ENSIGN KNIGHTLEY AND OTHER STORIES

By

A. E. W. MASON

Author of "The Courtship of Morrice Buckler, " "The Watchers, ""Parson Kelly, " etc. 

1901

CONTENTS. 

ENSIGN KNIGHTLEYTHE MAN OF WHEELSMR. MITCHELBOURNE'S LAST ESCAPADETHE COWARDTHE DESERTERTHE CROSSED GLOVESTHE SHUTTERED HOUSEKEEPER OF THE BISHOPTHE CRUISE OF THE "WILLING MIND"HOW BARRINGTON RETURNED TO JOHANNESBURGHATTERASTHE PRINCESS JOCELIANDEA LIBERAL EDUCATIONTHE TWENTY-KRONER STORYTHE FIFTH PICTURE

ENSIGN KNIGHTLEY. 

It was eleven o'clock at night when Surgeon Wyley of His Majesty'sship _Bonetta_ washed his hands, drew on his coat, and walked from thehospital up the narrow cobbled street of Tangier to the Main-Guard bythe Catherine Port. In the upper room of the Main-Guard he foundMajor Shackleton of the Tangier Foot taking a hand at bassette withLieutenant Scrope of Trelawney's Regiment and young Captain Tessin ofthe King's Battalion. There were three other officers in the room, andto them Surgeon Wyley began to talk in a prosy, medical strain. Two ofhis audience listened in an uninterested stolidity for just so long asthe remnant of manners, which still survived in Tangier, commanded, and then strolling through the open window on to the balcony, littheir pipes. 

Overhead the stars blazed in the rich sky of Morocco; theriding-lights of Admiral Herbert's fleet sprinkled the bay; and belowthem rose the hum of an unquiet town. It was the night of May 13th, 1680, and the life of every Christian in Tangier hung in the balance. The Moors had burst through the outposts to the west, and were nowentrenched beneath the walls. The Henrietta Redoubt had fallen thatday; to-morrow the little fort at Devil's Drop, built on the edge ofthe sand where the sea rippled up to the palisades, must fall; andCharles Fort, to the southwest, was hardly in a better case. However, a sortie had been commanded at daybreak as a last effort to relieveCharles Fort, and the two officers on the balcony speculated overtheir pipes on the chances of success. 

Meanwhile, inside the room Surgeon Wyley lectured to his remainingauditor, who, too tired to remonstrate, tilted his chair against thewall and dozed. 

"A concussion of the brain, " Wyley went on, "has this curious effect, that after recovery the patient will have lost from his consciousnessa period of time which immediately preceded the injury. Thus a man maywalk down a street here in Tangier; four, five, six hours afterwards, he mounts his horse, is thrown on to his head. When he wakes again tohis senses, the last thing he remembers is--what? A sign, perhaps, over a shop in the street he walked down, or a leper pestering him foralms. The intervening hours are lost to him, and forever. It is noquestion of an abeyance of memory. There is a gap in the continuity ofhis experience, and that gap he will never fill up. "

"Except by hearsay?"

The correction came from Lieutenant Scrope at the bassette table. Itwas quite carelessly uttered while the Lieutenant was picking up hiscards. Surgeon Wyley shifted his chair towards the table, and acceptedthe correction. 

"Except, of course, by hearsay. "

Wyley was a new-comer to Tangier, having sailed into the bay less thana week back; but he had been long enough in the town to find in Scropea subject at once of interest and perplexity. Scrope was in yearsnearer forty than thirty, dark of complexion, aquiline of feature, andthough a trifle below the middle height he redeemed his stature by thelitheness of his figure. What interested Wyley was that he seemed aman in whom strong passions were always desperately at war with astrong will. He wore habitually a mask of reserve; behind it, Wyleywas aware of sleeping fires. He spoke habitually in a quiet, decidedvoice, like one that has the soundings of his nature; beneath it, Wyley detected, continually recurring, continually subdued, a noteof turbulence. Here, in a word, was a man whose hand was against theworld but who would not strike at random. What perplexed Wyley, on theother hand, was Scrope's subordinate rank of lieutenant in a garrisonwhere, from the frequency of death, promotion was of the quickest. Hesat there at the table, a lieutenant; a boy of twenty-four faced him, and the boy was a captain and his superior. 

It was to the Lieutenant, however, that Wyley resumed his discourse. 

