ofmossy cream on their helmets that made them look likemeringues. They seemed tired, worn out.

The young woman pointed to the wooden benches on eachside of the big table.

"Sit down," said she, "and I'll make you some soup. Youdo look quite knocked up."

Then she bolted the door again.

She poured some more water into her saucepan, threwin more butter and potatoes; then, unhooking a piece ofbacon that hung in the chimney, she cut off half, and addedthat also to the stew. The eyes of the six men followed herevery movement with an air of awakened hunger. They hadset their guns and helmets in a corner, and sat waiting ontheir benches, like well-behaved school children. The motherhad begun to spin again, but she threw terrified glances atthe invading soldiers. There was no sound except the slightpurring of the wheel, the crackle of the fire, and the bubblingof the water as it grew hot.

But all at once a strange noise made them all start—somethinglike a horse breathing at the door, the breathingof an animal, deep and snorting.

One of the Germans had sprung toward the guns. Thewoman with a movement and a smile stopped him.

"It is the wolves," said she. "They are like you; they arewandering about, hungry."

The man would hardly believe, he wanted to see for himself;and as soon as the door was opened, he perceived twogreat gray beasts making off at a quick, long trot.

He came back to his seat, murmuring: "I should not havebelieved it."

And he sat waiting for his meal.

They ate voraciously; their mouths opened from ear toear to take the largest of gulps; their round eyes openedsympathetically with their jaws, and their swallowing was likethe gurgle of rain in a water-pipe.

The two silent women watched the rapid movements ofthe great red beards; the potatoes seemed to melt away intothese moving fleeces.

Then, as they were thirsty, the keeper's wife went downinto the cellar to draw cider for them. She was a long timegone; it was a little vaulted cellar, said to have served bothas prison and hiding-place in the days of the Revolution.The way down was by a narrow winding stair, shut in by atrap-door at the end of the kitchen.

When Berthine came back, she was laughing, laughingslyly to herself. She gave the Germans her pitcher of drink.Then she, too, had her supper, with her mother, at the otherend of the kitchen.

The soldiers had finished eating and were falling asleep,all six, around the table. From time to time, a head wouldfall heavily on the board, then the man, starting awake, wouldsit up.

Berthine said to the officer: "You may just as well liedown 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 wereheard 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, sharpor deep, but all sustained and alarming.

They had certainly been asleep for a considerable timewhen a shot sounded, and so loud that it seemed to be firedclose against the walls of the house. The soldiers sat upinstantly. There were two more shots, and then threemore.

The door of the staircase opened hastily, and the keeper'swife 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 makea 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 squaretrap-door, and the men disappeared by the winding stair,one after another going underground, backward, so as tofeel the steps with their feet. But when the point of thelast helmet had disappeared, Berthine, shutting down theheavy oaken plank, thick as a wall, and hard as steel, keptin place by clamps and a padlock, turned the key twice,slowly, and then began to laugh with a laugh of silentrapture, and with a wild desire to dance over the heads of herprisoners.

They made no noise, shut in as if they were in a stonebox, only getting air through a grating.

Berthine at once relighted her fire, put on her saucepanonce more, and made more soup, murmuring: "Father willbe tired to-night."

Then she sat down and waited. Nothing but the deep-tonedpendulum of the clock went to and fro with its regulartick in the silence. From time to time, the young womancast a look at the dial—an impatient look, which seemed tosay: "How slowly it goes!"

Presently she thought she heard a murmur under herfeet; low, confused words reached her through the vaultedmasonry of the cellar. The Prussians were beginning toguess her trick, and soon the officer came up the little stair,and thumped the trap-door with his fist. Once more hecried: "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 wouldhave resisted a battering-ram.

The keeper's wife heard him go down again. Then,one after another, the soldiers came up to try their strengthand inspect the fastenings. But, concluding no doubt thattheir efforts were in vain, they all went back into the cellarand began to talk again.

The young woman listened to them; then she went toopen the outer door, and stood straining her ears for asound.

A distant barking reached her. She began to whistle likea huntsman, and almost immediately two immense dogsloomed through the shadows and jumped upon her withsigns of joy. She held them by the neck, to keep them fromrunning 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 thegrating. There are Prussians in the cellar."

All at once the black outline of the man showed on theleft, where he had paused between two tree-trunks. Heasked, uneasily: "Prussians in the cellar! What are theydoing there?"

The young woman began to laugh.

"It is those that came yesterday. They got lost in theforest ever since the morning; I put them in the cellar tokeep cool."

And she related the whole adventure; how she hadfrightened them with shots of the revolver, and shut themup in the cellar.

The old man, still grave, asked: "What do you expect meto 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 itquick and go off again."

The old keeper sat down and began to eat his soup, afterhaving 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 shoutedand called, and beat continually with their guns on theimmovable trap-door of the cellar.

Then they began to fire their guns through the grating,hoping, no doubt, to be heard if any German detachmentwere passing in the neighborhood.

The keeper's wife did not stir; but all this noise triedher nerves, and irritated her. An evil anger awoke in her;she would have liked to kill them, the wretches, to keepthem quiet.

Then, as her impatience increased, she began to look atthe clock and count the minutes.

At last the hands marked the time which she had fixedfor their coming.

She opened the door once more to listen for them. Sheperceived a shadow moving cautiously. She was frightenedand 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 thedarkness. And soon, something brown was seen comingslowly through the trees—the advance guard composed often men.

The old man kept repeating: "Don't pass before thegrating."

And the first comers pointed out the formidable gratingto those who followed.

Finally, the main body appeared, two hundred men inall, each with two hundred cartridges.

M. Lavigne, trembling with excitement, posted them soas to surround the house on all sides, leaving, however, awide, free space round the little black hole, level with theearth, which admitted air to the cellar.

Then he entered the dwelling and inquired into thestrength and position of the enemy, now so silent that itmight be thought to have disappeared, flown away, orevaporated through the grating. M. Lavigne stamped his footon 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 summonedthis silent officer to capitulate with arms and baggage,promising him life and military honors for himself andhis soldiers. But he obtained no sign of consent or ofhostility. The situation was becoming difficult.

The soldier-citizens were stamping their feet and strikingwide-armed blows upon their chests, as coachmen do forwarmth, and they were looking at the grating with anever-growing childish desire to pass in front of it. At lastone of them risked it, a very nimble fellow called Potdevin.He took a start and ran past like a stag. The attemptsucceeded. The prisoners seemed dead.

A voice called out: "There's nobody there."

Another soldier crossed the space before the dangerousopening. Then it became a game. Every minute, a manran out, passing from one troop to the other as children atplay do, and raising showers of snow behind him with thequick movement of his feet. They had lighted fires of deadbranches to keep themselves warm, and the flying profileof each Garde-National showed in a bright illumination ashe passed over to the camp on the left.

Some one called out: "Your turn, Maloison."

Maloison was a big baker whom his comrades laughedat, because he was so fat.

He hesitated. They teased him. Then, making up hismind, he started at a regular breathless trot which shookhis stout person. All the detachment laughed till theycried. They called out: "Bravo, Maloison!" to encouragehim.

He had gone about two-thirds of the distance when along flame, rapid and red, leaped from the grating. A reportfollowed, and the big baker fell upon his nose with afrightful shriek.

No one ran to help him. Then they saw him drag himselfon all fours across the snow, moaning, and when hewas beyond that terrible passage he fainted. He had abullet 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'slodge. He had just framed his plan of attack, and gavehis word of command in a ringing voice: "Plumber Planchetand his men!"

Three men drew near.

"Unfasten the gutters of the house."

In a quarter of an hour some twenty yards of leadengutter-pipe were brought to the Major.

Then, with innumerable prudent precautions, he had alittle round hole bored in the edge of the trap-door, andhaving laid out an aqueduct from the pump to this opening,announced with an air of satisfaction: "We are going togive these German gentlemen something to drink." A wildcheer of admiration burst forth, followed by shouts ofdelight and roars of laughter. The Major organized gangs ofworkers, who were to be employed in relays of five minutes.Then he commanded: "Pump!"

And the iron handle having been put in motion, a littlesound 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, puttinghis ear to the floor from time to time, trying to guess whatthe enemy was doing and whether it would soon capitulate.

The enemy was moving now. Sounds of rattling, ofspeaking, of splashing, could be heard. Then toward eightin the morning a voice issued from the grating: "I want tospeak to the French officer."

Lavigne answered from the window, without putting outhis head too far: "Do you surrender?"

"I surrender."

"Then pass out your guns."

A weapon was immediately seen to appear out of thehole and fall into the snow; then a second, a third—all; andthe same voice declared: "I have no more. Make haste. Iam drowned."

The Major commanded: "Stop."

And the handle of the pump fell motionless.

Then, having filled the kitchen with soldiers, all standingarmed, he slowly lifted the trap-door.

Six drenched heads appeared, six fair heads with longlight hair, and the six Germans were seen issuing forth oneby one, shivering, dripping, scared.

They were seized and bound. Then, as a surprise wasapprehended, the troops set out in two parties, one in chargeof the prisoners, the other in charge of Maloison, on amattress, carried on poles.

Rethel was entered in triumph.

M. Lavigne received a decoration for having taken prisonera Prussian advance-guard; and the fat baker had themilitary 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 hisexposition and satire of the weakness andhypocrisy of human nature. In the presentselection, however, he shows us the warm,sympathetic side of his nature. The storyis a political as well as a human documentin that it is a moving protest againstGermany'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 DoctorV——, gathering from the walls pierced by shells,and from the pavements broken by grape-shot, thestory of Paris under siege. Just before we came tothe Place de l'Etoile, the Doctor halted, and, pointing to oneof the great corner houses grouped around the Arch ofTriumph, "Do you see those four closed windows?" he asked."One of the first days of August—the terrible month of Augustof last year, so full of anguish and disaster—I was calledthere to a case of apoplexy.

"Colonel Jouve, a cuirassier of the First Empire (a stubbornfellow, bristling with glory and with patriotism), hadleased that flat with the balcony looking on the ChampsElysées. He had come there at the beginning of the war(1870-71). Guess for what purpose. To be present at thetriumphal entry of our troops! Poor old man! The newsfrom Wissembourg arrived one day just as he arose fromtable; he read the name of the Napoleon at the foot of thebulletin, of our defeat, and dropped as if felled by asledgehammer. I found the old fellow stretched at full lengthupon the carpet, livid, apparently dead. He must have beenvery tall. As he lay there he looked gigantic—with fine,clear-cut features, fair teeth, and curling white hair. Eighty yearsold! but he did not look sixty. His granddaughter, a beautifulyoung girl, knelt close to him, weeping. She resembledhim. Seeing the two faces together you might have thoughtthem two fine Greek medals of the same impression, one anantique dimmed by age, somewhat worn around the edges;the other resplendent in all the velvet gloss of its pristinedays. I was touched by the child's grief; later I became herally and devoted friend. She was the daughter and grand-daughterof soldiers. Her father was on MacMahon's staff;and the man before her, lying, to all appearances, dead, musthave suggested to her mind another equally terrible possibility.I did my best to give her courage. I had very littlehope. It was an unquestionable hemiplegia, and men eightyyears old never come out of that. The sick man lay in astupor three days. During that time the news fromReichshofen reached Paris. You remember how it reached us!Until that night we had believed it a great victory—twentythousand Prussians killed, the Prince Royal a prisoner....I do not know by what miracle or stirred by what magneticcurrent an echo of the national joy reached the numb brainand 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 foundstrength to smile and to stammer the words: 'Vic-to-ry!Vic-to-ry!'"

"'Yes, Colonel,' I answered, 'a great victory!' In measureas I gave him the details of our triumph, his featuressoftened and his whole face brightened. When I went out thegranddaughter was waiting for me. She was very pale. I tookher hand in mine. 'Do not weep,' I said, 'your grandfatheris better; he will recover.' And then she told me the truestory of Reichshofen—MacMahon in flight, the army crushed!We stood there face to face, speechless. She was thinking ofher father. I own that all my thoughts were with hergrandfather. I trembled for him! What could I do? To tell himthe truth would kill him! But what right had I to leave himto 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 sickroom.

"At first it was not so hard; the old fellow was very weak,and as easily deceived as a child. But as he gained strengthour difficulties increased; his brain cleared; he was impatientfor news; he insisted upon following the movements of thearmy; and his granddaughter was forced to sit by his bed andinvent bulletins from the conquered country. It was piteous!The beautiful, tired child forced to bend over the mapof Germany, marking the imaginary progress of the armywith little flags—Bazaine in command in Berlin, Froissart inBavaria, MacMahon on the Baltic!

"In her ignorance she came to me for all her details; andI—almost as ignorant—did what I could for her. But now ourbest aid came from the grandfather. He helped us at everypoint in our imaginary invasion. He had conquered Germanyso many times under the First Empire he knew theway. He could tell just what was coming.

"'Can you see what they are doing?' he cried. 'They arehere! They turn right here, where I place this pin!' As faras the route was concerned, all that he predicted came true,and when we told him so he gloried in it. Unhappily for uswe could not work fast enough for him. We might well takecities, win battles, pursue flying armies—he was insatiable!Every day as soon as I entered the sick room I was toldof new triumphs.

"'Doctor,' cried the young girl, hurrying into the room andfacing me, to bar my progress—'Doctor, we have takenMayence!' And I cried as gaily, 'I know it! I heard it thismorning!' Sometimes her joyful voice cried the news to methrough the closed door.

"'We are getting on! We are getting on!' laughed theinvalid. 'In less than eight days we shall enter Berlin!'

"We knew that the Prussians were coming, and, as theyneared Paris, we wondered if it would not be safer to get theold man into the country. But we dared not do it; once outof the house he would look around him; he would question;he would see and hear. He was too weak, too numb fromhis great shock to bear the truth! We decided to staywhere we were. The first day of the investment I wentupstairs with a heavy heart, I remember. I had comethrough the deserted streets of Paris, past the ramparts. Thetroops were dragging up their cannon. All our suburbs werefrontiers. I found my old fellow sitting up in bed, jubilantand proud.

"'Well,' said he, 'at last the siege is begun!'

"I was stupefied; I stared at him. His granddaughtercried out: 'Yes, Doctor, we have had great news! The siegeof Berlin is begun!'

"She said it so pleasantly, threading her needle and takingher little stitches so calmly! How could he doubt her? Hecould not hear the guns; they were too far away. And Paris,wretched, tortured, sinister under the icy sky. What couldhe know of that! Sitting propped up in his bed he couldsee nothing but a corner of the Arch of Triumph. In hisroom everything was of the epoch of the Empire. Eventhe bric-à-brac was well fitted to foster his illusions.Portraits of field-marshals, pictures of battles, the king of Romein his cradle; and the stiff consoles ornamented with brasstrophies, 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 withleg-of-mutton sleeves, and wide belt, in the stiff fashion of 1806).

"Brave and faithful soldier of Napoleon! his relics formedan influence stronger for his deception than all ourwell-meant lies. He had lived for years in an atmosphere ofconquest, and that atmosphere had prepared him for hisdream of Berlin.

"From the beginning of the siege our military movementswere 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—imaginaryletters, of course, as nothing was permitted to enter Paris.Since the battle of Sedan the Colonel's son, MacMahon'saide, had been ordered to a German fortress.

"You may imagine the anguish of the poor man, separatedfrom his family, knowing them to be prisoners in Paris,deprived of everything, possibly sick. Conscious as we wereof his sorrow, it was not easy to pretend that he hadwritten merry letters. Well, we did our best. The letters werevivacious, somewhat brief. Naturally, a soldier in thefield—nay, more than that, a soldier always on the march in aconquered country!—could not write long letters. Sometimesthe poor grandchild's heart failed her; try as she might shecould not write; then, for weeks there was no news. Butthe old man watched for it; and when we saw that the newsmust 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 oldcolonel invented explanations; it was all practical to him;he listened, smiled knowingly, criticized, approved. He wasadmirable when he answered his letters.

"'Never forget that thou art French,' dictated thevibrating voice. 'Be generous to the vanquished. Poorpeople! do not make them feel that they have lost! do notbear too heavy in this invasion.'

"Then followed advice oft-repeated, tender and touchinglittle lay sermons, admonitions calculated to stimulate theyoung soldier to every military virtue. Truly, one couldfind in all that a code of honor—specially compiled for theuse of conquerors; and scattered here and there throughoutthe letter were a few general reflections on politics, thepreliminaries of peace, etc.

"'What must be done before the signing of the treaty?'The old man was not quite decided on the point; he 'mustconsider' before he could be sure; he was not exigeant:'The indemnity of war—nothing more. Why should wetake their provinces? What could we do with them?Could we ever make France out of Germany?' He dictatedit all so firmly, in so strong a voice, and there was such truth,such candor, such patriotic zeal in his words, that it wasimpossible to listen to him unmoved.

"All that time the siege was in progress; but alas, it wasnot the siege of Berlin! It was just at that time of theyear when Paris is bitter cold. The Prussians were shellingthe city, and we were shut in there with epidemics and withfamine. But surrounded by our indefatigable tendernessthe old soldier lacked nothing. Even to the last I was ableto provide him with fresh meat and with white bread. Therewas no white bread for us. I can not think of anything moretouching than those dinners, so innocently, so ignorantlyselfish! There he was, sitting in his bed fresh and smiling,his napkin under his chin, and his granddaughter, pale fromprivation, close to him, guiding his hand from his plate tohis mouth, and holding his glass while he sipped his drinkswith childlike satisfaction! Animated by the repast and bythe calming influence of the warm room, he looked outon the winter: the tiled roofs; the snow whirling againstthe window-pane; and he thought of the far North, and forthe hundredth time told us of the retreat from Russia whenthey 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 monthsshe had eaten no other meat. Our task was growing hard.In measure, as his strength returned, the numbness of allhis senses—our chief aid to deception—was decreasing. Twoor three times the volleys fired at the Porte Maillot hadreached his ears, and he had lifted his head with ears prickedlike the ears of a retriever. The last lie must be told, the lastvictory reported. Bazaine at Berlin! We told him that theshot that had startled him had been fired from the Invalidesin honor of the victory.

"Another day they rolled his bed close to the window (Ithink that it was the Thursday of Buzenval), and he saw,distinctly, the National Guards massing on the Avenue de laGrande Armée.

"'What troops are those?' he asked sharply. Then hegrumbled under his breath: 'Badly drilled! Very badlydrilled! The whole outfit is slovenly!'

"Nothing came of it, but it was a warning. We had beenwarned before and we had taken precautions; butunfortunately they had fallen short.

"One day, when I arrived, the granddaughter ran to meetme, pale and anxious. 'They will enter the city to-morrow,'she murmured.

"Was the door of the sick-room open? As I think of itto-night, it seems to me that there was a strange expressionon the fine, old face. It is probable that he had overheardhis granddaughter.

"We had been speaking of the Prussians, but the old mancould think of nothing but the French and their triumphalentry; MacMahon descending the Avenue in a shower offlowers, to the music of the fanfares. His son would be ridingwith the Marshal; and he, the Colonel, on the balcony, in fulluniform, as he was at Lutzen, saluting the torn flags and theFrench eagles, dimmed by all the powder of the war!

"Poor old Jouve! Probably he believed that we had keptthe 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 thelong road leading from the Porte Maillot to the Tuileries,the window was cautiously opened, and the Colonel appearedon the balcony, with his casque, his lance, and all the fadedglory of the ex-cuirassier of Milhaud. I have oftenwondered what subconscious effort of the will, what suddenfanning of the vital flame, put the old man on his feet and intoharness! What is sure is, that he was there, on foot, erect,looking with wild eyes over Paris—Paris in her mourning!—thewide, silent streets, the iron blinds drawn down. Paris,as sinister as a dead-house! He saw flags everywhere—whiteflags crossed with red! And not a soul to greet the returningarmy! 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 combsof brazen helmets. The little drums of Jena rolled; andthrough the Arch of the Star of France, the day-star of theworld, 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 wasbroken by a cry:

"'To arms! To arms! The Prussians!' and the fourUhlans of the vanguard, looking up to the balcony, saw a tall,old man throw his arms above his head, waver, and fallbackward.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"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 greatestshort story is one that brings differentanswers according to the temperament of theperson to whom the question is addressed.Many of those who prefer sentiment in astory select "Without Benefit of Clergy"—thosewho prefer a strong study of characterunder most unusual circumstances areapt 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 oflife, and one not easy to follow. I have been fellowto a beggar again and again under circumstanceswhich prevented either of us finding outwhether the other was worthy. I have still to be brother toa Prince, though I once came near to kinship with whatmight have been a veritable King and was promised thereversion of a Kingdom—army, law-courts, revenue, and policyall complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my King isdead, and if I want a crown I must go and hunt it for myself.

The beginning of everything was in a railway train uponthe road to Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a Deficit inthe 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 cushionsin the Intermediate class, and the population are eitherIntermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which fora long night journey is nasty, or Loafer, which isamusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not patronizerefreshment-rooms. They carry their food in bundles andpots, and buy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, anddrink the roadside water. That is why in the hot weatherIntermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and inall weathers are most properly looked down upon.

My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till Ireached Nasirabad, when a huge gentleman in shirt-sleevesentered, and, following the custom of Intermediates, passedthe time of day. He was a wanderer and a vagabond likemyself, but with an educated taste for whisky. He toldtales of things he had seen and done, of out-of-the-waycorners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, and ofadventures in which he risked his life for a few days' food."If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowingmore than the crows where they'd get their next day'srations, it isn't seventy millions of revenue the land wouldbe paying—it's seven hundred millions," said he; and as Ilooked at his mouth and chin I was disposed to agree withhim. We talked politics—the politics of Loaferdom that seesthings from the underside where the lath and plaster are notsmoothed off—and we talked postal arrangements becausemy friend wanted to send a telegram back from the nextstation to Ajmir, which is the turning-off place from theBombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friendhad no money beyond eight annas which he wanted fordinner, and I had no money at all, owing to the hitch in theBudget before mentioned. Further, I was going into awilderness where, though I should resume touch with the Treasury,there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unableto help him in any way.

"We might threaten a Station-master, and make him senda wire on tick," said my friend, "but that'd mean inquiriesfor you and for me, and I've got my hands full these days.Did you say you are traveling back along this line withinany days?"

"Within ten," I said.

"Can't you make it eight?" said he. "Mine is ratherurgent business."

"I can send your telegram within ten days if that willserve 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 nightof the 23d."

"But I'm going into the Indian Desert," I explained.

"Well and good," said he. "You'll be changing at MarwarJunction to get into Jodhpore territory—you must dothat—and he'll be coming through Marwar Junction in theearly morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. Can you beat Marwar Junction on that time? 'Twon't beinconveniencing you, because I know that there's precious fewpickings to be got out of these Central India States—even thoughyou pretend to be correspondent of the 'Backwoodsman.'"

"Have you ever tried that trick?" I asked.

"Again and again, but the Residents find you out, andthen you get escorted to the Border before you've time toget your knife into them. But about my friend here. Imust give him a word o' mouth to tell him what's come tome, or else he won't know where to go. I would take it morethan kind of you if you was to come out of Central India intime to catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him: 'Hehas 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 hisluggage round him in a Second-class compartment. But don'tyou be afraid. Slip down the window, and say: 'He has goneSouth for the week,' and he'll tumble. It's only cutting yourtime to stay in those parts by two days. I ask you as astranger—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 willgive him the message on the Square—for the sake of myMother as well as your own."

Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to thememory of their mothers, but for certain reasons, which willbe fully apparent, I saw fit to agree.

"It's more than a little matter," said he, "and that's whyI ask you to do it—and now I know that I can depend on youdoing it. A Second-class carriage at Marwar Junction, anda 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 hecomes or sends me what I want."

"I'll give the message if I catch him," I said, "and for thesake of your Mother as well as mine I'll give you a wordof advice. Don't try to run the Central India States justnow as the correspondent of the 'Backwoodsman.' There's areal one knocking about here, and it might lead to trouble."

"Thank you," said he simply, "and when will the swinebe gone? I can't starve because he's ruining my work. Iwanted to get hold of the Degumber Rajah down here abouthis 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 deathas she hung from a beam. I found that out myself, and I'mthe only man that would dare going into the State to gethush-money for it. They'll try to poison me, same as theydid in Chortumna when I went on the loot there. But you'llgive the man at Marwar Junction my message?"

He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. Ihad heard, more than once, of men personating correspondentsof newspapers and bleeding small Native States withthreats of exposure, but I had never met any of the castebefore. They lead a hard life, and generally die with greatsuddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horrorof English newspapers, which may throw light on theirpeculiar methods of government, and do their best to chokecorrespondents with champagne, or drive them out of theirmind with four-in-hand barouches. They do not understandthat nobody cares a straw for the internal administration ofNative States so long as oppression and crime are kept withindecent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, ordiseased from one end of the year to the other. Native Stateswere created by Providence in order to supply picturesquescenery, tigers, and tall-writing. They are the dark placesof the earth, full of unimaginable cruelty, touching theRailway and the Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, thedays of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the train I didbusiness with divers Kings, and in eight days passed throughmany changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes andconsorted with Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystaland eating from silver. Sometimes I lay out upon the groundand devoured what I could get, from a plate made of aflapjack, and drank the running water, and slept under the samerug as my servant. It was all in the day's work.

Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon theproper date, as I had promised, and the night Mail set medown at Marwar Junction, where a funny little happy-go-lucky,native-managed railway runs to Jodhpore. TheBombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. Shearrived as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to herplatform and go down the carriages. There was only oneSecond-class on the train. I slipped the window and lookeddown upon a flaming red beard, half covered by a railwayrug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him gentlyin the ribs. He woke with a grunt, and I saw his face in thelight 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 forthe week. He is gone South for the week!"

The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbedhis eyes. "He has gone South for the week!" he repeated."Now that's just like his impidence. Did he say that I wasto give you anything? 'Cause I won't."

"He didn't," I said, and dropped away and watched thered lights die out in the dark. It was horribly cold becausethe wind was blowing off the sands. I climbed into my owntrain—not an Intermediate Carriage this time—and went tosleep.

If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I shouldhave kept it as a memento of a rather curious affair. Butthe consciousness of having done my duty was my onlyreward.

Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friendscould not do any good if they foregathered and personatedCorrespondents of newspapers, and might, if they "stuckup" one of the little rat-trap states of Central India orSouthern Rajputana, get themselves into serious difficulties.I therefore took some trouble to describe them as accuratelyas I could remember to people who would be interested indeporting them: and succeeded, so I was later informed, inhaving them headed back from the Degumber borders.

Then I became respectable, and returned to an Officewhere there were no Kings and no incidents except the dailymanufacture of a newspaper. A newspaper office seems toattract every conceivable sort of person, to the prejudice ofdiscipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and beg that theEditor will instantly abandon all his duties to describe aChristian prize-giving in a back-slum of a perfectlyinaccessible village; Colonels who have been overpassed forcommands sit down and sketch the outline of a series of ten,twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on Seniority versusSelection; missionaries wish to know why they have not beenpermitted to escape from their regular vehicles of abuse andswear at a brother-missionary under special patronage of theeditorial We; stranded theatrical companies troop up toexplain that they can not pay for their advertisements, but ontheir return from New Zealand or Tahiti will do so withinterest; inventors of patent punkah-pulling machines,carriage couplings, and unbreakable swords and axle-trees callwith specifications in their pockets and hours at theirdisposal; tea-companies enter and elaborate their prospectuseswith the office pens; secretaries of ball-committees clamorto have the glories of their last dance more fully expounded;strange ladies rustle in and say: "I want a hundred lady'scards printed at once, please," which is manifestly part of anEditor's duty; and every dissolute ruffian that ever trampedthe Grand Trunk Road makes it his business to ask foremployment as a proof-reader. And, all the time, thetelephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on theContinent, and Empires are saying, "You're another," and MisterGladstone is calling down brimstone upon the BritishDominions, and the little black copy-boys are whining, "kaa-pichay-ha-yeh" ("copy wanted"), like tired bees, and most ofthe paper is as blank as Modred's shield.

But that is the amusing part of the year. There areother six months wherein none ever come to call, and thethermometer walks inch by inch up to the top of the glass,and the office is darkened to just above reading-light, andthe press machines are red-hot of touch, and nobody writesanything but accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations orobituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a tinklingterror, because it tells you of the sudden deaths of men andwomen that you knew intimately, and the prickly-heat coversyou as with a garment, and you sit down and write: "A slightincrease of sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta KhanDistrict. 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 regretwe record the death," etc.

Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recordingand reporting the better for the peace of the subscribers.But the Empires and the Kings continue to divert themselvesas selfishly as before, and the Foreman thinks that a dailypaper really ought to come out once in twenty-four hours,and all the people at the Hill-stations in the middle of theiramusements say: "Good gracious! Why can't the paper besparkling? I'm sure there's plenty going on up here."

That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisementssay, "must be experienced to be appreciated."

It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, thatthe paper began running the last issue of the week onSaturday night, which is to say Sunday morning, after the customof a London paper. This was a great convenience, forimmediately after the paper was put to bed, the dawn wouldlower the thermometer from 96° to almost 84° for half anhour, and in that chill—you have no idea how cold is 84° onthe glass until you begin to pray for it—a very tired mancould set off to sleep ere the heat roused him.

One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put thepaper to bed alone. A King or courtier or a courtezan ora community was going to die or get a new Constitution, ordo something that was important on the other side of theworld, and the paper was to be held open till the latestpossible minute in order to catch the telegram. It was a pitchyblack night, as stifling as a June night can be, and the loo,the red-hot wind from the westward, was booming amongthe tinder-dry trees and pretending that the rain was on itsheels. Now and again a spot of almost boiling water wouldfall on the dust with the flop of a frog, but all our wearyworld knew that was only pretense. It was a shade coolerin the press-room than the office, so I sat there, while thetype ticked and clicked, and the night-jars hooted at thewindows, and the all but naked compositors wiped the sweatfrom their foreheads and called for water. The thing thatwas keeping us back, whatever it was, would not come off,though the loo dropped and the last type was set, and thewhole round earth stood still in the choking heat, with itsfinger on its lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, and wonderedwhether the telegraph was a blessing, and whether this dyingman, or struggling people, was aware of the inconveniencethe delay was causing. There was no special reason beyondthe heat and worry to make tension, but as the clock-handscrept up to three o'clock and the machines spun their flywheelstwo or three times to see that all was in order, beforeI said the word that would set them off, I could have shriekedaloud.

Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered thequiet into little bits. I rose to go away, but two men inwhite clothes stood in front of me. The first one said: "It'shim!" The second said: "So it is!" And they both laughedalmost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped theirforeheads. "We see there was a light burning across theroad and we were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness,and I said to my friend here, 'The office is open. Let's comealong and speak to him as turned us back from the DegumberState,'" said the smaller of the two. He was the manI had met in the Mhow train, and his fellow was thered-bearded man of Marwar Junction. There was no mistakingthe eyebrows of the one or the beard of the other.

I was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, notto squabble with loafers. "What do you want?" I asked.

"Half an hour's talk with you cool and comfortable, inthe office," said the red-bearded man. "We'd like somedrink—the Contrack doesn't begin yet, Peachey, so youneedn't look—but what we really want is advice. We don'twant money. We ask you as a favor, because you did usa bad turn about Degumber."

I led from the press-room to the stifling office with themaps on the walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands."That's something like," said he. "This was the proper shopto come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce to you BrotherPeachey 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, andcorrespondents of the 'Backwoodsman' when we thought thepaper wanted one. Carnehan is sober, and so am I. Lookat us first and see that's sure. It will save you cutting intomy talk. We'll take one of your cigars apiece, and youshall see us light."

I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, soI gave them each a tepid peg.

"Well and good," said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wipingthe froth from his mustache. "Let me talk now, Dan. Wehave been all over India, mostly on foot. We have beenboiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors, and all that,and we have decided that India isn't big enough for suchas us."

They certainly were too big for the office. Dravot'sbeard seemed to fill half the room and Carnehan's shouldersthe other half, as they sat on the big table. Carnehancontinued: "The country isn't half worked out because theythat governs it won't let you touch it. They spend all theirblessed time in governing it, and you can't lift a spade, norchip a rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that withoutall the Government saying: 'Leave it alone and let usgovern.' Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, and goaway to some other place where a man isn't crowded andcan come to his own. We are not little men, and there isnothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and we havesigned a Contrack on that. Therefore, we are going awayto be Kings."

"Kings in our own right," muttered Dravot.

"Yes, of course," I said. "You've been tramping in thesun, and it's a very warm night, and hadn't you better sleepover the notion? Come to-morrow."

"Neither drunk nor sunstruck," said Dravot. "We haveslept over the notion half a year, and require to see Booksand Atlases, and we have decided that there is only oneplace now in the world that two strong men can Sar-a-whack.They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning it's thetop right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than threehundred miles from Peshawar. They have two and thirtyheathen idols there, and we'll be the thirty-third. It's amountainous country, and the women of those parts are verybeautiful."

"But that is provided against in the Contrack," saidCarnehan. "Neither Women nor Liqu-or, Daniel."

"And that's all we know, except that no one has gonethere, and they fight, and in any place where they fight a manwho knows how to drill men can always be a King. Weshall go to those parts and say to any King we find:'D'you want to vanquish your foes?' and we will show himhow to drill men; for that we know better than anything else.Then we will subvert that King and seize his Throne andestablish a Dy-nasty."

"You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty miles acrossthe Border," I said. "You have to travel through Afghanistanto get to that country. It's one mass of mountainsand peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has beenthrough it. The people are utter brutes, and even if youreached them you couldn't do anything."

"That's more like," said Carnehan. "If you could thinkus a little more mad we would be more pleased. We havecome to you to know about this country, to read a bookabout it, and to be shown maps. We want you to tell usthat we are fools and to show us your books." He turnedto the book-cases.

"Are you at all in earnest?" I said.

"A little," said Dravot sweetly. "As big a map as youhave got, even if it's all blank where Kafiristan is, and anybooks you've got. We can read, though we aren't veryeducated."

I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map ofIndia, and two smaller Frontier maps, hauled down volumeINF-KAN of the "Encyclopædia Britannica," and the menconsulted them.

"See here!" said Dravot, his thumb on the map. "Up toJagdallak, Peachey and me know the road. We was therewith Roberts's Army. We'll have to turn off to the rightat Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then we getamong the hills—fourteen thousand feet—fifteenthousand—it will be cold work there,but it don't look very far on themap."

I handed him Wood on the Sources of the Oxus.Carnehan was deep in the Encyclopædia.

"They're a mixed lot," said Dravot reflectively; "andit won't help us to know the names of their tribes. Themore 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 sketchyand inaccurate as can be," I protested. "No one knowsanything about it really. Here's the file of the UnitedServices' Institute. Read what Bellew says."

"Blow Bellew!" said Carnehan. "Dan, they're an all-firedlot of heathens, but this book here says they thinkthey're related to us English."

I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, Wood, themaps, 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'clockif 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 youcome, to-morrow evening, down to the Serai we'll saygood-by to you."

"You are two fools," I answered. "You'll be turnedback at the Frontier or cut up the minute you set foot inAfghanistan. Do you want any money or a recommendationdown-country? I can help you to the chance of worknext week."

"Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thankyou," said Dravot. "It isn't so easy being a King as itlooks. When we've got our Kingdom in going order we'lllet you know, and you can come up and help us togovern it."

"Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that?" saidCarnehan, with subdued pride, showing me a greasy half-sheetof note-paper on which was written the following. Icopied it, then and there, as a curiosity:

This Contract between me and you persuing witnessethin 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 beingsettled, look at any Liquor, nor any Woman black, white,or brown, so as to get mixed up with one or the otherharmful.

(Three) That we conduct ourselves with dignity and discretion,and if one of us gets into trouble the other willstay 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 knowthe sort of men that loafers are—we are loafers, Dan, untilwe get out of India—and do you think that we would signa Contrack like that unless we was in earnest? We havekept away from the two things that make life worthhaving."

"You won't enjoy your lives much longer if you aregoing to try this idiotic adventure. Don't set the office onfire," I said, "and go away before nine o'clock."

I left them still poring over the maps and making noteson the back of the "Contrack." "Be sure to come down tothe Serai to-morrow," were their parting words.

The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink ofhumanity where the strings of camels and horses from theNorth load and unload. All the nationalities of CentralAsia may be found there, and most of the folk of Indiaproper. 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 sheepand musk in the Kumharsen Serai, and get many strangethings for nothing. In the afternoon I went down thereto see whether my friends intended to keep their word orwere lying about drunk.

A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalkedup to me, gravely twisting a child's paper whirligig. Behindhim was his servant, bending under the load of a crateof mud toys. The two were loading up two camels, andthe inhabitants of the Serai watched them with shrieks oflaughter.

"The priest is mad," said a horse-dealer to me. "He isgoing up to Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. He will eitherbe raised to honor or have his head cut off. He came inhere this morning and has been behaving madly ever since."

"The witless are under the protection of God," stammereda flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. "They foretellfuture events."

"Would they could have foretold that my caravanwould have been cut up by the Shinwaris almost withinshadow of the Pass!" grunted the Eusufzai agent of aRajputana trading-house, whose goods had been feloniouslydiverted into the hands of other robbers just across theBorder, and whose misfortunes were the laughing-stock ofthe bazaar. "Ohe, priest, whence come you and whitherdo you go?"

"From Roum have I come," shouted the priest, wavinghis whirligig; "from Roum, blown by the breath of a hundreddevils across the sea! Oh, thieves, robbers, liars, theblessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and perjurers! Whowill take the Protected of God to the North to sell charmsthat are never still to the Amir? The camels shall not gall,the sons shall not fall sick, and the wives shall remainfaithful while they are away, of the men who give me placein their caravan. Who will assist me to slipper the Kingof the Roos with a golden slipper with a silver heel? Theprotection of Pir Khan be upon his labors!" He spreadout the skirts of his gaberdine and pirouetted between thelines of tethered horses.

"There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul intwenty days, Huzrut," said the Eusufzai trader. "Mycamels go therewith. Do thou also go and bring us goodluck."

"I will go even now!" shouted the priest. "I willdepart upon my winged camels, and be at Peshawar in a day!Ho! Hazar Mir Khan," he yelled to his servant, "drive outthe 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 littlealong the road, and I will sell thee a charm—an amulet thatshall make thee King of Kafiristan."

Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the twocamels out of the Serai till we reached open road and thepriest halted.

"What d'you think o' that?" said he in English. "Carnehancan't talk their patter, so I've made him my servant.He makes a handsome servant. 'Tisn't for nothing thatI've been knocking about the country for fourteen years.Didn't I do that talk neat? We'll hitch on to a caravan atPeshawar till we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll see if wecan get donkeys for our camels, and strike into Kafiristan.Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lord! Put your hand under thecamel 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 themud dolls."

"Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!"I said. "A Martini is worth her weight in silver among thePathans."

"Fifteen hundred rupees of capital—every rupee wecould beg, borrow, or steal—are invested on these twocamels," said Dravot. "We won't get caught. We're goingthrough the Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who'd toucha poor mad priest?"

"Have you got everything you want?" I asked, overcomewith astonishment.

"Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a memento of yourkindness, Brother. You did me a service yesterday, andthat time in Marwar. Half my Kingdom shall you have,as the saying is." I slipped a small charm compass frommy 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 Englishmanthese many days. Shake hands with him, Carnehan," hecried, as the second camel passed me.

Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then thecamels passed away along the dusty road, and I was leftalone to wonder. My eye could detect no failure in thedisguises. The scene in the Serai attested that they werecomplete to the native mind. There was just the chance,therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot would be able towander through Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond,they would find death, certain and awful death.

Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving me thenews of the day from Peshawar, wound up his letter with:"There has been much laughter here on account of a certainmad priest who is going in his estimation to sell pettygauds and insignificant trinkets which he ascribes as greatcharms to H. H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed throughPeshawar and associated himself to the Second Summercaravan that goes to Kabul. The merchants are pleased,because through superstition they imagine that such madfellows bring good fortune."

The two, then, were beyond the Border. I would haveprayed for them, but, that night, a real King died inEurope, and demanded an obituary notice.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The wheel of the world swings through the same phasesagain and again. Summer passed and winter thereafter,and came and passed again. The daily paper continuedand I with it, and upon the third summer there fell a hotnight, a night-issue, and a strained waiting for somethingto be telegraphed from the other side of the world,exactly as had happened before. A few great men had diedin the past two years, the machines worked with more clatter,and some of the trees in the office garden were a fewfeet taller. But that was all the difference.

I passed over to the pressroom, and went through justsuch a scene as I have already described. The nervoustension 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 mychair what was left of a man. He was bent into a circle,his head was sunk between his shoulders, and he movedhis feet one over the other like a bear. I could hardly seewhether he walked or crawled—this rag-wrapped, whiningcripple who addressed me by name, crying that he was comeback. "Can you give me a drink?" he whimpered. "Forthe Lord's sake, give me a drink!"

I went back to the office, the man following with groansof 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 ofgray hair, to the light.

I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen eyebrowsthat 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 spiteof the suffocating heat.

"I've come back," he repeated; "and I was the King ofKafiristan—me and Dravot—crowned Kings we was! In thisoffice we settled it—you setting there and giving us thebooks. I am Peachey—Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan, andyou've been setting here ever since—O Lord!"

I was more than a little astonished, and expressed myfeelings accordingly.

"It's true," said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing hisfeet, which were wrapped in rags. "True as gospel. Kingswe were, with crowns upon our heads—me and Dravot—poorDan—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 beginningto end. You got across the border on your camels, Dravotdressed as a mad priest and you his servant. Do youremember that?"

"I ain't mad—yet, but I shall be that way soon. Ofcourse I remember. Keep looking at me, or maybe mywords will go all to pieces. Keep looking at me in myeyes and don't say anything."

I leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily asI could. He dropped one hand upon the table and Igrasped 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'tdistrack me. We left with that caravan, me and Dravotplaying all sorts of antics to amuse the people we werewith. Dravot used to make us laugh in the evenings whenall the people was cooking their dinners—cooking their dinners,and ... what did they do then? They lit little fireswith sparks that went into Dravot's beard, and we alllaughed—fit to die. Little red fires they was, going intoDravot's big red beard—so funny." His eyes left mine andhe smiled foolishly.

"You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan," I saidat 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 roadswas good. But they wasn't good enough for our twocamels—mine and Dravot's. When we left the caravan,Dravot took off all his clothes and mine too, and said wewould be heathen, because the Kaffirs didn't allowMohammedans to talk to them. So we dressed betwixt andbetween, and such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never saw yetnor expect to see again. He burned half his beard, andslung a sheep-skin over his shoulder, and shaved his headinto patterns. He shaved mine, too, and made me wearoutrageous things to look like a heathen. That was in amost mountainous country, and our camels couldn't goalong any more because of the mountains. They were talland black, and coming home I saw them fight like wildgoats—there are lots of goats in Kafiristan. And thesemountains, 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. "Whatdid you and Daniel Dravot do when the camels could gono further because of the rough roads that led intoKafiristan?"

"What did which do? There was a party called PeacheyTaliaferro Carnehan that was with Dravot. Shall I tellyou about him? He died out there in the cold. Slap fromthe bridge fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in theair like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the Amir.No; they was two for three ha'pence, those whirligigs, or Iam much mistaken and woful sore. And then these camelswere no use, and Peachey said to Dravot: 'For the Lord'ssake, let's get out of this before our heads are choppedoff,' and with that they killed the camels all among themountains, not having anything in particular to eat, butfirst they took off the boxes with the guns and theammunition, till two men came along driving four mules.Dravot up and dances in front of them, singing: 'Sell mefour mules.' Says the first man: 'If you are rich enough tobuy, you are rich enough to rob;' but before ever he couldput his hand to his knife, Dravot breaks his neck over hisknee, and the other party runs away. So Carnehan loadedthe mules with the rifles that was taken off the camels, andtogether we starts forward into those bitter cold mountainousparts, and never a road broader than the back of yourhand."

He paused for a moment, while I asked him if he couldremember the nature of the country through which he hadjourneyed.

"I am telling you as straight as I can, but my head isn'tas good as it might be. They drove nails through it to makeme hear better how Dravot died. The country wasmountainous and the mules were most contrary, and theinhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They went up andup, 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. ButDravot says that if a King couldn't sing it wasn't worthbeing King, and whacked the mules over the rump, andnever took no heed for ten cold days. We came to a biglevel valley all among the mountains, and the mules werenear dead, so we killed them, not having anything in specialfor them or us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and playedodd 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 rowwas tremenjus. They was fair men—fairer than you orme—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 riflesat the twenty men, and drops one of them at two hundredyards from the rock where we was sitting. The other menbegan to run, but Carnehan and Dravot sits on the boxespicking them off at all ranges, up and down the valley. Thenwe goes up to the ten men that had run across the snow too,and they fires a footy little arrow at us. Dravot he shootsabove their heads and they all falls down flat. Then hewalks over them and kicks them, and then he lifts them upand shakes hands all round to make them friendly like. Hecalls them and gives them the boxes to carry, and waves hishand for all the world as though he was King already. Theytakes the boxes and him across the valley and up the hillinto a pine wood on the top, where there was half a dozenbig stone idols. Dravot he goes to the biggest—a fellow theycall Imbra—and lays a rifle and a cartridge at his feet,rubbing his nose respectful with his own nose, patting him onthe head, and saluting in front of it. He turns round to themen and nods his head, and says: 'That's all right. I'm in theknow too, and all these old jim-jams are my friends.' Thenhe opens his mouth and points down it, and when the firstman brings him food, he says: 'No;' and when the secondman brings him food, he says: 'No;' but when one of the oldpriests and the boss of the village brings him food, he says:'Yes,' very haughtily, and eats it slow. That was how wecame to our first village, without any trouble, just as thoughwe had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from oneof those d—d rope-bridges, you see, and you couldn'texpect a man to laugh much after that."

"Take some more whisky and go on," I said. "That wasthe first village you came into. How did you get to theKing?"

"I wasn't King," said Carnehan. "Dravot he was theKing, and a handsome man he looked with the gold crownon his head and all. Him and the other party stayed in thatvillage, and every morning Dravot sat by the side of oldImbra, and the people came and worshiped. That wasDravot's order. Then a lot of men came into the valley, andCarnehan and Dravot picks them off with the rifles before theyknew where they was, and runs down into the valley and upagain the other side, and finds another village, same as thefirst one, and the people all falls down flat on their faces,and Dravot says: 'Now what is the trouble between you twovillages?' and the people points to a woman, as fair as youor me, that was carried off, and Dravot takes her back tothe first village and counts up the dead—eight there was.For each dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the groundand waves his arms like a whirligig and 'That's all right,'says he. Then he and Carnehan takes the big boss of eachvillage by the arm and walks them down into the valley, andshows them how to scratch a line with a spear right down thevalley, and gives each a sod of turf from both sides o' theline. Then all the people comes down and shouts like thedevil and all, and Dravot says: 'Go and dig the land, andbe fruitful and multiply,' which they did, though they didn'tunderstand. Then we asks the names of things in theirlingo—bread and water and fire and idols and such, andDravot leads the priest of each village up to the idol, andsays he must sit there and judge the people, and if anythinggoes wrong he is to be shot.

"Next week they was all turning up the land in the valleyas quiet as bees and much prettier, and the priests heard allthe complaints and told Dravot in dumb show what it wasabout. 'That's just the beginning,' says Dravot. 'They thinkwe're Gods.' He and Carnehan picks out twenty good menand shows them how to click off a rifle, and form fours, andadvance in line, and they was very pleased to do so, andclever to see the hang of it. Then he takes out his pipe andhis baccy-pouch and leaves one at one village and one at theother, and off we two goes to see what was to be done in thenext valley. That was all rock, and there was a little villagethere, and Carnehan says: 'Send 'em to the old valley toplant,' and takes 'em there and gives 'em some land thatwasn'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 downquiet, and Carnehan went back to Dravot, who had got intoanother valley, all snow and ice and most mountainous.There was no people there and the Army got afraid, soDravot shoots one of them, and goes on till he finds somepeople in a village, and the Army explains that unless thepeople wants to be killed they had better not shoot theirlittle matchlocks; for they had matchlocks. We makes friendswith the priest and I stays there alone with two of the Army,teaching the men how to drill, and a thundering big Chiefcomes 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 acrossthe snow and wings one of them. Then he sends a messageto the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, hemust come and shake hands with me and leave his armsbehind. The Chief comes alone first, and Carnehan shakeshands with him and whirls his arms about, same asDravot used, and very much surprised that Chief was,and strokes my eyebrows. Then Carnehan goes aloneto the Chief, and asks him in dumb show if he had anenemy he hated. 'I have,' says the Chief. So Carnehanweeds out the pick of his men, and sets two of the Army toshow them drill and at the end of two weeks the men canmaneuvre about as well as Volunteers. So he marches withthe Chief to a great big plain on the top of a mountain, andthe Chief's men rushes into a village and takes it; we threeMartinis firing into the brown of the enemy. So we tookthat village too, and I gives the Chief a rag from my coatand says, 'Occupy till I come:' which was scriptural. Byway of a reminder, when me and the Army was eighteenhundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him standing onthe snow, and all the people falls flat on their faces. ThenI sends a letter to Dravot, wherever he be, by land orby sea."

At the risk of throwing the creature out of train Iinterrupted: "How could you write a letter up yonder?"

"The letter?—Oh!—The letter! Keep looking at me betweenthe eyes, please. It was a string-talk letter, that we'dlearned the way of it from a blind beggar in the Punjab."

I remembered that there had once come to the office ablind man with a knotted twig and a piece of string which hewound round the twig according to some cipher of his own.He could, after the lapse of days or hours, repeat thesentence which he had reeled up. He had reduced the alphabetto eleven primitive sounds; and tried to teach me his method,but failed.