"The length of time lost is proportionate to the severity of theconcussion. It may be only an hour; I have known it to be a day. " Heleaned back in his chair and smiled. "A strange question that for aman to ask himself--What did he do during those hours?--a question toappal him. "

Scrope chose a card from his hand and played it. Without looking upfrom the table, he asked: "To appal him? Why?"

"Because the question would be not so much what did he do, as what mayhe not have done. A man rides through life insecurely seated on hispassions. Within a few hours the most honest man may commit a damnablecrime, a damnable dishonour. "

Scrope looked quietly at the Surgeon to read the intention of hiswords. Then: "I suppose so, " he said carelessly. "But do you thinkthat question would press?"

"Why not?" asked Wyley. 

Scrope shrugged his shoulders. "I should need an example before Ibelieved you. "

The example was at the door. The corporal of the guard at theCatherine Port knocked and was admitted. He told his story to MajorShackleton, and as he told it the two officers lounged back into theroom from the balcony, and the other who was dozing against the wallbrought the legs of his chair with a bang to the floor and woke up. 

It appeared that a sentry at the stockade outside the Catherine Porthad suddenly noticed a flutter of white on the ground a few yardsfrom the stockade. He watched this white object, and it moved. Hechallenged it, and was answered by a whispered prayer for admission inthe English tongue and in an English voice. The sentry demanded thepassword, and received as a reply, "Inchiquin. It is the last passwordI have knowledge of. Let me in! Let me in!"

The sentry called the corporal, the corporal admitted the fugitive andbrought him to the Main-Guard. He was now in the guard-room below. 

"You did well, " said the Major. "The man has come from the Moorishlines, and may have news which will profit us in the morning. Lethim up!" and as the corporal retired, "'Inchiquin, '" he repeatedthoughtfully: "I cannot call to mind that password. "

Now Wyley had noticed that when the corporal first mentioned the word, Scrope, who was looking over his cards, had dropped one on the tableas though his hand shook, had raised his head sharply, and with hishead his eyebrows, and had stared for a second fixedly at the wall infront of him. So he said to Scrope:

"You can remember. "

"Yes, I remember the password, " Scrope replied simply. "I have causeto. 'Inchiquin' and 'Teviot'--those were password and countersign onthe night which ruined me--the night of January 6th two years ago. "

There was an awkward pause, an interchange of glances. Then MajorShackleton broke the silence, though to no great effect. 

"H'm--ah--yes, " he said. "Well, well, " he added, and laying an armupon Scrope's sleeve. "A good fellow, Scrope. "

Scrope made no response whatever, but of a sudden Captain Tessinbanged his fist upon the table. 

"January 6th two years ago. Why, " and he leaned forward across thetable towards Scrope, "Knightley fell in the sortie that morning, andhis body was never recovered. The corporal said this fugitive was anEnglishman. What if--"

Major Shackleton shook his head and interrupted. 

"Knightley fell by my side. I saw the blow; it must have broken hisskull. "

There was a sound of footsteps in the passage, the door was openedand the fugitive appeared in the doorway. All eyes turned to himinstantly, and turned from him again with looks of disappointment. Wyley remarked, however, that Scrope, who had barely glanced at theman, rose from his chair. He did not move from the table; only hestood where before he had sat. 

The new-comer was tall; a beard plastered with mud, as if to disguiseits colour, straggled over his burned and wasted cheeks, but here andthere a wisp of yellow hair flecked with grey curled from his hood, apair of blue eyes shone with excitement from hollow sockets, and hewore the violet-and-white robes of a Moorish soldier. 

It was his dress at which Major Shackleton looked. 

"One of our renegade deserters tired of his new friends, " he said withsome contempt. 

"Renegades do not wear chains, " replied the man in the doorway, lifting from beneath his long sleeves his manacled hands. He spokein a weak, hoarse voice, and with a rusty accent; he rested a handagainst the jamb of the door as though he needed support. Tessinsprang up from his chair, and half crossed the room. 

The stranger took an uncertain step forward. His legs rattled as hemoved, and Wyley saw that the links of broken fetters were twistedabout his ankles. 

"Have two years made so vast a difference?" he asked. "Well, they wereyears of the bastinado, and I do not wonder. "

Tessin peered into his face. "By God, it is!" he exclaimed. "Knightley!"

"Thanks, " said Knightley with a smile. 

Tessin reached out to take Knightley's hands, then instantly stopped, glanced from Knightley to Scrope and drew back. 