"I sent that letter to Dravot," said Carnehan; "and toldhim to come back because this Kingdom was growing toobig for me to handle, and then I struck for the first valley,to see how the priests were working. They called thevillage we took along with the Chief, Bashkai, and the firstvillage we took, Er-Heb. The priests at Er-Heb was doingall right, but they had a lot of pending cases about land toshow me, and some men from another village had been firingarrows at night. I went out and looked for that village andfired four rounds at it from a thousand yards. That used allthe cartridges I cared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, whohad been away two or three months, and I kept my peoplequiet. One morning I heard the devil's own noise of drumsand horns, and Dan Dravot marches down the hill with hisArmy and a tail of hundreds of men, and, which was themost amazing—a great gold crown on his head. 'My Gord,Carnehan,' says Daniel, 'this is a tremenjus business, andwe've got the whole country as far as it's worth having. Iam the son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis, and you'remy younger brother and a God too! It's the biggest thingwe've ever seen. I've been marching and fighting for sixweeks with the Army, and every footy little village for fiftymiles has come in rejoiceful; and more than that, I've got thekey of the whole show, as you'll see, and I've got a crownfor you! I told 'em to make two of 'em at a place calledShu, 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 achunk of amber that a man brought me. Call up all thepriests and, here, take your crown.'

"One of the men opens a black hair bag and I slips thecrown on. It was too small and too heavy, but I wore it forthe glory. Hammered gold it was—five pound weight, likea 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 forwardthat same Chief that I left at Bashkai—Billy Fish we calledhim afterward, because he was so like Billy Fish that drovethe big tank-engine at Mach on the Bolan in the old days.'Shake hands with him,' says Dravot, and I shook hands andnearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip. I saidnothing, but tried him with the Fellow Craft Grip. Heanswers, all right, and I tried the Master's Grip, but that wasa slip. 'A Fellow Craft he is!' I says to Dan. 'Does heknow the word?' 'He does,' says Dan, 'and all the priestsknow. It's a miracle! The Chiefs and the priests can worka Fellow Craft Lodge in a way that's very like ours, andthey've cut the marks on the rocks, but they don't know theThird Degree, and they've come to find out. It's Gord'sTruth. I've known these long years that the Afghans knewup to the Fellow Craft Degree, but this is a miracle. A Godand a Grand-Master of the Craft am I, and a Lodge in theThird Degree I will open, and we'll raise the head priestsand the Chiefs of the villages.'

"'It's against all the law,' I says, 'holding a Lodgewithout warrant from any one; and we never held office in anyLodge.'

"'It's a masterstroke of policy,' says Dravot. 'It meansrunning the country as easy as a four-wheeled bogie on adown grade. We can't stop to inquire now, or they'll turnagainst us. I've forty Chiefs at my heel, and passed andraised according to their merit they shall be. Billet thesemen on the villages and see that we run up a Lodge of somekind. The temple of Imbra will do for the Lodge-room. Thewomen must make aprons as you show them. I'll hold alevee of Chiefs to-night and Lodge to-morrow.'

"I was fair run off my legs, but I wasn't such a fool asnot to see what a pull this Craft business gave us. I showedthe priests' families how to make aprons of the degrees, butfor Dravot's apron the blue border and marks was made ofturquoise lumps on white hide, not cloth. We took a greatsquare stone in the temple for the Master's chair, and littlestones for the officers' chairs, and painted the blackpavement with white squares, and did what we could to makethings regular.

"At the levee which was held that night on the hillsidewith big bonfires, Dravot gives out that him and me wereGods and sons of Alexander, and Past Grand-Masters inthe Craft, and was come to make Kafiristan a country whereevery man should eat in peace and drink in quiet, andspecially obey us. Then the Chiefs come round to shake hands,and they was so hairy and white and fair it was just shakinghands with old friends. We gave them names according asthey was like men we had known in India—Billy Fish, HollyDilworth, Pikky Kergan that was Bazaar-master when I wasat 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 Ifelt uneasy, for I knew we'd have to fudge the Ritual, and Ididn't know what the men knew. The old priest was astranger come in from beyond the village of Bashkai. Theminute Dravot puts on the Master's apron that the girlshad 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 theCraft without warrant!' Dravot never winked an eye, notwhen ten priests took and tilted over the Grand-Master'schair—which was to say the stone of Imbra. The priestbegins rubbing the bottom end of it to clear away the blackdirt, and presently he shows all the other priests the Master'sMark, same as was on Dravot's apron, cut into the stone.Not even the priests of the temple of Imbra knew it wasthere. The old chap falls flat on his face at Dravot's feetand kisses 'em. 'Luck again,' says Dravot, across the Lodgeto me, 'they say it's the missing Mark that no one couldunderstand the why of. We're more than safe now.' Thenhe bangs the butt of his gun for a gavel and says: 'By virtueof the authority vested in me by my own right hand and thehelp of Peachey, I declare myself Grand-Master of allFreemasonry in Kafiristan in this the Mother Lodge o' thecountry, and King of Kafiristan equally with Peachey!' At thathe puts on his crown and I puts on mine—I was doing SeniorWarden—and we opens the Lodge in most ample form. Itwas an amazing miracle! The priests moved in Lodgethrough the first two degrees almost without telling, as ifthe memory was coming back to them. After that, Peacheyand Dravot raised such as was worthy—high priests andChiefs of far-off villages. Billy Fish was the first, and I cantell you we scared the soul out of him. It was not in anyway according to Ritual, but it served our turn. We didn'traise more than ten of the biggest men because we didn'twant to make the Degree common. And they was clamoringto be raised.

"'In another six months,' says Dravot, 'we'll hold anotherCommunication and see how you are working.' Then heasks them about their villages, and learns that they wasfighting one against the other and were fair sick and tiredof it. And when they wasn't doing that they was fightingwith the Mohammedans. 'You can fight those when theycome into our country,' says Dravot. 'Tell off every tenthman of your tribes for a Frontier guard, and send twohundred at a time to this valley to be drilled. Nobody is goingto be shot or speared any more so long as he does well, andI know that you won't cheat me because you're whitepeople—sons of Alexander—and not like common blackMohammedans. You are my people and by God,' says he, runningoff into English at the end—'I'll make a d— fine Nation ofyou, or I'll die in the making!'

"I can't tell all we did for the next six months, becauseDravot did a lot I couldn't see the hang of, and he learnedtheir lingo in a way I never could. My work was to help thepeople plow, and now and again go out with some of theArmy and see what the other villages were doing, and make'em throw rope-bridges across the ravines which cut up thecountry horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, but when hewalked up and down in the pine wood, pulling that bloodyred beard of his with both fists, I knew he was thinkingplans I could not advise him about, and I just waited fororders.

"But Dravot never showed me disrespect before the people.They were afraid of me and the Army, but they lovedDan. He was the best of friends with the priests and theChiefs; but any one could come across the hills with acomplaint and Dravot would hear him out fair, and call fourpriests together and say what was to be done. He used tocall in Billy Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan fromShu, and an old Chief we called Kafuzelum—it was likeenough to his real name—and hold councils with 'em whenthere was any fighting to be done in small villages. Thatwas his Council of War, and the four priests of Bashkai, Shu,Khawak, and Madora was his Privy Council. Between thelot of 'em they sent me, with forty men and twenty rifles,and sixty men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorbandcountry to buy those hand-made Martini rifles, that come outof the Amir's workshops at Kabul, from one of the Amir'sHerati regiments that would have sold the very teeth out oftheir mouths for turquoises.

"I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave the Governorthere the pick of my baskets for hush-money, and bribed theColonel of the regiment some more, and, between the twoand the tribes-people, we got more than a hundred hand-madeMartinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails that'll throwto six hundred yards, and forty man-loads of very badammunition for the rifles. I came back with what I had, anddistributed 'em among the men that the Chiefs sent in to me todrill.

"Dravot was too busy to attend to those things, but theold Army that we first made helped me, and we turned outfive hundred men that could drill, and two hundred thatknew how to hold arms pretty straight. Even thosecork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to them. Dravottalked big about powder-shops and factories, walking up anddown 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 theireyes—look at their mouths. Look at the way they stand up.They sit on chairs in their own houses. They're the LostTribes, or something like it, and they've grown to be English.I'll take a census in the spring if the priests don't getfrightened. There must be a fair two million of 'em in thesehills. The villages are full o' little children. Two millionpeople—two hundred and fifty thousand fighting men—andall English! They only want the rifles and a little drilling.Two hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to cut in onRussia's right flank when she tries for India! Peachey, man,'he says, chewing his beard in great hunks, 'we shall beemperors of the Earth! Rajah Brooke will be a suckling to us.I'll treat with the Viceroy on equal terms. I'll ask him tosend me twelve picked English—twelve that I know of—tohelp us govern a bit. There's Mackay, Sergeant-pensionerat Segowli—many's the good dinner he's given me, and hiswife a pair of trousers. There's Donkin, the Warder ofTounghoo Jail; there's hundreds that I could lay my handon if I was in India. The Viceroy shall do it for me. I'llsend a man through in the spring for those men, and I'llwrite for a dispensation from the Grand Lodge for what I'vedone as Grand-Master. That—and all the Sniders that'll bethrown out when the native troops in India take up theMartini. They'll be worn smooth, but they'll do for fighting inthese hills. Twelve English, a hundred thousand Snidersrun through the Amir's country in driblets—I'd be contentwith twenty thousand in one year—and we'd be an Empire.When everything was shipshape, I'd hand over the crown—thiscrown 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 everyplace—Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhere else.'

"'What is it?' I says. 'There are no more men coming into 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 hardon my shoulder; 'and I don't wish to say anything that'sagainst you, for no other living man would have followed meand made me what I am as you have done. You're a first-classCommander-in-Chief, and the people know you; but—it'sa 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 sorrywhen I made that remark, but it did hurt me sore to findDaniel talking so superior when I'd drilled all the men, anddone all he told me.

"'Don't let's quarrel, Peachey,' says Daniel withoutcursing. 'You're a King too, and the half of this Kingdomis yours; but can't you see, Peachey, we want cleverer menthan us now—three or four of 'em, that we can scatter aboutfor our Deputies. It's a hugeous great State, and I can'talways tell the right thing to do, and I haven't time for all Iwant to do, and here's the winter coming on and all.' He puthalf his beard into his mouth, and it was as red as the goldof his crown.

"'I'm sorry, Daniel,' says I. 'I've done all I could. I'vedrilled the men and shown the people how to stack theiroats better; and I've brought in those tinware rifles fromGhorband—but I know what you're driving at. I take itKings always feel oppressed that way.'

"'There's another thing too,' says Dravot, walking up anddown. 'The winter's coming and these people won't begiving much trouble, and if they do we can't move about. Iwant a wife.'

"'For Gord's sake leave the women alone!' I says. 'We'veboth 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 wasKings; and Kings we have been these months past,' saysDravot, weighing his crown in his hand. 'You go get a wifetoo, Peachey—a nice, strappin', plump girl that'll keep youwarm in the winter. They're prettier than English girls,and we can take the pick of 'em. Boil 'em once or twice inhot water, and they'll come as fair as chicken and ham.'

"'Don't tempt me!' I says. 'I will not have any dealingswith a woman not till we are a dam' site more settled thanwe are now. I've been doing the work o' two men, and you'vebeen doing the work o' three. Let's lie off a bit, and see ifwe can get some better tobacco from Afghan country andrun in some good liquor; but no women.'

"'Who's talking o' women?' says Dravot. 'I said wife—aQueen to breed a King's son for the King. A Queen outof the strongest tribe, that'll make them your blood-brothers,and that'll lie by your side and tell you all the people thinksabout you and their own affairs. That's what I want.'

"'Do you remember that Bengali woman I kept at MogulSerai when I was a plate-layer?' says I. 'A fat lot o' goodshe was to me. She taught me the lingo and one or twoother things; but what happened? She ran away with theStation Master's servant and half my month's pay. Thenshe turned up at Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste, andhad the impidence to say I was her husband—all among thedrivers in the running-shed!'

"'We've done with that,' says Dravot. 'These women arewhiter than you or me, and a Queen I will have for thewinter months.'

"'For the last time o' asking, Dan, do not,' I says. 'It'llonly bring us harm. The Bible says that Kings ain't towaste their strength on women, 'specially when they've gota new raw Kingdom to work over.'

"'For the last time of answering I will,' said Dravot, andhe went away through the pine-trees looking like a big reddevil. 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 tillBilly Fish said that he'd better ask the girls. Dravot d—dthem all round. 'What's wrong with me?' he shouts, standingby the idol Imbra. 'Am I a dog or am I not enoughof a man for your wenches? Haven't I put the shadow ofmy hand over this country? Who stopped the last Afghanraid?' It was me really, but Dravot was too angry toremember. 'Who bought your guns? Who repaired thebridges? Who's the Grand-Master of the sign cut in thestone? and he thumped his hand on the block that he usedto sit on in Lodge, and at Council, which opened like Lodgealways. Billy Fish said nothing and no more did the others.'Keep your hair on, Dan,' said I; 'and ask the girls. That'show it's done at Home, and these people are quite English.'

"'The marriage of the King is a matter of state,' saysDan, in a white-hot rage, for he could feel, I hope, that hewas going against his better mind. He walked out of theCouncil-room, and the others sat still, looking at theground.

"'Billy Fish,' says I to the Chief of Bashkai, 'what's thedifficulty here? A straight answer to a true friend.' 'Youknow,' says Billy Fish. 'How should a man tell you whoknow everything? How can daughters of men marry Godsor 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 wewere Gods, it wasn't for me to undeceive them.

"'A God can do anything,' says I. 'If the King is fondof a girl he'll not let her die.' 'She'll have to,' said BillyFish. 'There are all sorts of Gods and Devils in thesemountains, and now and again a girl marries one of them andisn't seen any more. Besides, you two know the Mark cutin the stone. Only the Gods know that. We thought youwere men till you showed the sign of the Master.'

"I wished then that we had explained about the loss ofthe genuine secrets of a Master-Mason at the first go-off;but I said nothing. All that night there was a blowing ofhorns in a little dark temple half-way down the hill, and Iheard a girl crying fit to die. One of the priests told usthat she was being prepared to marry the King.

"'I'll have no nonsense of that kind,' says Dan. 'Idon't want to interfere with your customs, but I'll take myown wife.' 'The girl's a little bit afraid,' says the priest.'She thinks she's going to die, and they are a-hearteningof her up down in the temple.'

"'Hearten her very tender, then,' says Dravot, 'or I'llhearten you with the butt of a gun so that you'll neverwant 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 thatdealings with a woman in foreign parts, though you was acrowned 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, andthe Chiefs talking together, too, and they looked at meout of the corners of their eyes.

"'What is up, Fish?' I says to the Bashkai man, whowas wrapped up in his furs and looking splendid to behold.

"I can't rightly say,' says he; 'but if you can induce theKing to drop all this nonsense about marriage you'll bedoing 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 theKing and me are nothing more than two of the finest menthat God Almighty ever made. Nothing more, I do assureyou.'

"'That may be,' says Billy Fish, 'and yet I should besorry if it was.' He sinks his head upon his great furcloak for a minute and thinks. 'King,' says he, 'be you manor God or Devil, I'll stick by you to-day. I have twenty ofmy men with me, and they will follow me. We'll go toBashkai until the storm blows over.'

"A little snow had fallen in the night, and everythingwas white except the greasy fat clouds that blew down anddown from the north. Dravot came out with his crownon 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 thegirl?' says he with a voice as loud as the braying of ajackass. 'Call up all the chiefs and priests, and let theEmperor see if his wife suits him.'

"There was no need to call any one. They were allthere leaning on their guns and spears round the clearingin the centre of the pine wood. A deputation of priestswent down to the little empire to bring up the girl, andthe horns blew up fit to wake the dead. Billy Fish sauntersround and gets as close to Daniel as he could, and behind himstood his twenty men with matchlocks. Not a man ofthem under six feet. I was next to Dravot, and behind mewas twenty men of the regular army. Up comes the girl,and a strapping wench she was, covered with silver andturquoises but white as death, and looking back everyminute at the priests.

"'She'll do,' said Dan, looking her over. 'What's to beafraid of, lass? Come and kiss me.' He puts his arm roundher. She shuts her eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, and downgoes her face in the side of Dan's flaming red beard.

"'The slut's bitten me!' says he, clapping his hand tohis neck, and, sure enough, his hand was red with blood.Billy Fish and two of his matchlock men catches hold ofDan by the shoulders and drags him into the Bashkai lot,while the priests howls in their lingo—'Neither God norDevil, but a man!' I was all taken aback, for a priest cutat me in front, and the Army behind began firing into theBashkai men.

"'God A-mighty!' says Dan. 'What is the meaning o' this?'

"'Come back! Come away!' says Billy Fish. 'Ruin andMutiny is the matter. We'll break for Bashkai if we can.'

"I tried to give some sort of orders to my men—themen o' the regular army—but it was no use, so I fired intothe brown of 'em with an English Martini and drilled threebeggars in a line. The valley was full of shouting, howlingcreatures, and every soul was shrieking, 'Not a God nora Devil, but only a man!' The Bashkai troops stuck toBilly Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks wasn'thalf as good as the Kabul breechloaders, and four of themdropped. Dan was bellowing like a bull, for he was verywrathy; and Billy Fish had a hard job to prevent himrunning out at the crowd.

"'We can't stand,' says Billy Fish. 'Make a run for itdown the valley! The whole place is against us.' Thematchlock-men ran, and we went down the valley in spiteof Dravot's protestations. He was swearing horribly andcrying out that he was King. The priests rolled greatstones on us, and the regular army fired hard, and therewasn'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 templeblew again. 'Come away—for Gord's sake come away!' saysBilly Fish. 'They'll send runners out to all the villagesbefore ever we get to Bashkai. I can protect you there, butI can't do anything now.'

"My own notion is that Dan began to go mad in hishead from that hour. He stared up and down like a stuckpig. Then he was all for walking back alone and killingthe priests with his bare hands; which he could have done.'An Emperor am I,' says Daniel, 'and next year I shall bea Knight of the Queen.'

"'All right, Dan,' says I; 'but come along now whilethere's time.'

"'It's your fault,' says he, 'for not looking after yourarmy better. There was mutiny in the midst, and you didn'tknow—you d—d engine-driving, plate-laying,missionary's-pass-hunting hound!' He sat upon a rock and called meevery foul name he could lay tongue to. I was too heart-sickto care, though it was all his foolishness that broughtthe smash.

"'I'm sorry, Dan,' says I, 'but there's no accounting fornatives. This business is our Fifty-Seven. Maybe we'llmake 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 thereisn't a bug in a blanket left!'

"We walked all that day, and all that night Dan wasstumping up and down on the snow, chewing his beard andmuttering to himself.

"'There's no hope o' getting clear,' said Billy Fish. 'Thepriests will have sent runners to the villages to say thatyou are only men. Why didn't you stick on as Gods tillthings was more settled? I'm a dead man,' says Billy Fish,and he throws himself down on the snow and begins topray to his Gods.

"Next morning we was in a cruel bad country—all upand down, no level ground at all, and no food either. Thesix Bashkai men looked at Billy Fish hungry-wise as ifthey wanted to ask something, but they said never a word.At noon we came to the top of a flat mountain all coveredwith snow, and when we climbed up into it, behold, therewas 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. Thatbrought him to his senses. He looks across the snow atthe army, and sees the rifles that we had brought into thecountry.

"'We're done for,' says he. 'They are Englishmen, thesepeople—and it's my blasted nonsense that has brought youto 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 withyou. My men can go.'

"The Bashkai fellows didn't wait for a second wordbut ran off, and Dan and me and Billy Fish walked acrossto where the drums were drumming and the horns werehorning. It was cold—awful cold. I've got that cold in theback of my head now. There's a lump of it there."

The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two kerosenelamps were blazing in the office, and the perspiration poureddown my face and splashed on the blotter as I leanedforward. Carnehan was shivering, and I feared that his mindmight go. I wiped my face, took a fresh grip of thepiteously mangled hands, and said: "What happened after that?"

The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clearcurrent.

"What was you pleased to say?" whined Carnehan. "Theytook them without any sound. Not a little whisper all alongthe snow, not though the King knocked down the first manthat set hand on him—not though old Peachey fired his lastcartridge into the brown of 'em. Not a single solitary sounddid those swines make. They just closed up tight, and I tellyou their furs stunk. There was a man called Billy Fish, agood friend of us all, and they cut his throat, sir, then andthere, like a pig; and the King kicks up the bloody snow andsays: 'We've had a dashed fine run for our money. What'scoming 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, allalong o' one of those cunning rope-bridges. Kindly let mehave the paper-cutter, sir. It tilted this way. They marchedhim a mile across that snow to a rope-bridge over a ravinewith a river at the bottom. You may have seen such. Theyprodded him behind like an ox. 'D— your eyes!' says theKing. 'D'you suppose I can't die like a gentleman?' Heturns to Peachey—Peachey that was crying like a child. 'I'vebrought you to this, Peachey,' says he. 'Brought you out ofyour happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where you waslate Commander-in-Chief of the Emperor's forces. Say youforgive me, Peachey.' 'I do,' says Peachey. 'Fully and freelydo 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 dancingropes, 'Cut, you beggars,' he shouts; and they cut, and oldDan fell, turning round and round and round, twenty thousandmiles, for he took half an hour to fall till he struck thewater, and I could see his body caught on a rock with thegold crown close beside.

"But do you know what they did to Peachey between twopine-trees? They crucified him, sir, as Peachey's hand willshow. They used wooden pegs for his hands and his feet;and he didn't die. He hung there and screamed, and theytook him down next day, and said it was a miracle that hewasn't dead. They took him down—poor old Peacheythat hadn't done them any harm—that hadn't done themany..."

He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping his eyeswith the back of his scarred hands and moaning like a childfor 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 thatwas a man. Then they turned him out on the snow, and toldhim to go home, and Peachey came home in about a year,begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel Dravot hewalked before and said: 'Come along, Peachey. 'It's a bigthing we're doing.' The mountains they danced at night,and the mountains they tried to fall on Peachey's head, butDan he held up his hand, and Peachey came along, bentdouble. He never let go of Dan's hand, and he never let goof Dan's head. They gave it to him as a present in thetemple, to remind him not to come again, and though thecrown was pure gold, and Peachey was starving, never wouldPeachey sell the same. You knew Right Worshipful BrotherDravot! Look at him now!"

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist;brought out a black horsehair bag embroidered with silverthread; and shook therefrom on to my table—the dried,withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morning sun thathad long been paling the lamps struck the red beard andblind sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studdedwith raw turquoises, that Carnehan placed tenderly on thebattered temples.

"You behold now," said Carnehan, "the Emperor in hishabit as he lived—the King of Kafiristan with his crown uponhis head. Poor old Daniel that was a monarch once!"

I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, Irecognized the head of the man of Marwar Junction. Carnehanrose to go. I attempted to stop him. He was not fit to walkabroad. "Let me take away the whisky, and give me a littlemoney," he gasped. "I was a King once. I'll go to theDeputy Commissioner and ask to set in the Poorhouse tillI get my health. No, thank you, I can't wait till you get acarriage for me. I've urgent private affairs—in thesouth—at Marwar."

He shambled out of the office and departed in the directionof the Deputy Commissioner's house. That day at noonI had occasion to go down the blinding hot Mall, and I sawa crooked man crawling along the white dust of the roadside,his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after the fashion ofstreet-singers at Home. There was not a soul in sight, andhe was out of all possible earshot of the houses. And hesang 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 intomy carriage and drove him off to the nearest missionary foreventual transfer to the Asylum. He repeated the hymntwice while he was with me, whom he did not in the leastrecognize, and I left him singing it to the missionary.

Two days later I inquired after his welfare of theSuperintendent of the Asylum.

"He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. He diedearly yesterday morning," said the Superintendent. "Is ittrue that he was half an hour bareheaded in the sun atmidday?"

"Yes," said I, "but do you happen to know if he hadanything 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 mostaccomplished French playwright and dramatist.He is the author of "Divorçons," "Fédora,""Théodora," "La Tosca," "MadameSans-Gêne," and other well-known plays,most if not all of which were written forSarah Bernhardt. The present story is anexcellent example of the author's manner inthe use of dramatic material.

THE BLACK PEARL

By VICTORIEN SARDOU

When it rains in Amsterdam, it pours; and whenthe thunder takes a hand in the performance,things are pretty lively; this is what my friendBalthazar Van der Lys was saying to himself onesummer night, as he ran along the Amstel on his way hometo escape the storm. Unfortunately, the wind of the ZuyderZee blew faster than he could run. A frightful gust torealong the quay, unhinging hundreds of shutters andtwisting scores of signs and lamp posts. At the same moment,a number of towels and handkerchiefs which had beenhung out to dry were blown pell-mell into the canal,followed by Balthazar's hat, and it is the greatest wonder inthe world that he was not treated to a bath himself. Thenthere was another flash of lightning, a deafening roar ofthunder, and the rain came down in torrents anew, literallywetting our poor friend to the skin, and causing him toredouble his speed.

On reaching the Orphelinat Straat he rushed under theawning of a shop to seek refuge from the rain; in his hurryhe did not take time to look where he was going, and thenext moment he found himself fairly in the arms of anotherman, and the two went rolling over and over together. Theperson thus disturbed was seated at the time in anarmchair; this person was no other than our mutual friend,Cornelius Pump, who was undoubtedly one of the mostnoted savants of the age.

"Cornelius! what the mischief were you doing in thatchair?" asked Balthazar, picking himself up.

"Look out!" exclaimed Cornelius, "or you will break thestring of my kite!"

Balthazar turned around, believing that his friend wasjoking; but, to his surprise, he saw Cornelius busilyoccupied in winding up the string of a gigantic kite, which wasfloating above the canal at a tremendous height, and whichapparently was struggling fiercely against all effort made topull it in. Cornelius pulled away with all his might in onedirection, while the kite pulled away in another. Themonstrous combination of paper and sticks was ornamentedwith a tremendous tail, which was decorated withinnumerable pieces of paper.

"A curious idea!" remarked Balthazar, "to fly a kitein such a storm."

"I am not doing so for fun, you fool," answeredCornelius with a smile; "I wish to verify the presence ofnitric acid in yonder clouds, which are charged withelectricity. In proof of which, behold!" and with a desperateeffort the man of science succeeded in pulling down thekite, and pointed with pride to the bits of paper which hadbeen burned a dark red.

"Oh, bah!" replied Balthazar in that tone of voice socommon to those who do not understand anything of theselittle freaks of science. "A nice time to experiment, uponmy word!"

"The best time in the world, my friend," simply answeredCornelius. "And what an observatory! you can see foryourself! there is not an obstruction in the way! a glorioushorizon! ten lightning-rods in sight and all on fire! I havebeen keeping my weather eye open for this storm and Iam 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," mutteredCornelius. "I have discovered your secret and will tell itto the world."

"And what is there so interesting in all this, anyway?"asked Balthazar, who, owing to his drenching, was inanything 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 oflightning. For instance, lightning of the first class isgenerally in the form of a luminous furrow and is very crookedand forked, effecting a zigzag movement, and of a white orpurple color; then, there is the lightning of the second class,an extended sheet of flame, usually red, and whichembraces the entire horizon in circumference; and finallylightning of the third class, which is invariably in the formof a rebounding, rolling, spherical body; the question iswhether it is really globular in shape or merely an opticalillusion? This is exactly the problem I have been tryingto solve! I suppose you will say that these globes of firehave been sufficiently observed by Howard, Schubler,Kamtz—"

"Oh, I don't know anything at all about such rot, so Iwon't venture an opinion. The rain is coming down againand I want to go home."

"Wait a moment," calmly replied Cornelius; "and as soonas I have seen a spherical or globular flash I will—"

"I haven't time to wait; besides, I would be a fool whenI only have to go a hundred feet to reach my door. Ifyou want a good fire, a good supper, a good bed and agood pipe, you will be welcome; and if you want to look ata globe, why, the globe of my lamp is at your disposal. Ican 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 thesky was lighted up by a bright flash, while the thunder burstwith 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!" joyfullyexclaimed Cornelius. "I have made a wonderful discovery:let's go to supper!" Balthazar rubbed his eyes and felt ofhis limbs to assure himself that he was still in the land ofthe living.

"The lightning struck near my house!"

"Not at all," replied Cornelius; "it was in the directionof the Hebrew quarter."

Balthazar did not stop to hear any more, but started offon a dead run; Cornelius picked up his little bits of paperand was soon following at his heels, in spite of thedrenching rain.

An hour later the two friends, having enjoyed a bountifulsupper, seated themselves in comfortable chairs, and,between the whiffs of their meerschaums, laughed at thestorm which was still raging furiously outside.

"This is what I call real enjoyment," remarked Cornelius."A good bottle of white curaçoa, a good fire, goodtobacco, and a congenial friend to talk to; am I not right,Christina?"

Christina came and went; she was here, there, andeverywhere at the same time, removing plates and placingfresh glasses and a huge earthen jug on the table. At themention 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 ayoung girl who had been raised out of charity, in the houseof our friend Balthazar.

Shortly after the death of her husband, Madam Van derLys, Balthazar's mother, felt some one tugging at herdress as she was kneeling at her devotions one Sundaymorning. Fearing that some one was trying to pick herpocket, she grasped the hand of the supposed offender.The hand belonged to a little girl, and was as cute andsmall as it is possible for a hand to be. The good womanwas deeply moved at this exhibition of crime in one soyoung, and her first thought was to let the little one go;but she finally decided to give the waif a home, like thedear, good woman that she was. Then she led littleChristina out of the church and made her accompany her home,the child crying all the while with fear that her auntwould whip her. Madame Van der Lys told her not to beafraid, and succeeded at last in obtaining the informationthat the child's parents belonged to that class of idlerswho spend their time in running about fairs and kermesses;that the child had been broken in at an early age to allthe tricks adopted by strolling mountebanks; that thefather had been killed while performing a dangerous featon the horizontal bar; that the mother died in want andmisery; and finally that the aunt was an old hag who usedto beat her black and blue, and who was instructing her inall the branches of crime. I do not know whether you haveever met Madam Van der Lys, but she was as good awoman as her son is a good man. She therefore decidedto keep the child, whom the aunt never called to reclaim.She brought her up well and had her educated by anexcellent woman. It was not long before the little waifknew how to spell, read, and write, and she soon becamea model of good manners and refinement. Then, when theold lady shuffled off this mortal coil, she had the satisfactionof leaving behind her, in addition to Gudule, the cook, alass of fifteen who was as bright as a florin, and who wouldnever permit her master's fire to go out for want of properattention. In addition to all these good qualities, she waspolite, refined, clever, and pretty; at least such was theopinion of our friend Cornelius, who had discovered in hereyes a look not at all unlike a flash of lightning of thethird class. But, a truce to this! If I gossip any more Iwill be divulging family secrets!

I will add, however, that Christina always gave Corneliusa hearty welcome because he brought her interestingbooks. The young savant made a greater fuss over thislittle housekeeper than over all the painted beauties of thetown. But it seemed as if the storm had paralyzed theyoung girl's tongue. She had declined to take her seatat the table, and, under the pretext of waiting on the twofriends, she came and went, scarcely listening to what theyhad to say, replying only in monosyllables, and making thesign of the cross every time there was a flash of lightning.Shortly after their supper, Balthazar turned round to askher a question, but she was no longer there, having retiredto her room. He rose from his chair, and approachingthe door of her room, listened attentively; but as all wassilent he was evidently convinced that the young girl wasalready fast asleep, for he returned to his place and satdown beside Cornelius, who was busily engaged filling hispipe.

"What's wrong with Christina to-night?" he asked,pointing to her room.

"Oh, it's the storm," replied Balthazar; "women areso timid!"

"If it were otherwise, we would be deprived of thepleasure of protecting them as we would children—especiallyChristina, who is anything but strong. I really can't lookat her without crying; she is so frail, so delicate!"

"Oh, ho, Master Cornelius!" exclaimed Balthazar, witha knowing smile; "you are almost as enthusiastic overChristina as you were over the lightning a little while ago!"

Cornelius blushed to the very roots of his hair as hereplied: "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 squarein the face, he added: "Come, now, you don't imagine thatI can't see what is going on? You don't only amuseyourself at flying your kite over the Amstel, overgrown boythat 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 notmerely to see my beautiful countenance that you havecalled here twice a day—at noon, on your way to thezoölogical 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 mostgirls of her age; she has a wise head and a loving heart,I assure you; she is certainly clever enough to admire andappreciate such a talented person as Mijnheer CorneliusPump, 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 yousee a spot on her dress, on natural history whenever yousee a pot of flowers, and on anatomy whenever you seethe cat! She listens to what you have to say with openears, and a look of attention which is really charming; andyet you would pretend that love is a minor considerationin all this, especially when the man of science is onlytwenty-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 tothe health of Cupid, for I, too, am going to get married—"

"I congratulate you, my boy; and who is the fortunateone?"

"—And I am going to marry Mademoiselle Suzanne VanMiellis, the daughter of the rich banker," continuedBalthazar, 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 herfather would tell me that it was his money and not hisdaughter 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 shestopped for a moment, and looking into my eyes she said:'Now, my friend, I don't want you to bear me any ill-feelingfor what I am going to say; but, since the death of myfather, and coming into my inheritance, I assure you that Iam most unhappy. I can no longer distinguish betweenthose who love me for my riches and those who love me formyself; there are so many who pretend to adore me that Iam suspicious of them all; and I would rather throw myfortune into the Amstel than wed a man who would aspireto my hand through mercenary motives!'"

"'Ah, mademoiselle,' I sighed; 'you can understand thatI was not overanxious to be mistaken for one of thesefortune hunters.'

"'Oh, my dear friend,' she exclaimed; 'I know that youare not that kind of a man. Now I am going to tell you myideal of a husband. I would never accept the love of a manwho had not cared for me previous to the death of my father.Ah! I would indeed be confident of that man's love, and Iwould return it to him a hundred-fold!'

"'Then I am that man!' I cried out. 'I have loved you forover six long years, and I never dared to tell you so, althoughyou must have noticed that I was slowly but surely dying forthe want of your affection!' Then she looked down at theground, and whispered: 'Maybe I have,' and she looked atme as if trying to read the truth in my eyes. It was easy tosee that she wanted to believe what I said, but was afraidto do so.

"'Then you can prove the truth of your assertion,' sheremarked, after a pause. 'Do you remember the first timewe met, you gave me a bunch of flowers? One of these wasin the shape of a little heart, with two blue wings on eachside. Well, then—'

"'I know what you are going to say. Then as we werelooking at this little flower together, our heads almost touchedand your curls brushed against my face; as you perceivedhow close we were to one another, you suddenly drew back,and the flower was detached from its stem. I can still hearyour little cry of disappointment ringing in my ears. Thenyou began to cry, and, as you were not looking, I picked upthe little flower.' 'And you have it?' she asked. 'Yes, I havealways kept it as a souvenir of the happiest moment in myexistence. I will bring it with me the next time I call.'

"You should have seen the look of joy which spread overSuzanne's countenance at that moment! She held out herpretty hand, which I eagerly grasped and carried to my lips.'Ah, my friend,' said she, 'this is all I wanted to know, andI am indeed happy! If you picked up that little flower itwas because you loved me already at that time, and if youhave preserved it, 'tis because you love me still! Bring itto-morrow; it will be the most welcome wedding gift you couldpossibly give me!'

"Oh, my dear old Cornelius, judge of my surprise, of mydelight when I heard those words! I was tempted to dosomething rash; I was wild with joy. Suddenly her motherhappened along. I threw my arms around the old lady'sneck and kissed her on both cheeks—this cooled me off.Then I grabbed my hat and took to my heels, intending toreturn with the flower this very night. But this confoundedstorm has upset all my plans, and I will have to postpone myvisit until to-morrow. There, you have the whole story ofmy courtship in a nutshell!"

"May Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Cornelius as he threwhis 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 silencehim. "You will wake up Christina."

"Oh, I won't say another word, I promise you. And nowshow me your celebrated flower with its blue wings."

"I have it locked up in a little steel casket, which is hiddenaway with a lot of jewelry in my desk. I have had it framedin a little locket, surrounded with gold and black pearls. Iwas looking at it only this morning; it is charming. Youcan judge for yourself."

So saying, he took up the lamp, and, taking a huge bunchof keys from his pocket, he opened the door of his study. Hehad hardly crossed the threshold when Cornelius heard himcry out in surprise. He rose to go to his assistance, whenBalthazar, pale as death, reappeared in the entrance:

"My God! Cornelius."

"What is it? what is wrong?" exclaimed the man ofscience.

"Great heavens! I am ruined! Come here! Look!"

And Balthazar raised his lamp so as to light up theinterior of his study.

III

What Cornelius saw justified Balthazar's exclamation ofsurprise. The floor was literally strewn with papers of allkinds, and this profusion of documents clearly proved thatsomething extraordinary had occurred. A large portfolio inwhich Balthazar kept all his private papers was torn open,notwithstanding that it had a steel lock, and was throwncarelessly on the floor, the papers it had contained beingscattered far and wide.

But this was nothing when compared with that whichwas to follow. Balthazar now rushed up to his secrétaire.The lock had been forced. The top of the desk had beencompletely hacked to pieces, a great portion being reducedto splinters. The nails were twisted all out of shape, and thescrews and hinges had alike received rough usage. As to thelid, it had been forced so as to permit the introduction of ahand in the pigeon-holes and private drawers.

But, strange to relate, most of the drawers containingvaluable papers had not been touched by the thief, his attentionevidently having been entirely absorbed in the contentsof those which had contained gold and silver. About fifteenhundred ducats, two hundred florins and the little steel casketfilled with jewels, of which we have heard Balthazar speak,were missing. This drawer was completely empty; everythinghad disappeared, gold, silver, jewels, without leaving atrace behind; and Balthazar experienced a still greater losswhen, on picking up the steel casket from the floor, heperceived that the medallion had been taken along with the rest!

This discovery affected him more than the loss of all hismoney. Rushing to the window, he threw it open and criedout at the top of his voice:

"Help! Help! Stop thief!"

All the population turned out, and, in accordance with thecustom, would have answered this call for aid with, "Fire!Here we come!" had not the first cry attracted a squad ofpolicemen who were passing that way. They ran up toBalthazar's house, and M. Tricamp, the sergeant, realizing thata robbery had been committed, first cautioned him to makeless noise, and then demanded that he and his men beadmitted without further delay.

The door opened noiselessly and M. Tricamp entered ontiptoe, followed by another of his men, whom he left onguard in the vestibule with orders not to permit any oneeither to come in or go out. It was almost twelve o'clock;the neighbors were fast asleep, and it was easy to see thatGudule, the deaf cook, and Christina, fatigued by theemotions caused by the storm, had heard nothing unusual, asboth were sleeping the sleep of the just.

"And now," said the sergeant, lowering his voice; "whatis it all about?"

Balthazar dragged him into the study and pointed to thetorn papers and broken secrétaire.

M. Tricamp was a little man, whose legs were not bigenough to support his unwieldy form; nevertheless, he wasvery sharp and unusually active. He had one more littlepeculiarity—he was frightfully near-sighted, which compelledhim to look at what he was examining at very short range.

He was evidently surprised, but it was part of his stockin trade not to exhibit surprise at anything. He thereforecontented himself with muttering: "Very good! Very good!"and he cast a look of contentment around the room.

"You see, Mijnheer, what has happened!" exclaimedBalthazar, with a voice choked with emotion.

"Perfectly!" replied M. Tricamp, with an air of importance."The secrétaire has been broken open, your portfoliohas 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! Andyou suspect no one?"

"No one, Mijnheer."

"So much the better. Then we will have the pleasure ofdiscovering 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, whichwas provided with an old-fashioned brass lock, the likes ofwhich are only found in the Netherlands at the present time.

Tricamp turned the key. Crick! Crack! It was evidentthat the lock had not been tampered with.

"And the window?" asked the officer, handing Balthazarthe key of the study.

"The window was closed," said Cornelius; "we opened itwhen we called for assistance. Besides, Mijnheer, it has stoutiron bars, and no one could possibly pass through there."

M. Tricamp assured himself that such was the case, andhe remarked that not even a child could effect an entrancethrough those bars. Then he closed and bolted the windowand turned his attention toward the fireplace.

Balthazar followed all of his movements without utteringa word.

M. Tricamp leaned over and examined the interior of thefireplace most minutely; but here again nothing but failurerewarded him for his trouble. A thick wall had been builtthere recently, allowing only enough room for a smallstove-pipe.

M. Tricamp did not question for a moment whether thisopening would permit the passage of a human being, for itseemed altogether too improbable; therefore, when he drewhimself up, he appeared to be anything but pleased.

"Hum! Hum!" he muttered; "the devil," and he lookedup at the ceiling, having replaced his eye-glass with a pair ofspectacles. Then he took the lamp from Balthazar and placedit on the secrétaire, removing the shade; and this movementsuddenly revealed to him a clue which had entirely escapedtheir attention until now.

An old knife, a gift from a friend in the Dutch Indies, wasdriven into the wainscoting, about three feet above thesecrétaire 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 safeand snug in Balthazar's desk.

At the same moment Tricamp drew attention to the factthat the wire which was attached to the bell was twisted andbroken and was fastened about the handle of the knife. Hesprang 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 toraise his hand between the knife and the picture moldingto ascertain that a large piece of wall paper had been cutout, together with the wood and the plastering, the wholebeing replaced with a care to defy the closest inspection.

This discovery was so unexpected that the young mencould not withhold their admiration at the sergeant's skill.M. Tricamp remarked that the paper had been removed withthe greatest skill, thus denoting the work of a professionalthief. Raising himself on tiptoe, he placed his hand throughthe opening and assured himself that the paper in the adjoiningroom had been tampered with in precisely the samemanner.

There was no longer any room for doubt; the thief hadcertainly entered the room through this aperture.M. Tricamp descended from his pedestal and proceeded to describethe movements of the malefactors from the moment of theirarrival until their departure, just as if he had witnessed thewhole performance.

"The manner in which that knife has been planted in thewall plainly proves that it was intended as a step to assistthe thief in his descent. The wire was used as a sort of ropeby which he guided himself on his way back. Now, doesn'tthis strike you as being rational enough?"

Balthazar and Cornelius listened to this explanation withbated breath. But the former was not the kind of man toenthuse over a description of a theft, especially when he wasthe loser by the operation. What he wanted to know waswhere his medallion had gone; now that he knew how thethief had entered, he was anxious to know how he had goneout.

"Have patience," remarked M. Tricamp, following up hisclue 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 ourheads about such rot!"

"Pardon me," replied Tricamp, "but in my estimation thisis very important. The study of psychology in criminals isa more important feature than all the quack examinationsformerly so popular with the police."

"But, Mijnheer, while you are discussing the methods ofthe police the thief is running away with my money."

"Well, let him run; we will catch him fast enough!" coldlyreplied M. Tricamp. "I claim that it is necessary to study thenature of the game in order to run it down. Now, allrobberies differ more or less and it is rarely that murders arecommitted in the same manner. For instance, two servantgirls were accused of stealing their mistress's shawl. Idiscovered the criminal at the first glance. The thief had thechoice of two cashmeres: one was blue and the other white;now, she stole the blue one. One of the servants was ablonde and the other had red hair. I was confident that theblonde was guilty—the red-headed girl would never haveselected the blue shawl on account of the combination."

"Wonderful!" remarked Cornelius.

"Then hurry up and tell me the name of the thief, forpatience is wellnigh exhausted."

"I can't do this at the start, but I claim that this is thecriminal's first robbery. You will no doubt not credit thisassertion, as you will probably say to yourself that it showsthe workmanship of an old hand; but any child could loosena bit of dried-up wall paper. I will say nothing regardingyour portfolio, or your broken secrétaire, for that plainlybears the imprint of a novice's hand."

"Then you are sure it is the work of a novice?" interruptedCornelius.

"Undoubtedly. I will add that he is a clumsy greenhorn.An out-and-out thief would never have left your room insuch disorder; he would take more pride in his workmanship.Furthermore, the criminal is neither very strong nor verytall, otherwise he could have drawn himself up there withoutthe aid of that knife and bit of wire."

"But it must have required considerable strength todemolish 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 myimpression."

Balthazar and Cornelius looked at one another, in doubtas to whom he could possibly suspect.

"Now then, to sum up: it is a young woman; she must beyoung or she would not climb so well—petite, since sheneeded a wire to pull herself up with. Then, again, she mustbe familiar with your habits, for she took advantage of yourabsence to commit the felony, and she went direct to thedrawer in which you kept your money, as she apparently didnot bother her head about the others. In a word, if you havea 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 isguilty!"

Both Cornelius and Balthazar were pale as death. Christina!Little Christina, so good, so kind, so pretty, athief—nonsense! And then they remembered her origin and themanner in which she was adopted. She was only a Bohemianafter all! Balthazar dropped into a chair as if he hadbeen shot, and Cornelius felt as if his heart had just beenseared with a red-hot iron.

"Will you kindly send for this person?" suddenlyremarked M. Tricamp, awakening them from their reverie."Or, better still, let us visit her room."

"Her room—her room," faltered Balthazar; "why, thereit is," and he pointed to the adjoining apartment.

"And it took all this time for you to make up your mindwho had committed the theft!" said the sergeant with asneer.

"But," ventured Cornelius, "she certainly must haveheard us."

Tricamp picked up the lamp and, pushing open the doorof the adjoining room, entered, followed by the young men.The room was empty! Simultaneously they exclaimed: "Shehas escaped!"

M. Tricamp felt under the mattress to see whether hecould find any of the stolen property. "She has not evenslept on the bed to-night," he said, after carefully inspectingthe couch.

At the same moment they heard the sound of strugglingoutside, and the officer who had been left on guard downstairsentered the room, pushing Christina before him. Thepoor 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 backdoor," said the officer.

Christina looked around her with such an air of innocencethat no one believed in her guilt, excepting, of course,M. Tricamp.

"But do tell me what this all means?" asked she of theofficer, who locked the door after her. "Why don't you tellthem who I am?" she continued, addressing Balthazar.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"I have been upstairs with old Gudule, who, you know, isafraid of the lightning. As I was very tired, I fell asleep inthe armchair in her room. When I awoke I looked out ofthe window, and as the storm had ceased I came downstairswith the intention of going to bed; but I first desired toassure myself that you had bolted the door, and it was at thatmoment that this gentleman placed his hand on my shoulderand 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 werejust going out when my man arrested you; and I will add thatyou did not go to bed, so as to avoid the trouble of dressingwhen the moment arrived for you to make your escape."

Christina looked a him in astonishment. "Escape? Whatescape?" she asked.

"Ah!" muttered M. Tricamp. "What nerve, what deceit!"

"Come here," said Balthazar, who knew not what tobelieve, "and I will tell you what it all means!"

He took the young girl by the arm and dragged her intothe adjoining room.

"My God!" exclaimed the young woman, as she crossedthe threshold and perceived the scene of devastation for thefirst time; "who could have done this?"

Her surprise seemed to be so sincere that Balthazar hesitatedfor a moment, but M. Tricamp was not so easily affected;he dragged Christina by the arm up to the secrétaire andexclaimed:

"You did it!"

"I!" cried out Christina, who did not as yet realize whatit all meant.

She looked at Balthazar as if to read his thoughts, thenshe cast a glance at the drawer of the secrétaire, and seeingthat it was empty, she realized at last the terrible meaningof 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. Christinaadvanced a step closer to Balthazar, but he only lowered hiseyes at her approach. Suddenly she raised her hand to herheart, as if she were suffocating—she attempted to speak—shetried to pronounce two or three words, but all she could saywas:

"A thief! They say I am a thief!" and she fell backwardon the floor as if dead! Cornelius precipitated himself towardher and raised her gently in his arms.

"No!" he cried; "no! it is impossible! This child isinnocent!"

Then he carried the young girl into her room and laid heron the bed. Balthazar followed him, and it was easy to seethat he was deeply affected. M. Tricamp, still smiling,entered immediately after them, but one of his officersmotioned to him that he had something to communicate tohim.

"Mijnheer, we already have obtained some informationregarding this young woman."

"Well, and what do you know?"

"The baker across the way says that a little while beforethe storm he saw Mademoiselle Christina at the window ofthe ground floor. She slipped a package to a man who wasstanding outside; this man wore a long cloak and a slouchhat—"

"A package, eh?" muttered M. Tricamp; "excellent! Now,secure the witness and keep a sharp watch outside. In thefirst place, go and send the cook to me at once."

The officer withdrew, and M. Tricamp entered Christina'sroom.

The young woman was stretched out on the bed in adead faint, and Cornelius was rubbing her hands. Withoutstopping to notice the condition of the girl, he proceeded withhis examination of the premises. He started in with thebureau and overhauled all the drawers. Then he approachedBalthazar with a smile of satisfaction on his face.

"After all, what proof is there that this young girl isguilty?" asked the latter as he gazed tenderly upon theunconscious woman.

"Why, this!" answered M. Tricamp, as he handedBalthazar one of the missing pearls.

"Where did you find this?"

"There," and he pointed to the top drawer of Christina'sbureau.

Balthazar rushed up to the drawer and began to overhaulall of the young girl's effects, but his search did not resultin his finding any more of the stolen jewels.

At this moment Christina opened her eyes, and lookingaround her as if to recall the situation, burst into tearsas she buried her face in the pillow.

"Oh, ho!" ejaculated M. Tricamp, "tears, eh? She isgoing to confess"; and as he leaned over her, he added inhis sweetest voice: "Come, my child, return good for evil andconfess the truth. Confession is good for the soul. Afterall, we are not all perfect. Now, I suppose you permittedyourself to be led astray, or you allowed yourself tosuccumb to a passion for finery. You wanted to make yourselflook 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 notright, 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 insurprise.

"Kindly leave us alone with the girl, Mijnheer; your presenceirritates her," remarked Balthazar. "If she has anythingto 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'sface; then the two young men approached Christina, whohad assumed a sitting posture, and was staring before herinto space.

"Come, my child," said Balthazar, as he held out hishand; "we are now alone; you are with friends, so you neednot 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 answerus," said Cornelius.

"Tell us the truth, I beg of you, Christina," addedBalthazar, "and I promise you no harm will come to you—Iswear it on my honor. I will forgive you, and no onewill ever know of this—I swear it, Christina, I swear itbefore God!—don't you hear me, my child?"

"Yes!" answered Christina, who did not appear to belistening. "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 youtoo 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 withall my heart!"

"Oh!" said the young girl as she burst into tears; "andyet you believe that I am a thief!"

"No, no!" hastily exclaimed Cornelius, "I do not believeit, I do not believe it! But, my dear child, you musthelp me to justify you, you must assist me to discover thecriminal, and to do this you must be frank and tell meeverything."

"Yes, you are good, you alone are kind to me. Youpity me and do not believe what they say! They accuseme because I am a Bohemian—because I stole when I wasa child. And they call me a thief!—a thief! They callme a thief!—"

And she fell backward on the bed, sobbing as if herheart would burst.

Balthazar could stand this no longer: he fell upon hisknees by the side of the bed, and exclaimed in a voice ofpity, as if he himself was the accused instead of theaccuser:

"Christina, my sister, my child, my daughter—look atme! I am on my knees before you! I ask your forgivenessfor the wrong I have done you. No one will say anything,no one will do anything; it is all over!—do you hear? Ihope you do not wish to repay all the kindness my motherand I have shown you by making me suffer all the torturesof the damned! Well, then, I beg you to tell me what hasbecome of my little medallion—(I do not ask you where itis, you understand?—I do not wish to know that, for I donot suspect you). But if you do know where it is, I begof you to help me find it. I implore you by the love youbore my mother, whom you called your own, I implore youto find it—this is all I want. My future happiness dependson the recovery of this jewel—give me back mymedallion—please give me back my medallion."

"Oh!" answered Christina in despair, "I would give mylife 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, wretchedwoman—"

Cornelius silenced him with a gesture, and Christinaraised her hands to her forehead.

"Ah!" she said, as she burst into a loud laugh, "whenI am mad, this farce will be ended, I suppose?"

And, overcome with emotion, she fell backward, hidingher face in the pillow as if determined not to utter anotherword.

VIII

Cornelius dragged Balthazar out of the room; he staggeredas though he had been shot. In the other room theyfound 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, wasstill half asleep.

"Come, come, my good woman," remarked M. Tricamp,"control yourself, if you please!"

"Oh, my good master, my good master!" she exclaimedas Balthazar entered the room accompanied by Cornelius."What's the matter? They dragged me out of bed, and theyare asking me all kinds of questions! For mercy's sake, tellme what it is all about!"

"Don't be alarmed, my good woman," said Balthazarkindly; "you have nothing to do with all this. But I havebeen robbed and we are looking for the thief."

"You have been robbed?"

"Yes."

"My God! I have lived in this house for over thirtyyears, and not as much as a pin was ever stolen before! Oh,Mijnheer, why didn't they wait until I was dead before theybegan 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; thewoman is deaf," remarked Balthazar.

"Now, I want to know whether you were in the housewhen 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 blindingrainstorm 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 hardof hearing. And I have a good memory, too—"

"So you have a good memory, eh? Then tell me whocalled here to-day."

"Oh, there was the postman; and a neighbor who calledto borrow a pie-plate—and Petersen who came to asksomething of Christina."

"Indeed! And who is this Petersen?"

"A neighbor, Mijnheer; a night-watchman; my masterknows him well."

"Yes," said Balthazar, addressing the sergeant, "he is apoor devil who lost his wife a month ago, and his two littlechildren are both sick. We help the poor fellow from timeto time."

"And this Petersen was in the house to-day?"

"No, Mijnheer," replied Gudule; "he only spoke toChristina 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 forme, as I was too tired to move from my chair. She is sokind and obliging!"

"But she wasn't in the kitchen all the time?"

"No, Mijnheer, she retired to her own room towardevening."

"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, thesound of some one hammering wood?"

"No, Mijnheer."

"Yes, gentlemen, she is as deaf as a door-post," saidM. Tricamp, turning toward the young men. Then heapproached 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 plainenough."

"She has no doubt confounded the noise made by thethief, in breaking in, with the roar of the elements," hemuttered to himself. "And then?" he asked of Gudule in a loudervoice.

"And then, Mijnheer, night had fallen and the storm ragedfuriously; master had not returned. I was terriblyfrightened. I got down on my knees and said my prayers. Justthen Christina came down from her room; she was as whiteas a ghost, and was trembling all over. Then the thunderburst overhead and deafened me—"

"Ah! then you noticed that she was nervous?"

"Certainly! And so was I; the storm frightened me almostto death. Shortly after this, master knocked at thedoor, and Christina let him in. Now, Mijnheer, this is allI know, as sure as I am an honest woman."

"Don't cry, my good woman! I tell you that no onesuspects you."

"But then, master, whom do they suspect? MercifulFather!" she exclaimed, as the truth flashed upon her. "Thenthey 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!" continuedthe old woman, who would not be silenced. "That angelof kindness and loveliness sent to us from Heaven!"

"Come, come, if it is not you it must be she," brutallyinterrupted Tricamp.

"Oh, why don't they blame me? I am an old woman andhave not long to live; but this child is innocent and I won'tlet 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 thistrouble!"

M. Tricamp made a sign to his men, and they seized theold woman by the arm. Gudule advanced a few steps, thenfell on her knees near the fireplace, weeping and bemoaningher fate. M. Tricamp then ordered his men not to disturbthe woman as she knelt there offering up a prayer to Heaventhat Christina should not suffer for a crime committed byanother.

"You see," remarked the agent of police, turning towardCornelius, "that no one has called here whom we might havecause to suspect—neither the postman, the neighbor, or thatfellow Petersen. It therefore remains between the old womanand the young girl; and, as I do not believe the old one issufficiently active to perform gymnastics, I beg you to drawyour own conclusions."

"Oh, do not ask me to form an opinion; I really do notknow what to think; it seems as if it were all a frightfulnightmare!"

"I don't know whether it is a dream, but it strikes me thatI am pretty wide awake, and that I reason remarkably well."

"Yes, yes," said Cornelius, pacing nervously up and downthe 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 thesergeant square in the face. "No! I will never believe herguilty, unless she says so herself! And God knows—shemight declare that she is guilty, and yet I would protestthat 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 haveproduced, is not to be disputed—"

"Well, then?"

"But my conscience revolts against your assertions nevertheless,and something seems to cry out: 'No, no; her dearface, her despair, her agony, are not those of a guilty wretch,and I swear that she is innocent! I can't prove it—but stillI am sure of it, and I will assert it in the face of the mostdamaging evidence!' Oh, do not listen to her accusers!They will lie away the future of a noble girl! Their logicis born of earthly evidence—mine comes direct from Heaven,and is therefore true!"

"Then—"

"Do not heed them," continued Cornelius, whose excitementwas now tense; "and remember that when your pride isready to dispute the existence of a God something within youcries out to affirm that He does exist! And now, since thisvoice proclaims the innocence of the girl, how could Isuspect her?"

"If the police reasoned like that, criminals would have aneasy time of it."

"Oh, I will not attempt to convince you," added Cornelius;"continue your work! Go on with your search forevidence, and pile your proofs one upon the other in yourefforts to crush this unfortunate child. On the other hand,I will begin my search to discover the proofs of herinnocence!"

"Then I would advise you not to include this among thelatter."

"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 inmy presence in her drawer."

Cornelius eagerly seized the pearl. The proof was soconvincing that he no longer knew what to believe. Themiserable little pearl burned his hand as though it were ared-hot coal—he looked at it instinctively without being able tosee it—and yet he could not remove his eyes from this bit ofdamning evidence! Balthazar took him by the hand, butCornelius did not appear to notice him. He never removedhis eyes from the pearl, yet the sight of it filled him withhorror.

"Cornelius!" exclaimed Balthazar, now thoroughlyalarmed; but Cornelius pushed him roughly aside, andleaned over so as to obtain a better view of the pearl.

"What's the matter with you, Cornelius?" Balthazar askedagain.

"Get out of my way!" and he once more pushed his friendaside as he rushed to the open window.

Balthazar and Tricamp exchanged a knowing glance—whileCornelius, feverish with excitement, rushed into thestudy.

"He has gone mad!" grumbled M. Tricamp as he followedhim with his eyes. "Will you permit me to give adrink of curaçoa to my men? It is daylight now, and theair is somewhat chilly."

"With pleasure. There is the bottle; let the men helpthemselves."

Tricamp then left the room. As Balthazar turned around,he perceived old Gudule still kneeling in the corner. Amoment later he had rejoined Cornelius in the study.

Cornelius was examining the handle of the knife with thegreatest attention. This scrutiny lasted several minutes;then, without offering a word of explanation, he mounteda 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 hissenses.

"In the hallway."

Cornelius pulled the wire a number of times, but the belldid not ring.

"Ah! she did not overlook anything; she has removed thetongue!" remarked Balthazar with a sneer.

Cornelius, still as silent as a sphinx, continued hisexamination of the wire; it passed through a little tin tubeabout the size of a putty-blower; the wire moved freely inthis groove, therefore there was nothing out of gear in thatdirection.

"Now, look at the bell and tell me if it rings when I pullthe 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 ringbecause the bell is turned upside down, with the tongue in theair."

"Good! We will look into that later. Now, steady thesecrétaire while I get up there."

Then, with the assistance of the knife, Cornelius drewhimself 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; Balthazarleft his friend in mid-air while he ran out to see whatwas 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 wasplaying 'possum then, after all. Now, then, my lads, let mesee 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 assurehimself that she was no longer there.

Instead of Christina, Balthazar was confronted by Cornelius,who had entered the room through the opening in thepartition.

"That's right! Look for her, my friend. You must nowadmit that she is guilty, as she has just run away."

"I tell you that she is innocent," exclaimed Cornelius ashis eyes flashed fire; "we alone are guilty—for we havewrongfully accused an innocent person!"

"You must be mad!"

"You will not say so after I have proven to you that Iknow the name of the thief," continued Cornelius as hesmiled sarcastically at the doubts expressed on Balthazar'scountenance. "And I am going to tell you how he enteredand how he went out! In the first place, he did not come inby this window, nor by that opening; he simply glided downyour 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 weaknessfor metals, his first move was to gather your gold and yoursilver; then he forced the steel lock of your portfolio and theiron lock of your secrétaire, and gathering together yourflorins, your ducats, and your jewels, he carried them off,leaving your knife as a memento of his little visit. From thestudy, 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 throughhere.—And if you want to know what has become of yourmedallion, look!"

He drew aside the curtains of the bed and pointed to thelittle copper crucifix suspended on the wall, and which wasnow completely gilded in melted gold.

"This is what he did with your medallion!"

And, plunging his hand into the receptacle for the holywater, he drew out the glass covers of the medallion, whichwere molded together with the flower in the centre.

"And this is what he did with the rest!"

Balthazar gazed upon his friend with astonishment. Hedid not know what to expect next.

"And now, if you want to know how he went out," continuedCornelius as he dragged him to the window, "look!"

He pointed to the top pane of the window, which waspierced by a little hole about the size of a cent.

"But what does all this mean!" exclaimed Balthazar, whobegan 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 beenstruck by lightning!"

Balthazar might have been struck by lightning, too, forthat matter, as he was more dead than alive, when he atlast realized how they had all been deceived by the hand ofNature. A loud noise was heard outside. They both rushedto the window and looked out.

A crowd surrounded the house as four officers, carryinga stretcher, on which Christina was lying, entered the frontdoor!

The poor child, in her despair, had thrown herself intothe Amstel, but Petersen the night-watchman, like the bravelad that he was, had sprung into the water and pulled her out.

After she had been put to bed, and had received a visitfrom 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 removedto-day, my men and I will retire."

"Why, hasn't Cornelius told you? Christina is innocentand we know the thief."

"The thief!" exclaimed M. Tricamp, "and who is it?"

"Why, the lightning, of course!" laughingly repliedBalthazar.

M. Tricamp opened his eyes in amazement, as he repeated:

"The lightning?"

"Why, naturally!" replied Cornelius. "You apply thestudy of psychology in your criminal researches, while Iemploy my knowledge of meteorology—that's the onlydifference in our methods."

"And you pretend to say that all this was caused bylightning?" demanded M. Tricamp, who was losing histemper.

"Why, all this is as nothing when compared with someof the capers lightning has been known to cut. How aboutthe tack it tears up from the carpet and drives through amirror without cracking the glass; and the key it takes out ofthe lock and conceals in the ice-box; and the package ofcigarettes it delicately removes from the bronze ash-receiverwhich it has ignited; and the silver it volatilizes through thesilken meshes of a purse without damaging the latter; andthe needles it magnetizes so thoroughly that they run aftera hammer; and the pretty little hole it made in Christina'swindow; and the wallpaper it so deftly disarranged tofurnish you with your wonderful clue; and this medallion, theglass of which it melted without injuring in the least theflower it contained, thus forming the most beautiful specimenof enamel I have ever seen, and making a finer weddinggift than the most skilled artist could have turned out; andfinally, the gold of the medallion which gilded Christina'scrucifix!"

"Humbug!" protested M. Tricamp, "it is impossible! Andhow about the package! The package she was seen to handa man from out the window?"

"The man is here to answer that question himself!"—anda perfect colossus entered the room.

"Petersen!"

"At your service. And the package contained some olddresses for my little children."

"Old clothes, that's excellent!" replied Tricamp, who wasfairly boiling over with rage. "But how about the gold, andthe 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 overturnedbell, he suddenly exclaimed:

"Here they are!"

A huge ingot of gold, silver, and jewels fell on thefloor from the bell, together with the tongue of the bell,which had been detached, the whole being melted solidlytogether.

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 suchevidence."

"The black pearl!"

"Exactly, Mijnheer! Do you see this little white speck?Well, that was caused by electricity! And, thanks to thislittle speck, I have succeeded in saving the honor of afellow-being."

"You must accept my congratulations," said he, bowinghumbly; "the man of science is more far-sighted than thepolice, and in future I intend to add the study of naturalphilosophy and meteorology to my other acquirements.Were it not for this undoubted proof I might have committeda still more serious error. I actually began to suspectthat you were her accomplice."

And then M. Tricamp withdrew, in order not to show hisembarrassment, and Gudule rushed in to say that Christinawas better and had heard everything through the partition.

"My little Christina," said Balthazar as he knelt by herbedstead a little later, "if you do not want to make meunhappy pray do not refuse to accept this little token of myesteem."

And he placed the ingot of melted gold and jewels onthe bed.

Christina hesitated.

"Oh, you must take it, for you need a dower—" exclaimedBalthazar as he pressed her hand.

"That is, if you will accept me for a husband?" addedCornelius.

Christina did not reply, but she gave the man who hadsaved 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 scientificand historical works, he gradually enteredthe field of fiction, publishing a number ofnotable novels, among which may bementioned: "Philistia"; "The Devil's Die";"The Woman Who Did"; and "A Bridefrom the Desert." The present tale, so Orientalin its feeling, is a convincing illustrationof 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 winkedthrough the heated air. I was weary with climbingthe great dry ridge from the Tombs of the Kings. I saton the broken arm of a shattered granite Rameses. My legsdangled over the side of that colossal fragment. In frontof me vast colonnades stood out clear and distinct against thehot, white sky. Beyond lay bare hills; in the distance, tothe left, the muddy Nile, amid green fields, gleamed like athin silver thread in the sunlight.

A native, in a single dirty garment, sat sunning himselfon a headless sphinx hard by. He was carving a watermelonwith 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 thatrainless land, though I knew acceptance meant ten times itsworth in the end in bakshish.

"Arabi?" I asked inquiringly of my Egyptian friend, whichis, being interpreted, "Are you a Mussulman?"

He shook his head firmly, and pointed with many nodsto the tiny blue cross tattooed on his left wrist. "Nusráni,"he answered, with a look of some pride. I smiled myacquiescence. He was a Nazarene, a Christian.

In a few minutes' time we had fallen into close talk ofEgypt, past and present; the bad old days; the Britishoccupation; the effect of strong government on the condition offellahin. To the Christian population of the Nile valley, ofcourse, the advent of the English has been a socialrevolution. For ages downtrodden, oppressed, despised, theseCoptic schismatics at last find themselves suddenly, in theends of the earth, co-religionists with the new ruling classin the country, and able to boast themselves in many waysover their old Moslem masters.

I speak but little colloquial Arabic myself, though Iunderstand it with ease when it is spoken, so the conversationbetween us was necessarily somewhat one-sided. Butmy Egyptian friend soon grew voluble enough for two, andthe sight of the piastres laid in his dusky palm loosed thestrings of his tongue to such an alarming extent that Ibegan to wonder before long whether I should ever getback again to the Luxor Hotel in time for dinner.

"Ah, yes, excellency," my Copt said slowly, when I askedhim at last about the administration of justice under Ismail'srule, "things were different then, before the English came,as Allah willed it. It was stick, stick, stick every month ofthe year. No prayers availed; we were beaten for everything.If a fellah didn't pay his taxes when crops were bad, hewas lashed till he found them; if he was a Christian, andoffended the least Moslem official, he was stripped to theskin, and ruthlessly bastinadoed. And then, for anyinsubordination, it was death outright—hanging or beheading,slash, so, with a simitar." And my companion brought hishand round in a whirl with swishing force, as if he weredecapitating some unseen criminal on the bare sand beforehim.

"The innocent must often have been punished with theguilty," I remarked, in my best Arabic, looking vaguely acrossat him.

"Ah, yes," he assented, smiling. "So Allah ordained.But sometimes, even then, the saints were kind; we got offunexpectedly. I could tell you a strange story that oncehappened to myself." His eyes twinkled hard. "It was acurious adventure," he went on; "the effendi might like,perhaps, to hear it. I was condemned to death, and all butexecuted. It shows the wonderful ways of Allah."

These Coptic Christians, indeed, speaking Arabic as theydo, and living so constantly among a Mussulman population,have imbibed many Mahomedan traits of thought, besidesthe mere accident of language, such as speaking of theChristian God as Allah. Fatalism has taken as strong a holdof their minds as of Islam itself. "Say on," I answeredlightly, drawing a cigarette from my case. "A story is alwaysof interest to me, my friend. It brings grist to the mill. Iam a man of the pen. I write down in books all the strangethings that are told me."

My Egyptian smiled again. "Then this tale of mine,"he said, showing all his white teeth, and brushing away theflies from his sore eye as he spoke, "should be worth youmoney, for it's as strange as any of the Thousand and OneNights men tell for hire at Cairo. It happened to me nearAssiout, in Ismail's days. I was a bold young man then—toobold for Egypt. My father had a piece of ground by theriver side that was afterward taken from us by Ismail for theDaira.

"In our village lived a Sheikh, a very hard man; aMussulman, an Arab, a descendant of the Prophet. He was thegreatest Sheik for miles and miles around. He had a largewhite house, with green blinds to the windows, while all therest of us in his government lived in mud-built huts, roundand low like beehives. He had date palms, very many, anddoums, and doura patches. Camels were his, and buffaloes,and asses, and cows; 'twas a very rich man; oh, so rich andpowerful. When he went forth to town he rode on a greatwhite mule. And he had a harem, too; three wives of hisown, who were beautiful as the day—so girls who had seenthem said, for as for us, we saw them not—plump womenevery one of them, as the Khedive's at Cairo, with eyes likea gazelle's, marked round with kohl, and their nails stainedred every day with henna. All the world said the Sheikhwas a happy man, for he had the finest dates of the countryto 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 eyeswere like those of that child there—Zanobi—who carries theeffendi's water-gourd on her head, and her cheeks were roundand soft as a grape after the inundation. I meant to wed her;and she liked me well. In the evening we sat and talkedtogether under the whispering palm-trees. But when the timedrew near for me to marry her, and I had arranged with herparents, there came a message from the Sheikh. He hadseen the girl by the river as she went down to draw waterwith her face unveiled, and though she was a Nusráni, shefired his soul, and he wished to take her away from me toput 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 theMoslems, I went up to the Sheikh's house in a very whiteanger, and I fell on my face and asked leave to see him.

"The Sheikh sat in his courtyard, inside his house, andgave audience to all men, after the fashion of Islam. Ientered and spoke to him. 'Oh, Sheikh,' I said boldly, 'Allahand the Khedive have prospered you with exceeding greatprosperity. You have oxen and asses, buffaloes and camels,men-servants and maid-servants, much millet and cottonand corn and sugar-cane; you drink Frank wine every dayof your life, and eat the fat of the land; and your harem isfull of beautiful women. Now in the village where I live is aNusráni girl, whose name is Laila. Her eyes are brighttoward mine, and I love her as the thirsty land loves water.Yet, hear, O Sheikh; word is brought me now that you wishto take this girl, who is mine; and I come to plead with youto-day as Nathan the Prophet pleaded with David, the Kingof the Beni Israel. If you take away from me my Laila, myone ewe lamb—'

"But, at the word, the Sheikh rose up, and clenched hisfist, and was very angry. 'Who is this dog,' he asked, 'thathe should dare to dictate to me?' He called to his slaves thatwaited 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 nakedback, that he may know, being a Christian, an infidel dog,not to meddle with the domestic affairs of Moslems. It werewell he were made acquainted with his own vileness by theinstrumentality of a hundred lashes. And go to-morrow andbring Laila to me, and take care that this Copt shall neveragain set eyes on her!'

"Well, effendi, at the words, three strong Arabs seizedme—fierce sons of the desert—and bound me hand and foot,and beat me with a hundred lashes of the kurbash till mysoul was sick and faint within me. I swooned with thedisgrace and with the severity of the blows. And I wasyoung in those days. And I was very angry.

"That night I went home to my own mud hut, with blackblood in my heart, and took counsel with my brother Sirgehhow I should avenge this insult. But first I sent word bymy brother to Laila's hut that Laila's father should bringher to meet us in the dusk, in very great secrecy, by thebank of the river. In the gray twilight she came down. Adahabiah was passing, and in it was a foreigner, a very greatprince, an American prince of great wealth and wisdom. Iremember 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 veryunexpected Western intrusion.

"Well, anyhow," my Copt continued, unheeding my smile,"we hailed the dahabiah, and made the American princeunderstand how the matter stood. He was very kind. Wewere brother Christians. He took Laila on board, andpromised to deliver her safe to her aunt at Karnak, so that theSheikh might not know where the girl was gone, nor send tofetch her. And the counsel I took next with my brother wasthis: In the dead of night I rose up from my hut, and puta mask of white linen over the whole of my face to concealmy features, and stole out alone, with a thick stick in myhands, and went to the Sheikh's house, down by the bank ofthe river. As I went, the jackals prowled around the villagefor food, and the owls from the tombs flitted high in themoonlight.

"I broke into the Sheikh's room by the flat-roofedouthouse that led to his window, and I locked the door; andthere, before the Sheikh could rouse his household, I beathim, blow for blow, within an inch of his life, in revenge formy own beating, and because of his injustice in trying totake my Laila from me. The Sheikh was a powerful man,with muscles like iron, and he grappled me hard, and triedto wrench the stick from me, and bruised me about the bodyby flinging me on the ground; and I was weak with mybeating, and very sore all over. But still, being by nature astrong young man, very fierce with anger, I fought him hard,and got him under in the end, and thwacked him till he wasas black and blue as I myself was, one mass of bruises fromhead to foot with my cudgeling. Then, just as his peoplesucceeded in forcing the door, I jumped out of the windowupon the flat-roofed outhouse, and leaped lightly to theground, and darted like a jackal across the open cotton-fieldsand between the plots of doura to my own little hut onthe outskirts of the village. I reached there panting, and Iknew the Sheikh would kill me for my daring.

"Next morning, early, the Sheikh sent to arrest me. Hewas blind with rage and with the effect of the blows: his facewas livid, and his cheeks purple. 'By the beard of theProphet, Athanasio,' he said to me, hitting me hard on thecheek—my name is Athanasio, effendi, after our greatpatriarch—'your blood shall flow for this, you dog of aChristian. You dare to assault the wearer of a green turban, aprince in Islam, a descendant of the Prophet! You shallsuffer for it, you cur! Your base blood shall flow for it!'

"I cast myself down, like a slave, on the ground beforehim—though I hated him like sin: for it is well to abase one'sself in due time before the face of authority. Besides, bythat time, Laila was safe, and that was all I cared about.'Suffer for what, O my Sheikh?' I cried, as though I knewnot 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 angryagainst me?'

"'Take him away!' roared the Sheikh to the three strongArabs. 'Carry him off to be tried before the Cadi atAssiout.'

"For even in Ismail's days, you see, effendi, before theEnglish came, the Sheikh himself would not have dared toput me to death untried. The power of life and death laywith 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 arraignedme before him a week later. There the Sheikh appeared,end bore witness against me. Those who spoke for mepleaded that, as the Sheikh himself admitted, the man whobroke into his room, and banged himself so hard, had his facecovered with a linen cloth; how, then, could the Sheikh, inthe hurry and the darkness, be sure he recognized me?Perhaps it was some other who took this means to ruin me. Butthe Sheikh, for his part swore by Allah, and by the HolyStone of the Kaaba at Mecca, that he saw me distinctly, andknew it was I. The moonlight through the window revealedmy form to him. And who else in the village butme had a grudge against his justice?

"The Cadi was convinced. The Cadi gave judgment. Iwas guilty of rebellion against the Sheikh and againstul-Islam; and, being a dog of a Christian, unworthy even tolive, his judgment was that after three days' time I shouldbe 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'sharem I was ready, for my part, to endure anything.

"Two nights long I lay awake and thought strange thingsby 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 whoobey the Pope, was very kind indeed to me. He knew mebefore (for I had worked in his fields), and was sorry whenI told him the tale about Laila. But what would you have?Those were Ismail's days. It was the law of Islam. Hecould not prevent it.

"On the third evening, my brother came round to theprison to see me. He came with many tears in his eyes,bringing evil tidings. My poor old father, he said, wasdying at home with grief. They didn't expect he would livetill morning. And Laila, too, had stolen back from Karnakunperceived, and was hiding in the village. She wished tosee me just once before I died. But if she came to the prison,the Sheikh would find her out, and carry her off in triumphto his own harem.

"Would the governor give me leave to go home just thatone 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 likeus, he was kind to the Copts as his brother Christians. Hepondered awhile to himself, and roped his mustache thus;then he said to me:

"'Athanasio, you are an honest man; the execution isfixed for eight by the clock to-morrow morning. If I giveyou leave to go home to your father to-night, will youpledge me your word of honor before St. George and theSaints, to return before seven?'

"'Effendi,' I said, kissing his feet, 'you are indeed a goodman. I swear by the mother of God and all the Saints thatdwell in heaven, that if you let me go I will come backagain a full hour before the time fixed for the execution.' AndI meant it, too, for I only wished before I died to saygood-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 atKarnak, where we sent her for safety, and our father is well.But I have a plan for your escape that I think will serveyou.'

"'Never!' I cried, horror-struck, 'if I am to break my wordof honor to the governor of the prison.'

"'That isn't it,' he made reply. 'I have a plan of my ownwhich I will proceed in words to make clear before you.'

"What happened next would be long to relate, effendi." ButI noticed that the fellah's eyes twinkled as he spoke,like one who passes over of set purpose an importantepisode. "All I need tell you now is, that the whole nightthrough the good governor lay awake, wondering whether ornot I would come home to time, and blaming himself in hisheart for having given such leave to a mere condemnedcriminal. Still, effendi, though I am but poor, I am a man ofhonor. As the clock struck six in the prison court nextmorning, I knocked at the governor's window with theappointed signal; and the governor rose, and let me into mycell, and praised me for my honor, and was well pleased tosee me. 'I knew, Athanasio,' he said, roping his mustacheonce 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, 'thebitterness of death is past. But Laila is saved; and I die forLaila.'

"I knelt down and bent my head. I feared, after all,no respite was coming. The executioner stood forth andraised the simitar in his hand. I almost thought I heardit swish through the air; I saw the bright gleam of theblade as it descended. But just at that moment, as theexecutioner delayed, a loud commotion arose in the outer court.I raised my head and listened. We heard a voice cry, 'InAllah's name, let me in. There must be no execution!' Thegates opened wide, and into the inner courtyard there strodewith long strides a great white mule, and on its back, scarcelyable to sit up, a sorry figure!

"He was wrapped round in bandages, and swathed fromhead to foot like a man sore wounded. His face was bruised,and his limbs swollen. But he upheld one hand in solemnwarning, 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, likeone whose bones ache, and, dismounting from the mule, spokealoud 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, abouttwelve o'clock, the self-same dog who broke into my housebefore, entered my room, with violence, through the openwindow. He carried in his hands the self-same stick as lasttime, and had his face covered, as ever, with a linen cloth.And I knew by his figure and his voice he was the very samedog that had previously beaten me. But before I could cryaloud to rouse the house, the infidel had fallen upon meonce more and thwacked me, as you see, within an inch ofmy life, and covered me with bruises, and then bid me takecare how I accused innocent people like Athanasio ofhurting me. And after that he jumped through the open windowand went away once more. And I was greatly afraid, fearingthe wrath of Allah, if I let this man Athanasio be killed inhis stead, though he is but an infidel. And I rose andsaddled my mule very early, and rode straight into Assiout, totell you and the Cadi I had borne false witness, and to savemyself from the guilt of an innocent soul on my shoulders.'

"Then all the people around cried out with one voice, 'Amiracle! 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 youthat have done this thing! It is you that have assaulted him!You got out last night on your word of honor on purpose toplay this scurvy trick upon us!'

"'Effendi,' I made answer, bowing low, 'life is sweet; hebeat me, unjustly, first, and he would have taken my Lailafrom me. Moreover, I swear to you, by St. George and themother of God, when I left the prison last night I reallybelieved my father was dying.'

"The governor laughed again. 'Well, you can go, yourogue,' he said. 'The Cadi will soon come round to deliveryou. But I advise you to make yourself scarce as fast as youcan, for sooner or later this trick of yours may be discovered.I can't tell upon you, or I would lose my place. But youmay be found out, for all that. Go, at once, up the river.'

"That is my hut that you see over yonder, effendi, whereLaila and I live. The Sheikh is dead. And the English arenow our real lords in Egypt."

THE SMUGGLERS OF THE CLONE

BY S. R. CROCKETT

Samuel Rutherford Crockett was born inDuchral, Galloway, Scotland, in 1860, andwas educated in Edinburgh, Heidelberg, andNew College, Oxford. He became a ministerof the Free Church of Scotland in 1886. Hissuccessful stories include: "The StickitMinister"; "The Play-Actress"; "The Men of theMoss Hags"; "Cleg Kelly"; "The GrayMan"; "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 outof a sound sleep, for I had been out seeing thelasses late the night before, and was far frombeing wakerife at two by the clock on a February morning.

It was the first time the summons had come to me, forI was but young. Hitherto it was my brother John who hadanswered the raising word of the free-traders spoken at thewindow. But now John had a farmsteading of his own,thanks to Sir William and to my father's siller that had paidfor the stock.

So with all speed I did my clothes upon me, with mucheagerness and a beating heart—as who would not when, forthe first time, he has the privilege of man. As I went outto the barn I could hear my mother (with whom I was evera favorite) praying for me.

"Save the laddie—save the laddie!" she said over andover.

And I think my father prayed too; but, as I went, he alsocried to me counsels.

"Be sure you keep up the chains—dinna let them clattertill ye hae the stuff weel up the hill. The Lord keep ye! Bea guid lad an' ride honestly. Gin ye see Sir William, keepyour 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 toyour sorrowing parents!"

So, with pride, I did the harness graith upon the sonsyback of Brown Bess—the pad before where I was to sit—thelintow and the hooked chains behind. I had a cutlas, thejockteleg, or smuggler's sheaf-knife, and a pair ofbrass-mounted pistols ready swung in my leathern belt. Faith,but I wish Bell of the Mains could have seen me now, readyto ride with the light-horsemen. She would never scorn memore for a lingle-backed callant, I'se warrant.

"Haste ye, Robin! Heard ye no that the partans are onthe sands?"

It was Geordie of the Clone who cried to me. He meantthe 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 pridefulall because he had ridden out with them once or twice before.Besides, his horse and accoutrement were not one half sogood as mine. For my father was an honest and well-consideredman, and in good standing with the laird and theminister, so that he could afford to do things handsomely.

We made haste to ride along the heuchs, which are veryhigh, steep, and rocky at this part of the coast.

And at every loaning-end we heard the clinking of thesmugglers' chains, and I thought the sound a livening and amerry one.

"A fair guide-e'en, young Airyolan!" cried one to me, aswe came by Killantrae. And I own the name was sweet tomy ears. For it was the custom to call men by the namesof their farms, and Airyolan was my father's name by rights.But mine for the night, because in my hands was the honorof the house.

Ere we got down to the Clone, we could hear, all about inthe 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," andsuch a cargo as the Clone men had never run—so ran thetalk on every side. There was not a sleeping wife or aman left indoors in all the parish of Mochrum, except onlythe laird and the minister.

By the time that we got down by the shore there was quitea company of the Men of the Fells, as the shore men calledus—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 fairand 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 allthe men of the laigh shore crowded about, and knives weredrawn. But I cried, "Corwald, Mochrum, Chippermore, hereto me!" And all the stout lads came about me.

Nevertheless, it looked black for a moment, as the shoremen waved their torches in our faces, and yelled fiercely atus to put us down by fear.

Then a tall young man on a horse rode straight at thecrowd which had gathered about the loon I had felled. Hehad a mask over his face which sometimes slipped awry.But, in spite of the disguise, he seemed perfectly well knownto all there.

"What have we here?" he asked, in a voice of questioningthat had also the power of command in it.

"'Tis these Men of the Fells that have stricken down JockWebster of the Port, Maister William!" said one of thecrowd.

Then I knew the laird's son, and did my duty to him,telling him of my provocation, and how I had only giventhe rascal strength of arm.

"And right well you did," said Maister William, "forthese dogs would swatter in the good brandy, but never helpto carry it to the caves, or bring the well-graithed horsesto the shore-side! Carry the loon away, and stap him intoa 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, "thatare so ready with your strength of arm—there is even a jobthat you may do. Muckle Jock, the Preventive man, ridesto-night from Isle of Whithorn, where he has been warningthe cutter. Do you meet him and keep him from doinghimself an injury."

"And where shall I meet him, Maister William?" I askedof the young laird.

"Oh, somewhere on the heuch-taps," said he, carelessly;"and see, swing these on your horse and leave them atMyrtoun on the bygoing."

He called a man with a torch, who came and stood overme, while I laid on Brown Bess a pair of small casks ofsome fine liqueur, of which more than ordinary care was tobe taken, and also a few packages of soft goods, silks andlaces as I deemed.

"Take these to the Loch Yett, and ca' Sandy Fergus tostow them for ye. Syne do your work with the Exciseman ashe comes hame. Gar him bide till the sun be at its heightto-morrow. And a double share o' the plunder shall be lyin' inthe hole at a back of the dike at Airyolan, when ye ride hamethe morn at e'en."

So I bade him a good-night, and rode my ways over thefields and across many burns to Myrtoun. As I went I lookedback, and there, below me, was a strange sight—all the littleharbor of the Clone lighted up, a hurrying of men down tothe shore, the flickering of torches, and the lappering of thesea making a stir of gallant life that set the blood to leapingin the veins. It was, indeed, I thought, worth while living tobe a free-trader. Far out, I could see the dark spars of thelugger, "Sea Pyet," and hear the casks and ankers dumpinginto the boats alongside.

Then I began to bethink me that I had a more desperateploy than any of them that were down there. For they weremany, and I was only one. Moreover, easily as youngMaister William might say, "Meet Muckle Jock and keep him tillthe morn at noon!" the matter was not so easy as suppingone's porridge.

Now, I had never seen the Exciseman, but my brotherhad played at the cudgels with Jock before this. So I knewmore of him than to suppose that he would bide for thebidding 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 hearsreason," he said.

By the weight and the jingle I judged it to be yellowGeordies, the best thing that the wee, wee German lairdieever sent Tory Mochrum. And not too plenty there, either!Though since the Clone folk did so well with the clean-runsmuggling from the blessed Isle of Man, it is true that thereare more of the Geordies than there used to be.

So I rode round by the back of the White Loch, for SirWilliam had a habit of daunering over by the Airlour andBarsalloch, and in my present ride I had no desire to meetwith him.

Yet, as fate would have it, I was not to win clear thatnight. I had not ridden more than half-way round the lochwhen Brown Bess went floundering into a moss-hole, whichare more plenty than paved roads in that quarter. Andwhat with the weight of the pack, and her struggling, wethreatened to go down altogether. When I thought of whatmy father would say, if I went home with my finger in mymouth, and neither Black Bess nor yet a penny's-worth tothe value of her, I was fairly a-sweat with fear. I criedaloud for help, for there were cot-houses near by. And, asI had hoped, in a little a man came out of the shadows of thewillow 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 havesaid, 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 Icould reach, ever keeping my own feet moving, to clear thesticky glaur of the bog-hole from off them.

"Tak' that hook out, and ease doon the cask, man!" Icried to him, for I was in desperation; "I'll gie ye aheartsome gill, even though the stuff be Sir William's!"

And the man laughed again, being, as I judged, wellpleased. For all that service yet was I not pleased to becalled "yochel." But, in the meantime, I saw not how Icould begin to cuff and clout one that was helping my horseand stuff out of a bog-hole. Yet I resolved somehow to beeven with him, for, though a peaceable man, I never couldabide the calling of ill names.

"Whither gang ye?" said he.

"To the Muckle Hoose o' Myrtoun," said I, "and gangye wi' me, my man; and gie me a hand doon wi' the stuff, forI hae nae stomach for mair wasling in bog-holes. And whakens 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 auldwretch. But I had sax hard days' wark cutting bushes, andmakin' a road for his carriage wi' wheels, for him to ride into Mochrum Kirk."

"Saw ye him never there?" said the man as I strappedthe packages on again.

"Na," said I. "My faither is a Cameronian, and gangs tonae Kirk hereaboots.'

"He has gi'en his son a bonny upbringing, then!" quoththe man.

Now this made me mainly angry, for I can not bide thatfolk should meddle with my folk. As far as I am concernedmyself, I am a peaceable man.

"Hear ye," said I, "I ken na wha ye are that speers somony questions. Ye may be the de'il, or ye may be theenemy o' Mochrum himsel', the blackavised Commodorefrae Glasserton. But I can warrant ye that ye'll no mell andclaw unyeuked with Robin o' Airyolan. Hear ye that, myman, and keep a civil tongue within your ill-lookin' cheek,gin ye want to gang hame in the morning wi' an uncrackedcroun!"

The man said no more, and by his gait I judged him tobe some serving-man. For, as far as the light served me,he was not so well put on as myself. Yet there was a kindof neatness about the creature that showed him to be nooutdoor man either.

However, he accompanied me willingly enough till wecame to the Muckle House of Myrtoun. For I think thathe was feared of his head at my words. And indeed it wouldnot have taken the kittling of a flea to have garred me drawa staff over his crown. For there is nothing that angers aGalloway 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, butgie me a lift doon wi' thae barrels, cannily. For that dourold tod, the laird, is to ken naething aboot it. Only MissPeggy 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 helpedme down with the ankers far better than I could haveexpected. We rolled them into a shed at the back of thestables, and covered them up snug with some straw and someold heather thatching.

"Ay, my lad," says I to him, "for a' your douce speechand fair words ye hae been at this job afore!"

"Well, it is true," he said, "that I hae rolled a barrel ortwo in my time."

Then, in the waft of an eye, I knew who he was. I sethim down for Muckle Jock, the Excise officer, that had nevergone to the Glasserton at all, but had been lurking there inthe moss, waiting to deceive honest men. I knew that Ineeded to be wary with him, for he was, as I had heard, asturdy carl, and had won the last throw at the Stoneykirkwrestling. But all the men of the Fellside have an excellentopinion of themselves, and I thought I was good for any manof the size of this one.

So said I to him: "Noo, chiel, ye ken we are no' juistcarryin' barrels o' spring water at this time o' nicht topleasure King George. Hearken ye; we are in danger ofbeing laid by the heels in the jail of Wigton gin the blacklawyer corbies get us. Noo, there's a Preventive man thatis 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 shouldgang doon to the port this nicht!"

The man that I took to be the ganger hummed and haweda while, till I had enough of his talk and unstable ways.

"No back-and forrit ways wi' Robin," said I. "Will yecome 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'sofficer, myself!"

I laid a pistol to his ear, for I was in some heat.

"Gin you war King Geordie himsel', ay, or Cumberlandeither, ye shall come wi' me and help to catch the gauger,"said I.

For I bethought me that it would be a bonny ploy, andone long to be talked about in these parts, thus to lay bythe heels the Exciseman and make him tramp to Glassertonto kidnap himself. The man with the bandy legs was takinga while to consider, so I said to him: "She is a guid pistoland new primed!"

"I'll come wi' ye!" said he.

So I set him first on the road, and left my horse in thestables of Myrtoun. It was the gloam of the morning whenwe got to the turn of the road by which, if he were to comeat all, the new gauger would ride from Glasserton. Andlo! as if we had set a tryst, there he was coming over theheathery braes at a brisk trot. So I covered him with mypistol, and took his horse by the reins, thinking no more ofthe other man I had taken for the gauger before.

"Dismount, my lad," I said. "Ye dinna ken me, but Iken 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. Sotogether we got the gauger into a little thicket or planting.And here, willing or unwilling, we kept him all day, tillwe were sure that the stuff would all be run, and the longtrains of honest smugglers on good horses far on their wayto the towns of the north.

Then very honestly I counted out the half of the taleof golden guineas Maister William had given me, and putthem into the pocket of the gauger's coat.

"Gin ye are a good still-tongued kind of cattle, there ismore of that kind of oats where these came from," said I."But lie ye here snug as a paitrick for an hour yet by theclock, lest even yet ye should come to harm!"

So there we left him, not very sorely angered, for allhe had posed as so efficient and zealous a King's officer.

"Now," said I, to the man that helped me. "I promisedye half o' Maister William's guineas, that he bade me keep,for I allow that it micht hae been a different job but foryour help. And here they are. Ye shall never say thatRobin of Airyolan roguit ony man—even a feckless toon'sbirkie wi' bandy legs!"

The man laughed and took the siller, saying, "Thank'ee!"with an arrogant air as if he handled bags of them everyday. But, nevertheless, he took them, and I parted fromhim, 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 describedthe 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 medown to pay the owing. The factor I know well, but I hadmy money in hand and little I cared for him. But what wasmy astonishment to find, sitting at the table with him, thevery same man who had helped me to lay the Exciseman bythe heels. But now, I thought, there was a strangelydifferent air about him.

And what astonished me more, it was this man, andnot the factor, who spoke first to me.

"Ay, Robin of Airyolan, and are you here? Ye are achiel with birr and smeddum! There are the bones of a manin ye! Hae ye settled with the gauger for shackling him bythe hill of Physgill?"

Now, as I have said, I thole snash from no man, andI gave him the word back sharply.

"Hae ye settled wi' him yoursel', sir? For it was you thattied 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 guineasye 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 thatfed ye. Gin ye promise to wed a decent lass, I'll e'en gie yea farm. And as sure as my name is Sir William Maxwell,ye shall sit your lifetime rent free, for the de'il's errandthat ye took me on the nicht of the brandy-running at theClone."

I could have sunken through the floor when I heard thatit was Sir William himself—whom, because he had so recentlyreturned from foreign parts after a sojourn of manyyears, I had never before seen.

Then both the factor and the laird laughed heartily at mydiscomfiture.

"Ken ye o' a lass that wad tak' up wi' ye, Robin?" saidSir William.

"Half a dozen o' them, my lord," said I. "Lasses areneither ill to seek nor hard to find when Robin of Airyolangangs a-coortin'!"

"Losh preserve us!" cried the laird, slapping his thigh,"but I never sallied forth to woo a lass so blithely confidentmysel'!"

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 modestlyas I thought. For I never can tell why it is that the folkwill 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'sshort stories, and may be said to rank amongthe half-dozen best of all. It is one of his"Studies of Women," its French title is "LaGrande Breteche," it forms part of the secondvolume in the series entitled "Scenes fromPrivate 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 grayhouse, surmounted by very high gables, and socompletely isolated that neither tanyard nor shabbyhostelry, such as you may find at the entrance to all smalltowns, 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 definethe walks now grow wild as they list. Several willows thatspring from the Loire have grown as rapidly as the hedgethat encloses it, and half conceal the house. The richvegetation of those weeds that we call foul adorns the slopingshore. Fruit trees, neglected for the last ten years, nolonger yield their harvest, and their shoots form coppices.The wall-fruit grows like hedges against the walls. Pathsonce graveled are overgrown with moss, but, to tell the truth,there is no trace of a path. From the height of the hill, towhich cling the ruins of the old castle of the Dukes ofVendôme, the only spot whence the eye can plunge into thisenclosure, 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 stillvisible, or rather the débris of an arbor, where there is atable that time has not quite destroyed. The aspect of thisgarden of bygone days suggests the negative joys of peaceful,provincial life, as one might reconstruct the life of aworthy tradesman by reading the epitaph on his tombstone.As if to complete the sweetness and sadness of the ideasthat possess one's soul, one of the walls displays a sun-dialdecorated with the following commonplace Christian inscription:"Ultimam cogita!" The roof of this house is horriblydilapidated, the shutters are always closed, the balconies arecovered with swallows' nests, the doors are perpetually shut,weeds have drawn green lines in the cracks of the flights ofsteps, the locks and bolts are rusty. Sun, moon, winter,summer, and snow have worn the paneling, warped theboards, gnawed the paint. The lugubrious silence whichreigns there is only broken by birds, cats, martins, rats andmice, 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 housefrom the side that points to the road, you would perceive agreat door which the children of the place have riddled withholes. I afterward heard that this door had been closed forthe last ten years. Through the holes broken by the boysyou would have observed the perfect harmony that existedbetween the façades of both garden and courtyard. In boththe same disorder prevails. Tufts of weed encircle thepaving-stones. Enormous cracks furrow the walls, round whoseblackened crests twine the thousand garlands of the pellitory.The steps are out of joint, the wire of the bell isrusted, the spouts are cracked. What fire from heaven hasfallen here? What tribunal has decreed that salt shouldbe strewn on this dwelling? Has God been blasphemed, hasFrance been here betrayed? These are the questions we askourselves, but get no answer from the crawling things thathaunt the place. The empty and deserted house is a giganticenigma, of which the key is lost. In bygone times it wasa small fief, and bears the name of the Grande Bretêche.

I inferred that I was not the only person to whom mygood landlady had communicated the secret of which I wasto be the sole recipient, and I prepared to listen.

"Sir," she said, "when the Emperor sent the Spanishprisoners of war and others here, the Government quartered onme a young Spaniard who had been sent to Vendôme onparole. Parole notwithstanding he went out every day toshow himself to the sous-préfet. He was a Spanish grandee!Nothing less! His name ended in os and dia, something likeBurgos de Férédia. I have his name on my books; you canread it if you like. Oh! but he was a handsome young manfor a Spaniard; they are all said to be ugly. He was onlyfive feet and a few inches high, but he was well-grown; hehad small hands that he took such care of; ah! you shouldhave seen! He had as many brushes for his hands as awoman for her whole dressing apparatus! He had thickblack hair, a fiery eye, his skin was rather bronzed, but Iliked the look of it. He wore the finest linen I have everseen on any one, although I have had princesses stayinghere, and, among others, General Bertrand, the Duke andDuchess d'Abrantès, Monsieur Decazes, and the King ofSpain. He didn't eat much; but his manners were so polite,so amiable, that one could not owe him a grudge. Oh! Iwas very fond of him, although he didn't open his lips fourtimes in the day, and it was impossible to keep up aconversation with him. For if you spoke to him, he did notanswer. It was a fad, a mania with them all, I heard say.He read his breviary like a priest, he went to Mass and toall the services regularly. Where did he sit? Two stepsfrom the chapel of Madame de Merret. As he took his placethere the first time he went to church, nobody suspected himof any intention in so doing. Besides, he never raised hiseyes from his prayer-book, poor young man! After that, sir,in the evening he would walk on the mountains, among thecastle ruins. It was the poor man's only amusement, itreminded him of his country. They say that Spain is allmountains! From the commencement of his imprisonment hestayed out late. I was anxious when I found that he didnot come home before midnight; but we got accustomed tothis fancy of his. He took the key of the door, and we leftoff sitting up for him. He lodged in a house of ours in theRue des Casernes. After that, one of our stable-men told usthat in the evening when he led the horses to the water, hethought he had seen the Spanish grandee swimming far downthe river like a live fish. When he returned, I told him totake care of the rushes; he appeared vexed to have been seenin the water. At last, one day, or rather one morning, wedid not find him in his room; he had not returned. Aftersearching everywhere, I found some writing in the drawerof a table, where there were fifty gold pieces of Spain thatare called doubloons and were worth about five thousandfrancs; and ten thousand francs' worth of diamonds in asmall sealed box. The writing said, that in case he did notreturn, he left us the money and the diamonds, on conditionof paying for Masses to thank God for his escape, and forhis salvation. In those days my husband had not been takenfrom me; he hastened to seek him everywhere.

"And now for the strange part of the story. He broughthome the Spaniard's clothes, that he had discovered under abig stone, in a sort of pilework by the river-side near thecastle, nearly opposite to the Grande Bretêche. My husbandhad gone there so early that no one had seen him. Afterreading the letter, he burned the clothes, and according toCount 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 theSpaniard had drowned himself. I, sir, don't think so; I ammore inclined to believe that he had something to do withthe affair of Madame de Merret, seeing that Rosalie told methat the crucifix that her mistress thought so much of, thatshe had it buried with her, was of ebony and silver. Now inthe beginning of his stay here, Monsieur de Férédia had onein ebony and silver, that I never saw him with later. Now,sir, don't you consider that I need have no scruples aboutthe Spaniard's fifteen thousand francs, and that I have a rightto them?"