"Knightley!" cried the Major in a voice of welcome, rising in hisseat. Then he too glanced expectantly at Scrope and sat down again. Scrope made no movement, but stood with his eyes cast down on thetable like a man lost in thought. It was evident to Wyley that bothShackleton and Tessin had obeyed the sporting instinct, and had leftthe floor clear for the two men. It was no less evident that Knightleyremarked their action and did not understand it. For his eyestravelled from face to face, and searched each with a wistful anxietyfor the reason of their reserve. 

"Yes, I am Knightley, " he said timidly. Then he drew himself to hisfull height. "Ensign Knightley of the Tangier Foot, " he cried. 

No one answered. The company waited upon Scrope in a suspense sokeen that even the ringing challenge of the words passed unheeded. Knightley spoke again, but now in a stiff, formal voice, and slowly. 

"Gentlemen, I fear very much that two years make a world ofdifference. It seems they change one who had your goodwill into a mostunwelcome stranger. "

His voice broke in a sob; he turned to the door, but staggered as heturned and caught at a chair. In a moment Major Shackleton was besidehim. 

"What, lad? Have we been backward? Blame our surprise, not us. "

"Meanwhile, " said Wyley, "Ensign Knightley's starving. "

The Major pressed Knightley into a chair, called for an orderly, andbade him bring food. Wyley filled a glass with wine from the bottle onthe table, and handed it to the Ensign. 

"It is vinegar, " he said, "but--"

"But Tangier is still Tangier, " said Knightley with a laugh. TheMajor's cordiality had strengthened him like a tonic. He raised theglass to his lips and drank; but as he tilted his head back his eyesover the brim of the glass rested on Scrope, who still stood withoutmovement, without expression, a figure of stone, but that his chestrose and fell with his deep breathing. Knightley set down his glasshalf-full. 

"There is something amiss, " he said, "since even Captain Scroperetains no memory of his old comrade. "

"Captain?" exclaimed Wyley. So Scrope had been more than a lieutenant. Here was an answer to the question which had perplexed him. But itonly led to another question: "Had Scrope been degraded, and why?" Hedid not, however, speculate on the question, for his attention wasseized the next moment. Scrope made no sort of answer to Knightley'sappeal, but began to drum very softly with his fingers on the table. And the drumming, at first vague and of no significance, graduallytook on, of itself as it seemed, a definite rhythm. There was avariation, too, in the strength of the taps--now they fell light, nowthey struck hard. Scrope was quite unconsciously beating out upon thetable a particular tune, although, since there was but the onenote sounded, Wyley could get no more than an elusive hint of itscharacter. 

Knightley watched Scrope for a little as earnestly as the rest. Then--"Harry!" he said, "Harry Scrope!" The name leaped from his lipsin a pleading cry; he stretched out his hands towards Scrope, and thechain which bound them reached down to the table and rattled on thewood. 

There was a simultaneous movement, almost a simultaneous ejaculationof bewilderment amongst those who stood about Knightley. Where theyhad expected a deadly anger, they found in its place a beseechinghumility. And Scrope ceased from drumming on the table and turned onKnightley. 

"Don't shake your chains at me, " he burst out harshly. "I am deaf toany reproach that they can make. Are you the only man that has wornchains? I can show as good, and better. " He thrust the palm of hisleft hand under Knightley's nose. "Branded, d'ye see? Branded. There'smore besides. " He set his foot on the chair and stripped the silkstocking down his leg. Just above the ankle there was a broad indentwhere a fetter had bitten into the flesh. "I have dragged a chain, yousee; not like you among the Moors, but here in Tangier, on that damnedMole, in sight of these my brother officers. By the Lord, Knightley, Itell you you have had the better part of it. "

"You!" cried Knightley. "You dragged a chain on Tangier Mole? Forwhat offence?" And he added, with a genuine tenderness, "There was nodisgrace in't, I'll warrant. "

Major Shackleton half checked an exclamation, and turned it into acough. Scrope leaned right across the table and stared straight intoKnightley's eyes. 

"The offence was a duel, " he answered steadily, "fought on the nightof January 6th two years ago. "

Knightley's face clouded for an instant. "The night when I wascaptured, " he said timidly. 

"Yes. "

The officers drew closer about the table, and seemed to hold theirbreath, as the strange catechism proceeded. 

"With whom did you fight?" asked Knightley. 