"Certainly; but you haven't tried to question Rosalie?" Isaid.

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir; but to no purpose! the girl's like awall. She knows something, but it is impossible to get herto talk."

After exchanging a few more words with me, my landladyleft me a prey to vague and gloomy thoughts, to a romanticcuriosity, and a religious terror not unlike the profoundimpression produced on us when by night, on entering a darkchurch, we perceive a faint light under high arches; a vaguefigure glides by—the rustle of a robe or cassock is heard,and we shudder.

Suddenly the Grande Bretêche and its tall weeds, itsbarred windows, its rusty ironwork, its closed doors, itsdeserted apartments, appeared like a fantastic apparitionbefore me. I essayed to penetrate the mysterious dwelling, andto find the knot of its dark story—the drama that had killedthree persons. In my eyes Rosalie became the most interestingperson in Vendôme. As I studied her, I discovered thetraces of secret care, despite the radiant health that shone inher plump countenance. There was in her the germ ofremorse or hope; her attitude revealed a secret, like theattitude of a bigot who prays to excess, or of the infanticidewho ever hears the last cry of her child. Yet her mannerswere rough and ingenuous—her silly smile was not that ofa criminal, and could you but have seen the great kerchiefthat encompassed her portly bust, framed and laced in bya lilac and blue cotton gown, you would have dubbed herinnocent. No, I thought, I will not leave Vendôme withoutlearning the history of the Grande Bretêche. To gain myends 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 tobe made miserable," she said, laughing.

She soon recovered from the effects of her emotion, forall women, from the great lady to the maid of the inn, possessa composure that is peculiar to them.

"You are too good-looking and well favored to be shortof lovers. But tell me, Rosalie, why did you take servicein an inn after leaving Madame de Merret? Did she leaveyou 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 lawyerswould call evasive. Rosalie appeared to me to be situatedin this romantic history like the square in the midst of achessboard. She was at the heart of the truth and chiefinterest; she seemed to me to be bound in the very knot of it.The conquest of Rosalie was no longer to be an ordinarysiege—in this girl was centred the last chapter of a novel;therefore from this moment Rosalie became the object of mypreference.

One morning I said to Rosalie: "Tell me all you knowabout 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—andher 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 thehonor 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 shallabridge.

The room occupied by Madame de Merret at the Bretêchewas on the ground floor. A little closet about fourfeet deep, built in the thickness of the wall, served as herwardrobe. Three months before the eventful evening ofwhich I am about to speak, Madame de Merret had been soseriously indisposed that her husband had left her to herselfin her own apartment, while he occupied another on thefirst floor. By one of those chances that it is impossibleto foresee, he returned home from the club (where he wasaccustomed to read the papers and discuss politics with theinhabitants of the place) two hours later than usual. Hiswife supposed him to be at home, in bed and asleep. Butthe invasion of France had been the subject of a mostanimated discussion; the billiard-match had been exciting, hehad lost forty francs, an enormous sum for Vendôme, whereevery one hoards, and where manners are restricted withinthe limits of a praiseworthy modesty, which perhaps is thesource of the true happiness that no Parisian covets. Forsome time past Monsieur de Merret had been satisfied toask Rosalie if his wife had gone to bed; and on her reply,which was always in the affirmative, had immediately gainedhis own room with the good temper engendered by habit andconfidence. On entering his house, he took it into his headto go and tell his wife of his misadventure, perhaps by wayof consolation. At dinner he found Madame de Merret mostcoquettishly attired. On his way to the club it had occurredto him that his wife was restored to health, and that herconvalescence had added to her beauty. He was, ashusbands are wont to be, somewhat slow in making thisdiscovery. Instead of calling Rosalie, who was occupied justthen in watching the cook and coachman play a difficulthand at brisque,* Monsieur de Merret went to his wife'sroom by the light of a lantern that he deposited on the firststep of the staircase. His unmistakable step resounded underthe vaulted corridor. At the moment that the Count turnedthe handle of his wife's door, he fancied he could hear thedoor of the closet I spoke of close; but when he enteredMadame de Merret was alone before the fireplace. Thehusband thought ingenuously that Rosalie was in the closet, yeta suspicion that jangled in his ear put him on his guard. Helooked at his wife and saw in her eyes I know not what wildand hunted expression.

* A game of cards.

"You are very late," she said. Her habitually pure, sweetvoice seemed changed to him.

Monsieur de Merret did not reply, for at that momentRosalie entered. It was a thunderbolt for him. He strodeabout the room, passing from one window to the other, withmechanical motion and folded arms.

"Have you heard bad news, or are you unwell?" inquiredhis 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 foresawtrouble, and wished to be alone with him. When Rosaliehad gone, or was supposed to have gone (for she stayed inthe corridor for a few minutes), Monsieur de Merret cameand stood in front of his wife, and said coldly to her:

"Madame, there is some one in your closet!" She lookedcalmly at her husband and replied simply:

"No, sir."

This answer was heartrending to Monsieur de Merret; hedid not believe in it. Yet his wife had never appeared tohim purer or more saintly than at that moment. He roseto open the closet door; Madame de Merret took his hand,looked at him with an expression of melancholy, and saidin a voice that betrayed singular emotion:

"If you find no one there, remember this, all will be overbetween us!" The extraordinary dignity of his wife'smanner restored the Count's profound esteem for her, andinspired him with one of those resolutions that only lack avaster stage to become immortal.

"No," said he, "Josephine, I will not go there. In eithercase it would separate us forever. Hear me, I know howpure you are at heart, and that your life is a holy one. Youwould not commit a mortal sin to save your life."

At these words Madame de Merret turned a haggard gazeupon her husband.

"Here, take your crucifix," he added. "Swear to me beforeGod that there is no one in there; I will believe you,I will never open that door."

Madame de Merret took the crucifix and said:

"I swear."

"Louder," said the husband, "and repeat 'I swear beforeGod that there is no one in that closet.'"

She repeated the sentence calmly.

"That will do," said Monsieur de Merret, coldly.

After a moment of silence:

"I never saw this pretty toy before," he said, examiningthe ebony crucifix inlaid with silver, and most artisticallychiseled.

"I found it at Duvivier's, who bought it of a Spanishmonk when the prisoners passed through Vendôme last year."

"Ah!" said Monsieur de Merret, as he replaced the crucifixon the nail, and he rang. Rosalie did not keep himwaiting. Monsieur de Merret went quickly to meet her, ledher to the bay window that opened on to the garden andwhispered to her:

"Listen! I know that Gorenflot wishes to marry you,poverty is the only drawback, and you told him that youwould be his wife if he found the means to establish himselfas a master mason. Well! go and fetch him, tell him tocome here with his trowel and tools. Manage not to awakenany one in his house but himself; his fortune will be morethan your desires. Above all, leave this room withoutbabbling, otherwise—" He frowned. Rosalie went away, herecalled her.

"Here, take my latch-key," he said. "Jean!" then criedMonsieur de Merret, in tones of thunder in the corridor.Jean, who was at the same time his coachman and hisconfidential servant, left his game of cards and came.

"Go to bed, all of you," said his master, signing to himto approach; and the Count added, under his breath: "Whenthey are all asleep—asleep, d'ye hear?—you will come downand tell me." Monsieur de Merret, who had not lost sightof his wife all the time he was giving his orders, returnedquietly to her at the fireside and began to tell her of thegame of billiards and the talk of the club. When Rosaliereturned she found Monsieur and Madame de Merretconversing very amicably.

The Count had lately had all the ceilings of his receptionrooms on the ground floor repaired. Plaster of Parisis difficult to obtain in Vendôme; the carriage raises its price.The Count had therefore bought a good deal, being wellaware that he could find plenty of purchasers for whatevermight remain over. This circumstance inspired him with thedesign he was about to execute.

"Sir, Gorenflot has arrived," said Rosalie in low tones.

"Show him in," replied the Count in loud tones.

Madame de Merret turned rather pale when she sawthe mason.

"Gorenflot," said her husband, "go and fetch bricks fromthe coach-house, and bring sufficient to wall up the door ofthis closet; you will use the plaster I have over to coat thewall with." Then calling Rosalie and the workman aside:

"Listen, Gorenflot," he said in an undertone, "you willsleep here to-night. But to-morrow you will have a passportto a foreign country, to a town to which I will direct you.I shall give you six thousand francs for your journey. Youwill stay ten years in that town; if you do not like it, youmay establish yourself in another, provided it be in thesame country. You will pass through Paris, where you willawait me. There I will insure you an additional sixthousand francs by contract, which will be paid to you on yourreturn, provided you have fulfilled the conditions of ourbargain. This is the price for your absolute silence as towhat you are about to do to-night. As to you, Rosalie, Iwill give you ten thousand francs on the day of yourwedding, on condition of your marrying Gorenflot; but if youwish to marry, you must hold your tongues; or—no dowry."

"Rosalie," said Madame de Merret, "do my hair."

The husband walked calmly up and down, watching thedoor, the mason, and his wife, but without betraying anyinsulting doubts. Madame de Merret chose a moment whenthe workman was unloading bricks and her husband was atthe other end of the room to say to Rosalie: "A thousandfrancs a year for you, my child, if you can tell Gorenflot toleave a chink at the bottom." Then out loud, she addedcoolly:

"Go and help him!"

Monsieur and Madame de Merret were silent all the timethat Gorenflot took to brick up the door. This silence, onthe part of the husband, who did not choose to furnishhis wife with a pretext for saying things of a doublemeaning, had its purpose; on the part of Madame de Merret itwas either pride or prudence. When the wall was abouthalf-way up, the sly workman took advantage of a momentwhen the Count's back was turned, to strike a blow withhis trowel in one of the glass panes of the closet-door. Thisact informed Madame de Merret that Rosalie had spoken toGorenflot.

All three then saw a man's face; it was dark and gloomywith black hair and eyes of flame. Before her husbandturned, the poor woman had time to make a sign to thestranger that signified: Hope!

At four o'clock, toward dawn, for it was the month ofSeptember, the construction was finished. The mason washanded over to the care of Jean, and Monsieur de Merretwent to bed in his wife's room.

On rising the following morning, he said carelessly:

"The deuce! I must go to the Maine for the passport." Heput his hat on his head, advanced three steps towardthe door, altered his mind and took the crucifix.

His wife trembled for joy. "He is going to Duvivier,"she thought. As soon as the Count had left, Madame deMerret rang for Rosalie; then in a terrible voice:

"The trowel, the trowel!" she cried, "and quick to work!I saw how Gorenflot did it; we shall have time to make ahole and to mend it again."

In the twinkling of an eye, Rosalie brought a sort ofmattock to her mistress, who with unparalleled ardor setabout demolishing the wall. She had already knocked outseveral bricks and was preparing to strike a more decisiveblow when she perceived Monsieur de Merret behind her.She fainted.

"Lay Madame on her bed," said the Count coldly. Hehad foreseen what would happen in his absence and hadset a trap for his wife; he had simply written to the mayor,and had sent for Duvivier. The jeweler arrived just as theroom had been put in order.

"Duvivier," inquired the Count, "did you buy crucifixesof the Spaniards who passed through here?"

"No, sir."

"That will do, thank you," he said, looking at his wifelike a tiger. "Jean," he added, "you will see that my mealsare served in the Countess's room; she is ill, and I shallnot leave her until she has recovered."

The cruel gentleman stayed with his wife for twentydays. In the beginning, when there were sounds in thewalled closet, and Josephine attempted to implore his pityfor the dying stranger, he replied, without permitting her tosay a word:

"You have sworn on the cross that there is no one there."

A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED

BY WILKIE COLLINS

This is known as "The Traveler's Story,"and is the first in a capital series of storiessomewhat similar in character that werepublished in 1856 in a volume entitled"After Dark." The story first appearedin "Household Words," of which CharlesDickens (the author's friend and greatadmirer) was editor. The author has statedthat he was indebted to Mr. W. S. Herrickfor the facts on which the story is founded.

A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED

By WILKIE COLLINS

Shortly after my education at college wasfinished, I happened to be staying at Paris with anEnglish friend. We were both young men then,and lived, I am afraid, rather a wild life, in thedelightful city of our sojourn. One night we were idlingabout the neighborhood of the Palais Royal, doubtful to whatamusement we should next betake ourselves. My friendproposed a visit to Frascati's; but his suggestion was not tomy taste. I knew Frascati's, as the French saying is, byheart; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces there,merely for amusement's sake, until it was amusement nolonger, and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the ghastlyrespectabilities of such a social anomaly as a respectablegambling-house.

"For Heaven's sake," said I to my friend, "let us gosomewhere where we can see a little genuine, blackguard,poverty-stricken gaming, with no false gingerbread glitterthrown over it at all. Let us get away from fashionableFrascati's, to a house where they don't mind letting in a manwith a ragged coat, or a man with no coat, ragged orotherwise."

"Very well," said my friend, "we needn't go out of thePalais Royal to find the sort of company you want. Here'sthe place just before us; as blackguard a place, by all report,as you could possibly wish to see."

In another minute we arrived at the door, and enteredthe house.

When we got upstairs, and had left our hats and stickswith the doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chiefgambling-room. We did not find many people assembled there.But, few as the men were who looked up at us on ourentrance, they were all types—lamentably true types—of theirrespective classes.

We had come to see blackguards; but these men weresomething worse. There is a comic side, more or lessappreciable, in all blackguardism: here there was nothing buttragedy—mute, weird tragedy. The quiet in the room washorrible. The thin, haggard, long-haired young man, whosesunken eyes fiercely watched the turning up of the cards,never spoke; the flabby, fat-faced, pimply player, who prickedhis piece of pasteboard perseveringly, to register how oftenblack won, and how often red, never spoke; the dirty,wrinkled old man, with the vulture eyes and the darnedgreatcoat, who had lost his last sou, and still looked ondesperately after he could play no longer, never spoke. Eventhe voice of the croupier sounded as if it were strangelydulled and thickened in the atmosphere of the room. I hadentered the place to laugh, but the spectacle before me wassomething to weep over. I soon found it necessary to takerefuge in excitement from the depression of spirits whichwas fast stealing on me. Unfortunately I sought the nearestexcitement, by going to the table and beginning to play.Still more unfortunately, as the event will show, I won—wonprodigiously; won incredibly; won at such a rate that theregular players at the table crowded round me; and staringat my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered toone another that the English stranger was going to breakthe bank.

The game was Rouge et Noir. I had played at it in everycity in Europe, without, however, the care or the wish tostudy the Theory of Chances—that philosopher's stone of allgamblers! And a gambler, in the strict sense of the word,I had never been. I was heart-whole from the corrodingpassion for play. My gaming was a mere idle amusement.I never resorted to it by necessity, because I never knewwhat it was to want money. I never practised it soincessantly as to lose more than I could afford, or to gain more.than I could coolly pocket without being thrown off mybalance by my good luck. In short, I had hitherto frequentedgambling-tables—just as I frequented ball-rooms andopera-houses—because they amused me, and because I had nothingbetter to do with my leisure hours.

But on this occasion it was very different—now, for thefirst time in my life, I felt what the passion for play reallywas. My successes first bewildered, and then, in the mostliteral meaning of the word, intoxicated me. Incredible asit may appear, it is nevertheless true, that I only lost when Iattempted to estimate chances, and played according toprevious calculation. If I left everything to luck, and stakedwithout any care or consideration, I was sure to win—to winin the face of every recognized probability in favor of thebank. At first some of the men present ventured their moneysafely enough on my color; but I speedily increased my stakesto sums which they dared not risk. One after another theyleft off playing, and breathlessly looked on at my game.

Still, time after time, I staked higher and higher, and stillwon. The excitement in the room rose to fever pitch. Thesilence was interrupted by a deep-muttered chorus of oathsand exclamations in different languages, every time the goldwas shoveled across to my side of the table—even theimperturbable croupier dashed his rake on the floor in a(French) fury of astonishment at my success. But one manpresent preserved his self-possession, and that man was myfriend. He came to my side, and whispering in English,begged me to leave the place, satisfied with what I hadalready gained. I must do him the justice to say that herepeated his warnings and entreaties several times, and onlyleft me and went away, after I had rejected his advice (I wasto all intents and purposes gambling drunk) in terms whichrendered it impossible for him to address me again thatnight.

Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me cried,"Permit me, my dear sir—permit me to restore to theirproper place two napoleons which you have dropped. Wonderfulluck, sir! I pledge you my word of honor, as an oldsoldier, in the course of my long experience in this sort ofthing, I never saw such luck as yours—never! Go on,sir—Sucre mille bombes! Go on boldly, and break the bank!"

I turned round and saw, nodding and smiling at me withinveterate civility, a tall man, dressed in a frogged andbraided surtout.

If I had been in my senses, I should have considered him,personally, as being rather a suspicious specimen of an oldsoldier. He had goggling, bloodshot eyes, mangy mustaches,and a broken nose. His voice betrayed a barrack-roomintonation of the worst order, and he had the dirtiestpair of hands I ever saw—even in France. These littlepersonal peculiarities exercised, however, no repelling influenceon me. In the mad excitement, the reckless triumph of thatmoment, I was ready to "fraternize" with anybody whoencouraged me in my game. I accepted the old soldier's offeredpinch of snuff; clapped him on the back, and swore he wasthe honestest fellow in the world—the most glorious relicof the Grand Army that I had ever met with. "Go on!" criedmy military friend, snapping his fingers in ecstasy—"Go on,and win! Break the bank—Mille tonnerres! my gallantEnglish comrade, break the bank!"

And I did go on—went on at such a rate, that in anotherquarter of an hour the croupier called out, "Gentlemen, thebank has discontinued for to-night." All the notes, and allthe gold in that "bank," now lay in a heap under my hands;the whole floating capital of the gambling-house was waitingto pour into my pockets!

"Tie up the money in your pocket-handkerchief, myworthy sir," said the old soldier, as I wildly plunged myhands into my heap of gold. "Tie it up, as we used to tieup a bit of dinner in the Grand Army; your winnings are tooheavy for any breeches-pockets that ever were sewed. There! that'sit—shovel them in, notes and all! Credie! what luck!Stop! another napoleon on the floor. Ah! sacre petit polissonde Napoleon! have I found thee at last? Now then, sir—twotight double knots each way with your honorable permission,and the money's safe. Feel it! feel it, fortunate sir! hardand round as a cannon-ball— A bas if they had onlyfired such cannon-balls at us at Austerlitz—nom d'unepipe! if they only had! And now, as an ancient grenadier, as anex-brave of the French army, what remains for me to do? Iask what? Simply this, to entreat my valued English friendto drink a bottle of champagne with me, and toast thegoddess Fortune in foaming goblets before we part!"

"Excellent ex-brave! Convivial ancient grenadier!Champagne by all means! An English cheer for an old soldier!Hurrah! hurrah! Another English cheer for the goddessFortune! Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!"

"Bravo! the Englishman; the amiable, gracious Englishman,in whose veins circulates the vivacious blood of France!Another glass? A bas!—the bottle is empty! Never mind!Vive le vin! I, the old soldier, order another bottle, andhalf a pound of bonbons with it!"

"No, no, ex-brave; never—ancient grenadier! Your bottlelast time; my bottle this! Behold it! Toast away! TheFrench Army! the great Napoleon! the present company! thecroupier! the honest croupier's wife and daughters—if he hasany! the ladies generally! everybody in the world!"

By the time the second bottle of champagne was emptied,I felt as if I had been drinking liquid fire—my brain seemedall aflame. No excess in wine had ever had this effect on mebefore in my life. Was it the result of a stimulant actingupon my system when I was in a highly excited state? Wasmy stomach in a particularly disordered condition? Or wasthe champagne amazingly strong?

"Ex-brave of the French Army!" cried I, in a mad stateof exhilaration, "I am on fire! how are you? You have setme on fire! Do you hear, my hero of Austerlitz? Let ushave a third bottle of champagne to put the flame out!"

The old soldier wagged his head, rolled his goggle-eyes,until I expected to see them slip out of their sockets; placedhis dirty forefinger by the side of his broken nose; solemnlyejaculated "Coffee!" and immediately ran off into an innerroom.

The word pronounced by the eccentric veteran seemed tohave a magical effect on the rest of the company present.With one accord they all rose to depart. Probably they hadexpected to profit by my intoxication; but finding that mynew friend was benevolently bent on preventing me fromgetting dead drunk, had now abandoned all hope of thrivingpleasantly on my winnings. Whatever their motive mightbe, at any rate they went away in a body. When the oldsoldier returned, and sat down again opposite to me at thetable, we had the room to ourselves. I could see the croupier,in a sort of vestibule which opened out of it, eating hissupper in solitude. The silence was now deeper than ever.

A sudden change, too, had come over the "ex-brave." Heassumed a portentously solemn look; and when he spoke tome again, his speech was ornamented by no oaths, enforcedby no finger-snapping, enlivened by no apostrophes orexclamations.

"Listen, my dear sir," said he, in mysteriously confidentialtones—"listen to an old soldier's advice. I have been to themistress of the house (a very charming woman, with a geniusfor cookery!) to impress on her the necessity of making ussome particularly strong and good coffee. You must drinkthis coffee in order to get rid of your little amiable exaltationof spirits before you think of going home—you must, mygood and gracious friend! With all that money to take hometo-night, it is a sacred duty to yourself to have your witsabout you. You are known to be a winner to an enormousextent by several gentlemen present to-night, who, in acertain point of view, are very worthy and excellent fellows;but they are mortal men, my dear sir, and they have theiramiable weaknesses! Need I say more? Ah, no, no! youunderstand me! Now, this is what you must do—send fora cabriolet when you feel quite well again—draw up all thewindows when you get into it—and tell the driver to takeyou home only through the large and well-lighted thoroughfares.Do this; and you and your money will be safe. Dothis; and to-morrow you will thank an old soldier for givingyou a word of honest advice."

Just as the ex-brave ended his oration in very lachrymosetones, the coffee came in, ready poured out in two cups. Myattentive friend handed me one of the cups with a bow. Iwas parched with thirst, and drank it off at a draft.Almost instantly afterward I was seized with a fit of giddiness,and felt more completely intoxicated than ever. The roomwhirled round and round furiously; the old soldier seemed tobe regularly bobbing up and down before me like the pistonof a steam-engine. I was half deafened by a violent singingin my ears; a feeling of utter bewilderment, helplessness,idiocy, overcame me. I rose from my chair, holding on by thetable to keep my balance; and stammered out that I feltdreadfully unwell—so unwell that I did not know how I wasto get home.

"My dear friend," answered the old soldier—and even hisvoice seemed to be bobbing up and down as he spoke—"mydear friend, it would be madness to go home in your state;you would be sure to lose your money; you might be robbedand murdered with the greatest ease. I am going to sleephere: do you sleep here, too—they make up capital beds inthis house—take one; sleep off the effects of the wine, andgo home safely with your winnings to-morrow—to-morrow,in broad daylight."

I had but two ideas left: one, that I must never let gohold of my handkerchief full of money; the other, that Imust lie down somewhere immediately, and fall off into acomfortable sleep. So I agreed to the proposal about thebed, and took the offered arm of the old soldier, carrying mymoney with my disengaged hand. Preceded by the croupier,we passed along some passages and up a flight of stairs intothe bedroom which I was to occupy. The ex-brave shook mewarmly by the hand, proposed that we should breakfasttogether, and then, followed by the croupier, left me for thenight.

I ran to the wash-hand stand; drank some of the waterin my jug; poured the rest out, and plunged my face into it;then sat down in a chair and tried to compose myself. Isoon felt better. The change for my lungs, from the fetidatmosphere of the gambling-room to the cool air of theapartment I now occupied, the almost equally refreshing changefor my eyes, from the glaring gaslights of the "salon" to thedim, quiet flicker of one bedroom-candle, aided wonderfullythe restorative effects of cold water. The giddiness left me,and I began to feel a little like a reasonable being again. Myfirst thought was of the risk of sleeping all night in agambling-house; my second, of the still greater risk of trying toget out after the house was closed, and of going home aloneat night through the streets of Paris with a large sum ofmoney about me. I had slept in worse places than this on mytravels; so I determined to lock, bolt, and barricade my door,and take my chance till the next morning.

Accordingly, I secured myself against all intrusion; lookedunder the bed, and into the cupboard; tried the fastening ofthe window: and then, satisfied that I had taken everyproper precaution, pulled off my upper clothing, put mylight, which was a dim one, on the hearth among a featherylitter of wood-ashes, and got into bed, with the handkerchieffull of money under my pillow.

I soon felt not only that I could not go to sleep, but thatI could not even close my eyes. I was wide awake, and in ahigh fever. Every nerve in my body trembled—every one ofmy senses seemed to be preternaturally sharpened. I tossedand rolled, and tried every kind of position, and perseveringlysought out the cold corners of the bed, and all to nopurpose. Now I thrust my arms over the clothes; now Ipoked them under the clothes; now I violently shot my legsstraight out down to the bottom of the bed; now I convulsivelycoiled them up as near my chin as they would go; nowI shook out my crumpled pillow, changed it to the cool side,patted it flat and lay down quietly on my back; now Ifiercely doubled it in two, set it up on end, thrust it againstthe board of the bed, and tried a sitting posture. Everyeffort was in vain; I groaned with vexation as I felt that Iwas in for a sleepless night.

What could I do? I had no book to read. And yet, unlessI found out some method of diverting my mind, I feltcertain that I was in the condition to imagine all sorts ofhorrors; to rack my brain with forebodings of every possible andimpossible danger; in short, to pass the night in suffering allconceivable varieties of nervous terror.

I raised myself on my elbow, and looked about the room—whichwas brightened by a lovely moonlight pouring straightthrough the window—to see if it contained any pictures orornaments that I could at all clearly distinguish. While myeyes wandered from wall to wall, a remembrance of LeMaistre's delightful little book, "Voyage autour de maChambre," occurred to me. I resolved to imitate the Frenchauthor, and find occupation and amusement enough to relievethe tedium of my wakefulness, by making a mental inventoryof every article of furniture I could see, and by following upto their sources the multitude of associations which even achair, a table, or a wash-hand stand may be made to callforth.

In the nervous, unsettled state of my mind at that moment,I found it much easier to make my inventory than tomake my reflections, and thereupon soon gave up all hopeof thinking in Le Maistre's fanciful track—or, indeed, ofthinking at all. I looked about the room at the differentarticles of furniture, and did nothing more.

There was, first, the bed I was lying in; a four-post bed,of all things in the world to meet with in Paris—yes, athorough clumsy British four-poster, with a regular top linedwith chintz—the regular fringed valance all round—theregular stifling, unwholesome curtains, which I rememberedhaving mechanically drawn back against the posts withoutparticularly noticing the bed when I first got into the room.Then there was the marble-topped wash-hand stand, fromwhich the water I had spilled, in my hurry to pour it out,was still dripping, slowly and more slowly, on to the brickfloor. Then two small chairs, with my coat, waistcoat, andtrousers flung on them. Then a large elbow-chair coveredwith dirty white dimity, with my cravat and shirt collarthrown over the back. Then a chest of drawers with two ofthe brass handles off, and a tawdry, broken china inkstandplaced on it by way of ornament for the top. Then thedressing-table, adorned by a very small looking-glass, and avery large pincushion. Then the window—an unusually largewindow. Then a dark old picture, which the feeble candledimly showed me. It was the picture of a fellow in a highSpanish hat, crowned with a plume of towering feathers. Aswarthy, sinister ruffian, looking upward, shading his eyeswith his hand, and looking intently upward—it might be atsome tall gallows on which he was going to be hanged. Atany rate, he had the appearance of thoroughly deserving it.

This picture put a kind of constraint upon me to lookupward too—at the top of the bed. It was a gloomy and not aninteresting object, and I looked back at the picture. I countedthe feathers in the man's hat—they stood out in relief—threewhite, two green. I observed the crown of his hat,which was of a conical shape, according to the fashionsupposed to have been favored by Guido Fawkes. I wonderedwhat he was looking up at. It couldn't be at the stars;such a desperado was neither astrologer nor astronomer.It must be at the high gallows, and he was going to be hangedpresently. Would the executioner come into possession ofhis conical crowned hat and plume of feathers? I countedthe feathers again—three white, two green.

While I still lingered over this very improving andintellectual employment, my thoughts insensibly began to wander.The moonlight shining into the room reminded me of acertain moonlight night in England—the night after a picnicparty in a Welsh valley. Every incident of the drivehomeward, through lovely scenery, which the moonlight madelovelier than ever, came back to my remembrance, thoughI had never given the picnic a thought for years; though, ifI had tried to recollect it, I could certainly have recalled littleor nothing of that scene long past. Of all the wonderfulfaculties that help to tell us we are immortal, whichspeaks the sublime truth more eloquently than memory?Here was I, in a strange house of the most suspicious character,in a situation of uncertainty, and even of peril, whichmight seem to make the cool exercise of my recollectionalmost out of the question; nevertheless, remembering, quiteinvoluntarily, places, people, conversations, minutecircumstances of every kind, which I had thought forgotten forever;which I could not possibly have recalled at will, even underthe most favorable auspices. And what cause had producedin a moment the whole of this strange, complicated,mysterious effect? Nothing but some rays of moonlight shiningin at my bedroom window.

I was still thinking of the picnic—of our merriment on thedrive home—of the sentimental young lady who would quote"Childe Harold" because it was moonlight. I was absorbedby these past scenes and past amusements, when, in aninstant, the thread on which my memories hung snappedasunder; my attention immediately came back to presentthings more vividly than ever, and I found myself, I neitherknew why nor wherefore, looking hard at the picture again.

Looking for what?

Good God! the man had pulled his hat down on his brows!No! the hat itself was gone! Where was the conical crown?Where the feathers—three white, two green? Not there!In place of the hat and feathers, what dusky object was itthat now hid his forehead, his eyes, his shading hand?

Was the bed moving?

I turned on my back and looked up. Was Imad? drunk? dreaming? giddy again? or was the topof the bed reallymoving down—sinking slowly, regularly, silently, horribly,right down throughout the whole of its length andbreadth—right down upon me, as I lay underneath?

My blood seemed to stand still. A deadly, paralyzingcoldness stole all over me as I turned my head round on thepillow and determined to test whether the bed-top was reallymoving or not, by keeping my eye on the man in the picture.

The next look in that direction was enough. The dull,black, frowzy outline of the valance above me was within aninch of being parallel with his waist. I still lookedbreathlessly. And steadily and slowly—very slowly—I saw thefigure, and the line of frame below the figure, vanish, as thevalance moved down before it.

I am, constitutionally, anything but timid. I have beenon more than one occasion in peril of my life, and have notlost my self-possession for an instant; but when theconviction first settled on my mind that the bed-top was reallymoving, was steadily and continuously sinking down uponme, I looked up shuddering, helpless, panic-stricken, beneaththe hideous machinery for murder, which was advancingcloser and closer to suffocate me where I lay.

I looked up, motionless, speechless, breathless. Thecandle, fully spent, went out; but the moonlight stillbrightened the room. Down and down, without pausing andwithout sounding, came the bed-top, and still my panic terrorseemed to bind me faster and faster to the mattress on whichI lay—down and down it sank, till the dusty odor from thelining of the canopy came stealing into my nostrils.

At that final moment the instinct of self-preservationstartled me out of my trance, and I moved at last. Therewas just room for me to roll myself sidewise off the bed.As I dropped noiselessly to the floor, the edge of themurderous canopy touched me on the shoulder.

Without stopping to draw my breath, without wiping thecold sweat from my face, I rose instantly on my knees towatch the bed-top. I was literally spellbound by it. If I hadheard footsteps behind me, I could not have turned round;if a means of escape had been miraculously provided for me,I could not have moved to take advantage of it. The wholelife in me was, at that moment, concentrated in my eyes.

It descended—the whole canopy, with the fringe roundit, came down—down—close down; so close that there wasnot room now to squeeze my finger between the bed-top andthe bed. I felt at the sides, and discovered that what hadappeared to me from beneath to be the ordinary light canopyof a four-post bed was in reality a thick, broad mattress,the substance of which was concealed by the valance and itsfringe. I looked up and saw the four posts rising hideouslybare. In the middle of the bed-top was a huge wooden screwthat had evidently worked it down through a hole in theceiling, just as ordinary presses are worked down on thesubstance selected for compression. The frightful apparatusmoved without making the faintest noise. There had beenno creaking as it came down; there was now not the faintestsound from the room above. Amidst a dead and awfulsilence I beheld before me—in the nineteenth century, andin the civilized capital of France—such a machine for secretmurder by suffocation as might have existed in the worstdays of the Inquisition, in the lonely inns among the HartzMountains, in the mysterious tribunals of Westphalia! Still,as I looked on it, I could not move, I could hardly breathe,but I began to recover the power of thinking, and in amoment I discovered the murderous conspiracy framed againstme in all its horror.

My cup of coffee had been drugged, and drugged toostrongly. I had been saved from being smothered by havingtaken an overdose of some narcotic. How I had chafed andfretted at the fever fit which had preserved my life bykeeping me awake! How recklessly I had confided myself to thetwo wretches who had led me into this room, determined,for the sake of my winnings, to kill me in my sleep by thesurest and most horrible contrivance for secretly accomplishingmy destruction! How many men, winners like me, hadslept, as I had proposed to sleep, in that bed, and had neverbeen seen or heard of more! I shuddered at the bare ideaof it.

But ere long all thought was again suspended by thesight of the murderous canopy moving once more. After ithad remained on the bed—as nearly as I could guess—aboutten minutes, it began to move up again. The villains whoworked it from above evidently believed that their purposewas now accomplished. Slowly and silently, as it haddescended, that horrible bed-top rose toward its former place.When it reached the upper extremities of the four posts, itreached the ceiling too. Neither hole nor screw could beseen; the bed became in appearance an ordinary bed again—thecanopy an ordinary canopy—even to the most suspiciouseyes.

Now, for the first time, I was able to move—to rise frommy knees—to dress myself in my upper clothing—and toconsider of how I should escape. If I betrayed by thesmallest noise that the attempt to suffocate me had failed, Iwas certain to be murdered. Had I made any noise already?I listened intently, looking toward the door.

No! no footsteps in the passage outside—no sound of atread, light or heavy, in the room above—absolute silenceeverywhere. Besides locking and bolting my door, I hadmoved an old wooden chest against it, which I had foundunder the bed. To remove this chest (my blood ran coldas I thought of what its contents might be!) without makingsome disturbance was impossible; and, moreover, to thinkof escaping through the house, now barred up for the night,was sheer insanity. Only one chance was left me—thewindow. I stole to it on tiptoe.

My bedroom was on the first floor, above an entresol,and looked into the back street. I raised my hand to openthe window, knowing that on that action hung, by the meresthair-breadth, my chance of safety. They keep vigilant watchin a House of Murder. If any part of the frame cracked, ifthe hinge creaked, I was a lost man! It must have occupiedme at least five minutes, reckoning by time—five hoursreckoning by suspense—to open that window. I succeeded indoing it silently—in doing it with all the dexterity of ahouse-breaker—and then looked down into the street. Toleap the distance beneath me would be almost certaindestruction! Next, I looked round at the sides of the house.Down the left side ran a thick water-pipe—it passed close bythe outer edge of the window. The moment I saw the pipe,I knew I was saved. My breath came and went freely forthe first time since I had seen the canopy of the bed movingdown upon me!

To some men the means of escape which I had discoveredmight have seemed difficult and dangerous enough—to methe prospect of slipping down the pipe into the street did notsuggest even a thought of peril. I had always been accustomed,by the practise of gymnastics, to keep up my schoolboypowers as a daring and expert climber; and knew thatmy head, hands, and feet would serve me faithfully in anyhazards of ascent or descent. I had already got one leg overthe window-sill, when I remembered the handkerchief filledwith money under my pillow. I could well have affordedto leave it behind me, but I was revengefully determined thatthe miscreants of the gambling-house should miss theirplunder as well as their victim. So I went back to the bed andtied the heavy handkerchief at my back by my cravat.

Just as I had made it tight and fixed it in a comfortableplace, I thought I heard a sound of breathing outside thedoor. The chill feeling of horror ran through me again asI listened. No! dead silence still in the passage—I had onlyheard the night air blowing softly into the room. The nextmoment I was on the window-sill—and the next I had afirm grip on the water-pipe with my hands and knees.

I slid down into the street easily and quietly, as I thoughtI should, and immediately set off at the top of my speed toa branch "Prefecture" of Police, which I knew was situatedin the immediate neighborhood. A "Sub-prefect," andseveral picked men among his subordinates, happened to be up,maturing, I believe, some scheme for discovering theperpetrator of a mysterious murder which all Paris was talkingof just then. When I began my story, in a breathless hurryand in very bad French, I could see that the Sub-prefectsuspected me of being a drunken Englishman who hadrobbed somebody; but he soon altered his opinion as I wenton, and before I had anything like concluded, he shoved allthe papers before him into a drawer, put on his hat,supplied me with another (for I was bareheaded), ordereda file of soldiers, desired his expert followers to get readyall sorts of tools for breaking open doors and ripping upbrick flooring, and took my arm, in the most friendly andfamiliar manner possible, to lead me with him out of thehouse. I will venture to say that when the Sub-prefect wasa little boy, and was taken for the first time to the play,he was not half as much pleased as he was now at the jobin prospect for him at the gambling-house!

Away we went through the streets, the Sub-prefectcross-examining and congratulating me in the same breath as wemarched at the head of our formidable posse comitatus.Sentinels were placed at the back and front of the house themoment we got to it, a tremendous battery of knocks wasdirected against the door; a light appeared at a window; Iwas told to conceal myself behind the police—then camemore knocks, and a cry of "Open in the name of the law!" Atthat terrible summons bolts and locks gave way beforean invisible hand, and the moment after the Sub-prefect wasin the passage, confronting a waiter half dressed and ghastlypale. This was the short dialogue which immediately tookplace:

"We want to see the Englishman who is sleeping inthis house?"

"He went away hours ago."

"He did no such thing. His friend went away; heremained. Show us to his bedroom!"

"I swear to you, Monsieur le Sous-prefect, he is nothere! he—"

"I swear to you, Monsieur le Garçon, he is. He slepthere—he didn't find your bed comfortable—he came to us tocomplain of it—here he is among my men—and here am Iready to look for a flea or two in his bedstead.Renaudin! (calling to one of the subordinates, and pointing to thewaiter), collar that man, and tie his hands behind him.Now, then, gentlemen, let us walk upstairs!"

Every man and woman in the house was secured—the"Old Soldier" the first. Then I identified the bed in whichI had slept, and then we went into the room above.

No object that was at all extraordinary appeared inany part of it. The Sub-prefect looked round the place,commanded everybody to be silent, stamped twice on the floor,called for a candle, looked attentively at the spot he hadstamped on, and ordered the flooring there to be carefullytaken up. This was done in no time. Lights were produced,and we saw a deep raftered cavity between the floor of thisroom and the ceiling of the room beneath. Through thiscavity there ran perpendicularly a sort of case of iron thicklygreased; and inside the case appeared the screw, whichcommunicated with the bed-top below. Extra lengths of screw,freshly oiled; levers covered with felt; all the complete upperworks of a heavy press—constructed with infernal ingenuityso as to join the fixtures below, and when taken topieces again to go into the smallest possible compass—werenext discovered and pulled out on the floor. After somelittle difficulty the Sub-prefect succeeded in putting themachinery together, and, leaving his men to work it, descendedwith me to the bedroom. The smothering canopy was thenlowered, but not so noiselessly as I had seen it lowered.When I mentioned this to the Sub-prefect, his answer,simple as it was, had a terrible significance. "My men," saidhe, "are working down the bed-top for the first time—themen whose money you won were in better practise."

We left the house in the sole possession of two policeagents—every one of the inmates being removed to prisonon the spot. The Sub-prefect, after taking down my "procèsverbal" in his office, returned with me to my hotel to get mypassport. "Do you think," I asked, as I gave it to him,"that any men have really been smothered in that bed, asthey tried to smother me?"

"I have seen dozens of drowned men laid out at theMorgue," answered the Sub-prefect, "in whose pocketbookswere found letters stating that they had committed suicidein the Seine, because they had lost everything at thegaming-table. Do I know how many of those men entered the samegambling-house that you entered? won as you won? took thatbed as you took it? slept in it? were smothered in it? andwere privately thrown into the river, with a letter ofexplanation written by the murderers and placed in theirpocketbooks? No man can say how many or how few have sufferedthe fate from which you have escaped. The people of thegambling-house kept their bedstead machinery a secret fromus—even from the police! The dead kept the rest of thesecret for them. Good-night, or rather good-morning,Monsieur Faulkner! Be at my office again at nine o'clock—inthe meantime, au revoir!"

The rest of my story is soon told. I was examined andreexamined; the gambling-house was strictly searched allthrough from top to bottom; the prisoners were separatelyinterrogated; and two of the less guilty among them made aconfession. I discovered that the Old Soldier was themaster of the gambling-house—justice discovered that he hadbeen drummed out of the army as a vagabond years ago;that he had been guilty of all sorts of villainies since; thathe was in possession of stolen property, which the ownersidentified; and that he, the croupier, another accomplice, andthe woman who had made my cup of coffee, were all in thesecret of the bedstead. There appeared some reason todoubt whether the inferior persons attached to the houseknew anything of the suffocating machinery; and theyreceived the benefit of that doubt, by being treated simply asthieves and vagabonds. As for the Old Soldier and his twohead myrmidons, they went to the galleys; the woman whohad drugged my coffee was imprisoned for I forget howmany years; the regular attendants at the gambling-housewere considered "suspicious," and placed under "surveillance";and I became, for one whole week (which is a longtime), the head "lion" in Parisian society. My adventurewas dramatized by three illustrious play-makers, but neversaw theatrical daylight; for the censorship forbade theintroduction on the stage of a correct copy of thegambling-house bedstead.

One good result was produced by my adventure, whichany censorship must have approved: it cured me of everagain trying "Rouge et Noir" as an amusement. The sightof a green cloth, with packs of cards and heaps of money onit, will henceforth be forever associated in my mind withthe sight of a bed canopy descending to suffocate me in thesilence and darkness of the night.

THE CAPTURE OF BILL SIKES

BY CHARLES DICKENS

With such reality and vividness hasDickens drawn the character of Bill Sikes thathe stands to the world a typical exampleof the bully and ruffian. "Oliver Twist,"from which the story is taken, is a pictureof vice and crime, though containing touchesof great pathos and tenderness. Dickens,in his writings, drew popular attention topublic wrongs and abuses suffered by thelower classes of London and was one ofthe most potent influences of the NineteenthCentury toward social reform in England.

THE CAPTURE OF BILL SIKES

By CHARLES DICKENS

It was nearly two hours before daybreak; that timewhich, in the autumn of the year, may be trulycalled the dead of night; when the streets are silentand deserted; when even sound appears to slumber,and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; itwas at this still and silent hour that the Jew sat watchingin his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes sored and bloodshot, that he looked less like a man than likesome hideous phantom: moist from the grave, and worriedby an evil spirit.

He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an oldtorn coverlet, with his face turned toward a wasting candlethat stood upon a table by his side. His right hand wasraised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he bit his longblack nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a fewsuch fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's.

Stretched upon a mattress on the floor lay NoahClaypole, fast asleep. Toward him the old man sometimesdirected his eyes for an instant, and then brought them backagain to the candle; which, with long-burned wick droopingalmost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon thetable, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere.

Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of hisnotable scheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palterwith strangers; an utter distrust of the sincerity of herrefusal to yield him up; bitter disappointment at the loss of hisrevenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, and ruin, and death;and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these were thepassionate considerations which, following close upon eachother with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brainof Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose layworking at his heart.

He sat without changing his attitude in the least, orappearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick earseemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street.

"At last," muttered the Jew, wiping his dry and feveredmouth. "At last!"

The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs tothe door, and presently returned accompanied by a manmuffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm.Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the mandisplayed the burly frame of Sikes.

"There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Takecare of that, and do the most you can with it. It's beentrouble enough to get; I thought I should have been herethree hours ago."

Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it inthe cupboard, sat down again without speaking. But he didnot take his eyes off the robber for an instant during thisaction; and now that they sat over against each other, faceto face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering soviolently, and his face so altered by the emotions whichhad mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarilydrew back his chair and surveyed him with a look of realaffright.

"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a manso for?"

The Jew raised his right hand and shook his tremblingforefinger in the air; but his passion was so great that thepower of speech was for the moment gone.

"Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look ofalarm. "He's gone mad. I must look to myself here."

"No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not—you'renot the person, Bill. I've no—no fault to find withyou."

"Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, lookingsternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a moreconvenient pocket. "That's lucky—for one of us. Whichone that is, don't matter."

"I've got that to tell you, Bill," said the Jew, drawing hischair nearer, "will make you worse than me."

"Ay?" returned the robber, with an incredulous air. "Tellaway. Look sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost."

"Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that,in her own mind, already."

Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into theJew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of theriddle there, clinched his coat-collar in his huge hand andshook him soundly.

"Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you don't, it shall befor want of breath. Open your mouth and say wot you'vegot to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering oldcur—out with it!"

"Suppose that lad that's lying there—" Fagin began.

Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if hehad not previously observed him. "Well?" he said,resuming his former position.

"Suppose that lad," pursued the Jew, "was to peach—toblow upon us all—first seeking out the right folks for thepurpose, and then having a meeting with 'em in the streetto paint our likenesses, describe every mark that they mightknow us by, and the crib where we might be most easilytaken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blowupon a plant we've all been in, more or less—of his ownfancy; not grabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parsonand brought to it on bread and water—but of his own fancy;to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find thosemost interested against us, and peaching to them. Do youhear me?" cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage."Suppose he did all this, what then?"

"What then!" replied Sikes, with a tremendous oath. "Ifhe was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the ironheel of my boot into as many grains as there are hairs uponhis head."

"What if I did it?" cried the Jew, almost in a yell. "Ithat know so much, and could hang so many besides myself!"

"I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turningwhite at the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in thejail that 'ud get me put in irons; and if I was tried alongwith you, I'd fall upon you with them in the open court,and beat your brains out afore the people. I should havesuch strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm,"that I could smash your head as if a loaded wagon had goneover it."

"You would?"

"Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me."

"If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or—"

"I don't care who," replied Sikes, impatiently. "Whoeverit was, I'd serve them the same."

Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him tobe silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shookthe sleeper to rouse him. Sikes leaned forward in his chair,looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wonderingmuch what all this questioning and preparation was to end in.

"Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up withan expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowlyand with marked emphasis. "He's tired—tired with watchingfor her so long—watching for her, Bill."

"Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back.

The Jew made no answer, but bending over the sleeperagain, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumedname had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes,and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.

"Tell me that again—once again, just for him to hear,"said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.

"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himselfpettishly.

"That about—NANCY," said the Jew, clutching Sikes bythe wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before hehad heard enough. "You followed her?"

"Yes."

"To London Bridge?"

"Yes."

"Where she met two people?"

"So she did."

"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of herown accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals,and Monks first, which she did—and to describe him, whichshe did—and to tell her what house it was that we meet at,and go to, which she did—and where it could be best watchedfrom, which she did—and what time the people went there,which she did. She did all this. She told it all every wordwithout a threat, without a murmur—she did—did she not?"cried the Jew, half mad with fury.

"All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That'sjust what it was!"

"What did they say about last Sunday?" demanded the Jew.

"About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why,I told yer that before."

"Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his graspon Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foamflew from his lips.

"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew morewakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was,"they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as shepromised. She said she couldn't."

"Why—why?" interrupted the Jew, triumphantly. "Tellhim that."

"Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the manshe had told them of before," replied Noah.

"What more of him?" cried the Jew. "What more of theman she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell himthat."

"Why, that she couldn't very easily get out-of-doors unlesshe knew where she was going to," said Noah; "and so thefirst time she went to see the lady, she—ha! ha! ha! it mademe laugh when she said it, that it did—she gave him a drinkof laudanum."

"Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew."Let me go!"

Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room,and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs.

"Bill, Bill!" cried the Jew, following him hastily. "A word.Only a word."

The word would not have been exchanged, but that thehousebreaker was unable to open the door, on which he wasexpending fruitless oaths and violence when the Jew camepanting up.

"Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's notsafe. Let me out, I say."

"Hear me speak a word," rejoined the Jew, laying hishand upon the lock. "You won't be—"

"Well?" replied the other.

"You won't be—too—violent, Bill?" whined the Jew.

The day was breaking, and there was light enough forthe men to see each other's faces. They exchanged onebrief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both which couldnot be mistaken.

"I mean," said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguisewas now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill,and not too bold."

Sikes made no reply; but pulling open the door, of whichthe Jew had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets.

Without one pause, or moment's consideration; withoutonce turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyesto the sky or lowering them to the ground, but lookingstraight before him with savage resolution: his teeth sotightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed startingthrough his skin, the robber held on his headlong course,nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reachedhis own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strodelightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-lockedthe door, and lifting the heavy table against it, drewback the curtain of the bed.

The girl was lying, half dressed, upon it. He had rousedher from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried andstartled look.

"Get up!" said the man.

"It is you, Bill!" said the girl, with an expression ofpleasure at his return.

"It is," was the reply. "Get up."

There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drewit from the candlestick and hurled it under the grate. Seeingthe faint light of early day, without, the girl rose toundraw the curtain.

"Let it be," said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her."There's light enough for wot I've got to do."

"Bill," said the girl, in a low voice of alarm, "why doyou look like that at me?"

The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, withdilated nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping herby the head and throat, dragged her into the middle of theroom, and looking once toward the door, placed his heavyhand upon her mouth.

"Bill, Bill!" gasped the girl, wrestling with the strengthof mortal fear—"I—I won't scream or cry—not once—hearme—speak to me—tell me what I have done?"

"You know, you she-devil!" returned the robber, suppressinghis breath. "You were watched to-night; everyword you said was heard."

"Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I sparedyours," rejoined the girl, clinging to him. "Bill, dear Bill,you can not have the heart to kill me. Oh! think of all Ihave given up, only this one night, for you. You shall havetime to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not loosemy hold, you can not throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God'ssake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood!I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!"

The man struggled violently to release his arms; butthose of the girl were clasped round his, and tear her as hewould, he could not tear them away.

"Bill," cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon hisbreast, "the gentleman, and that dear lady, told me to-nightof a home in some foreign country where I could end mydays in solitude and peace. Let me see them again, andbeg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy andgoodness to you; and let us both leave this dreadful place,and far apart lead better lives, and forget how we have lived,except in prayers, and never see each other more. It is nevertoo late to repent. They told me so—I feel it now—butwe must have time—a little, little time!"

The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol.The certainty of immediate detection if he fired flashed acrosshis mind even in the midst of his fury, and he beat it twicewith all the force he could summon upon the upturned facethat almost touched his own.

She staggered and fell, nearly blinded with the blood thatrained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raisingherself, with difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom awhite handkerchief—Rose Maylie's own—and holding it up,in her folded hands, as high toward Heaven as her feeblestrength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to herMaker.

It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer, staggeringbackward to the wall, and shutting out the sight withhis hand, seized a heavy club and struck her down.

Of all bad deeds that under cover of the darkness hadbeen committed within wide London's bounds since nighthung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors thatrose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was thefoulest and most cruel.

The sun—the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone,but new life, and hope, and freshness to man—burst uponthe crowded city in clear and radiant glory. Through costlycolored glass and paper-mended window, though cathedraldome and rotten crevice, it shed its equal ray. It lightedup the room where the murdered woman lay. It did. Hetried to shut it out, but it would stream in. If the sight hadbeen a ghastly one in the dull morning, what was it, now, inall that brilliant light!

He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. Therehad been a moan and motion of the hand; and with terroradded to rage, he had struck and struck again. Once hethrew a rug over it; but it was worse to fancy the eyes, andimagine them moving toward him, than to see them glaringupward, as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore thatquivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He hadplucked it off again. And there was the body—mere fleshand blood, no more—but such flesh, and so much blood!

He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club intoit. There was hair upon the end, which blazed and shrunkinto a light cinder, and, caught by the air, whirled up thechimney. Even that frightened him, sturdy as he was; buthe held the weapon till it broke; and then piled it on thecoals to burn away and smolder into ashes. He washedhimself, and rubbed his clothes; there were spots that wouldnot be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and burned them.How those stains were dispersed about the room! The veryfeet of the dog were bloody.

All this time he had never once turned his back uponthe corpse; no, not for a moment. Such preparationscompleted, he moved, backward, toward the door, dragging thedog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and carryout new evidences of the crime into the streets. He shutthe door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.

He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to besure that nothing was visible from the outside. There wasthe curtain still drawn, which she would have opened toadmit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly underthere. He knew that. God, how the sun poured down uponthe very spot!

The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to havegot free of the room. He whistled on the dog, and walkedrapidly away.

He went through Islington; strode up the hill atHighgate on which stands the stone in honor of Whittington;turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady of purpose, anduncertain where to go; struck off to the right again, almostas soon as he began to descend it; and taking the footpathacross the fields, skirted Caen Wood, and so came out onHampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by the Vale ofHealth, he mounted the opposite bank, and crossing the roadwhich joins the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, madealong the remaining portion of the Heath to the fields atNorth End, in one of which he laid himself down under ahedge, and slept.

Soon he was up again, and away—not far into the country,but back toward London by the high-road—then backagain—then over another part of the same ground as he hadalready traversed—then wandering up and down in fields, andlying on ditches' brinks to rest, and starting up to make forsome other spot, and do the same, and ramble on again.

Where could he go, that was near and not too public, toget some meat and drink? Hendon. That was a goodplace, not far off, and out of most people's way. Thither hedirected his steps—running sometimes, and sometimes, witha strange perversity, loitering at a snail's pace, or stoppingaltogether and idly breaking the hedges with his stick. Butwhen he got there, all the people he met—the very childrenat the doors—seemed to view him with suspicion. Back heturned again, without the courage to purchase bit or drop,though he had tasted no food for many hours; and oncemore he lingered on the Heath, uncertain where to go.

He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and stillcame back to the old place. Morning and noon had passed,and the day was on the wane, and still he rambled to andfro, and up and down, and round and round, and stilllingered about the same spot.

At last he got away, and shaped his course for Hatfield.

It was nine o'clock at night, when the man, quite tiredout, and the dog, limping and lame from the unaccustomedexercise, turned down the hill by the church of the quietvillage, and plodding along the little street, crept into asmall public-house, whose scanty light had guided them tothe spot. There was a fire in the tap-room, and somecountry laborers were drinking before it. They made roomfor the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner, andate and drank alone, or rather with his dog, to whom hecast a morsel of food from time to time.

The conversation of the men assembled here turned uponthe neighboring land and farmers; and when those topicswere exhausted, upon the age of some old man who hadbeen buried on the previous Sunday; the young men presentconsidering him very old, and the old men present declaringhim to have been quite young—not older, one white-hairedgrandfather said, than he was—with ten or fifteen years oflife in him at least—if he had taken care; if he had takencare.

There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm,in this. The robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent andunnoticed in his corner, and had almost dropped asleep,when he was half awakened by the noisy entrance of anew-comer.

This was an antic-fellow, half pedler and half mountebank,who traveled about the country on foot, to vendhones, strops, razors, washballs, harness paste, medicine fordogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, and such-likewares, which he carried in a case slung to his back. Hisentrance was the signal for various homely jokes with thecountrymen, which slackened not until he had made hissupper, and opened his box of treasures, when he ingeniouslycontrived to unite business with amusement.

"And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?" asked agrinning countryman, pointing to some composition-cakesin one corner.

"This," said the fellow, producing one—"this is theinfallible and invaluable composition for removing all sortsof stain, rust, dirt, mildew, spick, speck, spot, or spatter,from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet,merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woolen stuff. Wine-stains,fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains,any stains, all come out at one rub with the infallibleand invaluable composition. If a lady stains her honor, shehas only need to swallow one cake and she's cured at once—forit's poison. If a gentleman wants to prove his, he hasonly need to bolt one little square, and he has put itbeyond question—for it's quite as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet,and a great deal nastier in the flavor, consequently themore credit in taking it. One penny a square. With allthese virtues, one penny a square!"

There were two buyers directly, and more of the listenersplainly hesitated. The vender observing this, increased inloquacity.

"It's all bought up as fast as it can be made," said thefellow. "There are fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines,and a galvanic battery, always a-working upon it, and theycan't make it fast enough, though the men work so hardthat they die off, and the widows is pensioned directly, withtwenty pound a year for each of the children, and a premiumof fifty for twins. One penny a square! Two halfpence isall the same, and four farthings is received with joy. Onepenny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains,water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains.Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman in the companythat I'll take clean out before he can order me a pint ofale."

"Hah!" cried Sikes, starting up. "Give that back."

"I'll take it clean out, sir," replied the man, winking tothe company, "before you can come across the room to getit. Gentlemen, all observe the dark stain upon thisgentleman's hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than ahalf-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain,beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, orblood-stain—"

The man got no further, for Sikes, with a hideous imprecation,overthrew the table, and tearing the hat from him,burst out of the house.

With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution thathad fastened upon him, despite himself, all day, themurderer, finding that he was not followed, and that they mostprobably considered him some drunken sullen fellow, turnedback up the town, and getting out of the glare of the lampsof a stage-coach that was standing in the street, was walkingpast, when he recognized the mail from London, and sawthat it was standing at the little post-office. He almost knewwhat was to come; but he crossed over, and listened.

The guard was standing at the door, waiting for theletter-bag. A man, dressed like a gamekeeper, came up atthe moment, and he handed him a basket which lay ready onthe pavement.

"That's for your people," said the guard. "Now, lookalive in there, will you. Damn that 'ere bag, it warn't readynight afore last; this won't do, you know!"

"Anything new up in town, Ben?" asked the gamekeeper,drawing back to the window-shutters, the better to admirethe horses.

"No, nothing that I knows on," replied the man, pullingon his gloves. "Corn's up a little. I heerd talk of a murder,too, down Spitalfields way, but I don't reckon much upon it."

"Oh, that's quite true," said a gentleman inside who waslooking out of the window. "And a dreadful murder it was."

"Was it, sir?" rejoined the guard, touching his hat. "Manor woman, pray, sir?"

"A woman," replied the gentleman. "It is supposed—"

"Now, Ben," cried the coachman, impatiently.

"Damn that 'ere bag," cried the guard; "are you gone tosleep in there?"

"Coming!" cried the office-keeper, running out.

"Coming," growled the guard. "Ah, and so's the young'ooman of property that's going to take a fancy to me, butI don't know when. Here, give hold. All ri—ight!"

The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach wasgone.

Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmovedby what he had just heard, and agitated by no strongerfeeling than a doubt where to go. At length he went back again,and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.

He went on, doggedly; but as he left the town behind himand plunged into the solitude and darkness of the road, hefelt a dread and awe creeping upon him which shook him tothe core. Every object before him, substance or shadow,still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing;but these fears were nothing compared to the sense thathaunted him of that morning's ghastly figure following athis heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supplythe smallest item of the outline, and note how stiff andsolemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its garmentsrustling in the leaves; and every breath of wind came ladenwith that last low cry. If he stopped, it did the same. If heran, it followed—not running too: that would have been arelief; but like a corpse endowed with the mere machineryof life, and borne on one slow melancholy wind that neverrose or fell.

At times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolvedto beat this phantom off, though it should look himdead; but the hair rose on his head, and his blood stood still,for it had turned with him and was behind him then. Hehad kept it before him that morning, but it was behind himnow—always. He leaned his back against a bank, and feltthat it stood above him, visibly out against the cold nightsky. He threw himself upon the road—on his back upon theroad. At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still—a livinggravestone, with its epitaph in blood.

Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hintthat Providence must sleep. There were twenty score ofviolent deaths in one long minute of that agony of fear.

There was a shed in a field he passed that offered shelterfor the night. Before the door were three tall poplar trees,which made it very dark within; and the wind moanedthrough them with a dismal wail. He could not walk on tilldaylight came again; and here he stretched himself close tothe wall—to undergo new torture.

For now a vision came before him, as constant and moreterrible than that from which he had escaped. Those widelystaring eyes, so lustreless and so glassy that he had betterborne to see them than think upon them, appeared in themidst of the darkness: light in themselves, but giving lightto nothing. There were but two, but they were everywhere.If he shut out the sight, there came the room with everywell-known object—some, indeed, that he would have forgotten,if he had gone over its contents from memory—each in itsaccustomed place. The body was in its place, and its eyeswere as he saw them when he stole away. He got up, andrushed into the field without. The figure was behind him.He reentered the shed, and shrank down once more. Theeyes were there, before he had laid himself along.

And here he remained, in such terror as none but he canknow, trembling in every limb, and the cold sweat startingfrom every pore, when suddenly there arose upon the nightwind the noise of distant shouting and the roar of voicesmingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in thatlonely place, even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm,was something to him. He regained his strength and energyat the prospect of personal danger; and, springing to his feet,rushed into the open air.

The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air withshowers of sparks, and rolling one above the other, weresheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere for miles round, anddriving clouds of smoke in the direction where he stood. Theshouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar, and hecould hear the cry of "Fire!" mingled with the ringing of analarm-bell, the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling offlames as they twined round some new obstacle, and shotaloft as though refreshed by food. The noise increased ashe looked. There were people there—men and women—light,bustle. It was like new life to him. He dartedonward—straight, headlong—dashing through brier and brake, andleaping gate and fence as madly as the dog, who careeredwith loud and sounding bark before him.

He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figurestearing to and fro, some endeavoring to drag the frightenedhorses from the stables, others driving the cattle from theyard and outhouses, and others coming laden from the burningpile, amid a shower of falling sparks and the tumblingdown of red-hot beams. The apertures, where doors andwindows stood an hour ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire:walls rocked and crumbled into the burning well; the moltenlead and iron poured down, white-hot, upon the ground.Women and children shrieked, and men encouraged eachother with noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of theengine-pumps, and the spurting and hissing of the water asit fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremendous roar.He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and, flying from memoryand himself, plunged into the thickest of the throng.

Hither and thither he dived that night: now working atthe pumps, and now hurrying through the smoke and flame,but never ceasing to engage himself wherever noise and menwere thickest. Up and down the ladders, upon the roofs ofbuildings, over floors that quaked and trembled with hisweight, under the lee of falling bricks and stones, in everypart of that great fire was he; but he bore a charmed life,and had neither scratch nor bruise, nor weariness northought, till morning dawned again, and only smoke andblackened ruins remained.

This mad excitement over, there returned, with tenfoldforce, the dreadful consciousness of his crime. He lookedsuspiciously about him, for the men were conversing ingroups, and he feared to be the subject of their talk. Thedog obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they drewoff, stealthily, together. He passed near an engine wheresome men were seated, and they called to him to share intheir refreshment. He took some bread and meat; and ashe drank a draft of beer, heard the firemen, who were fromLondon, talking about the murder. "He has gone toBirmingham, they say," said one; "but they'll have him yet,for the scouts are out, and by to-morrow night there'll bea cry all through the country."

He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped uponthe ground; then lay down in a lane, and had a long butbroken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on again, irresoluteand undecided, and oppressed with the fear of anothersolitary night.

Suddenly he took the desperate resolution of going backto London.

"There's somebody to speak to there, at all events," hethought. "A good hiding-place, too. They'll never expect tonab me there, after this country scent. Why can't I lay byfor a week or so, and, forcing blunt from Fagin, get abroadto France? Damme, I'll risk it."

He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosingthe least frequented roads, began his journey back, resolvedto lie concealed within a short distance of the metropolis,and, entering it at dusk by a circuitous route, to proceedstraight to that part of it which he had fixed on for hisdestination.

The dog, though—if any descriptions of him were out, itwould not be forgotten that the dog was missing, and hadprobably gone with him. This might lead to his apprehensionas he passed along the streets. He resolved todrown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond, pickingup a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief ashe went.

The animal looked up into his master's face while thesepreparations were making; and, whether his instinct apprehendedsomething of their purpose, or the robber's sidelonglook at him was sterner than ordinary, skulked a littlefurther in the rear than usual, and cowered as he came moreslowly along. When his master halted at the brink of a pool,and looked round to call him, he stopped outright.

"Do you hear me call? Come here!" cried Sikes.

The animal came up from the very force of habit; but asSikes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his throat, heuttered a low growl and started back.

"Come back!" said the robber, stamping on the ground.

The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made arunning noose and called him again.

The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, turned,and scoured away at his hardest speed.

The man whistled again and again, and sat down andwaited in the expectation that he would return. But no dogappeared, and at length he resumed his journey.

Near to that part of the Thames on which the church atRotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks aredirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust ofcolliers and the smoke of close-built, low-roofed houses, thereexists, at the present day, the filthiest, the strangest, the mostextraordinary of the many localities that are hidden inLondon, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass ofits inhabitants.

To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through amaze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by theroughest and poorest of waterside people, and devoted to thetraffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest andleast delicate provisions are heaped in the shops; the coarsestand commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at thesalesman's door, and stream from the house-parapet andwindows. Jostling with unemployed laborers of the lowest class,ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, raggedchildren, and the very raff and refuse of the river, he makes hisway with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights andsmells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the rightand left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous wagons thatbear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehousesthat rise from every corner. Arriving, at length, instreets remoter and less frequented than those through whichhe has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-frontsprojecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem tototter as he passes, chimneys half crushed, half hesitating tofall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirthave almost eaten away, and every imaginable sign ofdesolation and neglect.

In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the boroughof Southwark, stands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddyditch, six or eight feet deep, and fifteen or twenty wide whenthe tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but known in thesedays as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from the Thames,and can always be filled at high water by opening the sluicesat the Lead Mills from which it took its old name. At suchtimes a stranger, looking from one of the wooden bridgesthrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of thehouses on either side lowering from their back doors andwindows buckets, pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, inwhich to haul the water up; and when his eye is turned fromthese operations to the houses themselves, his utmostastonishment will be excited by the scene before him. Crazywooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen houses,with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath;windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out on whichto dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, sofilthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted evenfor the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambersthrusting themselves out above the mud and threateningto fall into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls anddecaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty,every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; allthese ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.

In Jacob's Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty;the walls are crumbling down; the windows are windowsno more; the doors are falling into the streets; the chimneysare blackened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or fortyyears ago, before losses and chancery suits came upon it,it was a thriving place; but now it is a desolate island indeed.The houses have no owners; they are broken open andentered upon by those who have the courage; and there theylive and there they die. They must have powerful motivesfor a secret residence, or be reduced to a destitute conditionindeed, who seek a refuge in Jacob's Island.

In an upper room of one of these houses—a detached houseof fair size, ruinous in other respects, but strongly defendedat door and window, of which house the back commandedthe ditch in manner already described—there were assembledthree men, who, regarding each other every now and thenwith looks expressive of perplexity and expectation, sat forsome time in profound and gloomy silence. One of thesewas Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third arobber of fifty years, whose nose had been almost beaten in insome old scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar whichmight probably be traced to the same occasion. This manwas a returned transport, and his name was Kags.

"I wish," said Toby, turning to Mr. Chitling, "that you hadpicked out some other crib when the two old ones got toowarm, and had not come here, my fine feller."

"Why didn't you, blunderhead?" said Kags.

"Well, I thought you'd have been a little more glad tosee me than this," replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholyair.

"Why, look'e, young gentleman," said Toby, "when a mankeeps himself so very ex-clusive as I have done, and by thatmeans has a snug house over his head, with nobody pryingand smelling about it, it's rather a startling thing to havethe honor of a visit from a young gentleman (howeverrespectable and pleasant a person he may be to play cards withat conweniency) circumstanced as you are."

"Especially when the exclusive young man has got afriend stopping with him that's arrived sooner than wasexpected from foreign parts, and is too modest to want tobe presented to the Judges on his return," added Mr. Kags.

There was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit, seemingto abandon as hopeless any further effort to maintain hisusual devil-may-care swagger, turned to Chitling and said:

"When was Fagin took, then?"

"Just at dinner-time—two o'clock this afternoon. Charleyand I made our lucky up the wash'us chimney, and Boltergot into the empty water-butt, head downward; but his legswere so precious long that they stuck out at the top, and sothey took him too."

"And Bet?"

"Poor Bet! She went to see the body, to speak to whoit was," replied Chitling, his countenance falling more andmore, "and went off mad, screaming and raving, and beatingher head against the boards; so they put a strait weskut onher and took her to the hospital—and there she is."

"Wot's come of young Bates?" demanded Kags.

"He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, buthe'll be here soon," replied Chitling. "There's nowhere elseto go to now, for the people at the Cripples are all incustody, and the bar of the ken—I went up there and see it withmy own eyes—is filled with traps."

"This is a smash," observed Toby, biting his lips. "There'smore than one will go with this."

"The sessions are on," said Kags: "if they get the inquestover, and Bolter turns King's evidence, as of course hewill, from what he's said already, they can prove Fagin anaccessory before the fact, and get the trial on on Friday, andhe'll swing in six days from this, by G—!"

"You should have heard the people groan," said Chitling;"the officers fought like devils, or they'd have torn him away.He was down once, but they made a ring round him, andfought their way along. You should have seen how he lookedabout him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as ifthey were his dearest friends. I can see 'em now not ableto stand upright with the pressing of the mob, and dragginghim along amongst 'em; I can see the people jumping up, onebehind another, and snarling with their teeth and making athim like wild beasts; I can see the blood upon his hair andbeard, and hear the cries with which the women workedthemselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner,and swore they'd tear his heart out!"

The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his handsupon his ears, and with his eyes closed, got up and pacedviolently to and fro, like one distracted.

While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by insilence with their eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noisewas heard upon the stairs, and Sikes's dog bounded into theroom. They ran to the window, downstairs, and intothe street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; hemade no attempt to follow them, nor was his master tobe seen.

"What's the meaning of this?" said Toby, when they hadreturned. "He can't be coming here. I—I—hope not."

"If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog,"said Kags, stooping down to examine the animal, who laypanting on the floor. "Here! Give us some water for him;he has run himself faint."

"He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitting, afterwatching the dog some time in silence. "Covered withmud—lame—half blind—he must have come a long way."

"Where can he have come from!" exclaimed Toby. "He'sbeen to the other kens, of course, and, finding them filledwith strangers, come on here where he's been many a timeand often. But where can he have come from first, and howcomes he here alone without the other!"

"He" (none of them called the murderer by his oldname)—"he can't have made away with himself. What do youthink?" said Chitling.

Toby shook his head.

"If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us awayto where he did it. No. I think he's got out of the countryand left the dog behind. He must have given him the slipsomehow, or he wouldn't be so easy."

This solution, appearing the most probable one, wasadopted as the right; and the dog, creeping under a chair,coiled himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody.

It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candlelighted and placed upon the table. The terrible events ofthe last two days had made a deep impression on all three,increased by the danger and uncertainty of their ownposition. They drew their chairs closer together, starting atevery sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, andwere as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of themurdered woman lay in the next room.

They had sat thus some time, when suddenly was hearda hurried knocking at the door below.

"Young Bates," said Kags, looking angrily round, tocheck the fear he felt himself.

The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He neverknocked like that.

Crackit went to the window, and, shaking all over, drewin his head. There was no need to tell them who it was;his pale face was enough. The dog, too, was on the alert inan instant, and ran whining to the door.

"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle.

"Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man, in ahoarse voice.

"None. He must come in."

"Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down acandle from the chimney-piece, and lighting it with such atrembling hand that the knocking was twice repeated beforehe had finished.

Crackit went down to the door, and returned, followedby a man with the lower part of his face buried in ahandkerchief, and another tied over his head under his hat. Hedrew them slowly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, hollowcheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short,thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes.

He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middleof the room, but shuddering as he was about to drop into it,and seeming to glance over his shoulder, dragged it backclose to the wall—as close as it would go—ground it againstit—and sat down.

Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from oneto another in silence. If an eye were furtively raised and methis, it was instantly averted. When his hollow voice brokesilence, they all three started. They seemed never to haveheard its tones before.

"How came that dog here?" he asked.

"Alone. Three hours ago."

"To-night's paper says that Fagin's taken. Is it true, ora lie?"

"True."

They were silent again.

"Damn you all," said Sikes, passing his hand across hisforehead. "Have you nothing to say to me?"

There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.

"You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his faceto Crackit, "do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here tillthis hunt is over?"

"You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned theperson addressed, after some hesitation.

Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him,rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it, and said:"Is—it—the body—is it buried?"

They shook their heads.

"Why isn't it?" he retorted, with the same glance behindhim. "Wot do they keep such ugly things above the groundfor?—Who's that knocking?"

Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he leftthe room, that there was nothing to fear; and directly cameback with Charley Bates behind him. Sikes sat opposite thedoor, so that the moment the boy entered the room heencountered his figure.

"Toby," said the boy, falling back, as Sikes turned hiseyes toward him, "why didn't you tell me this downstairs?"

There had been something so tremendous in the shrinkingoff of the three that the wretched man was willing topropitiate even this lad. Accordingly, he nodded, and made asthough he would shake hands with him.

"Let me go into some other room," said the boy, retreatingstill further.

"Charley!" said Sikes, stepping forward, "don't you—don'tyou know me?"

"Don't come nearer me," answered the boy, still retreatingand looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer'sface. "You monster!"

The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other,but Sikes's eyes sank gradually to the ground.

"Witness you three," cried the boy, shaking his clenchedfist and becoming more and more excited as he spoke."Witness you three—I'm not afraid of him—if they come hereafter him, I'll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once.He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I'mhere, I'll give him up. I'd give him up if he was to be boiledalive. Murder! Help! If there's the pluck of a man amongyou three, you'll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!"

Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them withviolent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself,single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity of hisenergy, and the suddenness of his surprise, brought himheavily to the ground.

The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offeredno interference, and the boy and man rolled on the groundtogether; the former, heedless of the blows that showeredupon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in thegarments about the murderer's breast, and never ceasing tocall for help with all his might.

The contest, however, was too unequal to last long.Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, whenCrackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed tothe window. There were lights gleaming below, voices inloud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurriedfootsteps—endless they seemed in number—crossing the nearestwooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to beamong the crowd, for there was the noise of hoofs rattlingon the uneven pavement. The gleam of lights increased; thefootsteps came more thickly and noisily on. Then came aloud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur fromsuch a multitude of angry voices as would have made theboldest quail.

"Help!" shrieked the boy, in a voice that rent the air."He's here! Break down the door!"

"In the King's name," cried the voices without, and thehoarse cry rose again, but louder.

"Break down the door!" screamed the boy. "I tell youthey'll never open it. Run straight to the room where thelight is. Break down the door!"

Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lowerwindow-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzaburst from the crowd, giving the listener for the first timesome adequate idea of its immense extent.

"Open the door of some place where I can lock thisscreeching hell-babe," cried Sikes, fiercely, running to andfro, and dragging the boy now as easily as if he were anempty sack. "That door. Quick!" He flung him in, boltedit, and turned the key. "Is the downstairs door fast?"

"Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, who, withthe other two men, still remained quite helpless andbewildered.

"The panels—are they strong?"

"Lined with sheet-iron."

"And the windows too?"

"Yes, and the windows."

"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up thesash and menacing the crowd. "Do your worst! I'll cheatyou yet!"

Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, nonecould exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shoutedto those who were nearest to set the house on fire; othersroared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all,none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who,throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through thecrowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the window,in a voice that rose above all others: "Twenty guineas to theman who brings a ladder!"

The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoedit. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; someran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still cameback and roared again; some spent their breath in impotentcurses and execrations; some pressed forward with theecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of thosebelow; some among the boldest attempted to climb up bythe waterspout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to andfro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved byan angry wind, and joined from time to time in one loudfurious roar.

"The tide," cried the murderer, as he staggered back intothe room and shut the faces out—"the tide was in as I cameup. Give me a rope, a long rope. They're all in front. Imay drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Giveme a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself."

The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articleswere kept; the murderer, hastily selecting the longest andstrongest cord, hurried up to the house-top.

All the windows in the rear of the house had been longago bricked up, except one small trap in the room wherethe boy was locked, and that was too small even for thepassage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had neverceased to call on those without to guard the back; and thuswhen the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by thedoor in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to thosein front, who immediately began to pour round, pressingupon each other in one unbroken stream.

He planted a board which he had carried up with him forthe purpose so firmly against the door that it must bematter of great difficulty to open it from the inside; andcreeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet.

The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.

The crowd had been hushed during these few moments,watching his motions and doubtful of his purpose, but theinstant they perceived it and knew it was defeated, theyraised a cry of triumphant execration to which all theirprevious shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose.Those who were at too great a distance to know its meaningtook up the sound: it echoed and reechoed; it seemedas though the whole city had poured its population out tocurse him.

On pressed the people from the front—on, on, on, in astrong struggling current of angry faces, with here and therea glaring torch to light them up, and show them out in alltheir wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite sideof the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes werethrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiersof faces in every window, and cluster upon cluster of peopleclinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and therewere three in sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowdupon it. Still the current poured on to find some nook orhole from which to vent their shouts, and only for an instantsee the wretch.

"They have him now," cried a man on the nearest bridge."Hurrah!"

The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and againthe shout uprose.

"I will give fifty pounds," cried an old gentleman from thesame quarter, "to the man who takes him alive. I willremain here till he comes to ask me for it."

There was another roar. At this moment the word waspassed among the crowd that the door was forced at last,and that he who had first called for the ladder had mountedinto the room. The stream abruptly turned, as this intelligenceran from mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows,seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quittedtheir stations, and running into the street, joined theconcourse that now thronged pell-mell to the spot they hadleft; each man crushing and striving with his neighbor, andall panting with impatience to get near the door and lookupon the criminal as the officers brought him out. The criesand shrieks of those who were pressed almost to suffocation,or trampled down and trodden underfoot in the confusion,were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up;and at this time, between the rush of some to regain the spacein front of the house and the unavailing struggles of othersto extricate themselves from the mass, the immediateattention was distracted from the murderer, although theeagerness for his capture was increased.

The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by theferocity of the crowd and the impossibility of escape; butseeing this sudden change with no less rapidity than it hadoccurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make aneffort for his life by dropping into the ditch.

Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulatedby the noise within the house, which announced that anentrance had really been effected, he set his foot against thestack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly andfirmly round it, and with the other made a strong runningnoose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second.He could let himself down by the cord to within a lessdistance of the ground than his own height, and had hisknife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop.

At the very instant when he brought the loop over hishead previous to slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and whenthe old gentleman before mentioned (who had clung so tightto the railing of the bridge as to resist the force of thecrowd and retain his position) earnestly warned those abouthim that the man was about to lower himself down—at thatvery instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof,threw his arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror.

"The eyes again!" he cried, in an unearthly screech.

Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balanceand tumbled over the parapet. The noose was at his neck.It ran up with his weight, tight as a bowstring, and swift asthe arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty feet. Therewas a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; andthere he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffeninghand.

The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood itbravely. The murderer swung lifeless against the wall; andthe boy, thrusting aside the dangling body which obscuredhis view, called to the people to come and take him out, forGod's sake.

A dog which had lain concealed till now ran backwardand forward on the parapet with a dismal howl, and,collecting himself for a spring, jumped for the dead man'sshoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turningcompletely over as he went, and, striking his head against astone, dashed out his brains.

THE POSTMISTRESS OF LAUREL RUN

BY BRET HARTE

Francis Bret Harte, born in 1839 at Albany,N. Y., left his home at the age of fifteen forCalifornia, in which pioneer State he accumulated,in seventeen years' experience as school-teacher,gold miner, printer, journalist, andeditor, so much and so rich literary materialthat he spent the remaining thirty years of hislife in working it up into "copy." He wonan international reputation by the "Luck ofRoaring Camp," published in 1868, and the"Outcasts of Poker Flat," published in 1869.He lived abroad from 1878 to the time ofhis death (1902), publishing many volumesof California stories, all distinguished bythe charm which won him his early fame.

THE POSTMISTRESS OF LAUREL RUN

By BRET HARTE

The mail stage had just passed Laurel Run—sorapidly that the whirling cloud of dust dragged withit down the steep grade from the summit hungover the level long after the stage had vanished,and then, drifting away, slowly sifted a red precipitate overthe hot platform of the Laurel Run Post-Office.

Out of this cloud presently emerged the neat figure of thePostmistress with the mail bag which had been dexterouslyflung at her feet from the top of the passing vehicle. Adozen loungers eagerly stretched out their hands to assisther, but the warning: "It's agin the rules, boys, for any buther to touch it," from a bystander, and a coquettish shake ofthe head from the Postmistress herself—much more effectivethan any official interdict—withheld them. The bag was notheavy—Laurel Run was too recent a settlement to haveattracted much correspondence—and the young woman, havingpounced upon her prey with a certain feline instinct, draggedit, not without difficulty, behind the partitioned enclosurein the office, and locked the door. Her pretty face,momentarily visible through the window, was slightly flushed withthe exertion, and the loose ends of her fair hair, wet withperspiration, curled themselves over her forehead into tantalizinglittle rings. But the window shutter was quickly closed,and this momentary but charming vision withdrawn fromthe waiting public.

"Guv'ment oughter have more sense than to make a womanpick mail bags outer the road," said Jo Simmons,sympathetically. "'Tain't in her day's work anyhow; Guv'mentoughter hand 'em over to her like a lady; it's rich enoughand ugly enough."

"'Tain't Guv'ment; it's that Stage Company's airs andgraces," interrupted a newcomer. "They think it mightyfine to go beltin' by, makin' everybody take their dust—justbecause stoppin' ain't in their contract. Why, if thatexpress-man who chucked down the bag had any feelin's for a lady—"but he stopped here at the amused faces of his auditors.

"Guess you don't know much o' that expressman's feelin's,stranger," said Simmons grimly. "Why, you oughter see himjust nussin' that bag like a baby as he comes tearin' downthe grade, and then rise up and sorter heave it to Mrs. Bakerez if it was a five dollar bokay! His feelin's for her!Why, he's give himself so dead away to her that we're lookingfor him to forget what he's doin' next, and just comesailin' down hisself at her feet."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the partition, Mrs. Bakerhad brushed the red dust from the padlocked bag, andremoved what seemed to be a supplementary package attachedto it by a wire. Opening it she found a handsome scent-bottle,evidently a superadded gift from the devoted express-man.This she put aside with a slight smile and the murmuredword, "Foolishness." But when she had unlocked thebag, even its sacred interior was also profaned by a covertparcel from the adjacent postmaster at Burnt Ridge,containing a gold "specimen" brooch and some circus tickets. Itwas laid aside with the other. This also was vanityand—presumably—vexation of spirit.

There were seventeen letters in all, of which five were forherself—and yet the proportion was small that morning.Two of them were marked "Official Business," and werepromptly put by with feminine discernment; but in anothercompartment than that holding the presents. Then theshutter was opened, and the task of delivery commenced.

It was accompanied with a social peculiarity that had intime become a habit of Laurel Run. As the young womandelivered the letters, in turn, to the men who were patientlydrawn up in Indian file, she made that simple act a mediumof privileged but limited conversation on special or generaltopics—gay or serious as the case might be—or the temperamentof the man suggested. That it was almost always ofa complimentary character on their part may be readilyimagined; but it was invariably characterized by an elementof refined restraint, and—whether from some impliedunderstanding or individual sense of honor—it never passed thebounds of conventionality or a certain delicacy of respect.The delivery was consequently more or less protracted, butwhen each man had exchanged his three or four minutes'conversation with the fair Postmistress—a conversation attimes impeded by bashfulness or timidity, on his part solely,or restricted often to vague smiling—he resignedly made wayfor the next. It was a formal levee, mitigated by the informalityof rustic tact, great good humor, and infinite patience,and would have been amusing, had it not always been terriblyin earnest and at times touching. For it was peculiar to theplace and the epoch, and indeed implied the whole history ofMrs. Baker.

She was the wife of John Baker, foreman of "The LastChance," now for a year lying dead under half a mile ofcrushed and beaten in tunnel at Burnt Ridge. There hadbeen a sudden outcry from the depths at high hot noontideone day, and John had rushed from his cabin—his young,foolish, flirting wife clinging to him—to answer thatdespairing cry of his imprisoned men. There was one exit that healone knew which might be yet held open, among fallingwalls and tottering timbers, long enough to set them free.For one moment only the strong man hesitated between herentreating arms and his brothers' despairing cry. But sherose suddenly with a pale face, and said, "Go, John; I willwait for you here." He went, the men were freed—but shehad waited for him ever since!

Yet in the shock of the calamity and in the after strugglesof that poverty which had come to the ruined camp, shehad scarcely changed. But the men had. Although she wasto all appearances the same giddy, pretty Betsy Baker, whohad been so disturbing to the younger members, they seemedto be no longer disturbed by her. A certain subdued awe andrespect, as if the martyred spirit of John Baker still held hisarm around her, appeared to have come upon them all. Theyheld their breath as this pretty woman, whose brief mourninghad not seemed to affect her cheerfulness or even playfulnessof spirit, passed before them. But she stood by hercabin and the camp—the only woman in a settlement of fortymen—during the darkest hours of their fortune. Helpingthem to wash and cook, and ministering to their domesticneeds; the sanctity of her cabin was, however, always keptas inviolable as if it had been his tomb. No one exactlyknew why, for it was only a tacit instinct; but even one ortwo who had not scrupled to pay court to Betsy Bakerduring John Baker's life shrank from even a suggestion offamiliarity toward the woman who had said that she would"wait for him there."

When brighter days came and the settlement had increasedby one or two families, and laggard capital had beenhurried up to relieve the still beleaguered and locked-upwealth of Burnt Ridge, the needs of the community and theclaims of the widow of John Baker were so well told inpolitical quarters that the post-office of Laurel Run wascreated expressly for her. Every man participated in thebuilding of the pretty yet substantial edifice—the only publicbuilding of Laurel Run—that stood in the dust of the greathighway, half a mile from the settlement. There she wasinstalled for certain hours of the day, for she could not beprevailed upon to abandon John's cabin, and here, with all theadded respect due to a public functionary, she was secure inher privacy.

But the blind devotion of Laurel Run to John Baker'srelict did not stop here. In its zeal to assure the Governmentauthorities of the necessity for a post-office, and tosecure a permanent competency to the postmistress, there wasmuch embarrassing extravagance. During the first week thesale of stamps at Laurel Run Post-Office was unprecedentedin the annals of the Department. Fancy prices were givenfor the first issue; then they were bought wildly, recklessly,unprofitably, and on all occasions. Complimentarycongratulation at the little window invariably ended with "and adollar's worth of stamps, Mrs. Baker." It was felt to besupremely delicate to buy only the highest priced stamps,without reference to their adequacy; then mere quantity wassought; then outgoing letters were all overpaid, and stampedin outrageous proportion to their weight and even size. Theimbecility of this, and its probable effect on the reputationof Laurel Run at the General Post-Office, being pointed outby Mrs. Baker, stamps were adopted as local currency, andeven for decorative purposes on mirrors and the walls ofcabins. Everybody wrote letters, with the result, however,that those sent were ludicrously and suspiciously in excessof those received. To obviate this, select parties made forcedjourneys to Hickory Hill, the next post-office, with lettersand circulars addressed to themselves at Laurel Run. Howlong the extravagance would have continued is not known,but it was not until it was rumored that, in consequence ofthis excessive flow of business, the Department had concludedthat a postmaster would be better fitted for the placethat it abated, and a compromise was effected with theGeneral Office by a permanent salary to the Postmistress.

Such was the history of Mrs. Baker, who had just finishedher afternoon levee, nodded a smiling "good-by" to her lastcustomer, and closed her shutter again. Then she took upher own letters, but, before reading them, glanced, with apretty impatience, at the two official envelopes addressed toherself, which she had shelved. They were generally a "lotof new rules," or notifications, or "absurd" questions whichhad nothing to do with Laurel Run, and only bothered herand "made her head ache," and she had usually referred themto her admiring neighbor at Hickory Hill for explanation,who had generally returned them to her with the briefendorsement, "Purp stuff, don't bother," or, "Hog wash, let itslide." She remembered now that he had not returned thetwo last. With knitted brows and a slight pout she putaside her private correspondence and tore open the first one.It referred with official curtness to an unansweredcommunication of the previous week, and was "compelled toremind her of rule 47." Again those horrid rules! Sheopened the other; the frown deepened on her brow, andbecame fixed.

It was a summary of certain valuable money letters thathad miscarried on the route, and of which they had given herprevious information. For a moment her cheeks blazed.How dare they; what did they mean! Her way-bills andregister were always right; she knew the names of everyman, woman, and child in her district; no such names asthose borne by the missing letters had ever existed at LaurelRun; no such addresses had ever been sent from Laurel RunPost-Office. It was a mean insinuation! She would sendin her resignation at once! She would get "the boys" to writean insulting letter to Senator Slocumb—Mrs. Baker had thefeminine idea of Government as a purely personalinstitution—and she would find out who it was that had put themup to this prying, crawling impudence! It was probablythat wall-eyed old wife of the postmaster at Heavy TreeCrossing, who was jealous of her. "Remind her of theirprevious unanswered communication," indeed! Where wasthat communication, anyway? She remembered she hadsent it to her admirer at Hickory Hill. Odd that he hadn'tanswered it. Of course, he knew all about this meanness—couldhe, too, have dared to suspect her! The thoughtturned her crimson again. He, Stanton Green, was an old"Laurel Runner," a friend of John's, a little "triflin'" and"presoomin'," but still an old loyal pioneer of the camp!"Why hadn't he spoke up?"

There was the soft muffled fall of a horse's hoof in thethick dust of the highway, the jingle of dismounting spurs,and a firm tread on the platform. No doubt, one of the boysreturning for a few supplemental remarks under the feeblepretense of forgotten stamps. It had been done before, andshe had resented it as "cayotin' round"; but now she waseager to pour out her wrongs to the first comer. She hadher hand impulsively on the door of the partition, when shestopped with a new sense of her impaired dignity. Couldshe confess this to her worshipers? But here the dooropened in her very face and a stranger entered.

He was a man of fifty, compactly and strongly built. Asquarely cut goatee, slightly streaked with gray, fell straightfrom his thin-lipped but handsome mouth; his eyes weredark, humorous, yet searching. But the distinctive qualitythat struck Mrs. Baker was the blending of urban ease withfrontier frankness. He was evidently a man who had seencities and knew countries as well. And while he was dressedwith the comfortable simplicity of a Californian mountedtraveler, her inexperienced but feminine eye detected thekeynote of his respectability in the carefully tied bow of hiscravat. The Sierrean throat was apt to be open, free, andunfettered.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Baker," he said, pleasantly, with hishat already in his hand. "I'm Harry Home, of SanFrancisco." As he spoke his eye swept approvingly over the neatenclosure, the primly tied papers, and well-kept pigeon-holes;the pot of flowers on her desk; her china silk mantle, andkilling little chip hat and ribbons hanging against the wall;thence to her own pink flushed face, bright blue eyes,tendriled clinging hair, and then—fell upon the leathern mailbag still lying across the table. Here it became fixed on theunfortunate wire of the amorous expressman that yetremained hanging from the brass wards of the lock, and hereached his hand toward it.

But little Mrs. Baker was before him, and had seized itin her arms. She had been too preoccupied and bewilderedto resent his first intrusion behind the partition, but thislast familiarity with her sacred official property—albeitempty—capped the climax of her wrongs.

"How dare you touch it!" she said indignantly. "Howdare you come in here! Who are you, anyway? Go outsideat once!"

The stranger fell back with an amused, deprecatory gesture,and a long, silent laugh. "I'm afraid you don't know me,after all!" he said, pleasantly. "I'm Harry Home, theDepartment Agent from the San Francisco office. My note ofadvice, No. 201, with my name on the envelope, seems to havemiscarried too."

Even in her fright and astonishment it flashed uponMrs. Baker that she had sent that notice, too, to Hickory Hill.But with it all the feminine secretive instinct within her wasnow thoroughly aroused, and she kept silent.

"I ought to have explained," he went on smilingly; "butyou are quite right, Mrs. Baker," he added, nodding towardthe bag. "As far as you knew, I had no business to go nearit. Glad to see you know how to defend Uncle Sam'sproperty so well. I was only a bit puzzled to know" (pointing tothe wire) "if that thing was on the bag when it wasdelivered to you?"

Mrs. Baker saw no reason to conceal the truth. After allthis official was a man like the others, and it was just aswell that he should understand her power. "It's only theexpressman's foolishness," she said, with a slightly coquettishtoss of her head. "He thinks it smart to tie some nonsenseon that bag with the wire when he flings it down."

Mr. Home, with his eyes on her pretty face, seemed tothink it a not inhuman or unpardonable folly. "As long ashe doesn't meddle with the inside of the bag, I suppose youmust put up with it," he said, laughingly. A dreadfulrecollection that the Hickory Hill postmaster had used the insideof the bag to convey his foolishness came across her. Itwould never do to confess it now. Her face must have shownsome agitation, for the official resumed with a half-paternal,half-reassuring air, "But enough of this. Now, Mrs. Baker,to come to my business here! Briefly, then, it doesn'tconcern you in the least, except so far as it may relieve you andsome others whom the Department knows equally well froma certain responsibility, and, perhaps, anxiety. We are prettywell posted down there in all that concerns Laurel Run, andI think" (with a slight bow), "we've known all about you andJohn Baker. My only business here is to take your placeto-night in receiving the 'Omnibus Way Bag,' that you knowarrives here at 9.30, doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Baker, hurriedly; "but it never hasanything for us, except—" (she caught herself up quickly,with a stammer, as she remembered the sighing Green'soccasional offerings), "except a notification from Hickory HillPost-Office. It leaves there," she went on with an affectationof precision, "at half-past eight exactly, and it's aboutan hour's run—seven miles by road."

"Exactly," said Mr. Home. "Well, I will receive the bag,open it, and despatch it again. You can, if you choose, takea holiday."

"But," said Mrs. Baker, as she remembered that LaurelRun always made a point of attending her evening levee onaccount of the superior leisure it offered, "there are thepeople who come for letters, you know."

"I thought you said there were no letters at that time,"said Mr. Home, quickly.

"No—but—but" (with a slight hysterical stammer) "theboys come all the same."

"Oh!" said Mr. Home, dryly.

"And—O Lord!—" But here the spectacle of the possiblediscomfiture of Laurel Run at meeting the bearded face ofMr. Home, instead of her own smooth cheeks, at the window,combined with her nervous excitement, overcame her so that,throwing her little frilled apron over her head, she gave wayto a paroxysm of hysterical laughter. Mr. Home waited withamused toleration for it to stop, and, when she had recovered,resumed: "Now, I should like to refer an instant to myfirst communication to you. Have you got it handy?"

Mrs. Baker's face fell. "No; I sent it over to Mr. Green,of Hickory Hill, for information."

"What!"

Terrified at the sudden seriousness of the man's voice, shemanaged to gasp out, however, that, after her usual habit,she had not opened the official letters, but had sent them toher more experienced colleague for advice and information;that she never could understand them herself—they madeher head ache, and interfered with her other duties—but heunderstood them, and sent her word what to do. Remembering,also, his usual style of endorsement, she grew redagain.

"And what did he say?"

"Nothing; he didn't return them."

"Naturally," said Mr. Home, with a peculiar expression.After a few moments' silent stroking of his beard, hesuddenly faced the frightened woman.

"You oblige me, Mrs. Baker, to speak more frankly toyou than I had intended. You have—unwittingly, Ibelieve—given information to a man whom the Governmentsuspects of peculation. You have, without knowing it, warnedthe Postmaster at Hickory Hill that he is suspected; and,as you might have frustrated our plans for tracing a seriesof embezzlements to their proper source, you will see thatyou might have also done great wrong to yourself as his onlyneighbor and the next responsible person. In plain words,we have traced the disappearance of money letters to a pointwhen it lies between these two offices. Now, I have not theleast hesitation in telling you that we do not suspect LaurelRun, and never have suspected it. Even the result of yourthoughtless act, although it warned him, confirms oursuspicion of his guilt. As to the warning, it has failed, or hehas grown reckless, for another letter has been missed since.To-night, however, will settle all doubt in the matter. WhenI open that bag in this office to-night, and do not find acertain decoy letter in it, which was last checked at Heavy TreeCrossing, I shall know that it remains in Green's possessionat Hickory Hill."

She was sitting back in her chair, white and breathless.He glanced at her kindly, and then took up his hat. "Come,Mrs. Baker, don't let this worry you. As I told you at first,you have nothing to fear. Even your thoughtlessness andignorance of rules has contributed to show your owninnocence. Nobody will ever be the wiser for this; we do notadvertise our affairs in the Department. Not a soul butyourself knows the real cause of my visit here. I will leave youhere alone for a while, so as to divert any suspicion. You willcome, as usual, this evening, and be seen by your friends; Iwill only be here when the bag arrives, to open it. Good-by,Mrs. Baker; it's a nasty bit of business, but it's all in theday's work. I've seen worse, and, thank God, you're outof it."

She heard his footsteps retreat into the outer office anddie out of the platform; the jingle of his spurs, and thehollow beat of his horsehoofs that seemed to find a dull echo inher own heart, and she was alone.

The room was very hot and very quiet; she could hearthe warping and creaking of the shingles under the relaxingof the nearly level sunbeams. The office clock struck seven.In the breathless silence that followed, a woodpecker tookup his interrupted work on the roof, and seemed to beat outmonotonously in her ear the last words of the stranger:Stanton Green—a thief! Stanton Green, one of the "boys"John had helped out of the falling tunnel! Stanton Green,whose old mother in the States still wrote letters to him atLaurel Run, in a few hours to be a disgraced and ruinedman forever! She remembered now, as a thoughtless womanremembers, tales of his extravagance and fast living, ofwhich she had taken no heed, and, with a sense of shame,of presents sent her, that she now clearly saw must havebeen far beyond his means. What would the boys say? whatwould John have said? Ah! what would John havedone!

She started suddenly to her feet, white and cold as onthat day that she had parted from John Baker before thetunnel. She put on her hat and mantle, and going to thatlittle iron safe that stood in the corner, unlocked it, and tookout its entire contents of gold and silver. She had reachedthe door when another idea seized her, and opening her deskshe collected her stamps to the last sheet, and hurriedly rolledthem up under her cape. Then with a glance at the clock,and a rapid survey of the road from the platform, she slippedfrom it, and seemed to be swallowed up in the waiting woodsbeyond.

Once within the friendly shadows of the long belt ofpines, Mrs. Baker kept them until she had left the limitedsettlement of Laurel Run far to the right, and came upon anopen slope of Burnt Ridge, where she knew Jo Simmons'smustang, Blue Lightning, would be quietly feeding. Shehad often ridden him before, and when she had detached thefifty-foot riata from his headstall, he permitted her thefurther recognized familiarity of twining her fingers in hisbluish mane and climbing on his back. The tool shed ofBurnt Ridge Tunnel, where Jo's saddle and bridle alwayshung, was but a canter further on. She reached it unperceived,and—another trick of the old days—quickly extemporizeda side saddle from Simmons's Mexican tree, with itshigh cantle and horn bow, and the aid of a blanket. Thenleaping to her seat, she rapidly threw off her mantle, tiedit by its sleeves around her waist, tucked it under one knee,and let it fall over her horse's flanks. By this time BlueLightning was also struck with a flash of equine recollection,and pricked up his ears. Mrs. Baker uttered a littlechirping cry which he remembered, and the next momentthey were both careering over the Ridge.

The trail that she had taken, though precipitate, difficult,and dangerous in places, was a clear gain of two miles onthe stage road. There was less chance of her being followedor meeting any one. The greater cañons were already inshadow; the pines on the further ridges were separatingtheir masses, and showing individual silhouettes against thesky, but the air was still warm, and the cool breath of night,as she well knew it, had not yet begun to flow down themountain. The lower range of Burnt Ridge was stilluneclipsed by the creeping shadow of the mountain ahead ofher. Without a watch, but with this familiar and slowlychanging dial spread out before her, she knew the time toa minute. Heavy Tree Hill, a lesser height in the distance,was already wiped out by that shadowy index finger—half-pastseven! The stage would be at Hickory Hill just beforehalf-past eight; she ought to anticipate it, if possible—itwould stay ten minutes to change horses—she must arrivebefore it left!

There was a good two-mile level before the rise of thenext range. Now, Blue Lightning! all you know! And thatwas much—for with the little chip hat and fluttering ribbonswell bent down over the bluish mane, and the streaminggauze of her mantle almost level with the horse's back, sheswept down across the long table-land like a skimming bluejay. A few more bird-like dips up and down the undulations,and then came the long, cruel ascent of the Divide.

Acrid with perspiration, caking with dust, slithering inthe slippery, impalpable powder of the road, groggily staggeringin a red dusty dream, coughing, snorting, head-tossing;becoming suddenly dejected, with slouching haunch andlimp legs on easy slopes, or wildly spasmodic and agile onsharp acclivities, Blue Lightning began to have ideas andrecollections! Ah! she was a devil for a lark—thislightly-clinging, caressing, blarneying, cooing creature—up there!He remembered her now. Ha! very well then. Hoop la!And suddenly leaping out like a rabbit, bucking, trottinghard, ambling lightly, "loping" on three legs, and recreatinghimself—as only a Californian mustang could—the invincibleBlue Lightning at last stood triumphantly upon the summit.The evening star had just pricked itself through the goldenmist of the horizon line—eight o'clock! She could do it now!But here, suddenly, her first hesitation seized her. She knewher horse, she knew the trail, she knew herself—but did sheknow the man to whom she was riding? A cold chill creptover her, and then she shivered in a sudden blast; it wasNight at last swooping down from the now invisible Sierras,and possessing all it touched. But it was only one longdescent to Hickory Hill now, and she swept down securely onits wings. Half-past eight! The lights of the settlementwere just ahead of her—but so, too, were the two lamps ofthe waiting stage before the post-office and hotel.

Happily the lounging crowd were gathered around thehotel, and she slipped into the post-office from the rear,unperceived. As she stepped behind the partition, its onlyoccupant—a good-looking young fellow with a reddishmustache—turned toward her with a flush of delighted surprise.But it changed at the sight of the white, determined faceand the brilliant eyes that had never looked once towardhim, but were fixed upon a large bag, whose yawning mouthwas still open and propped up beside his desk.

"Where is the through money letter that came in thatbag?" she said, quickly.

"What—do—you—mean?" he stammered, with a face thathad suddenly grown whiter than her own.

"I mean that it's a decoy, checked at Heavy Tree Crossing,and that Mr. Home, of San Francisco is now waitingat my office to know if you have taken it!"

The laugh and lie that he had at first tried to summonto mouth and lips never reached them. For, under the spellof her rigid, truthful face, he turned almost mechanically tohis desk, and took out a package.

"Good God! you've opened it already!" she cried, pointingto the broken seal.

The expression on her face, more than anything she hadsaid, convinced him that she knew all. He stammered underthe new alarm that her despairing tone suggested. "Yes!—Iwas owing some bills—the collector was waiting here forthe money, and I took something from the packet. But Iwas going to make it up by next mail—I swear it."

"How much have you taken?"

"Only a trifle. I—"

"How much?"

"A hundred dollars!"

She dragged the money she had brought from Laurel Runfrom her pocket, and, counting out the sum, replaced it in theopen package. He ran quickly to get the sealing wax, butshe motioned him away as she dropped the package back intothe mail bag.

"No; as long as the money is found in the bag thepackage may have been broken accidentally. Now burstopen one or two of those other packages a little—so;"she took out a packet of letters and bruised their officialwrappings under her little foot until the tape fastening wasloosened. "Now give me something heavy." She caughtup a brass two-pound weight, and in the same feverish butcollected haste wrapped it in paper, sealed it, stamped it,and, addressing it in a large printed hand to herself at LaurelHill, dropped it in the bag. Then she closed it and lockedit; he would have assisted her, but she again waved himaway. "Send for the expressman, and keep yourself out ofthe way for a moment," she said curtly.

An attitude of weak admiration and foolish passion hadtaken the place of his former tremulous fear. He obeyedexcitedly, but without a word. Mrs. Baker wiped her moistforehead and parched lips, and shook out her skirt. Wellmight the young expressman start at the unexpected revelationof those sparkling eyes and that demurely smiling mouthat the little window.

"Mrs. Baker!"

She put her finger quickly to her lips, and threw a worldof unutterable and enigmatical meaning into her mischievousface.

"There's a big San Francisco swell takin' my place atLaurel to-night, Charley."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And it's a pity that the Omnibus Waybag happenedto get such a shaking up and banging round already, cominghere."

"Eh?"

"I say," continued Mrs. Baker, with great gravity anddancing eyes, "that it would be just awful if that keerfulcity clerk found things kinder mixed up inside when hecomes to open it. I wouldn't give him trouble for the world,Charley."

"No, ma'am, it ain't like you."

"So you'll be particularly careful on my account."

"Mrs. Baker," said Charley, with infinite gravity, "if thatbag should tumble off a dozen times between this andLaurel Hill, I'll hop down and pick it up myself."

"Thank you! shake!"

They shook hands gravely across the window ledge.

"And you ain't goin' down with us, Mrs. Baker?"

"Of course not; it wouldn't do—for I ain't here—don'tyou see?"

"Of course!"

She handed him the bag through the door. He took itcarefully, but in spite of his great precaution fell over ittwice on his way to the road, where from certain exclamationsand shouts it seemed that a like miserable mischanceattended its elevation to the boot. Then Mrs. Baker cameback into the office, and, as the wheels rolled away, threwherself into a chair, and inconsistently gave way for the firsttime to an outburst of tears. Then her hand was graspedsuddenly, and she found Green on his knees before her. Shestarted to her feet.

"Don't move," he said, with weak hysteric passion, "butlisten to me, for God's sake! I am ruined, I know, eventhough you have just saved me from detection and disgrace.I have been mad!—a fool, to do what I have done,I know, but you do not know all—you do not know why I didit—you can not think of the temptation that has driven meto it. Listen, Mrs. Baker. I have been striving to getmoney, honestly, dishonestly—anyway, to look well in youreyes—to make myself worthy of you—to make myself rich,and to be able to offer you a home and take you away fromLaurel Run. It was all for you—it was all for love of you,Betsy, my darling. Listen to me!"

In the fury, outraged sensibility, indignation, and infinitedisgust that filled her little body at that moment, she shouldhave been large, imperious, goddess-like, and commanding.But God is at times ironical with suffering womanhood.She could only writhe her hand from his grasp with childishcontortions; she could only glare at him with eyes that wereprettily and piquantly brilliant; she could only slap at hisdetaining hand with a plump and velvety palm, and whenshe found her voice it was high falsetto. And all she couldsay was: "Leave me be, looney, or I'll scream!"

He rose, with a weak, confused laugh, half of miserableaffectation and half of real anger and shame.

"What did you come riding over here for, then? Whatdid you take all this risk for? Why did you rush over hereto share my disgrace—for you are as much mixed up withthis now as I am—if you didn't calculate to share everythingelse with me? What did you come here for, then, if notfor me?"

"What did I come here for?" said Mrs. Baker, with everydrop of red blood gone from her cheek and trembling lip."What—did—I—come here for? Well!—I came here forJohn Baker's sake! John Baker, who stood between youand death at Burnt Ridge, as I stand between you anddamnation at Laurel Run, Mr. Green! Yes, John Baker,lying under half of Burnt Ridge, but more to me this daythan any living man crawling over it—in—in"—Oh, fatalclimax!—"in a month o' Sundays! What did I come herefor? I came here as John Baker's livin' wife to carry ondead John Baker's work. Yes, dirty work this time, maybe,Mr. Green! but his work, and for him only—precious! That'swhat I came here for; that's what I live for; that's what I'mwaiting for—to be up to him and his work always! That'sme—Betsy Baker!"

She walked up and down rapidly, tying her chip hatunder her chin again. Then she stopped, and taking herchamois purse from her pocket, laid it sharply on the desk.

"Stanton Green, don't be a fool! Rise up out of this,and be a man again. Take enough out o' that bag to paywhat you owe Gov'ment, send in your resignation, and keepthe rest to start you in a honest life elsewhere. But lightout o' Hickory Hill afore this time to-morrow."

She pulled her mantle from the wall and opened the door.

"You are going?" he said, bitterly.

"Yes." Either she could not hold seriousness long in hercapricious little fancy, or, with feminine tact, she soughtto make the parting less difficult for him, for she brokeinto a dazzling smile. "Yes, I'm goin' to run Blue Lightningagin Charley and that way-bag back to Laurel Run, andbreak the record."

It is said that she did! Perhaps owing to the fact thatthe grade of the return journey to Laurel Run was in herfavor, and that she could avoid the long, circuitous ascentto the summit taken by the stage, or that, owing to theextraordinary difficulties in the carriage of theway-bag—which had to be twice rescued from under the wheels ofthe stage—she entered the Laurel Run post-office as thecoach leaders came trotting up the hill. Mr. Home wasalready on the platform.

"You'll have to ballast your next way-bag, boss," saidCharley, gravely, as it escaped his clutches once more inthe dust of the road, "or you'll have to make a new contractwith the company. We've lost ten minutes in five milesover that bucking thing."

Home did not reply, but quickly dragged his prize intothe office, scarcely noticing Mrs. Baker, who stood besidehim pale and breathless. As the bolt of the bag was drawn,revealing its chaotic interior, Mrs. Baker gave a little sigh.Home glanced quickly at her, emptied the bag upon thefloor, and picked up the broken and half-filled money parcel.Then he collected the scattered coins and counted them."It's all right, Mrs. Baker," he said gravely. "He's safe thistime!"

"I'm so glad!" said little Mrs. Baker, with a hypocriticalgasp.

"So am I," returned Home, with increasing gravity, ashe took the coin, "for, from all I have gathered thisafter-noon, it seems he was an old prisoner of Laurel Run, afriend of your husband's, and, I think, more fool than knave!" Hewas silent for a moment, clicking the coins against eachother; then he said carelessly: "Did he get quite away,Mrs. Baker?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," saidMrs. Baker, with a lofty air of dignity, but a somewhatdebasing color. "I don't see why I should know anythingabout it, or why he should go away at all."

"Well," said Mr. Home, laying his hand gently on thewidow's shoulder, "well, you see, it might have occurred tohis friends that the coins were marked! That is, no doubt,the reason why he would take their good advice and go. But,as I said before, Mrs. Baker, you're all right, whateverhappens—the Government stands by you!"

THE CAPTAIN'S VICES

BY FRANCOIS COPPEE

Francois Edouard Joachim Coppée (born1842), poet and story-writer; has happilycharacterized himself as "a man of refinementwho enjoys simple people, an aristocratwho loves the masses." The son of a clerkin the War Department, and himself acitizen-soldier during the Franco-Prussian War, hehas made a close study of militarycharacter, as appears in the present selection.

Owing to his unusual sympathy with thetrials, joys, and foibles of life among themiddle and lower classes of Paris, Coppéehas endeared himself to the general publicas perhaps no other writer of thisgeneration has succeeded in doing.

THE CAPTAIN'S VICES*

By FRANCOIS COPPEE

*Translated for Great Short Stories by Mrs. J. L. Meyer.

The name of the place where Captain Mercadier(thirty years in the service, twenty-two campaigns,and three wounds) settled when he was retired isof small importance. It was a place similar to allthe little cities which strive to acquire, but do not acquire,a branch railway station. As there was no railway stationthere the natives had but one diversion: they all met on thePlace de la Fontaine at the same hour every day to see thediligence roll in to the cracking of the long whip and thejingling of the little bells. The city numbered 3,000inhabitants (ambitiously called by the statistics "souls"), and itfed its vanity on the fact that it was the county-seat. Itpossessed ramparts shaded by trees, a pretty river forfishing with the line, and a church of the charming epoch ofthe flamboyant Gothic, dishonored by a terrible "Stations ofthe Cross," sent down direct from Saint Sulpice.

Always on Monday the public square was mottled withthe great blue and red umbrellas of the market; and thecountry people came in in carts and berlins. But the restof the week the village fell back with drowsy delight intothe silence and the solitude which endeared it to the soberbourgeoise who made up its 3,000 "souls."

The streets were paved in little patterns, and through theclosed windows of the ground floors could be seen bouquetsmade of the hair of the departed—or of some other hair—andwreaths of orange blossoms on cushions under glass shades.And through the half-glass doors of the gardens passers-bycould see statuettes of Napoleon formed of clam-shells. Ofcourse, the principal inn was named "l'Ecu de France." Thetown registrar was a poet; he rimed acrostics for the ladiesof the best society of the place.

Captain Mercadier had chosen that particular village forthe frivolous reason that it was his birthplace. In hisboisterous youth he had mutilated the advertising signs andchipped splinters out of the porcelain bell-knobs. Despitethese potent reasons, he had neither relations nor friends inthe city, and his memories of his childhood held nothing butthe indignant faces of the tradesmen, who showed him theirclenched fists as they screamed and capered on their doorsills;the catechism, which menaced him with hell; a schoolwhere he was told that he should die upon the scaffold,and—last memory of all—his departure for the regiment, adeparture hastened a trifle by the paternal malediction. For hewas no saint, this captain! The record of his career wasblack with days passed in the guard-house (causes forpunishment being absence from roll-call without leave, andorgies after taps). Time and time again he had been strippedof his chevrons (both as corporal and as sergeant), and ithad been only by chance—thanks to the broad license of thecampaign—that he had won his first epaulette. Stern andbold soldier, he had passed the greater part of his life inAlgeria, having enlisted at the time when our men in the rankswore the high kepi and white cross-belt and carried theheavy cartridge-box. He had had Lamoricière for commandant;the Duc de Nemours (who had been near him whenhe received his first wound) had decorated him; and while hewas sergeant-major old Bugeaud had called him by his givenname and pulled his ears. He had been a prisoner of Abd-el-Kadir;he bore the scars of a yataghan on his neck; carriedone bullet in his shoulder and another in his leg; and,despite absinthe, duels, and gambling debts, and thealmond-shaped black eyes of the Jewesses, he had forced victory atthe point of the bayonet and the sabre, and so won hisgrade of Captain in the First Regiment of Cuirassiers.Captain Mercadier (thirty years of service, twenty-twocampaigns, three wounds) had just been retired, and for the firsttime drawn his half-pay—not quite two hundred dollars,which, added to the fifty dollars accompanying his cross,placed him in the condition of honorable poverty reserved bythe state for the men who have best served her.

The Captain's entrance in his native town was devoid ofpomp. He arrived one morning in the imperial of the diligence,chewing the remains of an extinct cigar, and talkingand laughing with the driver, to whom during the journey hehad narrated the story of how he had passed the Iron Gates.His auditor had cut the narrative by oaths or by gross threatsaddressed to the straining mare upon the right, but Mercadierwas indulgent, and he had told his history to its end.

When the diligence drew into the Place de la Fontaine heflung down an old valise covered by labels representing allthe railroads that he had traveled when he changed garrison,and three minutes later the assembled citizens were stupefiedby the spectacle of a man wearing the ribbon, standing atthe zinc counter of the nearest wine-shop and drinking andcracking jokes with the driver. (The fact of his ribbonwould have been exciting had there been nothing else!)

Mercadier, Captain of the First, installed himself, insoldier fashion, very summarily, in a house in the suburbs,where two captive cows were lowing, and where ducks andchickens waddled or strutted with uplifted claw, passing andrepassing the open door of a wagon-house. Mercadier hadseen a sign, "Furnished room to let," and, preceded by alady as dragoon-like as himself, had mounted some stairs(guarded by a wooden railing and perfumed by the strongodors of a stable), and had entered a large room with a tiledfloor, with walls gaily covered with paper representing (inbright blue on a white ground) Joseph Poniatowski, multipliedad infinitum and leaping courageously into the Elster.It is probable that there was some subtle power for seductionin this bizarre decoration; for, without an instant'shesitation, without forebodings as to the almost inevitablediscomfort presaged by the hard straw chairs, the stiff, neglectedblack walnut furniture, or the narrow bed with curtainsyellowed by their years, he closed the bargain, and in a quarterof an hour he had emptied his trunk, hung his clothes, sethis boots in a corner, and decorated the blue walls with a"trophy" composed of three pipes, a sabre, and a brace ofpistols. That done, he sallied forth, visited the grocery andthe wine-shop across the way, bought a pound of candlesand a bottle of rum, returned to his room, set his purchaseson the mantel-shelf, and looked around him with the air ofa man well pleased. Then, according to a habit acquired inbarracks and in the field, he shaved without a mirror, brushedhis coat, pulled his hat over his ears, and went out in searchof a café.

This visit to the café was a settled habit.

The Captain had three vices, equally balanced, and hesatisfied all their claims. His vices were: Tobacco, Absinthe,and Cards. The greater part of his life had passed in cafés,and had any one denied it, he might have drawn a map ofthe countries where he had lived, and placed in that map allthe cafés, just as they had stood when he had visited them.He was never at his ease unless seated on the smooth velvetof a café bench, before a square of green cloth, on which,as he played his games, glasses and saucers accumulated; andhis cigars were never just right unless he could strike hismatches on the rough underside of the marble table.

And he had never failed, having hung his sabre and hiskepi on a peg, to settle down into his chair, unbutton some ofthe buttons of his vest, to heave a sigh and to cry out:"There, that is better!"

So now, his first care was to choose his café; and, havinggone round the city, not finding just what he wished for, hefixed his critical eyes upon the café Prosper (at the angle ofthe Place du Marché and the rue de la Paroisse). It was nothis ideal of a café. The exterior offered several detailssmacking too much of the province—for instance, that waiterin the black apron; the little yew trees in boxes paintedgreen; the tables covered with white oilcloth! But theCaptain liked the interior, so he took his place there.Immediately after his entrance he was rejoiced by the sound of thecall-bell, pressed by the fat hand of the stout, florid cashier(dress of summer lightness; a red ribbon in her well-oiledhair). He saluted her with the gallantry of an officer(retired). He noticed that she held her place with majestysufficient to the occasion, and that she was flanked by quaintpyramids of billiard balls. The café was bright and clean,and evenly carpeted with yellow sand. He sauntered aroundthe room, looked into the mirrors and at the pictures, inwhich musketeers and ladies in riding-dress sipped champagnein landscapes full of hollyhocks. He ordered drinks.Flies were dying in his wine; but he was a soldier, habituatedto witness death. As a man he was indulgent, and heignored the very visible tragedies with a stoicism groundedby long experience in wild countries, where insects bathe inwine with a familiarity strictly provincial. Eight days laterhe was one of the pillars of the Café Prosper. His punctualhabits were known there; the waiters anticipated his wishes.Soon he ate his meals with the proprietors of the café.

The Captain was a precious recruit for the café's habitualclients (people who were bored to death by the terribleinertia of the province); to them his arrival was a windfall.Here was a man who had seen the world—past master ofall the games! He told, gaily enough, about his wars andhis love affairs. He was enchanted to find people who wereignorant of his history. It would take six months to tellthem of his raids, his skirmishes, his outpost duty of a darknight, his battles, his hunts, the retreat from Constantine,the capture of Bou-Mazâ, the officers' receptions, with theirillimitible number of punches "au kirsch." Ah! humanweakness! he was not sorry to be a little of an oraclesomewhere, at least; he from whom the subs, just delivered fromSaint-Cyr, had fled to escape his stories.

As a general thing his auditors were the master of thecafé (a fat beer-sack, silent and stupid; always in short-sleeves,and remarkable for nothing but his painted pipes), theconstable, a dogged gentleman dressed like an undertaker—hewas despised because he carried off the sugar that he couldnot use in his mazagran—the registrar, the man who wroteacrostics, truly a very sweet-tempered man, and a man ofvery weak constitution, who sent answers to the riddles inthe illustrated journals; and, last of all, the veterinary ofthe county, who, in his quality of atheist and democrat,permitted himself to contradict the Captain now and then. Thispractitioner was a man with bushy whiskers and eyeglasses.He presided when the Radical Committee met toward electiontime. When the parish priest took up a little collectionamong the devotees of his congregation (to the end thathe might decorate his church with some horrible gildedplaster statue), the veterinary wrote a letter to the "Siècle"denouncing "the cupidity of the sons of Loyola."

One evening the Captain left his cards and went out to getcigars. He had just had an animated political discussionwith the veterinary. As soon as he was out of hearing theveterinary muttered some tirades, in which could bedistinguished such phrases as "Sabre trailer!" "Braggart!" "Lethim keep to facts!" "Smash his face for him!" etc. While theveterinary was grumbling, the Captain came back, whistlinga march and twisting his cane as he had twisted his sabre.The veterinary stopped as if struck by lightning; and theincident was closed.

But this was only an incident; on the whole, the littlecommunity of the Café Prosper had few discussions. Theold residents yielded peaceably to the presidency of thestranger. Mercadier's martial head, the white beard trimmedafter the fashion of the Bearnais, were imposing enough;and the little city, already so proud of many things, had onething more to boast of—her most conspicuous representative:

 ┌──────────────────────────────────────┐ │ MERCADIER │ │ │ │ Captain of the First Cuirassiers │ │ Army of France (Retired) │ └──────────────────────────────────────┘

There is no such thing as perfect happiness, and CaptainMercadier, who had thought that he had found it (happiness)when he installed himself in his café, was forced to abjure hisillusions. On market-day the café was not fit to turn acard in. From daybreak it swarmed with trucksters,farmers, men who sold hogs, eggs, and poultry; loud-mouthedpeople with thick, sunburnt necks, carrying mammoth rawhides,slouching about in blue blouses and otter-skin caps,who drank as they drove their bargains, thumped the tableswith their fists, called the waiter "thou," cracked the billiardballs, and "raised hell" generally. When the Captainentered the café for his 11 a.m. breakfast, he found theroom full of drunkards lying over the tables, staggeringabout or bolting their coarse dinners. His own place wastaken. The cashier's bell rang incessantly; the proprietorand the waiter bustled about, napkins on arms; in short, itwas a day of bad luck, and the days preceding it weighed onthe Captain's spirits like presentiments of evil. One Mondaymorning his courage failed him and he decided to eat athome.

He knew that the café would swarm; that he could noteat or drink in peace; that the green table would be unfitfor play. But a ray of the soft autumnal sunlight enticedhim, and he went out and took his seat on the stone benchby the street door. He was sitting there, smoking hisdamp cigar, melancholy enough, when he saw, comingdown the street, a little girl eight or ten years old,driving before her a flock of geese. In her hand she held aswitch.

Looking fixedly at her as she drew nearer, the Captainsaw that she had a wooden leg. There was nothing of thefather in the heart of the old soldier; he was a hardenedbachelor, impervious as a shellback to the feelings of afamily-father; in the days of his service in Algeria, when thelittle Arabs had pursued him, imploring him with their softeyes, he had chased them with a whip. On the few occasionsof his visits to his married comrades he had gone homegrowling against their ill-kept and weeping "young ones,"who had "pawed" his gold lace with unclean fingers. Butthe strange aspect of this child, the peculiarity of herinfirmity, moved him with feelings that he had never known.His heart contracted at sight of the little creature. Thewasted frame was barely covered by a ragged skirt andworn-out shirt. And then she followed her geese so bravely!The dust arose in clouds around her bare foot as she stumpedalong on her ill-made wooden leg.

Recognizing their residence, the geese entered thecourtyard and the child was following them, when the old manstopped her.

"Eh! little girl!" he cried, "what is your name?"

"Pierrette, at your service, sir," answered the child, fixinggreat dark eyes upon him and putting back her disorderedhair.

"Do you belong here? I have never seen you until now."

"Oh! yes, and I know you well. I sleep under the stairs,and you wake me up every night when you come home."

"Truly? Well, hereafter I will come on tiptoes. How oldare you?"

"Nine years old, sir, next All Saints."

"Is the madame your mother?"

"No, sir. I am a servant."

"What do they pay you?"

"They give me my soup and my bed under the stairs."

"How did you get that arrangement?" (pointing to thewooden leg).

"A horse kicked me when I was six years old."

"Are your parents living?"

The pale face reddened, and she murmured, hesitating asif ashamed to confess it:

"I am a foundling."

Then with an awkward salute she limped away, passingunder the porte-cochère; and the Captain heard the clickingof the wooden leg as it struck the pavement of the courtyard.

"Good heavens!" he said, mechanically taking the road tothe café.

"This is not according to regulations! If a soldier loseshis leg he goes to the hospital! They give him money fortobacco. This one has to work and they give her nothing!That is too much! Such an infirmity! Too bad! too bad!" Hehad reached the café, but when he saw the blue blouses,and when he heard the roars of coarse laughter, he turnedaway and retraced his steps. He was in very bad humor.

He had never been in his room so long when it wasdaylight. The room was sordid! The bed-curtains werethe color of tanned meerschaum; the rug was littered withcigar stumps and with other things more appropriate for thecuspidor than for the carpet; the dust lay on everything,and so thick that a man might write his name in it.

He gazed at the blue walls, the pictured river, where thesublime lancer of Leipsic met his glorious death; then, topass the time, he reviewed his wardrobe.

"I need a striker," he murmured. "As I am now I shouldnot pass muster"; and suddenly his thoughts turned to thecripple.

"I have it! I will rent the adjoining room! Winter iscoming; the little one would freeze under the stairs! she shallbe my striker, caterer, sutler; that one is brave enough fora man! Quoi!"

Then his face clouded; quarter-day was coming, and hewas deep in debt at the café.

"I am not rich enough," he said gloomily, "and yet theyrob me down there! I could stake my pay on that! What doI have to eat? My board is too dear; and that devil of ahorse-doctor cheats like old man Bezique himself. For eightdays I have paid for his drinks. Who knows if I shouldnot do better to take the little one! She could make soupfor breakfast, pot-au-feu for dinner, and a stew for supper.The campaign grub! don't I remember it!"

Decidedly, the temptation was strong.

Going into the street that night, he met the mistress ofthe house, a fat, rosy-cheeked peasant.

The little girl was with her; they stood half-bent, pickingup the droppings before the house with pitchforks.

"Can she sew, scrub, make soup?" he asked abruptly.

"Who, Pierrette? Why shouldn't she?"

"Does she know anything of all that?"

"Why not? She is a foundling; she came from thehospital; they teach them to take care of themselves."

"I say! little one, you are not afraid of me, are you? No,I would not hurt you! What do you think of it, madame?May I take her? I need a servant."

"You may take her if you will feed and clothe her."

"Agreed! Here are four dollars; buy her a dress and ashoe; let her put them on at once. To-morrow we will drawup papers."

Then, amiably tapping the child upon the cheek, he wentaway, twirling his cane—it was just such a moulinet as hehad made with his sabre.

"I shall have to draw the line on my drinks—a few lessabsinthes, Captain Mercadier!" he thought merrily. "As forthe horse-doctor, I must turn his flank! I can't playbezique any more. This thing is according to regulations!"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Captain, you are a deserter!" said the pillars of theCafé Prosper, when he appeared among them after a longabsence.

"Well, that's about it!" answered the Captain.

But the poor man had not foreseen all the consequencesof his charity. By suppressing his beer and absinthes he hadmanaged to clothe and feed the child of his adoption; butthe modest price of her sustenance did not end it! Now thebachelor was housekeeping! and housekeeping costs money.

The heart of the child was full of gratitude and she provedit by her acts. The Captain's room was as fresh as a rose;the furniture was like new; the spiders no longer trailedtheir threads over the glorious death of Poniatowski. Whenthe Captain set foot upon the stair he was saluted by theodor of cabbage soup and all the well-remembered dishes ofthe mess! All that set upon the coarse but snow-white cloth;and the painted plate and the sparkling cover! Sapristi! thiswas campaigning!

Pierrette always profited by the after-dinner humor toconfess her wishes. She longed for brass andirons for thechimney; for now the Captain had a warm room every day;the little one kept the fire laid ready for his coming. Thedays were short and cold. And Pierrette longed for a prettymold; for she made such cakes for the Captain!

"Yes, all that cost money. Where was it to come from?" Butthe Captain smiled at all her wishes. Home comfortshad won the old war-dog; home was the best! and this homewas a real home. "The andirons must be had—so must themold! but how—where from?" He resisted the mellowseductions of his Loudrès—a demi-Loudrès must do for thepresent; then came another struggle and the demi-Loudrèswas displaced by a 1-cent "Algérienne." Some one offeredfive points at écarté, and a stare that froze the marrow inhis bones answered him. Then came the last sacrifice. Thethird glass of beer was suppressed—so was the second glassof chartreuse. It was a struggle! They were on foot, breastto breast! Time and time again the green demon tugged atthe strings of his memory. Sometimes it was too strong forhim; he entered the wine-shop; then, summoning all hismanhood, he triumphed over his tempters; and that night hismoulinet was like a whirlwind on a whirlpool. Sometimes,in dreams, he turned the king and cried out à tout! Then,springing from his bed, he stood at attention, and salutedwith the gesture of a conqueror.

"Drink, play, tobacco! Ho, ho! Not according toregulations!" He was not superhuman; but he had been a soldier!Mercadier, First Cuirassiers, Army of France (retired).

He loved his little adopted daughter all the better for thesacrifices made for her; and each time that he controlled hisvices he kissed her more tenderly. For he kissed her. Shewas no longer a servant; that was past! Once, whenshe had stood silent and respectful on her wooden leg, hispent-up feelings had burst their bounds; he had seized thethin hands and cried out furiously:

"Come here and kiss me! then take your place at the tableand talk to me. Give me the pleasure of hearing you say'thou' to me! Mille tonnerres!"

So that was settled—she was his daughter. The child hadsaved him from an inglorious old age. He had cast aside thevices of the Egotist and to fill their place he had taken apassion for all eternity—the love of a father for his child!He adored the little infirm creature who limped around himin the coquettish, well-ordered room.

He had taught Pierrette to read, and now, recalling hisown early lessons, he had set her a copy in writing. Andhe was never happier than when he sat in his polished chairwatching the child bending over her copy, or, with faceclose to the paper, lapping up an ink-spot, as a kitten lapsup cream. She had copied all the letters of the mostinterminable of adverbs!

Now he had but one cause for anxiety; he had nothingto leave her. He had taken a mania for saving; he wasalmost a miser; he planned and theorized. He must give uphis tobacco! Even the blue "National" was too dear for him.He was saving money from his allowance; he would buy outa little fancy store; and then he could die in peace. Pierrettewould have her shop; and behind it there would be alittle room. He pushed his pipe away, even when Pierrettefilled and lighted it. If she had that shop she could live inthe room back of it, obscure and tranquil, in spite of herwooden leg! She could live then; and so, when on thewalls of her little room she would hang the cross hard wonby gallant and meritorious conduct in the field, it wouldremind her of the Captain!

. . . . . . . . . . . .

He walked with her every day on the parapet of theramparts, and now and then the peasants passing through thetown turned to gaze after the strange pair. They wonderedat them. The veteran, untouched by all his wars; the childcrippled, though still so young!

And once the Captain wept for joy. He had heard whatthey said: "Poor old man! what tales he could tell! Buthis daughter, how pretty and how sweet!"

RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Should you ask me, "Who is Hawthorne?
Who this Hawthorne that you mention?"
I should answer, I should tell you,
"He's a Yankee, who had written
Many books you must have heard of;
For he wrote 'The Scarlet Letter'
And 'The House of Seven Gables,'
Wrote, too, 'Rappaccini's Daughter,'
And a lot of other stories;—
Some are long and some are shorter;
Some are good and some are better."
—Henry Bright in "Song of Consul Hawthorne," 1855.

RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER

By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

A young man named Giovanni Guasconti camevery long ago from the more southern region ofItaly to pursue his studies at the University ofPadua. Giovanni, who had but a scanty supply ofgold ducats in his pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomychamber of an old edifice which looked not unworthy to havebeen the palace of a Paduan noble, and which, in fact,exhibited over its entrance the armorial bearings of a familylong since extinct. The young stranger, who was notunstudied in the great poem of his country, recollected thatone of the ancestors of this family, and perhaps an occupantof this very mansion, had been pictured by Dante as apartaker of the immortal agonies of his Inferno. Thesereminiscences and associations, together with the tendency toheartbreak natural to a young man for the first time out ofhis native sphere, caused Giovanni to sigh heavily as helooked around the desolate and ill-furnished apartment.

"Holy Virgin, signor!" cried old Dame Lisabetta, who,won by the youth's remarkable beauty of person, was kindlyendeavoring to give the chamber a habitable air; "what asigh was that to come out of a young man's heart! Do youfind this old mansion gloomy? For the love of Heaven, then,put your head out of the window, and you will see as brightsunshine as you have left in Naples."

Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised,but could not quite agree with her that the Lombardsunshine was as cheerful as that of Southern Italy. Such asit was, however, it fell upon a garden beneath the window,and expended its fostering influences on a variety ofplants which seemed to have been cultivated withexceeding care.

"Does this garden belong to the house?" asked Giovanni.

"Heaven forbid, signor, unless it were fruitful of betterpot-herbs than any that grow there now," answered oldLisabetta. "No; that garden is cultivated by the own hands ofSignor Giacomo Rappaccini, the famous doctor who, I warranthim, has been heard of as far as Naples. It is said thathe distils these plants into medicines that are as potent as acharm. Oftentimes you may see the Signor Doctor at work,and perchance the signora his daughter, too, gathering thestrange flowers that grow in the garden."

The old woman had now done what she could for theaspect of the chamber, and, commending the young man tothe protection of the saints, took her departure.

Giovanni still found no better occupation than to lookdown into the garden beneath his window. From itsappearance he judged it to be one of those botanic gardenswhich were of earlier date in Padua than elsewhere in Italy,or in the world. Or, not improbably, it might once havebeen the pleasure-place of an opulent family; for there wasthe ruin of a marble fountain in the centre, sculptured withrare art, but so wofully shattered that it was impossible totrace the original design from the chaos of remainingfragments. The water, however, continued to gush and sparkleinto the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever. A little gurglingsound ascended to the young man's window and made himfeel as if a fountain were an immortal spirit that sung itssong unceasingly, and without heeding the vicissitudes aroundit, while one century embodied it in marble and anotherscattered the perishable garniture on the soil. All about thepool into which the water subsided grew various plants thatseemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for thenourishment of gigantic leaves, and in some instances flowersof gorgeous magnificence. There was one shrub in particular,set in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that borea profusion of purple blossoms, each of which had the lustreand richness of a gem; and the whole together made a showso resplendent that it seemed enough to illuminate the garden,even had there been no sunshine. Every portion of the soilwas peopled with plants and herbs which, if less beautiful,still bore tokens of assiduous care, as if all had theirindividual virtues, known to the scientific mind that fosteredthem. Some were placed in urns rich with old carving andothers in common garden-pots; some crept serpent-like alongthe ground, or climbed on high, using whatever means ofascent was offered them. One plant had wreathed itselfround a statue of Vertumnus, which was thus quite veiledand shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage so happilyarranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study.

While Giovanni stood at the window he heard a rustlingbehind a screen of leaves, and became aware that a personwas at work in the garden. His figure soon emerged intoview, and showed itself to be that of no common laborer, buta tall, emaciated, sallow and sickly-looking man dressed ina scholar's garb of black. He was beyond the middle termof life, with gray hair, and a thin gray beard, and a facesingularly marked with intellect and cultivation, but whichcould never, even in his more youthful days, have expressedmuch warmth of heart.

Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientificgardener examined every shrub which grew in his path;it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature,making observations in regard to their creative essence, anddiscovering why one leaf grew in this shape and another inthat, and wherefore such and such flowers differed amongthemselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless, in spite ofthe deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach tointimacy between himself and these vegetable existences.On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch or thedirect inhaling of their odors with a caution that impressedGiovanni most disagreeably; for the man's demeanor wasthat of one walking among malignant influences, such assavage beasts or deadly snakes or evil spirits which, shouldhe allow them one moment of license, would wreak uponhim some terrible fatality. It was strangely frightful to theyoung man's imagination to see this air of insecurity in aperson cultivating a garden—that most simple and innocentof human toils, and which had been alike the joy and laborof the unfallen parents of the race. Was this garden, then,the Eden of the present world? and this man with such aperception of harm in what his own hands caused togrow—was he the Adam?

The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the deadleaves or pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs,defended his hands with a pair of thick gloves. Nor werethese his only armor. When, in his walk through the garden,he came to the magnificent plant that hung its purple gemsbeside the marble fountain, he placed a kind of mask overhis mouth and nostrils, as if all this beauty did but conceala deadlier malice. But, finding his task still too dangerous,he drew back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in theinfirm voice of a person affected with inward disease:

"Beatrice! Beatrice!"

"Here am I, my father! What would you?" cried a richand youthful voice from the window of the opposite house—avoice as rich as a tropical sunset, and which made Giovanni,though he knew not why, think of deep hues of purpleor crimson and of perfumes heavily delectable. "Are you inthe garden?"

"Yes, Beatrice," answered the gardener, "and I needyour help."

Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal thefigure of a young girl arrayed with as much richness of tasteas the most splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, andwith a bloom so deep and vivid that one shade more wouldhave been too much. She looked redundant with life, health,and energy; all of which attributes were bound down andcompressed, as it were, and girdled tensely in theirluxuriance by her virgin zone. Yet Giovanni's fancy must havegrown morbid while he looked down into the garden, for theimpression which the fair stranger made upon him was as ifhere were another flower, the human sister of those vegetableones, as beautiful as they—more beautiful than the richest ofthem—but still to be touched only with a glove, nor to beapproached without a mask. As Beatrice came down thegarden path it was observable that she handled and inhaledthe odor of several of the plants which her father had mostsedulously avoided.

"Here, Beatrice," said the latter; "see how many needfuloffices require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet,shattered as I am, my life might pay the penalty of approachingit so closely as circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear,this plant must be consigned to your sole charge."

"And gladly will I undertake it," cried again the richtones of the young lady as she bent toward the magnificentplant and opened her arms as if to embrace it. "Yes, mysister, my splendor, it shall be Beatrice's task to nurse andserve thee, and thou shalt reward her with thy kisses andperfume-breath, which to her is as the breath of life."

Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was sostrikingly expressed in her words, she busied herself withsuch attentions as the plant seemed to require; andGiovanni, at his lofty window, rubbed his eyes, and almostdoubted whether it were a girl tending her favorite floweror one sister performing the duties of affection to another.

The scene soon terminated. Whether Doctor Rappaccinihad finished his labors in the garden or that his watchful eyehad caught the stranger's face, he now took his daughter'sarm and retired. Night was already closing in; oppressiveexhalations seemed to proceed from the plants and stealupward past the open window, and Giovanni, closing the lattice,went to his couch and dreamed of a rich flower and beautifulgirl. Flower and maiden were different, and yet the same,and fraught with some strange peril in either shape.

But there is an influence in the light of morning that tendsto rectify whatever errors of fancy, or even of judgment,we may have incurred during the sun's decline, or amongthe shadows of the night, or in the less wholesome glow ofmoonshine. Giovanni's first movement on starting fromsleep was to throw open the window and gaze down into thegarden which his dreams had made so fertile of mysteries.He was surprised, and a little ashamed, to find how real andmatter-of-fact an affair it proved to be in the first rays of thesun, which gilded the dewdrops that hung upon leaf andblossom, and, while giving a brighter beauty to each rareflower, brought everything within the limits of ordinaryexperience. The young man rejoiced that in the heart of thebarren city he had the privilege of overlooking this spot oflovely and luxuriant vegetation. It would serve, he said tohimself, as a symbolic language to keep him in communionwith Nature. Neither the sickly and thought-worn DoctorGiacomo Rappaccini, it is true, nor his brilliant daughter,was now visible; so that Giovanni could not determine howmuch of the singularity which he attributed to both was dueto their own qualities, and how much to his wonder-workingfancy. But he was inclined to take a most rational view ofthe whole matter.

In the course of the day he paid his respects to SignorPietro Baglioni, professor of medicine in the university, aphysician of eminent repute to whom Giovanni had broughta letter of introduction. The professor was an elderlypersonage, apparently of genial nature and habits that mightalmost be called jovial; he kept the young man to dinnerand made himself very agreeable by the freedom and livelinessof his conversation, especially when warmed by a flaskor two of Tuscan wine. Giovanni, conceiving that men ofscience, inhabitants of the same city, must needs be onfamiliar terms with one another, took an opportunity tomention the name of Doctor Rappaccini. But the professordid not respond with so much cordiality as he had anticipated.

"Ill would it become a teacher of the divine art of medicine,"said Professor Pietro Baglioni, in answer to a questionof Giovanni, "to withhold due and well-considered praise ofa physician so eminently skilled as Rappaccini. But, on theother hand, I should answer it but scantily to my consciencewere I to permit a worthy youth like yourself, SignorGiovanni, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe erroneousideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to holdyour life and death in his hands. The truth is, ourworshipful Doctor Rappaccini has as much science as any memberof the faculty—with perhaps one single exception—in Paduaor all Italy, but there are certain grave objections to hisprofessional character."

"And what are they?" asked the young man.

"Has my friend Giovanni any disease of body or heart,that he is so inquisitive about physicians?" said theprofessor, with a smile. "But, as for Rappaccini, it is said ofhim—and I, who know the man well, can answer for itstruth—that he cares infinitely more for science than formankind. His patients are interesting to him only as subjectsfor some new experiment. He would sacrifice human life—hisown among the rest—or whatever else was dearest tohim, for the sake of adding so much as a grain of mustard-seedto the great heap of his accumulated knowledge."

"Methinks he is an awful man indeed," remarked Guasconti,mentally recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspectof Rappaccini. "And yet, worshipful professor, is it nota noble spirit? Are there many men capable of so spirituala love of science?"

"God forbid!" answered the professor somewhat testily—"atleast, unless they take sounder views of the healingart than those adopted by Rappaccini. It is his theory thatall medicinal virtues are comprised within those substanceswhich we term vegetable poisons. These he cultivates withhis own hands, and is said even to have produced newvarieties of poison more horribly deleterious than Nature,without the assistance of this learned person, would ever haveplagued the world with. That the Signor Doctor does lessmischief than might be expected with such dangeroussubstances is undeniable. Now and then, it must be owned, hehas effected—or seemed to effect—a marvelous cure. But,to tell you my private mind, Signor Giovanni, he shouldreceive little credit for such instances of success—they beingprobably the work of chance—but should be held strictlyaccountable for his failures, which may justly be consideredhis own work."

The youth might have taken Baglioni's opinions withmany grains of allowance had he known that there was aprofessional warfare of long continuance between him andDoctor Rappaccini, in which the latter was generally thoughtto have gained the advantage. If the reader be inclined tojudge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter tractson both sides preserved in the medical department of theUniversity of Padua.

"I know not, most learned professor," returned Giovanni,after musing on what had been said of Rappaccini's exclusivezeal for science—"I know not how dearly this physicianmay love his art, but surely there is one object more dear tohim. He has a daughter."

"Aha!" cried the professor, with a laugh. "So now ourfriend Giovanni's secret is out! You have heard of thisdaughter, whom all the young men in Padua are wild about,though not half a dozen have ever had the good hap to seeher face. I know little of the Signora Beatrice save thatRappaccini is said to have instructed her deeply in hisscience, and that, young and beautiful as fame reports her, sheis already qualified to fill a professor's chair. Perchance herfather destines her for mine. Other absurd rumors therebe, not worth talking about or listening to. So now, SignorGiovanni, drink off your glass of Lacryma."

Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated withthe wine he had quaffed, and which caused his brain to swimwith strange fantasies in reference to Doctor Rappaccini andthe beautiful Beatrice. On his way, happening to pass by aflorist's, he bought a fresh bouquet of flowers.

Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near thewindow, but within the shadow thrown by the depth ofthe wall, so that he could look down into the garden withlittle risk of being discovered. All beneath his eye was asolitude. The strange plants were basking in the sunshine,and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if inacknowledgment of sympathy and kindred. In the midst,by the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, withits purple gems clustering all over it; they glowed in the airand gleamed back again out of the depths of the pool, whichthus seemed to overflow with colored radiance from the richreflection that was steeped in it. At first, as we have said,the garden was a solitude. Soon, however, as Giovanni hadhalf hoped, half feared, would be the case, a figure appearedbeneath the antique sculptured portal and came down betweenthe rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes asif she were one of those beings of old classic fable that livedupon sweet odors. On again beholding Beatrice the youngman was even startled to perceive how much her beautyexceeded his recollection of it—so brilliant, so vivid in itscharacter, that she glowed amid the sunlight, and, as Giovanniwhispered to himself, positively illuminated the moreshadowy intervals of the garden path. Her face being now morerevealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by itsexpression of simplicity and sweetness—qualities that hadnot entered into his idea of her character, and which madehim ask anew what manner of mortal she might be. Nordid he fail again to observe or imagine an analogy betweenthe beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that hung itsgem-like flowers over the fountain—a resemblance which Beatriceseemed to have indulged a fantastic humor in heighteningboth by the arrangement of her dress and the selection ofits hues.

Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms as witha passionate ardor, and drew its branches into an intimateembrace—so intimate that her features were hidden in itsleafy bosom and her glistening ringlets all intermingled withthe flowers.

"Give me thy breath, my sister," exclaimed Beatrice, "forI am faint with common air. And give me this flower ofthine, which I separate with gentlest fingers from the stem,and place it close beside my heart."

With these words the beautiful daughter of Rappacciniplucked one of the richest blossoms of the shrub, and wasabout to fasten it in her bosom. But now, unless Giovanni'sdrafts of wine had bewildered his senses, a singular incidentoccurred. A small orange-colored reptile of the lizardor chameleon species chanced to be creeping along the pathjust at the feet of Beatrice. It appeared to Giovanni, butat the distance from which he gazed he could scarcely haveseen anything so minute—it appeared to him, however, thata drop or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flowerdescended upon the lizard's head. For an instant the reptilecontorted itself violently, and then lay motionless in thesunshine. Beatrice observed this remarkable phenomenonand crossed herself sadly, but without surprise; nor did shetherefore hesitate to arrange the fatal flower in her bosom.There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzlingeffect of a precious stone, adding to her dress and aspectthe one appropriate charm which nothing else in the worldcould have supplied. But Giovanni, out of the shadow ofhis window, bent forward and shrank back, and murmuredand trembled.

"Am I awake? Have I my senses?" said he to himself."What is this being? Beautiful shall I call her, orinexpressibly terrible?"

Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden,approaching closer beneath Giovanni's window; so that he wascompelled to thrust his head quite out of its concealment inorder to gratify the intense and painful curiosity which sheexcited. At this moment there came a beautiful insect overthe garden wall; it had perhaps wandered through the cityand found no flowers nor verdure among those antiquehaunts of men until the heavy perfumes of DoctorRappaccini's shrubs had lured it from afar. Without alightingon the flowers this winged brightness seemed to be attractedby Beatrice, and lingered in the air and fluttered about herhead. Now, here it could not be but that Giovanni Guasconti'seyes deceived him. Be that as it might, he fanciedthat while Beatrice was gazing at the insect with childishdelight it grew faint and fell at her feet. Its bright wingsshivered; it was dead—from no cause that he could discern,unless it were the atmosphere of her breath. Again Beatricecrossed herself and sighed heavily as she bent over the deadinsect.

An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes tothe window. There she beheld the beautiful head of theyoung man—rather a Grecian than an Italian head, withfair, regular features and a glistening of gold among hisringlets—gazing down upon her like a being that hoveredin midair. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threwdown the bouquet which he had hitherto held in his hand.

"Signora," said he, "there are pure and healthful flowers:wear them for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti."

"Thanks, signor!" replied Beatrice, with her rich voice,that came forth as it were like a gush of music, and with amirthful expression, half childish and half woman-like. "Iaccept your gift, and would fain recompense it with thisprecious purple flower; but if I toss it into the air, it willnot reach you. So Signor Guasconti must even contenthimself with my thanks."

She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then, as ifinwardly ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenlyreserve to respond to a stranger's greeting, passedswiftly homeward through the garden. But, few as themoments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was on thepoint of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, that hisbeautiful bouquet was already beginning to wither in hergrasp. It was an idle thought: there could be no possibilityof distinguishing a faded flower from a fresh one at so greata distance.

For many days after this incident the young man avoidedthe window that looked into Doctor Rappaccini's garden asif something ugly and monstrous would have blasted hiseyesight had he been betrayed into a glance. He felt consciousof having put himself, to a certain extent, within theinfluence of an unintelligible power by the communication whichhe had opened with Beatrice. The wisest course would havebeen, if his heart were in any real danger, to quit hislodgings, and Padua itself, at once; the next wiser, to haveaccustomed himself as far as possible to the familiar anddaylight view of Beatrice, thus bringing her rigidly andsystematically within the limits of ordinary experience. Leastof all, while avoiding her sight, should Giovanni haveremained so near this extraordinary being that the proximity,and possibility even of intercourse, should give a kind ofsubstance and reality to the wild vagaries which his imaginationran riot continually in producing. Guasconti had nota deep heart—or, at all events, its depths were not soundednow—but he had a quick fancy and an ardent southerntemperament which rose every instant to a higher fever-pitch.Whether or no Beatrice possessed those terrible attributes—thatfatal breath, the affinity with those so beautiful anddeadly flowers—which were indicated by what Giovanni hadwitnessed, she had at least instilled a fierce and subtlepoison into his system. It was not love, although her richbeauty was a madness to him, nor horror, even while hefancied her spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essencethat seemed to pervade her physical frame, but a wildoffspring of both love and horror that had each parent in itand burned like one and shivered like the other. Giovanniknew not what to dread; still less did he know what tohope; yet hope and dread kept a continual warfare in hisbreast, alternately vanquishing one another and startingup afresh to renew the contest. Blessed are all simpleemotions, be they dark or bright! It is the lurid intermixtureof the two that produces the illuminating blaze of theinfernal regions.

Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of hisspirit by a rapid walk through the streets of Padua orbeyond its gates; his footsteps kept time with the throbbingsof his brain, so that the walk was apt to accelerate itself toa race. One day he found himself arrested; his arm wasseized by a portly personage who had turned back onrecognizing the young man and expended much breath inovertaking him.

"Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!" cried he."Have you forgotten me? That might well be the case ifI were as much altered as yourself."

It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever sincetheir first meeting, from a doubt that the professor's sagacitywould look too deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring torecover himself, he stared forth wildly from his inner worldinto the outer one, and spoke like a man in a dream:

"Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are ProfessorPietro Baglioni. Now let me pass."

"Not yet—not yet, Signor Giovanni Guasconti," said theprofessor, smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing theyouth with an earnest glance. "What! Did I grow up sideby side with your father, and shall his son pass me like astranger in these old streets of Padua? Stand still, SignorGiovanni, for we must have a word or two before we part."

"Speedily, then, most worshipful professor—speedily!"said Giovanni, with feverish impatience. "Does not YourWorship see that I am in haste?"

Now, while he was speaking, there came a man in blackalong the street, stooping and moving feebly like a person ininferior health. His face was all overspread with a mostsickly and sallow hue, but yet so pervaded with an expressionof piercing and active intellect that an observer might haveeasily overlooked the merely physical attributes, and haveseen only this wonderful energy. As he passed, this personexchanged a cold and distant salutation with Baglioni, butfixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness that seemedto bring out whatever was within him worthy of notice.Nevertheless, there was a peculiar quietness in the look, asif taking merely a speculative, not a human, interest in theyoung man.

"It is Doctor Rappaccini," whispered the professor, whenthe stranger had passed. "Has he ever seen your facebefore?"

"Not that I know," answered Giovanni, starting at thename.

"He has seen you! he must have seen you!" said Baglioni,hastily. "For some purpose or other, this man ofscience is making a study of you. I know that look of his:it is the same that coldly illuminates his face as he bendsover a bird, a mouse or a butterfly which in pursuance ofsome experiment he has killed by the perfume of a flower—alook as deep as Nature itself, but without Nature's warmthof love. Signor Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it youare the subject of one of Rappaccini's experiments."

"Will you make a fool of me?" cried Giovanni, passionately."That, Signor Professor, were an untoward experiment."

"Patience, patience!" replied the imperturbable professor."I tell thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scientificinterest in thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands.And the Signora Beatrice—what part does she act in thismystery?"

But Guasconti, finding Baglioni's pertinacity intolerable,here broke away, and was gone before the professor couldagain seize his arm. He looked after the young manintently, and shook his head.

"This must not be," said Raglioni to himself. "The youthIs the son of my old friend, and shall not come to anyharm from which the arcana of medical science can preservehim. Besides, it is too insufferable an impertinencein Rappaccini thus to snatch the lad out of my own hands,as I may say, and make use of him for his infernalexperiments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to.Perchance, most learned Rappaccini, I may foil you where youlittle dream of it!"

Meanwhile, Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, andat length found himself at the door of his lodgings. As hecrossed the threshold he was met by old Lisabetta, whosmirked and smiled and was evidently desirous to attracthis attention—vainly, however, as the ebullition of hisfeelings had momentarily subsided into a cold and dullvacuity. He turned his eyes full upon the withered face thatwas puckering itself into a smile, but seemed to beholdit not. The old dame, therefore, laid her grasp upon hiscloak.

"Signor, signor!" whispered she, still with a smile overthe whole breadth of her visage, so that it looked not unlikea grotesque carving in wood, darkened by centuries. "Listen,signor! There is a private entrance into the garden."

"What do you say?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning quicklyabout, as if an inanimate thing should start into feverish life."A private entrance into Doctor Rappaccini's garden?"

"Hush, hush! Not so loud!" whispered Lisabetta, puttingher hand over his mouth. "Yes, into the worshipfuldoctor's garden, where you may see all his fine shrubbery.Many a young man in Padua would give gold to be admittedamong those flowers."

Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand.

"Show me the way," said he.

A surmise, probably excited by his conversation withBaglioni, crossed his mind that this interposition of oldLisabetta might perchance be connected with the intrigue,whatever were its nature, in which the professor seemed tosuppose that Doctor Rappaccini was involving him. But sucha suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, was inadequateto restrain him. The instant he was aware of the possibilityof approaching Beatrice, it seemed an absolute necessity ofhis existence to do so. It mattered not whether she wereangel or demon: he was irrevocably within her sphere, andmust obey the law that whirled him onward in ever lesseningcircles toward a result which he did not attempt toforeshadow. And yet, strange to say, there came across him asudden doubt whether this intense interest on his part werenot delusory, whether it were really of so deep and positivea nature as to justify him in now thrusting himself into anincalculable position, whether it were not merely the fantasyof a young man's brain only slightly or not at all connectedwith his heart.

He paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again wenton. His withered guide led him along several obscurepassages, and finally undid a door through which, as it wasopened, there came the sight and sound of rustling leaveswith the broken sunshine glimmering among them. Giovannistepped forth, and, forcing himself through theentanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over thehidden entrance, he stood beneath his own window, in theopen area of Doctor Rappaccini's garden.

How often is it the case that when impossibilities havecome to pass, and dreams have condensed their mistysubstance into tangible realities, we find ourselves calm andeven coldly self-possessed, amid circumstances which itwould have been a delirium of joy or agony to anticipate!Fate delights to thwart us thus. Passion will choose hisown time to rush upon the scene, and lingers sluggishlybehind when an appropriate adjustment of events wouldseem to summon his appearance. So was it now with Giovanni.Day after day his pulses had throbbed with feverishblood at the improbable idea of an interview with Beatrice,and of standing with her face to face in this very garden,basking in the Oriental sunshine of her beauty and snatchingfrom her full gaze the mystery which he deemed theriddle of his own existence. But now there was a singularand untimely equanimity within his breast. He threw aglance around the garden to discover if Beatrice or herfather were present, and perceiving that he was alone,began a critical observation of the plants.

The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him: theirgorgeousness seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural.There was hardly an individual shrub which a wandererstraying by himself through a forest would not have beenstartled to find growing wild, as if an unearthly face hadglared at him out of the thicket. Several, also, would haveshocked a delicate instinct by an appearance of artificialness,indicating that there had been such a commixture, and, asit were, adultery of various vegetable species that theproduction was no longer of God's making, but the monstrousoffspring of man's depraved fancy, glowing with only anevil mockery of beauty. They were probably the result ofexperiment, which in one or two cases had succeeded inmingling plants individually lovely into a compound possessingthe questionable and ominous character that distinguishedthe whole growth of the garden. In fine, Giovannirecognized but two or three plants in the collection, andthose of a kind that he well knew to be poisonous. Whilebusy with these contemplations he heard the rustling of asilken garment, and turning beheld Beatrice emerging frombeneath the sculptured portal.

Giovanni had not considered with himself what shouldbe his deportment—whether he should apologize for hisintrusion into the garden or assume that he was there with theprivity at least, if not by the desire, of Doctor Rappaccini orhis daughter. But Beatrice's manner placed him at his ease,though leaving him still in doubt by what agency he hadgained admittance. She came lightly along the path, andmet him near the broken fountain. There was surprise inher face, but brightened by a simple and kind expression ofpleasure.

"You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor," said Beatrice,with a smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flungher from the window; "it is no marvel, therefore, if thesight of my father's rare collection has tempted you to takea nearer view. If he were here, he could tell you manystrange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits ofthese shrubs, for he has spent a lifetime in such studies, andthis garden is his world."

"And yourself, lady?" observed Giovanni. "If famesays true, you likewise are deeply skilled in the virtuesindicated by these rich blossoms and these spicy perfumes.Would you deign to be my instructress, I shouldprove an apter scholar than under Signor Rappaccinihimself."

"Are there such idle rumors?" asked Beatrice, with themusic of a pleasant laugh. "Do people say that I am skilledin my father's science of plants? What a jest is there! No;though I have grown up among these flowers I know nomore of them than their hues and perfume, and sometimesmethinks I would fain rid myself of even that small knowledge.There are many flowers here—and those not the leastbrilliant—that shock and offend me when they meet my eye.But pray, signor, do not believe these stories about myscience; believe nothing of me save what you see with yourown eyes."

"And must I believe all that I have seen with my owneyes?" asked Giovanni, pointedly, while the recollection offormer scenes made him shrink. "No, signora; you demandtoo little of me. Bid me believe nothing save what comesfrom your own lips."

It would appear that Beatrice understood him. Therecame a deep flush to her cheek, but she looked full intoGiovanni's eyes and responded to his gaze of uneasysuspicion with a queenlike haughtiness:

"I do so bid you, signor," she replied. "Forget whateveryou may have fancied in regard to me; if true to theoutward senses, still it may be false in its essence. Butthe words of Beatrice Rappaccini's lips are true from theheart outward; those you may believe."

A fervor glowed in her whole aspect and beamed uponGiovanni's consciousness like the light of truth itself. Butwhile she spoke there was a fragrance in the atmospherearound her, rich and delightful, though evanescent, yet whichthe young man, from an indefinable reluctance, scarcelydared to draw into his lungs. It might be the odor of theflowers. Could it be Beatrice's breath which thus embalmedher words with a strange richness, as if by steeping them inher heart. A faintness passed like a shadow over Giovanni,and flitted away; he seemed to gaze through the beautifulgirl's eyes into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubtor fear.

The tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice's mannervanished: she became gay, and appeared to derive a puredelight from her communion with the youth, not unlikewhat the maiden of a lonely island might have felt conversingwith a voyager from the civilized world. Evidentlyher experience of life had been confined within the limits ofthat garden. She talked now about matters as simple asthe daylight or summer clouds, and now asked questions inreference to the city or Giovanni's distant home, his friends,his mother and his sisters—questions indicating suchseclusion and such lack of familiarity with modes and forms thatGiovanni responded as if to an infant. Her spirit gushedout before him like a fresh rill that was just catching itsfirst glimpse of the sunlight and wondering at the reflectionsof earth and sky which were flung into its bosom. Therecame thoughts, too, from a deep source, and fantasies of agemlike brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkledupward among the bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anonthere gleamed across the young man's mind a sense ofwonder that he should be walking side by side with the beingwho had so wrought upon his imagination, whom he hadidealized in such hues of terror, in whom he had positivelywitnessed such manifestations of dreadful attributes—that heshould be conversing with Beatrice like a brother, and shouldfind her so human and so maiden-like. But such reflectionswere only momentary; the effect of her character was tooreal not to make itself familiar at once.

In this free intercourse they had strayed through thegarden, and now, after many turns among its avenues, werecome to the shattered fountain beside which grew themagnificent shrub with its treasury of glowing blossoms. Afragrance was diffused from it which Giovanni recognizedas identical with that which he had attributed to Beatrice'sbreath, but incomparably more powerful. As her eyes fellupon it, Giovanni beheld her press her hand to her bosom,as if her heart were throbbing suddenly and painfully.

"For the first time in my life," murmured she, addressingthe shrub, "I had forgotten thee."

"I remember, signora," said Giovanni, "that you oncepromised to reward me with one of those living gems forthe bouquet which I had the happy boldness to fling to yourfeet. Permit me now to pluck it as a memorial of thisinterview."

He made a step toward the shrub with extended hand.But Beatrice darted forward, uttering a shriek that wentthrough his heart like a dagger. She caught his hand anddrew it back with the whole force of her slender figure.Giovanni felt her touch thrilling through his fibres.

"Touch it not," exclaimed she, in a voice of agony—"notfor thy life! It is fatal."

Then, hiding her face, she fled from him and vanishedbeneath the sculptured portal. As Giovanni followed herwith his eyes he beheld the emaciated figure and paleintelligence of Doctor Rappaccini, who had been watchingthe scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow of theentrance.

No sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber than theimage of Beatrice came back to his passionate musingsinvested with all the witchery that had been gathering aroundit ever since his first glimpse of her, and now likewiseimbued with a tender warmth of girlish womanhood. She washuman; her nature was endowed with all gentle and femininequalities; she was worthiest to be worshiped; she wascapable, surely, on her part, of the height and heroism oflove. Those tokens which he had hitherto considered asproofs of a frightful peculiarity in her physical and moralsystem were now either forgotten or by the subtle sophistryof passion transmitted into a golden crown of enchantment;rendering Beatrice the more admirable by so much as shewas the more unique. Whatever had looked ugly was nowbeautiful; or, if incapable of such a change, it stole awayand hid itself among those shapeless half-ideas which throngthe dim region beyond the daylight of our perfectconsciousness.

Thus did Giovanni spend the night, nor fell asleep untilthe dawn had begun to awake the slumbering flowers inDoctor Rappaccini's garden, whither his dreams doubtlessled him. Up rose the sun in his due season, and flinging hisbeams upon the young man's eyelids, awoke him to a senseof pain. When thoroughly aroused, he became sensible of aburning and tingling agony in his hand, in his right hand—thevery hand which Beatrice had grasped in her own whenhe was on the point of plucking one of the gemlike flowers.On the back of that hand there was now a purple print likethat of four small fingers, and the likeness of a slender thumbupon his wrist. Oh, how stubbornly does love, or even thatcunning semblance of love which flourishes in the imagination,but strikes no depth of root into the heart—how stubbornlydoes it hold its faith until the moment comes whenit is doomed to vanish into the mist! Giovanni wrapped ahandkerchief about his hand, and wondered what evil thinghad stung him, and soon forgot his pain in a reverie ofBeatrice.

After the first interview, a second was in the inevitablecourse of what we call fate. A third, a fourth, and ameeting with Beatrice in the garden was no longer an incidentin Giovanni's daily life, but the whole space in which hemight be said to live, for the anticipation and memory ofthat ecstatic hour made up the remainder. Nor was itotherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini. She watched for theyouth's appearance, and flew to his side with confidence asunreserved as if they had been playmates from early infancy—asif they were such playmates still. If by any unwontedchance he failed to come at the appointed moment, she stoodbeneath the window and sent up the rich sweetness of hertones to float around him in his chamber and echo andreverberate throughout his heart. "Giovanni, Giovanni! Whytarriest thou? Come down!" and down he hastened intothat Eden of poisonous flowers.

But with all this intimate familiarity there was still areserve in Beatrice's demeanor so rigidly and invariablysustained that the idea of infringing it scarcely occurred to hisimagination. By all appreciable signs they loved—they hadlooked love with eyes that conveyed the holy secret fromthe depths of one soul into the depths of the other, as if itwere too sacred to be whispered by the way; they had evenspoken love in those gushes of passion when their spiritsdarted forth in articulated breath like tongues of long-hiddenflame—and yet there had been no seal of lips, no claspof hands, nor any slightest caress such as love claims andhallows. He had never touched one of the gleaming ringletsof her hair; her garment—so marked was the physical barrierbetween them—had never been waved against him by abreeze. On the few occasions when Giovanni had seemedtempted to overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so sad, sostern, and, withal, wore such a look of desolate separationshuddering at itself that not a spoken word was requisite torepel him. At such times he was startled at the horriblesuspicions that rose monster-like out of the caverns of his heartand stared him in the face. His love grew thin and faintas the morning mist; his doubts alone had substance. Butwhen Beatrice's face brightened again after the momentaryshadow, she was transformed at once from the mysterious,questionable being whom he had watched with so much aweand horror; she was now the beautiful and unsophisticatedgirl whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certaintybeyond all other knowledge.

A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni's lastmeeting with Baglioni. One morning, however, he wasdisagreeably surprised by a visit from the professor, whom hehad scarcely thought of for whole weeks, and would willinglyhave forgotten still longer. Given up, as he had long been,to a pervading excitement, he could tolerate no companionsexcept upon condition of their perfect sympathy with hispresent state of feeling; such sympathy was not to beexpected from Professor Baglioni.

The visitor chatted carelessly for a few moments aboutthe gossip of the city and the university, and then took upanother topic.

"I have been reading an old classic author lately," saidhe, "and met with a story that strangely interested me.Possibly you may remember it. It is of an Indian princewho sent a beautiful woman as a present to Alexander theGreat. She was as lovely as the dawn and gorgeous as thesunset, but what especially distinguished her was acertain rich perfume in her breath richer than a garden ofPersian roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthfulconqueror, fell in love at first sight with this magnificentstranger. But a certain sage physician, happening to bepresent, discovered a terrible secret in regard to her."

"And what was that?" asked Giovanni, turning his eyesdownward to avoid those of the professor.

"That this lovely woman," continued Baglioni, withemphasis, "had been nourished with poisons from her birthupward, until her whole nature was so imbued with themthat she herself had become the deadliest poison in existence.Poison was her element of life. With that rich perfume ofher breath she blasted the very air. Her love would havebeen poison—her embrace, death. Is not this a marveloustale?"

"A childish fable," answered Giovanni, nervouslystarting from his chair. "I marvel how Your Worship findstime to read such nonsense among your graver studies."

"By the by," said the professor, looking uneasily abouthim, "what singular fragrance is this in your apartment?Is it the perfume of your gloves? It is faint, but delicious,and yet, after all, by no means agreeable. Were I to breatheit long, methinks it would make me ill. It is like the breathof a flower, but I see no flowers in the chamber."

"Nor are there any," replied Giovanni, who had turnedpale as the professor spoke; "nor, I think, is there anyfragrance except in Your Worship's imagination. Odors, beinga sort of element combined of the sensual and the spiritual,are apt to deceive us in this manner. The recollection ofa perfume—the bare idea of it—may easily be mistakenfor a present reality."

"Ay, but my sober imagination does not often play suchtricks," said Baglioni; "and were I to fancy any kind ofodor, it would be that of some vile apothecary-drugwherewith my fingers are likely enough to be imbued. Ourworshipful friend Rappaccini, as I have heard, tinctures hismedicaments with odors richer than those of Araby. Doubtless,likewise, the fair and learned Signora Beatrice wouldminister to her patients with drafts as sweet as a maiden'sbreath, but woe to him that sips them!"

Giovanni's face evinced many contending emotions. Thetone in which the professor alluded to the pure and lovelydaughter of Rappaccini was a torture to his soul, and yetthe intimation of a view of her character opposite to his owngave instantaneous distinctness to a thousand dim suspicionswhich now grinned at him like so many demons. But hestrove hard to quell them, and to respond to Baglioni witha true lover's perfect faith.

"Signor Professor," said he, "you were my father's friend;perchance, too, it is your purpose to act a friendly parttoward his son. I would fain feel nothing toward you saverespect and deference, but I pray you to observe, signor, thatthere is one subject on which we must not speak. You knownot the Signora Beatrice; you can not, therefore, estimatethe wrong—the blasphemy, I may even say—that is offeredto her character by a light or injurious word."

"Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!" answered the professor,with a calm expression of pity. "I know this wretched girlfar better than yourself. You shall hear the truth in respectto the poisoner Rappaccini and his poisonous daughter—yes,poisonous as she is beautiful. Listen, for even should youdo violence to my gray hairs it shall not silence me. Thatold fable of the Indian woman has become a truth by thedeep and deadly science of Rappaccini and in the person ofthe lovely Beatrice."

Giovanni groaned and hid his face.

"Her father," continued Baglioni, "was not restrained bynatural affection from offering up his child in this horriblemanner as the victim of his insane zeal for science. For—letus do him justice—he is as true a man of science as everdistilled his own heart in an alembic. What, then, will beyour fate? Beyond a doubt, you are selected as the materialof some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to bedeath—perhaps a fate more awful still. Rappaccini, with whathe calls the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitateat nothing."

"It is a dream!" muttered Giovanni to himself. "Surelyit is a dream!'

"But," resumed the professor, "be of good cheer, son ofmy friend! It is not yet too late for the rescue. Possiblywe may even succeed in bringing back this miserable childwithin the limits of ordinary nature from which her father'smadness has estranged her. Behold this little silver vase;it was wrought by the hands of the renowned BenvenutoCellini, and is well worthy to be a love-gift to the fairestdame in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. One littlesip of this antidote would have rendered the most virulentpoisons of the Borgias innocuous; doubt not that it will beas efficacious against those of Rappaccini. Bestow the vaseand the precious liquid within it on your Beatrice, andhopefully await the result."

Baglioni laid a small exquisitely-wrought silver phial onthe table and withdrew, leaving what he had said to produceits effects upon the young man's mind.

"We will thwart Rappaccini yet," thought he, chucklingto himself, as he descended the stairs. "But let us confessthe truth of him: he is a wonderful man—a wonderful manindeed—a vile empiric, however, in his practise, andtherefore not to be tolerated by those who respect the good oldrules of the medical profession."

Throughout Giovanni's whole acquaintance with Beatricehe had occasionally, as we have said, been haunted by darksurmises as to her character; yet so thoroughly had she madeherself felt by him as a simple, natural, most affectionateand guileless creature that the image now held up byProfessor Baglioni looked as strange and incredible as if it werenot in accordance with his own original conception. True,there were ugly recollections connected with his first glimpsesof the beautiful girl: he could not quite forget the bouquetthat withered in her grasp, and the insect that perished amidthe sunny air by no ostensible agency save the fragrance ofher breath. These incidents, however, dissolving in the purelight of her character, had no longer the efficacy of facts,but were acknowledged as mistaken fantasies, by whatevertestimony of the senses they might appear to be substantiated.There is something truer and more real than whatwe can see with the eyes and touch with the finger. On suchbetter evidence had Giovanni founded his confidence inBeatrice, though rather by the necessary force of her highattributes than by any deep and generous faith on his part.But now his spirit was incapable of sustaining itself at theheight to which the early enthusiasm of passion hadexalted it; he fell down groveling among earthly doubts, anddefiled therewith the pure whiteness of Beatrice's image.Not that he gave her up: he did but distrust. He resolved toinstitute some decisive test that should satisfy him oncefor all whether there were those dreadful peculiarities inher physical nature which could not be supposed to existwithout some corresponding monstrosity of soul. His eyes,gazing down afar, might have deceived him as to the lizard,the insect, and the flowers; but if he could witness at thedistance of a few paces the sudden blight of one fresh andhealthful flower in Beatrice's hand, there would be roomfor no further question. With this idea he hastened to theflorist's and purchased a bouquet that was still gemmedwith the morning dewdrops.

It was now the customary hour of his daily interviewwith Beatrice. Before descending into the garden Giovannifailed not to look at his figure in the mirror—a vanity to beexpected in a beautiful young man, yet, as displaying itselfat that troubled and feverish moment, the token of a certainshallowness of feeling and insincerity of character. Hedid gaze, however, and said to himself that his features hadnever before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes suchvivacity, nor his cheeks so warm a hue of superabundantlife.

"At least," thought he, "her poison has not yet insinuateditself into my system. I am no flower, to perish in hergrasp."

With that thought he turned his eyes on the bouquet,which he had never once laid aside from his hand. A thrillof indefinable horror shot through his frame on perceivingthat those dewy flowers were already beginning to droop;they wore the aspect of things that had been fresh andlovely yesterday. Giovanni grew white as marble and stoodmotionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflectionthere as at the likeness of something frightful. Heremembered Baglioni's remark about the fragrance that seemedto pervade the chamber: it must have been the poison in hisbreath. Then he shuddered—shuddered at himself. Recoveringfrom his stupor, he began to watch with curious eye aspider that was busily at work hanging its web from theantique cornice of the apartment, crossing and recrossing theartful system of interwoven lines, as vigorous and active aspider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. Giovanni benttoward the insect and emitted a deep, long breath. Thespider suddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with atremor originating in the body of the small artisan. AgainGiovanni sent forth a breath, deeper, longer and imbuedwith a venomous feeling out of his heart; he knew notwhether he were wicked or only desperate. The spider madea convulsive grip with his limbs, and hung dead across thewindow.

"Accursed! accursed!" muttered Giovanni, addressinghimself. "Hast thou grown so poisonous that this deadlyinsect perishes by thy breath?"

At that moment a rich, sweet voice came floating up fromthe garden:

"Giovanni, Giovanni! It is past the hour. Why tarriestthou? Come down!"

"Yes," muttered Giovanni, again: "she is the only beingwhom my breath may not slay. Would that it might!"

He rushed down, and in an instant was standing beforethe bright and loving eyes of Beatrice. A moment ago hiswrath and despair had been so fierce that he could havedesired nothing so much as to wither her by a glance, butwith her actual presence there came influences which had tooreal an existence to be at once shaken off—recollections ofthe delicate and benign power of her feminine nature, whichhad so often enveloped him in a religious calm;recollections of many a holy and passionate outgush of her heart,when the pure fountain had been unsealed from its depthsand made visible in its transparency to his mental eye;recollections which, had Giovanni known how to estimate them,would have assured him that all this ugly mystery was butan earthly illusion, and that, whatever mist of evil mightseem to have gathered over her, the real Beatrice was aheavenly angel. Incapable as he was of such high faith,still her presence had not utterly lost its magic. Giovanni'srage was quelled into an aspect of sullen insensibility.Beatrice, with a quick spiritual sense, immediately felt that therewas a gulf of blackness between them which neither he norshe could pass. They walked on together, sad and silent,and came thus to the marble fountain, and to its pool ofwater on the ground, in the midst of which grew the shrubthat bore gemlike blossoms. Giovanni was affrighted at theeager enjoyment—the appetite, as it were—with which hefound himself inhaling the fragrance of the flowers.

"Beatrice," asked he, abruptly, "whence came this shrub?"

"My father created it," answered she, with simplicity.

"Created it! created it!" repeated Giovanni. "Whatmean you, Beatrice?"

"He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets ofnature," replied Beatrice, "and at the hour when I firstdrew breath this plant sprang from the soil, the offspringof his science, of his intellect, while I was but his earthlychild. Approach it not," continued she, observing withterror that Giovanni was drawing nearer to the shrub; "ithas qualities that you little dream of. But I, dearestGiovanni—I grew up and blossomed with the plant, and wasnourished with its breath. It was my sister, and I lovedit with a human affection; for—alas! hast thou not suspectedit?—there was an awful doom."

Here Giovanni frowned so darkly upon her that Beatricepaused and trembled. But her faith in his tendernessreassured her and made her blush that she had doubted for aninstant.

"There was an awful doom," she continued—"the effectof my father's fatal love of science—which estranged mefrom all society of my kind. Until Heaven sent thee,dearest Giovanni, oh, how lonely was thy poor Beatrice!"

"Was it a hard doom?" asked Giovanni, fixing his eyesupon her.

"Only of late have I known how hard it was," answeredshe, tenderly. "Oh, yes; but my heart was torpid, andtherefore quiet."

Giovanni's rage broke forth from his sullen gloom likea lightning-flash out of a dark cloud.

"Accursed one!" cried he, with venomous scorn andanger. "And, finding thy solitude wearisome, thou hastsevered me likewise from all the warmth of life and enticed meinto thy region of unspeakable horror!"

"Giovanni!" exclaimed Beatrice, turning her large brighteyes upon his face. The force of his words had not foundits way into her mind; she was merely thunderstruck.

"Yes, poisonous thing!" repeated Giovanni, beside himselfwith passion. "Thou hast done it! Thou hast blastedme! Thou hast filled my veins with poison! Thou hastmade me as hateful, as ugly, as loathsome and deadly acreature as thyself—a world's wonder of hideous monstrosity!Now—if our breath be, happily, as fatal to ourselvesas to all others—let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterablehatred, and so die."

"What has befallen me?" murmured Beatrice, with alow moan out of her heart. "Holy Virgin, pity me—a poorheartbroken child!"

"Thou? Dost thou pray?" cried Giovanni, still with thesame fiendish scorn. "Thy very prayers as they come fromthy lips taint the atmosphere with death. Yes, yes, let uspray! Let us to church and dip our fingers in the holywater at the portal: they that come after us will perish asby a pestilence. Let us sign crosses in the air: it will bescattering curses abroad in the likeness of holy symbols."

"Giovanni," said Beatrice, calmly, for her grief wasbeyond passion, "why dost thou join thyself with me thus inthose terrible words? I, it is true, am the horrible thingthou namest me, but thou—what hast thou to do save withone other shudder at my hideous misery to go forth out ofthe garden and mingle with thy race, and forget that thereever crawled on earth such a monster as poor Beatrice?"

"Dost thou pretend ignorance?" asked Giovanni, scowlingupon her. "Behold! This power have I gained fromthe pure daughter of Rappaccini!"

There was a swarm of summer insects flitting throughthe air in search of the food promised by the flower-odors ofthe fatal garden. They circled round Giovanni's head, andwere evidently attracted toward him by the same influencewhich had drawn them for an instant within the sphereof several of the shrubs. He sent forth a breath amongthem, and smiled bitterly at Beatrice, as at least a scoreof the insects fell dead upon the ground.

"I see it! I see it!" shrieked Beatrice. "It is my father'sfatal science! No, no, Giovanni, it was not I! Never, never!I dreamed only to love thee and be with thee a little time,and so to let thee pass away, leaving but thine image inmine heart. For, Giovanni—believe it—though my body benourished with poison, my spirit is God's creature and craveslove as its daily food. But my father! he has united usin this fearful sympathy. Yes, spurn me! tread uponme! kill me! Oh, what is death, after such words as thine?But it was not I; not for a world of bliss would I havedone it!"

Giovanni's passion had exhausted itself in its outburstfrom his lips. There now came across him a sense—mournfuland not without tenderness—of the intimate and peculiarrelationship between Beatrice and himself. They stood, asit were, in an utter solitude which would be made none theless solitary by the densest throng of human life. Oughtnot, then, the desert of humanity around them to press thisinsulated pair closer together? If they should be cruel toone another, who was there to be kind to them? Besides,thought Giovanni, might there not still be a hope of hisreturning within the limits of ordinary nature, and leadingBeatrice—the redeemed Beatrice—by the hand? Oh, weakand selfish and unworthy spirit, that could dream of anearthly union and earthly happiness as possible after suchdeep love had been so bitterly wronged as was Beatrice'slove by Giovanni's blighting words! No, no! there couldbe no such hope. She must pass heavily with that brokenheart across the borders; she must bathe her hurts in somefont of Paradise and forget her grief in the light ofimmortality, and there be well.

But Giovanni did not know it.

"Dear Beatrice," said he, approaching her, while sheshrank away, as always at his approach, but now with adifferent impulse—"dearest Beatrice, our fate is not yet sodesperate. Behold! There is a medicine, potent, as a wisephysician has assured me, and almost divine in its efficacy.It is composed of ingredients the most opposite to those bywhich thy awful father has brought this calamity upon theeand me. It is distilled of blessed herbs. Shall we not quaffit together, and thus be purified from evil?"

"Give it me," said Beatrice, extending her hand to receivethe little silver phial which Giovanni took from hisbosom. She added with a peculiar emphasis, "I will drink,but do thou await the result."

She put Baglioni's antidote to her lips, and at the samemoment the figure of Rappaccini emerged from the portaland came slowly toward the marble fountain. As he drewnear the pale man of science seemed to gaze with a triumphantexpression at the beautiful youth and maiden, as mightan artist who should spend his life in achieving a picture ora group of statuary, and finally be satisfied with his success.He paused; his bent form grew erect with conscious power;he spread out his hands over them in the attitude of a fatherImploring a blessing upon his children. But those were thesame hands that had thrown poison into the stream of theirlives! Giovanni trembled. Beatrice shuddered verynervously, and pressed her hand upon her heart.

"My daughter," said Rappaccini, "thou art no longerlonely in the world. Pluck one of these precious gemsfrom thy sister-shrub, and bid thy bridegroom wear it inhis bosom. It will not harm him now. My science and thesympathy between thee and him have so wrought withinhis system that he now stands apart from common men, asthou dost, daughter of my pride and triumph, from ordinarywomen. Pass on, then, through the world, most dear to oneanother and dreadful to all besides."

"My father," said Beatrice, feebly—and still, as shespoke, she kept her hand upon her heart—"wherefore didstthou inflict this miserable doom upon thy child?"

"Miserable!" exclaimed Rappaccini. "What mean you,foolish girl? Dost thou deem it misery to be endowed withmarvelous gifts against which no power nor strength couldavail an enemy, misery to be able to quell the mightiest witha breath, misery to be as terrible as thou art beautiful?Wouldst thou, then, have preferred the condition of a weakwoman, exposed to all evil and capable of none?"

"I would fain have been loved, not feared," murmuredBeatrice, sinking down upon the ground. "But now it mattersnot. I am going, father, where the evil which thou haststriven to mingle with my being will pass away like adream—like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers which willno longer taint my breath among the flowers of Eden.Farewell, Giovanni! Thy words of hatred are like leadwithin my heart, but they too will fall away as I ascend.Oh, was there not from the first more poison in thy naturethan in mine?"

To Beatrice—so radically had her earthly part beenwrought upon by Rappaccini's skill—as poison had beenlife, so the powerful antidote was death. And thus thepoor victim of man's ingenuity and of thwarted nature, andof the fatality that attends all such efforts of pervertedwisdom, perished there at the feet of her father and Giovanni.

Just at that moment Professor Pietro Baglioni lookedforth from the window and called loudly, in a tone oftriumph mixed with horror, to the thunder-stricken man ofscience:

"Rappaccini, Rappaccini! And is this the upshot ofyour experiment?"

ZODOMIRSKY'S DUEL

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS

The elder Dumas was born in 1803 and diedin 1870. His name appears as author on thetitle-pages of 257 volumes of stories andromances, and of 25 volumes of plays. He hadten collaborators or assistants who workedout details for him, the generals over whomhe was a Napoleon—to quote his own phrase.He had to an extraordinary degree the abilityto impart dramatic life and action towhatever he touched, and the whole modern schoolof historical writers is largely indebted tohim for inspiration, from Stevenson down.

ZODOMIRSKY'S DUEL

By ALEXANDRE DUMAS

At the time of this story our regiment was stationedin the dirty little village of Valins, on the frontierof Austria.

It was the fourth of May in the year 182—, andI, with several other officers, had been breakfasting with theAide-de-Camp in honor of his birthday, and discussing thevarious topics of the garrison.

"Can you tell us without being indiscreet," askedSub-Lieutenant Stamm of Andrew Michaelovitch, theAide-de-Camp, "what the Colonel was so eager to say to you thismorning?"

"A new officer," he replied, "is to fill the vacancy ofcaptain."

"His name?" demanded two or three voices.

"Lieutenant Zodomirsky, who is betrothed to the beautifulMariana Ravensky."

"And when does he arrive?" asked Major Belayef.

"He has arrived. I have been presented to him at theColonel's house. He is very anxious to make your acquaintance,gentlemen, and I have therefore invited him to dinewith us. But that reminds me, Captain, you must knowhim," he continued, turning to me; "you were both in thesame regiment at St. Petersburg."

"It is true," I replied. "We studied there together. Hewas then a brave, handsome youth, adored by his comrades,in every one's good graces, but of a fiery and irritabletemper."

"Mademoiselle Ravensky informed me that he was askilful duelist," said Stamm. "Well, he will do very wellhere; a duel is a family affair with us. You are welcome,Monsieur Zodomirsky. However quick your temper, youmust be careful of it before me, or I shall take upon myselfto cool it."

And Stamm pronounced these words with a visible sneer.

"How is it that he leaves the Guards? Is he ruined?"asked Cornet Naletoff.

"I have been informed," replied Stamm, "that he has justinherited from an old aunt about twenty thousand rubles.No, poor devil! he is consumptive."

"Come, gentlemen," said the Aide-de-Camp, rising, "letus pass to the saloon and have a game of cards. Koloff willserve dinner while we play."

We had been seated some time, and Stamm, who was farfrom rich, was in the act of losing sixty roubles, when Koloffannounced:

"Captain Zodomirsky."

"Here you are, at last!" cried Michaelovitch, jumping fromhis chair. "You are welcome."

Then, turning to us, he continued: "These are your newcomrades, Captain Zodomirsky; all good fellows and bravesoldiers."

"Gentlemen," said Zodomirsky, "I am proud and happyto have joined your regiment. To do so has been mygreatest desire for some time, and if I am welcome, asyou courteously say, I shall be the happiest man in theworld."

"Ah! good day, Captain," he continued, turning to meand holding out his hand. "We meet again. You have notforgotten an old friend, I hope?"

As he smilingly uttered these words, Stamm, to whomhis back was turned, darted at him a glance full of bitterhatred. Stamm was not liked in the regiment; his cold andtaciturn nature had formed no friendship with any of us.I could not understand his apparent hostility towardZodomirsky, whom I believed he had never seen before.

Some one offered Zodomirsky a cigar. He accepted it,lit it at the cigar of an officer near him, and began to talkgaily to his new comrades.

"Do you stay here long?" asked Major Belayef.

"Yes, monsieur," replied Zodomirsky. "I wish to staywith you as long as possible," and as he pronounced thesewords he saluted us all round with a smile. He continued:"I have taken a house near that of my old friend Ravenskywhom I knew at St. Petersburg. I have my horses there,an excellent cook, a passable library, a little garden, anda target; and there I shall be quiet as a hermit, and happy asa king. It is the life that suits me."

"Ha! you practise shooting!" said Stamm, in such astrange voice, accompanied by a smile so sardonic, thatZodomirsky regarded him in astonishment.

"It is my custom every morning to fire twelve balls," hereplied.

"You are very fond of that amusement, then?" demandedStamm, in a voice without any trace of emotion; adding, "Ido not understand the use of shooting, unless it is to huntwith."

Zodomirsky's pale face was flushed with a sudden flame.He turned to Stamm, and replied in a quiet but firm voice: "Ithink, monsieur, that you are wrong in calling it lost time tolearn to shoot with a pistol; in our garrison life animprudent word often leads to a meeting between comrades, inwhich case he who is known for a good shot inspiresrespect among those indiscreet persons who amuse themselvesin asking useless questions."

"Oh! that is not a reason, Captain. In duels, as in everythingelse, something should be left to chance. I maintainmy first opinion, and say that an honorable man ought notto take too many precautions."

"And why?" asked Zodomirsky.

"I will explain to you," replied Stamm. "Do you playat cards, Captain?"

"Why do you ask that question?"

"I will try to render my explanation clear, so that allwill understand it. Every one knows that there are certainplayers who have an enviable knack, while shuffling the pack,of adroitly making themselves master of the winning card.Now, I see no difference, myself, between the man whorobs his neighbor of his money and the one who robs him ofhis life." Then he added, in a way to take nothing from theinsolence of his observation, "I do not say this to you, inparticular, Captain; I speak in general terms."

"It is too much as it is, monsieur!" cried Zodomirsky,"I beg Captain Alexis Stephanovitch to terminate this affairwith you." Then, turning to me, he said: "You will notrefuse me this request?"

"So be it, Captain," replied Stamm quickly. "You havetold me yourself you practise shooting every day, while Ipractise only on the day I fight. We will equalize thechances. I will settle details with Monsieur Stephanovitch."

Then he rose and turned to our host.

"Au revoir, Michaelovitch," he said. "I will dine at theColonel's." And with these words he left the room.

The most profound silence had been kept during thisaltercation; but, as soon as Stamm disappeared, CaptainPravdine, an old officer, addressed himself to us all.

"We can not let them fight, gentlemen," he said.

Zodomirsky touched him gently on his arm.

"Captain," he said, "I am a newcomer among you; noneof you know me. I have yet, as it were, to win my spurs;it is impossible for me to let this quarrel pass withoutfighting. I do not know what I have done to annoy thisgentleman, but it is evident that he has some spite against me."

"The truth of the matter is that Stamm is jealous ofyou, Zodomirsky," said Cornet Naletoff. "It is well knownthat he is in love with Mademoiselle Ravensky."

"That, indeed, explains all," he replied. "However,gentlemen, I thank you for your kind sympathy in this affairfrom the bottom of my heart."

"And now to dinner, gentlemen!" cried Michaelovitch."Place yourselves as you choose. The soup, Koloff; thesoup!"

Everybody was very animated. Stamm seemed forgotten;only Zodomirsky appeared a little sad. Zodomirsky's healthwas drunk; he seemed touched with this significant attention,and thanked the officers with a broken voice.

"Stephanovitch," said Zodomirsky to me, when dinnerwas over, and all had risen, "since M. Stamm knows youare my second and has accepted you as such, see him, andarrange everything with him; accept all his conditions;then meet Captain Pravdine and me at my rooms. The firstwho arrives will wait for the other. We are now goingto Monsieur Ravensky's house."

"You will let us know the hour of combat?" said severalvoices.

"Certainly, gentlemen. Come and bid a last farewell toone of us."

We all parted at the Ravensky's door, each officershaking hands with Zodomirsky as with an old friend.

Stamm was waiting for me when I arrived at his house.His conditions were these: Two sabres were to be planted ata distance of one pace apart; each opponent to extend hisarm at full length and fire at the word "three." One pistolalone was to be loaded.

I endeavored in vain to obtain another mode of combat.

"It is not a victim I offer to M. Zodomirsky," said Stamm,"but an adversary. He will fight as I propose, or I will notfight at all; but in that case I shall prove that M. Zodomirskyis brave only when sure of his own safety."

Zodomirsky's orders were imperative. I accepted.

When I entered Zodomirsky's rooms, they were vacant;he had not arrived. I looked round with curiosity. Theywere furnished in a rich but simple manner, and with evidenttaste. I drew a chair near the balcony and looked out overthe plain. A storm was brewing; some drops of rain fellalready, and thunder moaned.

At this instant the door opened, and Zodomirsky andPravdine entered. I advanced to meet them.

"We are late, Captain," said Zodomirsky, "but it wasunavoidable."

"And what says Stamm?" he continued.

I gave him his adversary's conditions. When I hadended, a sad smile passed over his face; he drew his handacross his forehead and his eyes glittered with feverishlustre.

"I had foreseen this," he murmured. "You have accepted,I presume?"

"Did you not give me the order yourself?"

"Absolutely," he replied.

Zodomirsky threw himself in a chair by the table, inwhich position he faced the door. Pravdine placed himselfnear the window, and I near the fire. A presentimentweighed down our spirits. A mournful silence reigned.

Suddenly the door opened and a woman muffled in amantle which streamed with water, and with the hood drawnover her face, pushed past the servant, and stood before us.She threw back the hood, and we recognized Mariana Ravensky!

Pravdine and I stood motionless with astonishment.Zodomirsky sprang toward her.

"Great heavens! what has happened, and why are you here?"

"Why am I here, George?" she cried. "Is it you who askme, when this night is perhaps the last of your life? Whyam I here? To say farewell to you. It is only two hourssince I saw you, and not one word passed between us ofto-morrow. Was that well, George?"

"But I am not alone here," said Zodomirsky in a lowvoice. "Think, Mariana. Your reputation—your fairfame—"

"Are you not all in all to me, George? And in such atime as this, what matters anything else?"

She threw her arm about his neck and pressed her headagainst his breast.

Pravdine and I made some steps to quit the room.

"Stay, gentlemen," she said lifting her head. "Since youhave seen me here, I have nothing more to hide from you,and perhaps you may be able to help me in what I amabout to say." Then, suddenly flinging herself at his feet:

"I implore you, I command you, George," she cried, "notto fight this duel with Monsieur Stamm. You will not endtwo lives by such a useless act! Your life belongs to me;it is no longer yours. George, do you hear? You will notdo this."

"Mariana! Mariana! in the name of Heaven do not tortureme thus! Can I refuse to fight? I should be dishonored—lost!If I could do so cowardly an act, shame would killme more surely than Stamm's pistol."

"Captain," she said to Pravdine, "you are esteemed inthe regiment as a man of honor; you can, then, judge aboutaffairs of honor. Have pity on me, Captain, and tell himhe can refuse such a duel as this. Make him understandthat it is not a duel, but an assassination; speak, speak,Captain, and if he will not listen to me, he will to you."

Pravdine was moved. His lips trembled and his eyeswere dimmed with tears. He rose, and, approaching Mariana,respectfully kissed her hand, and said with a trembling voice:

"To spare you any sorrow, Mademoiselle, I would laydown my life; but to counsel M. Zodomirsky to be unworthyof his uniform by refusing this duel is impossible. Eachadversary, your betrothed as well as Stamm, has a right topropose his conditions. But whatever be the conditions, theCaptain is in circumstances which render this duel absolutelynecessary. He is known as a skilful duelist; to refuseStamm's conditions were to indicate that he counts upon hisskill."

"Enough, Mariana, enough," cried George. "Unhappygirl! you do not know what you demand. Do you wish me,then, to fall so low that you yourself would be ashamed ofme? I ask you, are you capable of loving a dishonored man?"

Mariana had let herself fall upon a chair. She rose, paleas a corpse, and began to put her mantle on.

"You are right, George, it is not I who would love youno more, but you who would hate me. We must resign ourselvesto our fate. Give me your hand, George; perhaps weshall never see each other again. To-morrow! to-morrow! mylove."

She threw herself upon his breast, without tears, withoutsobs, but with a profound despair.

She wished to depart alone, but Zodomirsky insisted onleading her home.

Midnight was striking when he returned.

"You had better both retire," said Zodomirsky as heentered. "I have several letters to write before sleeping. Atfive we must be at the rendezvous."

I felt so wearied that I did not want telling twice. Pravdinepassed into the saloon, I into Zodomirsky's bedroom,and the master of the house into his study.

The cool air of the morning woke me. I cast my eyesupon the window, where the dawn commenced to appear.I heard Pravdine also stirring. I passed into the saloon,where Zodomirsky immediately joined us. His face waspale but serene.

"Are the horses ready?" he inquired.

I made a sign in the affirmative.

"Then, let us start," he said.

We mounted into the carriage and drove off.

III

"Ah," said Pravdine all at once, "there is Michaelovitch'scarriage. Yes, yes, it is he with one of ours, and there isNaletoff, on his Circassian horse. Good! the others arecoming behind. It is well we started so soon."

The carriage had to pass the house of the Ravenskys. Icould not refrain from looking up; the poor girl was at herwindow, motionless as a statue. She did not even nod to us.

"Quicker! quicker!" cried Zodomirsky to the coachman.It was the only sign by which I knew that he had seenMariana.

Soon we distanced the other carriages, and arrived uponthe place of combat—a plain where two great pyramids rose,passing in this district by the name of the "Tomb of the TwoBrothers." The first rays of the sun darting through thetrees began to dissipate the mists of night.

Michaelovitch arrived immediately after us, and in a fewminutes we formed a group of nearly twenty persons. Thenwe heard the crunch of other steps upon the gravel. Theywere those of our opponents. Stamm walked first, holdingin his hand a box of pistols. He bowed to Zodomirsky andthe officers.

"Who gives the word to fire, gentlemen?" he asked.

The two adversaries and the seconds turned toward theofficers, who regarded them with perplexity.

No one offered. No one wished to pronounce thatterrible "three," which would sign the fate of a comrade.

"Major," said Zodomirsky to Belayef, "will you renderme this service?"

Thus asked, the Major could not refuse, and he made asign that he accepted.

"Be good enough to indicate our places, gentlemen,"continued Zodomirsky, giving me his sabre and taking off hiscoat; "then load, if you please."

"That is useless," said Stamm. "I have brought the pistols;one of the two is loaded, the other has only a gun-cap."

"Do you know which is which?" said Pravdine.

"What does it matter?" replied Stamm, "Monsieur Zodomirskywill choose."

"It is well," said Zodomirsky.

Belayef drew his sabre and thrust it in the ground midwaybetween the two pyramids. Then he took another sabreand planted it before the first. One pace alone separated thetwo blades. Each adversary was to stand behind a sabre,extending his arm at full length. In this way each had themuzzle of his opponent's pistol at six inches from his heart.While Belayef made these preparations Stamm unbuckledhis sabre and divested himself of his coat. His secondsopened his box of pistols, and Zodomirsky, approaching,took without hesitation the nearest to him. Then he placedhimself behind one of the sabres.

Stamm regarded him closely; not a muscle of Zodomirsky'sface moved, and there was not about him the leastappearance of bravado, but of the calmness of courage.

"He is brave," murmured Stamm.

And taking the pistol left by Zodomirsky he took up hisposition behind the other sabre, in front of his adversary.

They were both pale, but while the eyes of Zodomirskyburned with implacable resolution, those of Stamm wereuneasy and shifting. I felt my heart beat loudly.

Belayef advanced. All eyes were fixed on him.

"Are you ready, gentlemen?" he asked.

"We are waiting, Major," replied Zodomirsky and Stammtogether, and each lifted his pistol before the breast of theother.

A death-like silence reigned. Only the birds sang in thebushes near the place of combat. In the midst of this silencethe Major's voice resounding made every one tremble.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

Then we heard the sound of the hammer falling on thecap of Zodomirsky's pistol. There was a flash, but nosound followed it.

Stamm had not fired, and continued to hold the mouthof his pistol against the breast of his adversary.

"Fire!" said Zodomirsky, in a voice perfectly calm.

"It is not for you to command, Monsieur," said Stamm;"it is I who must decide whether to fire or not, and thatdepends on how you answer what I am about to say."

"Speak, then; but in the name of Heaven speak quickly."

"Never fear, I will not abuse your patience."

We were all ears.

"I have not come to kill you, Monsieur," continuedStamm. "I have come with the carelessness of a man towhom life holds nothing, while it has kept none of thepromises it has made to him. You, Monsieur, are rich, youare beloved, you have a promising future before you: lifemust be dear to you. But fate has decided against you: itis you who must die and not I. Well, Monsieur Zodomirsky,give me your word not to be so prompt in the future to fightduels, and I will not fire."

"I have not been prompt to call you out, Monsieur," repliedZodomirsky in the same calm voice; "you have woundedme by an outrageous comparison, and I have been compelledto challenge you. Fire, then; I have nothing to say to you."

"My conditions can not wound your honor," insistedStamm. "Be our judge, Major," he added, turning to Belayef."I will abide by your opinion; perhaps M. Zodomirsky willfollow my example."

"M. Zodomirsky has conducted himself as bravely aspossible; if he is not killed, it is not his fault." Then,turning to the officers round, he said:

"Can M. Zodomirsky accept the imposed condition?"

"He can! he can!" they cried, "and without staining hishonor in the slightest."

Zodomirsky stood motionless.

"The Captain consents," said old Pravdine, advancing."Yes, in the future he will be less prompt."

"It is you who speak, Captain, and not M. Zodomirsky,"said Stamm.

"Will you affirm my words, Monsieur Zodomirsky?" askedPravdine, almost supplicating in his eagerness.

"I consent," said Zodomirsky, in a voice scarcelyintelligible.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried all the officers, enchanted withthis termination. Two or three threw up their caps.

"I am more charmed than any one," said Stamm, "thatall has ended as I desired. Now, Captain, I have shown youthat before a resolute man the art of shooting is nothingin a duel, and that if the chances are equal a good shotis on the same level as a bad one. I did not wish in any caseto kill you. Only I had a great desire to see how you wouldlook death in the face. You are a man of courage; accept mycompliments. The pistols were not loaded." Stamm, as hesaid these words, fired off his pistol. There was no report!

Zodomirsky uttered a cry which resembled the roar ofa wounded lion.

"By my father's soul!" he cried, "this is a new offense,and more insulting than the first. Ah! it is ended, you say?No, Monsieur, it must recommence, and this time the pistolsshall be loaded, if I have to load them myself."

"No, Captain," replied Stamm, tranquilly, "I have givenyou your life, I will not take it back. Insult me if youwish, I will not fight with you."

"Then it is with me whom you will fight, MonsieurStamm," cried Pravdine, pulling off his coat. "You haveacted like a scoundrel; you have deceived Zodomirsky andhis seconds, and, in five minutes if your dead body is notlying at my feet, there is no such thing as justice."

Stamm was visibly confused. He had not bargained for this.

"And if the Captain does not kill you, I will!" said Naletoff.

"Or I!" "Or I!" cried with one voice all the officers.

"The devil! I can not fight with you all," replied Stamm."Choose one among you, and I will fight with him, thoughit will not be a duel, but an assassination."

"Reassure yourself, Monsieur," replied Major Belayef;"we will do nothing that the most scrupulous honor cancomplain of. All our officers are insulted, for under theiruniform you have conducted yourself like a rascal. You cannot fight with all; it is even probable you will fight withnone. Hold yourself in readiness, then. You are to bejudged. Gentlemen, will you approach?"

We surrounded the Major, and the fiat went forth withoutdiscussion. Every one was of the same opinion.

Then the Major, who had played the role of president,approached Stamm, and said to him:

"Monsieur, you are lost to all the laws of honor. Yourcrime was premeditated in cold blood. You have madeM. Zodomirsky pass through all the sensations of a mancondemned to death, while you were perfectly at ease, you whoknew that the pistols were not loaded. Finally, you haverefused to fight with the man whom you have doublyinsulted."

"Load the pistols! load them!" cried Stamm, exasperated."I will fight with any one!"

But the Major shook his head with a smile of contempt.

"No, Monsieur Lieutenant," he said, "you will fight nomore with your comrades. You have stained your uniform.We can no longer serve with you. The officers have chargedme to say that, not wishing to make your deficiencies knownto the Government, they ask you to give in your resignationon the cause of bad health. The surgeon will sign allnecessary certificates. To-day is the 3d of May: you have fromnow to the 3d of June to quit the regiment."

"I will quit it, certainly; not because it is your desire, butmine," said Stamm, picking up his sabre and putting onhis coat.

Then he leaped upon his horse, and galloped off towardthe village, casting a last malediction to us all.

We all pressed round Zodomirsky. He was sad; morethan sad, gloomy.

"Why did you force me to consent to this scoundrel'sconditions, gentlemen?" he said. "Without you, I shouldnever have accepted them."

"My comrades and I," said the Major, "will take all theresponsibility. You have acted nobly, and I must tell youin the name of us all, M. Zodomirsky, that you are a manof honor." Then, turning to the officers: "Let us go,gentlemen; we must inform the Colonel of what has passed."

We mounted into the carriages. As we did so we sawStamm in the distance galloping up the mountainside fromthe village upon his horse. Zodomirsky's eyes followed him.

"I know not what presentiment torments me," he said,"but I wish his pistol had been loaded, and that he hadfired."

He uttered a deep sigh, then shook his head, as if withthat he could disperse his gloomy thoughts.

"Home," he called to the driver.

We took the same route that we had come by, andconsequently again passed Mariana Ravensky's window. Eachof us looked up, but Mariana was no longer there.

"Captain," said Zodomirsky, "will you do me a service?"

"Whatever you wish," I replied.

"I count upon you to tell my poor Mariana the result ofthis miserable affair."

"I will do so. And when?"

"Now. The sooner the better. Stop!" cried Zodomirskyto the coachman. He stopped, and I descended, and thecarriage drove on.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Zodomirsky had hardly entered when he saw me appearin the doorway of the saloon. Without doubt my face waspale, and wore a look of consternation, for Zodomirskysprang toward me, crying:

"Great heavens, Captain! What has happened?"

I drew him from the saloon.

"My poor friend, haste, if you wish to see Mariana alive.She was at her window; she saw Stamm gallop past. Stammbeing alive, it followed that you were dead. She uttered acry, and fell. From that moment she has never opened hereyes."

"Oh, my presentiments!" cried Zodomirsky, "my presentiments!"and he rushed hatless and without his sabre, intothe street.

On the staircase of Mlle. Ravensky's house he met thedoctor, who was coming down.

"Doctor," he cried, stopping him, "she is better, is shenot?"

"Yes," he answered, "better, because she suffers no more."

"Dead!" murmured Zodomirsky, growing white, andsupporting himself against the wall. "Dead!"

"I always told her, poor girl! that, having a weak heart,she must avoid all emotion—"

But Zodomirsky had ceased to listen. He sprang up thesteps, crossed the hall and the saloon, calling like a madman:

"Mariana! Mariana!"

At the door of the sleeping chamber stood Mariana's oldnurse, who tried to bar his progress. He pushed by her, andentered the room.

Mariana was lying motionless and pale upon her bed.Her face was calm as if she slept. Zodomirsky threw himselfupon his knees by the bedside, and seized her hand. Itwas cold, and in it was clenched a curl of black hair.

"My hair!" cried Zodomirsky, bursting into sobs. "Yes,yours," said the old nurse, "your hair that she cut offherself on quitting you at St. Petersburg. I have often toldher it would bring misfortune to one of you."

If any one desires to learn what became of Zodomirsky,let him inquire for Brother Vassili, at the Monastery ofTroitza.

The holy brothers will show the visitor his tomb. Theyknow neither his real name nor the causes which, at twenty-six,had made him take the robe of a monk. Only they say,vaguely, that it was after a great sorrow, caused by thedeath of a woman whom he loved.

THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL

BY JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE

James Matthew Barrie, born in 1860, is themost important figure in a group of recentwriters who have taken for their subjects thepathetic and humorous side of village life inScotland.

There is none among them who is quite sotemperamental and sympathetic, certainly nonewho has so rare an appreciation of humor."

The story of "T'nowhead" is from "A Windowin Thrums."

THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL

By JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE

For two years it had been notorious in the squarethat Sam'l Dickie was thinking of courting T'nowhead'sBell, and that if little Sanders Elshioner(which is the Thrums pronunciation of AlexanderAlexander) went in for her, he might prove a formidablerival. Sam'l was a weaver in the Tenements, and Sandersa coal-carter whose trade-mark was a bell on his horse's neckthat told when coals were coming. Being something of apublic man, Sanders had not, perhaps, so high a socialposition as Sam'l, but he had succeeded his father on thecoal-cart, while the weaver had already tried several trades. Ithad always been against Sam'l, too, that once when thekirk was vacant he had advised the selection of the thirdminister who preached for it, on the ground that it cameexpensive to pay a large number of candidates. The scandalof the thing was hushed up, out of respect for his father,who was a God-fearing man, but Sam'l was known by it inLang Tammas's circle. The coal-carter was called LittleSanders, to distinguish him from his father, who was notmuch more than half his size. He had grown up with thename, and its inapplicability now came home to nobody.Sam'l's mother had been more far-seeing than Sanders'.Her man had been called Sammy all his life, because it wasthe name he got as a boy, so when their eldest son was bornshe spoke of him as Sam'l while still in his cradle. Theneighbors imitated her, and thus the young man had a betterstart in life than had been granted to Sammy, his father.

It was Saturday evening—the night in the week whenAuld Licht young men fell in love. Sam'l Dickie, wearing ablue Glengarry bonnet with a red ball on the top, came tothe door of a one-story house in the Tenements, and stoodthere wriggling, for he was in a suit of tweed for the firsttime that week, and did not feel at one with them. Whenhis feeling of being a stranger to himself wore off, he lookedup and down the road, which straggles between houses andgardens, and then, picking his way over the puddles, crossedto his father's hen-house and sat down on it. He was nowon his way to the square.

Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dike, knittingstockings, and Sam'l looked at her for a time.

"Is't yersel', Eppie?" he said at last.

"It's a' that," said Eppie.

"Hoo's a' wi' ye?" asked Sam'l.

"We're juist aff an' on," replied Eppie, cautiously.

There was not much more to say, but as Sam'l sidled offthe hen-house, he murmured politely: "Ay, ay." In anotherminute he would have been fairly started, but Eppie resumedthe conversation.

"Sam'l," she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "ye can tellLisbeth Fargus I'll likely be drappin' in on her abootMunday or Teisday."

Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Tammas McQuhatty,better known as T'nowhead, which was the name ofhis farm. She was thus Bell's mistress.

Sam'l leaned against the hen-house, as if all his desire todepart had gone.

"Hoo'd 'ye kin I'll be at the T'nowhead the nicht?" heasked, grinning in anticipation.

"Ou, I'se warrant ye'll be after Bell," said Eppie.

"A'm no sae sure o' that," said Sam'l, trying to leer. Hewas enjoying himself now.

"A'm no sure o' that," he repeated, for Eppie seemed lostin stitches.

"Sam'l?"

"Ay."

"Ye'll be speirin' her sune noo, I dinna doot?"

This took Sam'l, who had only been courting Bell fora year or two, a little aback.

"Hoo d'ye mean, Eppie?" he asked.

"Maybe ye'll do't the nicht?"

"Na, there's nae hurry," said Sam'l.

"Weel, we're a' coontin' on't, Sam'l."

"Gae wa wi' ye."

"What for no?"

"Gae wa wi' ye," said Sam'l again.

"Bell's gei an' fond o' ye, Sam'l."

"Ay," said Sam'l.

"But am dootin' ye're a fellbilly wi' the lasses."

"Ay, oh, I d'na kin, moderate, moderate," said Sam'l, inhigh delight.

"I saw ye," said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth,"gaen on terr'ble wi' Mysy Haggart at the pump lastSaturday."

"We was juist amoosin' oorsels," said Sam'l.

"It'll be nae amoosement to Mysy," said Eppie, "gin yebrak her heart."

"Losh, Eppie," said Sam'l, "I didna think o' that."

"Ye maun kin weel, Sam'l, 'at there's mony a lass widjump at ye."

"Ou, weel," said Sam'l, implying that a man must takethese things as they come.

"For ye're a dainty chield to look at, Sam'l."

"Do ye think so, Eppie? Ay, ay; oh, I d'na kin A'manything by the ordinar."

"Ye mayna be," said Eppie, "but lasses doesna do to beower partikler."

Sam'l resented this, and prepared to depart again.

"Ye'll no tell Bell that?" he asked, anxiously.

"Tell her what?"

"Aboot me an' Mysy."

"We'll see hoo ye behave yerself, Sam'l."

"No 'at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. Iwidna think twice o' tellin' her mysel'."

"The Lord forgie ye for leein', Sam'l," said Eppie, as hedisappeared down Tammy Tosh's close. Here he came uponRenders Webster.

"Ye're late, Sam'l," said Henders.

"What for?"

"Ou, I was thinkin' ye wid be gaen the length o'T'nowhead the nicht, an' I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin's wythere an oor syne."

"Did ye?" cried Sam'l, adding craftily; "but it's naethingto me."

"Tod, lad," said Renders; "gin ye dinna buckle to,Sanders'll be carryin' her off!"

Sam'l flung back his head and passed on.

"Sam'l!" cried Renders after him.

"Ay," said Sam'l, wheeling round.

"Gie Bell a kiss frae me."

The full force of this joke struck neither all at once.Sam'l began to smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd,and it came upon Henders while he was in his gardenfeeding his ferret. Then he slapped his legs gleefully, andexplained the conceit to Will'um Byars, who went into thehouse and thought it over.

There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in thesquare, which was lighted by a flare of oil suspended over acadger's cart. Now and again a staid young woman passedthrough the square with a basket on her arm, and if she hadlingered long enough to give them time, some of the idlerswould have addressed her. As it was, they gazed afterher, and then grinned to each other.

"Ay, Sam'l," said two or three young men, as Sam'ljoined them beneath the town clock.

"Ay, Davit," replied Sam'l.

This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits inThrums, and it was not to be expected that they wouldlet this opportunity pass. Perhaps when Sam'l joined themhe knew what was in store for him.

"Was ye lookin' for T'nowhead's Bell?" asked one.

"Or mebbe ye was wantin' the minister?" suggested another,the same who had walked out twice with Christy Duffand not married her after all.

Sam'l could not think of a good reply at the moment, sohe laughed good-naturedly.

"Ondoobtedly she's a snod bit crittur," said Davit,archly.

"An' michty clever wi' her fingers," added Jamie Deuchars.

"Man, I've thocht o' makkin' up to Bell myself," said PeteOgle. "Wid there be ony chance, think ye, Sam'l?"

"I'm thinkin' she widna hae ye for her first, Pete,"replied Sam'l, in one of those happy flashes that come tosome men, "but there's nae sayin' but what she micht tak yeto finish up wi'."

The unexpectedness of this sally startled every one.Sam'l did not set up for a wit, though, like Davit, itwas notorious that he could say a cutting thing once in away.

"Did ye ever see Bell reddin up?" asked Pete, recoveringfrom his overthrow. He was a man who bore no malice.

"It's a sicht," said Sam'l, solemnly.

"Hoo will that be?" asked Jamie Deuchars.

"It's weel worth yer while," said Pete, "to ging atower tothe T'nowhead an' see. Ye'll mind the closed-in beds i' thekitchen? Ay, weel, they're a fell spoilt crew, T'nowhead'slitlins, an' no that aisy to manage. Th' ither lasses Lisbeth'shae'n had a michty trouble wi' them. When they war i' themiddle o' their reddin up the bairns wid come tumlin' aboutthe floor, but, sal, I assure ye, Bell didna fash lang wi' them.Did she, Sam'l?"

"She did not," said Sam'l, dropping into a fine mode ofspeech to add emphasis to his remark.

"I'll tell ye what she did," said Pete to the others. "Shejuist lifted up the litlins, twa at a time, an' flung them intothe coffin-beds. Syne she snibbit the doors on them, an'keepit them there till the floor was dry."

"Ay, man, did she so?" said Davit, admiringly.

"I've seen her do't myself," said Sam'l.

"There's no a lassie maks better bannocks this side o'Fetter Lums," continued Pete.

"Her mither tocht her that," said Sam'l; "she was a gran'han' at the bakin', Kitty Ogilvy."

"I've heard say," remarked Jamie, putting it this way soas not to tie himself down to anything, "'at Bell's scones isequal to Mag Lunan's."

"So they are," said Sam'l, almost fiercely.

"I kin she's a neat han' at singein' a hen," said Pete.

"An' wi't a'," said Davit, "she's a snod, canty bit stockyin her Sabbath claes."

"If onything, thick in the waist," suggested Jamie.

"I dinna see that," said Sam'l.

"I d'na care for her hair either," continued Jamie, whowas very nice in his tastes; "something mair yallowchy widbe an improvement."

"A'body kins," growled Sam'l, "'at black hair's the bonniest."

The others chuckled.

"Puir Sam'l!" Pete said.

Sam'l, not being certain whether this should be receivedwith a smile or a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind ofcompromise. This was position one with him for thinkingthings over.

Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length ofchoosing a helpmate for themselves. One day a young man'sfriends would see him mending the washing-tub of amaiden's mother. They kept the joke until Saturday night,and then he learned from them what he had been after. Itdazed him for a time, but in a year or so he grew accustomedto the idea, and they were then married. With a little help,he fell in love just like other people.

Sam'l was going the way of others, but he found itdifficult to come to the point. He only went courting once aweek, and he could never take up the running at the placewhere he left off the Saturday before. Thus he had not, sofar, made great headway. His method of making up to Bellhad been to drop in at T'nowhead on Saturday nights andtalk with the farmer about the rinderpest.

The farm kitchen was Bell's testimonial. Its chairs,tables, and stools were scoured by her to the whiteness ofRob Angus's saw-mill boards, and the muslin blind on thewindow was starched like a child's pinafore. Bell was brave,too, as well as energetic. Once Thrums had been overrunwith thieves. It is now thought that there may have beenonly one; but he had the wicked cleverness of a gang. Suchwas his repute, that there were weavers who spoke oflocking their doors when they went from home. He was notvery skilful, however, being generally caught, and when theysaid they knew he was a robber he gave them their thingsback and went away. If they had given him time there is nodoubt that he would have gone off with his plunder. Onenight he went to T'nowhead, and Bell, who slept in thekitchen, was wakened by the noise. She knew who it wouldbe, so she rose and dressed herself, and went to look for himwith a candle. The thief had not known what to do whenhe got in, and as it was very lonely, he was glad to see Bell.She told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, and wouldnot let him out by the door until he had taken off his boots,so as not to soil the carpet.

On this Saturday evening Sam'l stood his ground in thesquare, until by and by he found himself alone. There wereother groups there still, but his circle had melted away.They went separately, and no one said good-night. Eachtook himself off slowly, backing out of the group until he wasfairly started.

Sam'l looked about him, and then, seeing that the othershad gone, walked round the town-house into the darknessof the brae that leads down and then up to the farm ofT'nowhead.

To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you hadto know her ways and humor them. Sam'l, who was astudent of women, knew this, and so, instead of pushing thedoor open and walking in, he went through the ratherridiculous ceremony of knocking. Sanders Elshioner was alsoaware of this weakness of Lisbeth, but, though he often madeup his mind to knock, the absurdity of the thing preventedhis doing so when he reached the door. T'nowhead himselfhad never got used to his wife's refined notions, and whenany one knocked he always started to his feet, thinkingthere must be something wrong.

Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blockingthe way in.

"Sam'l," she said.

"Lisbeth," said Sam'l.

He shook hands with the farmer's wife, knowing that sheliked it, but only said: "Ay, Bell," to his sweetheart, "Ay,T'nowhead," to McQuhatty, and "It's yersel', Sanders," tohis rival.

They were all sitting round the fire, T'nowhead, with hisfeet on the ribs, wondering why he felt so warm, and Belldarned a stocking, while Lisbeth kept an eye on a gobletfull of potatoes.

"Sit in to the fire, Sam'l," said the farmer, not, however,making way for him.

"Na, na," said Sam'l, "I'm to bide nae time." Then hesat in to the fire. His face was turned away from Bell, andwhen she spoke he answered her without looking round.Sam'l felt a little anxious. Sanders Elshioner, who had oneleg shorter than the other, but looked well when sitting,seemed suspiciously at home. He asked Bell questions outof his own head, which was beyond Sam'l, and once he saidsomething to her in such a low voice that the others couldnot catch it. T'nowhead asked curiously what it was, andSanders explained that he had only said: "Ay, Bell, themorn's the Sabbath." There was nothing startling in this,but Sam'l did not like it. He began to wonder if he wastoo late, and had he seen his opportunity, would have toldBell of a nasty rumor that Sanders intended to go over tothe Free Church if they would make him kirk-officer.

Sam'l had the good-will of T'nowhead's wife, who likeda polite man. Sanders did his best, but from want of practisehe constantly made mistakes. To-night, for instance, hewore his hat in the house, because he did not like to putup his hand and take it off. T'nowhead had not taken his offeither, but that was because he meant to go out by and byand lock the byre door. It was impossible to say which ofher lovers Bell preferred. The proper course with an AuldLicht lassie was to prefer the man who proposed to her.

"Ye'll bide a wee, an' hae something to eat?" Lisbethasked Sam'l, with her eyes on the goblet.

"No, I thank ye," said Sam'l, with true gentility.

"Ye'll better?"

"I dinna think it."

"Hoots, ay; what's to hender ye?"

"Weel, since ye're sae pressin', I'll bide."

No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for shewas but the servant, and T'nowhead knew that the kickhis wife had given him meant that he was not to do soeither. Sanders whistled to show that he was notuncomfortable.

"Ay, then, I'll be stappin' ower the brae," he said at last.

He did not go, however. There was sufficient pride inhim to get him off his chair, but only slowly, for he had to getaccustomed to the notion of going. At intervals of two orthree minutes he remarked that he must now be going. Inthe same circumstances Sam'l would have acted similarly.For a Thrums man it is one of the hardest things in lifeto get away from anywhere.

At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. Thepotatoes were burning, and T'nowhead had an invitation onhis tongue.

"Yes, I'll hae to be movin'," said Sanders, hopelessly, forthe fifth time.

"Guid-nicht to ye, then, Sanders," said Lisbeth. "Gie thedoor a fling-to ahent ye."

Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together.He looked boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully.Sam'l saw with misgivings that there was something in itwhich was not a handkerchief. It was a paper bag glitteringwith gold braid, and contained such an assortment of sweetsas lads bought for their lasses on the Muckle Friday.

"Hae, Bell," said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in anoff-hand way, as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless, he wasa little excited, for he went off without saying good-night.

No one spoke. Bell's face was crimson. T'nowhead fidgetedon his chair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam'l. The weaverwas strangely calm and collected, though he would have likedto know whether this was a proposal.

"Sit in by to the table, Sam'l," said Lisbeth, trying tolook as if things were as they had been before.

She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near thefire to melt, for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helpsover a meal of potatoes. Sam'l, however, saw what the hourrequired, and, jumping up, he seized his bonnet.

"Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth," he said,with dignity; "I'se be back in ten meenits."

He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking ateach other.

"What do ye think?" asked Lisbeth.

"I d'na kin," faltered Bell.

"Thae tatties is lang o' comin' to the boil," said T'nowhead.

In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam'l would havebeen suspected of intent upon his rival's life, but neither Bellnor Lisbeth did the weaver that injustice. In a case of thiskind it does not much matter what T'nowhead thought.

The ten minutes had barely passed when Sam'l was backin the farm kitchen. He was too flurried to knock this time,and, indeed, Lisbeth did not expect it of him.

"Bell, hae!" he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bagtwice the size of Sanders's gift.

"Losh preserve's!" exclaimed Lisbeth; "I'se warrantthere's a shillin's worth."

"There's a' that, Lisbeth—an' mair," said Sam'l, firmly.

"I thank ye, Sam'l," said Bell, feeling an unwonted elationas she gazed at the two paper bags in her lap.

"Ye're ower extravegint, Sam'l," Lisbeth said.

"Not at all," said Sam'l; "not at all. But I wouldna adviseye to eat thae ither anes, Bell—they're second quality."

Bell drew back a step from Sam'l.

"How do ye kin?" asked the farmer, shortly; for he likedSanders.

"I speired i' the shop," said Sam'l.

The goblet was placed on a broken plate on the table, withthe saucer beside it, and Sam'l, like the others, helpedhimself. What he did was to take potatoes from the pot with hisfingers, peel off their coats, and then dip them into thebutter. Lisbeth would have liked to provide knives and forks,but she knew that beyond a certain point T'nowhead wasmaster in his own house. As for Sam'l, he felt victory inhis hands, and began to think that he had gone too far.

In the meantime, Sanders, little witting that Sam'l hadtrumped his trick, was sauntering along the kirk-wynd withhis hat on the side of his head. Fortunately he did not meetthe minister.

The courting of T'nowhead's Bell reached its crisis oneSabbath about a month after the events above recorded.The minister was in great force that day, but it is no part ofmine to tell how he bore himself. I was there, and am notlikely to forget the scene. It was a fateful Sabbath forT'nowhead's Bell and her swains, and destined to beremembered for the painful scandal which they perpetrated intheir passion.

Bell was not in the kirk. There being an infant of sixmonths in the house, it was a question of either Lisbeth orthe lassie's staying at home with him, and though Lisbethwas unselfish in a general way, she could not resist thedelight of going to church. She had nine children besidesthe baby, and being but a woman, it was the pride of herlife to march them into the T'nowhead pew, so well watchedthat they dared not misbehave, and so tightly packed thatthey could not fall. The congregation looked at that pew,the mother enviously, when they sang the lines:

"Jerusalem like a city is
Compactly built together."

The first half of the service had been gone through on thisparticular Sunday without anything remarkable happening.It was at the end of the psalm which preceded the sermonthat Sanders Elshioner, who sat near the door, lowered hishead until it was no higher than the pews, and in that attitude,looking almost like a four-footed animal, slipped out ofthe church. In their eagerness to be at the sermon, manyof the congregation did not notice him, and those who didput the matter by in their minds for future investigation.Sam'l, however, could not take it so coolly. From his seatin the gallery he saw Sanders disappear, and his mindmisgave him. With the true lover's instinct, he understood itall. Sanders had been struck by the fine turn-out in theT'nowhead pew. Bell was alone at the farm. What anopportunity to work one's way up to a proposal. T'nowheadwas so overrun with children that such a chance seldomoccurred, except on a Sabbath. Sanders, doubtless, was offto propose, and he, Sam'l, was left behind.

The suspense was terrible. Sam'l and Sanders had bothknown all along that Bell would take the first of the twowho asked her. Even those who thought her proud admittedthat she was modest. Bitterly the weaver repented havingwaited so long. Now it was too late. In ten minutesSanders would be at T'nowhead; in an hour all would beover. Sam'l rose to his feet in a daze. His mother pulledhim down by the coat-tail, and his father shook him,thinking he was walking in his sleep. He tottered past them,however, hurried up the aisle, which was so narrow thatDan'l Ross could only reach his seat by walking sidewise,and was gone before the minister could do more than stopin the middle of a whirl and gape in horror after him.

A number of the congregation felt that day the advantageof sitting in the laft. What was a mystery to thosedownstairs was revealed to them. From the gallery windowsthey had a fine open view to the south, and as Sam'l took thecommon, which was a short cut, though a steep ascent, toT'nowhead, he was never out of their line of vision. Sanderswas not to be seen, but they guessed rightly the reason why.Thinking he had ample time, he had gone round by the mainroad to save his boots—perhaps a little scared by what wascoming. Sam'l's design was to forestall him by taking theshorter path over the burn and up the commonty.

It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the gallerybraved the minister's displeasure to see who won. Thosewho favored Sam'l's suit exultingly saw him leap the stream,while the friends of Sanders fixed their eyes on the top ofthe common where it ran into the road. Sanders mustcome into sight there, and the one who reached this pointfirst would get Bell.

As Auld Lichts do not walk abroad on the Sabbath, Sanderswould probably not be delayed. The chances were inhis favor. Had it been any other day in the week, Sam'lmight have run. So some of the congregation in the gallerywere thinking, when suddenly they saw him bend low andthen take to his heels. He had caught sight of Sanders'shead bobbing over the hedge that separated the road fromthe common, and feared that Sanders might see him. Thecongregation who could crane their necks sufficiently sawa black object, which they guessed to be the carter's hat.crawling along the hedge-top. For a moment it wasmotionless, and then it shot ahead. The rivals had seen eachother. It was now a hot race. Sam'l, dissembling no longer,clattered up the common, becoming smaller and smaller tothe onlookers as he neared the top. More than one personin the gallery almost rose to their feet in their excitement.Sam'l had it. No. Sanders was in front. Then the twofigures disappeared from view. They seemed to run into eachother at the top of the brae, and no one could say who wasfirst. The congregation looked at one another. Some ofthem perspired. But the minister held on his course.

Sam'l had just been in time to cut Sanders out. It wasthe weaver's saying that Sanders saw this when his rivalturned the corner; for Sam'l was sadly blown. Sanders tookin the situation and gave in at once. The last hundredyards of the distance he covered at his leisure, and when hearrived at his destination he did not go in. It was a fineafternoon for the time of year, and he went round to havea look at the pig, about which T'nowhead was a littlesinfully puffed up.

"Ay," said Sanders, digging his fingers critically into thegrunting animal; "quite so."

"Grumph!" said the pig, getting reluctantly to his feet.

"Ou, ay; yes," said Sanders, thoughtfully.

Then he sat down on the edge of the sty, and looked longand silently at an empty bucket. But whether his thoughtswere of T'nowhead's Bell, whom he had lost forever, or ofthe food the farmer fed his pig on, is not known.

"Lord preserve's! Are ye no at the kirk?" cried Bell,nearly dropping the baby as Sam'l broke into the room.

"Bell!" cried Sam'l.

Then T'nowhead's Bell knew that her hour had come.

"Sam'l," she faltered.

"Will ye hae's, Bell?" demanded Sam'l, glaring at hersheepishly.

"Ay," answered Bell.

Sam'l fell into a chair.

"Bring's a drink o' water, Bell," he said.

But Bell thought the occasion required milk, and therewas none in the kitchen. She went out to the byre, still withthe baby in her arms, and saw Sanders Elshioner sittinggloomily on the pig-sty.

"Weel, Bell?" said Sanders.

"I thocht ye'd been at the kirk, Sanders," said Bell.

Then there was a silence between them.

"Has Sam'l speired ye, Bell?" asked Sanders stolidly.

"Ay," said Bell again, and this time there was a tear inher eye. Sanders was little better than an "orra man," andSam'l was a weaver, and yet—but it was too late now.Sanders gave the pig a vicious poke with a stick, and when ithad ceased to grunt, Bell was back in the kitchen. She hadforgotten about the milk, however, and Sam'l only got waterafter all.

In after days, when the story of Bell's wooing was told,there were some who held that the circumstances would havealmost justified the lassie in giving Sam'l the go-by. Butthese perhaps forgot that her other lover was in the samepredicament as the accepted one—that, of the two, indeed,he was the more to blame, for he set off to T'nowhead on theSabbath of his own accord, while Sam'l only ran after him.And then there is no one to say for certain whether Bellheard of her suitor's delinquencies until Lisbeth's returnfrom the kirk. Sam'l could never remember whether he toldher, and Bell was not sure whether, if he did, she took it in.Sanders was greatly in demand for weeks after to tell whathe knew of the affair, but though he was twice asked to teato the manse among the trees, and subjected thereafter toministerial cross-examinations, this is all he told. Heremained at the pig-sty until Sam'l left the farm, when hejoined him at the top of the brae, and they went hometogether.

"It's yersel', Sanders," said Sam'l.

"It is so, Sam'l," said Sanders.

"Very cauld," said Sam'l.

"Blawy," assented Sanders.

After a pause:

"Sam'l," said Sanders.

"Ay."

"I'm hearin' yer to be mairit."

"Ay."

"Weel, Sam'l, she's a snod bit lassie."

"Thank ye," said Sam'l.

"I had ance a kin' o' notion o' Bell mysel'," continuedSanders.

"Ye had?"

"Yes, Sam'l; but I thocht better o't."

"Hoo d'ye mean?" asked Sam'l, a little anxiously.

"Weel, Sam'l, mairitch is a terrible responsibeelity."

"It is so," said Sam'l, wincing.

"An' no the thing to tak up withoot conseederation."

"But it's a blessed and honorable state, Sanders; ye'veheard the minister on't."

"They say," continued the relentless Sanders, "'at theminister doesna get on sa weel wi' the wife himsel'."

"So they do," cried Sam'l, with a sinking at the heart.

"I've been telt," Sanders went on, "'at gin you can getthe upper han' o' the wife for a while at first, there's the mairchance o' a harmonious exeestence."

"Bell's no the lassie," said Sam'l, appealingly, "to thwarther man."

Sanders smiled.

"D'ye think she is, Sanders?"

"Weel, Sam'l, I d'na want to fluster ye, but she's beenower lang wi' Lisbeth Fargus no to ha' learnt her ways. An'a'body kins what a life T'nowhead has wi' her."

"Guid sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o' this afoore?"

"I thocht ye kent o't, Sam'l."

They had now reached the square, and the U. P. kirk wascoming out. The Auld Licht kirk would be half an hour yet.

"But, Sanders," said Sam'l, brightening up, "ye was onyer way to speir her yersel'."

"I was, Sam'l," said Sanders, "and I canna but bethankfu' ye was ower quick for's."

"Oin't hadna been you," said Sam'l, "I wid never haethocht o't."

"I'm sayin' naething agin Bell," pursued the other, "but,man Sam'l, a body should be mair deleeberate in a thing o'the kind."

"It was michty hurried," said Sam'l, wofully.

"It's a serious thing to speir a lassie," said Sanders.

"It's an awfu' thing," said Sam'l.

"But we'll hope for the best," added Sanders, in a hopelessvoice.

They were close to the Tenements now, and Sam'l lookedas if he were on his way to be hanged.

"Sam'l?"

"Ay, Sanders."

"Did ye—did ye kiss her, Sam'l?"

"Na."

"Hoo?"

"There's was vara little time, Sanders."

"Half an 'oor," said Sanders.

"Was there? Man, Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I neverthocht o't."

Then the soul of Elshioner was filled with contempt forSam'l Dickie.

The scandal blew over. At first it was expected that theminister would interfere to prevent the union, but beyondintimating from the pulpit that the souls of Sabbath-breakerswere beyond praying for, and then praying for Sam'l andSanders at great length, with a word thrown in for Bell,he let things take their course. Some said it was because hewas always frightened lest his young men should intermarrywith other denominations, but Sanders explained itdifferently to Sam'l.

"I hav'na a word to say agin the minister," he said;"they're gran' prayers, but, Sam'l, he's a mairit man himsel'."

"He's a' the better for that, Sanders, isna he?"

"Do ye no see," asked Sanders, compassionately, "'athe's tryin' to mak the best o't?"

"Oh, Sanders, man!" said Sam'l.

"Cheer up, Sam'l," said Sanders; "it'll sune be ower."

Their having been rival suitors had not interfered withtheir friendship. On the contrary, while they hithertobeen mere acquaintances, they became inseparables as thewedding-day drew near. It was noticed that they had muchto say to each other, and that when they could not get aroom to themselves they wandered about together in thechurchyard.

When Sam'l had anything to tell Bell, he sent Sandersto tell it, and Sanders did as he was bid. There was nothingthat he would not have done for Sam'l.

The more obliging Sanders was, however, the sadderSam'l grew. He never laughed now on Saturdays, andsometimes his loom was silent half the day. Sam'l felt thatSanders's was the kindness of a friend for a dying man.

It was to be a penny wedding, and Lisbeth Fargus saidit was delicacy that made Sam'l superintend the fitting-upof the barn by deputy. Once he came to see it in person,but he looked so ill that Sanders had to see him home. Thiswas on the Thursday afternoon, and the wedding was fixedfor Friday.

"Sanders, Sanders!" said Sam'l, in a voice strangelyunlike his own, "it'll a' be ower by this time the morn."

"It will," said Sanders.

"If I had only kent her langer," continued Sam'l.

"It wid hae been safer," said Sanders.

"Did ye see the yallow floor in Bell's bonnet?" asked theaccepted swain.

"Ay," said Sanders, reluctantly.

"I'm dootin'—I'm sair dootin' she's but a flichty,licht-hearted crittur, after a'."

"I had aye my suspeecions o't," said Sanders.

"Ye hae kent her langer than me," said Sam'l.

"Yes," said Sanders; "but there's nae gettin' at the hearto' women. Man Sam'l, they're desperate cunnin'."

"I'm dootin't; I'm sair dootin't."

"It'll be a warnin' to ye, Sam'l, no to be in sic a hurry i'the futur," said Sanders.

Sam'l groaned.

"Ye'll be gaein' up to the manse to arrange wi' theminister the morn's mornin'," continued Sanders, in a subduedvoice.

Sam'l looked wistfully at his friend.

"I canna do't, Sanders," he said, "I canna do't."

"Ye maun," said Sanders.

"It's aisy to speak," retorted Sam'l, bitterly.

"We have a' oor troubles, Sam'l," said Sanders, soothingly,"an' every man maun bear his ain burdens. JohnnyDavie's wife's dead, an' he's no repinin'."

"Ay," said Sam'l; "but a death's no mairitch. We haehaen deaths in our family too."

"It may a' be for the best," added Sanders, "an' therewid be a michty talk i' the hale country-side gin ye didnaging to the minister like a man."

"I maun hae langer to think o't," said Sam'l.

"Bell's mairitch is the morn," said Sanders, decisively.

Sam'l glanced up with a wild look in his eyes.

"Sanders!" he cried.

"Sam'l?"

"Ye hae been a guid friend to me, Sanders, in this sairaffliction."

"Nothing ava," said Sanders; "doun't mention't."

"But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin ooto' the kirk that awfu' day was at the bottom o't a'."

"It was so," said Sanders, bravely.

"An' ye used to be fond o' Bell, Sanders."

"I dinna deny't."

"Sanders, laddie," said Sam'l, bending forward and speakingin a wheedling voice. "I aye thocht it was you shelikeit."

"I had some sic idea mysel'," said Sanders.

"Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weelsuited to ane anither as you an' Bell."

"Canna ye, Sam'l?"

"She wid mak ye a guid wife, Sanders. I hae studied herweel, and she's a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders,there's no the like o' her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae saidto mysel, 'There a lass ony man micht be prood to tak.A'body says the same, Sanders. There's nae risk ava, man;nane to speak o'. Tak her, laddie, tak her, Sanders; it's agrand chance, Sanders. She's yours for the speirin'. I'llgie her up, Sanders."

"Will ye, though?" said Sanders.

"What d'ye think?" asked Sam'l.

"If ye wid rayther," said Sanders, politely.

"There's my han' on't," said Sam'l. "Bless ye, Sanders;ye've been a true frien' to me."

Then they shook hands for the first time in their lives;and soon afterward Sanders struck up the brae to T'nowhead.

Next morning Sanders Elshioner, who had been very busythe night before, put on his Sabbath clothes and strolled upto the manse.

"But—but where is Sam'l?" asked the minister. "I mustsee himself."

"It's a new arrangement," said Sanders.

"What do you mean, Sanders?"

"Bell's to marry me," explained Sanders.

"But—but what does Sam'l say?"

"He's willin'," said Sanders.

"And Bell?"

"She's willin', too. She prefers it."

"It is unusual," said the minister.

"It's a' richt," said Sanders.

"Well, you know best," said the minister.

"You see, the house was taen, at ony rate," continuedSanders. "An' I'll juist ging in til't instead o' Sam'l."

"Quite so."

"An' I cudna think to disappoint the lassie."

"Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders," said the minister,"but I hope you do not enter upon the blessed state ofmatrimony without full consideration of its responsibilities.It is a serious business, marriage."

"It's a' that," said Sanders; "but I'm willin' to stan' therisk."

So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner tookto wife T'nowhead's Bell, and I remember seeing Sam'lDickie trying to dance at the penny wedding.

Years afterward it was said in Thrums that Sam'l hadtreated Bell badly, but he was never sure about it himself.

"It was a near thing—a michty near thing," he admittedin the square.

"They say," some other weaver would remark, "'at it wasyou Bell liked best."

"I d'na kin," Sam'l would reply, "but there's nae dootthe lassie was fell fond o' me. Ou, a mere passin' fancy'sye micht say."

THE RYNARD GOLD REEF COMPANY LIMITED

BY SIR WALTER BESANT

Sir Walter Besant (born 1836, died 1901),the author of many novels and short stories,was knighted in 1895 for his notable servicesto literature. He founded the Society ofAuthors, but is perhaps best known as joint-author(with the late James Rice) of "All Sortsand Conditions of Men," which led to thefounding of the People's Palace as a realityin the East End of London.

THE RYNARD GOLD REEF COMPANY, LIMITED

By SIR WALTER BESANT

ACT I

"You dear old boy," said the girl, "I am sure Iwish it could be—with all my heart—if I haveany heart."

"I don't believe that you have," replied theboy gloomily.

"Well, but, Reg, consider; you've got no money."

"I've got five thousand pounds. If a man can't make hisway upon that he must be a poor stick."

"You would go abroad with it and dig, and take yourwife with you—to wash and cook."

"We would do something with the money here. Youshould stay in London, Rosie."

"Yes. In a suburban villa, at Shepherd's Bush, perhaps.No, Reg, when I marry, if ever I do—I am in no hurry—Iwill step out of this room into one exactly like it." Theroom was a splendid drawing-room in Palace Gardens,splendidly furnished. "I shall have my footmen and mycarriage, and I shall—"

"Rosie, give me the right to earn all these things foryou!" the young man cried impetuously.

"You can only earn them for me by the time you haveone foot in the grave. Hadn't I better in the meantimemarry some old gentleman with his one foot in the grave,so as to be ready for you against the time when you comehome? In two or three years the other foot I dare saywould slide into the grave as well."

"You laugh at my trouble. You feel nothing."

"If the pater would part—but he won't—he says hewants all his money for himself, and that I've got to marrywell. Besides, Reg"—here her face clouded and she loweredher voice—"there are times when he looks anxious. Wedidn't always live in Palace Gardens. Suppose we shouldlose it all as quickly as we got it? Oh!" she shivered andtrembled. "No, I will never, never marry a poor man. Getrich, my dear boy, and you may aspire even to the valuablepossession of this heartless heand."

She held it out. He took it, pressed it, stooped andkissed her. Then he dropped her hand and walked quicklyout of the room.

"Poor Reggie!" she murmured. "I wish—I wish—butwhat is the use of wishing?"

ACT II

Two men—one young, the other about fifty—sat in theveranda of a small bungalow. It was after breakfast. Theylay back in long bamboo chairs, each with a cigar. Itlooked as if they were resting. In reality they were talkingbusiness, and that very seriously.

"Yes, sir," said the elder man, with something of anAmerican accent, "I have somehow taken a fancy to thisplace. The situation is healthy."

"Well, I don't know; I've had more than one touch offever here."

"The climate is lovely—"

"Except in the rains."

"The soil is fertile—"

"I've dropped five thousand in it, and they haven't comeup again yet."

"They will. I have been round the estate, and I seemoney in it. Well, sir, here's my offer: five thousand down,hard cash, as soon as the papers are signed."

Reginald sat up. He was on the point of accepting theproposal, when a pony rode up to the house, and the rider,a native groom, jumped off, and gave him a note. He openedit and read. It was from his nearest neighbor, two or threemiles away: "Don't sell that man your estate. Gold hasbeen found. The whole country is full of gold. Hold on.He's an assayer. If he offers to buy, be quite sure that hehas found gold on your land.—F.G."

He put the note into his pocket, gave a verbal messageto the boy, and turned to his guest, without betraying theleast astonishment or emotion.

"I beg your pardon. The note was from Bellamy, mynext neighbor. Well? You were saying—"

"Only that I have taken a fancy—perhaps a foolish fancy—tothis place of yours, and I'll give you, if you like, all thatyou have spent upon it."

"Well," he replied, reflectively, but with a little twinklein his eye, "that seems handsome. But the place isn't reallyworth the half that I have spent upon it. Anybody wouldtell you that. Come, let us be honest, whatever we are. I'lltell you a better way. We will put the matter into the handsof Bellamy. He knows what a coffee plantation is worth.He shall name a price, and if we can agree upon that, wewill make a deal of it."

The other man changed color. He wanted to settle thething at once as between gentlemen. What need of thirdparties? But Reginald stood firm, and he presently rodeaway, quite sure that in a day or two this planter, too, wouldhave heard the news.

A month later, the young coffee-planter stood on the deckof a steamer homeward bound. In his pocket-book was aplan of his auriferous estate; in a bag hanging round his neckwas a small collection of yellow nuggets; in his boxes wasa chosen assortment of quartz.

ACT III

"Well, sir," said the financier, "you've brought this thingto me. You want my advice. Well, my advice is, don't foolaway the only good thing that will ever happen to you. Lucksuch as this doesn't come more than once in a lifetime."

"I have been offered ten thousand pounds for my estate."

"Oh! Have you! Ten thousand? That was very liberal—veryliberal indeed. Ten thousand for a gold reef."

"But I thought as an old friend of my father you would,perhaps—"

"Young man, don't fool it away. He's waiting for you,I suppose, round the corner, with a bottle of fizz, ready toclose."

"He is."

"Well, go and drink his champagne. Always get whateveryou can. And then tell him that you'll see him—"

"I certainly will, sir, if you advise it. And then?"

"And then—leave it to me. And—young man—I think Iheard, a year or two ago, something about you and my girlRosie."

"There was something, sir. Not enough to trouble youabout it."

"She told me. Rosie tells me all her love affairs."

"Is she—is she unmarried?"

"Oh, yes, and for the moment I believe she is free. Shehas had one or two engagements, but, somehow, they havecome to nothing. There was the French Count, but thatwas knocked on the head very early in consequence of thingsdiscovered. And there was the Boom in Guano, but hefortunately smashed, much to Rosie's joy, because she neverliked him. The last was Lord Evergreen. He was a niceold chap when you could understand what he said, and Rosiewould have liked the title very much, though his grandchildrenopposed the thing. Well, sir, I suppose you couldn'tunderstand the trouble we took to keep that old man alivefor his own wedding. Science did all it could, but 'twas ofno use—" The financier sighed. "The ways of Providenceare inscrutable. He died, sir, the day before."

"That was very sad."

"A dashing of the cup from the lip, sir. My daughterwould have been a Countess. Well, young gentleman, aboutthis estate of yours. I think I see a way—I think, I amnot yet sure—that I do see a way. Go now. See thisliberal gentleman, and drink his champagne. And come herein a week. Then, if I still see my way, you shall understandwhat it means to hold the position in the city which is mine."

"And—and—may I call upon Rosie?"

"Not till this day week, not till I have made my wayplain."

ACT IV

"And so it means this. Oh, Rosie, you look lovelier thanever, and I'm as happy as a king. It means this. Yourfather is the greatest genius in the world. He buys myproperty for sixty thousand pounds—sixty thousand. That'sover two thousand a year for me, and he makes a companyout of it with a hundred and fifty thousand capital. He saysthat, taking ten thousand out of it for expenses, there will bea profit of eighty thousand. And all that he gives toyou—eighty thousand; that's three thousand a year for you—andsixty thousand; that's two more, my dearest Rosie. Youremember what you said, that when you married you shouldstep out of one room like this into another just as good?"

"Oh, Reggie"—she sank upon his bosom—"you know Inever could love anybody but you. It's true I was engagedto old Lord Evergreen, but that was only because he had onefoot—you know—and when the other foot went in too, justa day too soon, I actually laughed. So the pater is going tomake a company of it, is he? Well, I hope he won't putany of his own money into it, I'm sure, because of late allthe companies have turned out so badly."

"But, my child, the place is full of gold."

"Then why did he turn it into a company, my dear boy?And why didn't he make you stick to it? But you knownothing of the City. Now, let us sit down, and talk aboutwhat we shall do. Don't, you ridiculous boy!"

ACT V

Another house just like the first. The bride stepped outof one palace into another. With their five or six thousanda year, the young couple could just manage to make bothends meet. The husband was devoted; the wife had everythingthat she could wish. Who could be happier than thispair in a nest so luxurious, their life so padded, their daysso full of sunshine?

It was a year after marriage. The wife, contrary to herusual custom, was the first at breakfast. A few letters werewaiting for her—chiefly invitations. She opened and readthem. Among them lay one addressed to her husband. Notlooking at the address, she opened and read that as well:

"DEAR REGINALD—I venture to address you as an oldfriend of your own and schoolfellow of your mother's. Iam a widow with four children. My husband was the Vicarof your old parish—you remember him and me. I was leftwith a little income of about two hundred a year. Twelvemonths ago I was persuaded, in order to double my income—athing which seemed certain from the prospectus—toinvest everything in a new and rich gold mine. Everything.And the mine has never paid anything. The Company—itis called the Rynard Gold Reef Company—is in liquidationbecause, though there is really the gold there, it costs toomuch to get it. I have no relatives anywhere to help me.Unless I can get assistance my children and I must go atonce—to-morrow—into the workhouse. Yes, we are paupers.I am ruined by the cruel lies of that prospectus, and thewickedness which deluded me, and I know not how manyothers, out of my money.' I have been foolish, and ampunished: but those people, who will punish them? Help me,if you can, my dear Reginald. Oh! for God's sake, help mychildren and me. Help your mother's friend, your own oldfriend."

"This," said Rosie, meditatively, "is exactly the kind ofthing to make Reggie uncomfortable. Why, it might makehim unhappy all day. Better burn it." She dropped theletter into the fire. "He's an impulsive, emotional nature,and he doesn't understand the City. If people are so foolish.What a lot of fibs the poor old pater does tell, to be sure.He's a regular novelist—Oh! here you are, you lazy boy!"

"Kiss me, Rosie." He looked as handsome as Apollo andas cheerful. "I wish all the world were as happy as you andme. Heigho! Some poor devils, I'm afraid—"

"Tea or coffee, Reg?"

END OF VOLUME THREE

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74550 ***