"With a very good friend of mine, " replied Scrope, in a hard, evenvoice. 

"On what account?"

"A woman. "

Knightley laughed with a man's amused leniency for such escapades whenhe himself is in no way hurt by them. 

"I said there would be no disgrace in't, Harry, " he said, with a smileof triumph. 

The heads of the listeners, which had bunched together, were suddenlydrawn back. A dark flush of anger overspread Scrope's face, and theveins ridged up upon his forehead. Some impatient speech was on thetip of his tongue, when the Major interposed. 

"What's this talk of penalties? Where's the sense of it? Scrope paidthe price of his fault. He was admitted to the ranks afterwards. Hewon a lieutenancy by sheer bravery in the field. For all we know hemay be again a captain to-morrow. Anyhow he wears the King's uniform. It is a badge of service which levels us all from Ensign to Major inan equality of esteem. "

Scrope bowed to the Major and drew back from the table. The otherofficers shuffled and moved in a welcome relief from the strainof their expectancy, and Knightley's thoughts were diverted byShackleton's words to a quite different subject. For he picked withhis fingers at the Moorish robe he wore and "I too wore the King'suniform, " he pleaded wistfully. 

"And shall do so again, thank God, " responded the Major heartily. 

Knightley started up from his chair; his face lightened unaccountably. 

"You mean that?" he asked eagerly. "Yes, yes, you mean it! Then let itbe to-night--now--even before I sup. As long as I wear these chains, as long as I wear this dress, I can feel the driver's whip curlabout my shoulders. " He parted the robe as he spoke, and showed thatunderneath he wore only a coarse sack which reached to his knees, witha hole cut in it for his head. 

"True, you have worn the chains too long, " said the Major. "I shouldhave had them knocked off before, but--" he paused for a second, "butyour coming so surprised me that of a truth I forgot, " he continuedlamely. Then he turned to Tessin. "See to it, Tessin! Ensign Barbourof the Tangier Foot was killed to-day. He was quartered in theMain-Guard. Take Knightley to his quarters and see what you can do. By the way, Knightley, there's a question I should have put to youbefore. By what road did you come in?"

"Down Teviot Hill past the Henrietta Fort. The Moors brought me downfrom Mequinez to interpret between them and their prisoners. I escapedlast night. "

"Past the Henrietta Fort?" replied the Major. "Then you can help us, for that way we make our sortie. "

"To relieve the Charles Fort?" said Knightley. "I guessed the CharlesFort was surrounded, for I heard one man on the Tangier wall shoutingthrough a speaking trumpet to the Charles Fort garrison. But it willnot be easy to relieve them. The Moors are entrenched between. Thereare three trenches. I should never have crawled through them, but thatI stripped a dead Moor of his robe. "

"Three trenches, " said Tessin, with a shrug of the shoulders. 

"Yes, three. The two nearest to Tangier may be carried. But thethird--it is deep, twelve feet at the least, and wide, at the leasteight yards. The sides are steep and slippery with the rain. "

"A grave, then, " said Scrope carelessly; "a grave that will holdmany before the evening falls. It is well they made it wide and deepenough. "

The sombre words knocked upon every heart like a blow on a door behindwhich conspirators are plotting. The Major was the first to recoverhis speech. 

"Curse your tongue, Scrope!" he said angrily. "Let who will lie inyour grave when the evening falls. Before that time comes, we'll showthese Moors so fine a powder-play as shall glut some of them to alleternity. _Bon chat, bon rat_; we are not made of jelly. Tessin, seeto Knightley. "

The two men withdrew. Major Shackleton scribbled a note and despatchedit to Sir Palmes Fairborne, the Lieutenant-Governor. Scrope took aturn or two across the room while the Major was writing the news whichKnightley had brought. Then--"What game is this he's playing?" hesaid, with a jerk of his head to the door by which Knightley had goneout. "I have no mind to be played with. "

"But is he playing a game at all?" asked Wyley. 

Scrope faced him quickly, looked him over for a second, and replied:"You are a new-comer to Tangier, or you would not have asked thatquestion. "

"I should, " rejoined Wyley with complete confidence. "I know quiteenough to be sure of one thing. I know there lies some deep matter ofdispute between Ensign Knightley and Lieutenant Scrope, and I am surethat there is one other person more in the dark than myself, and thatperson is Ensign Knightley. For whereas I know there is a dispute, heis unaware of even that. "

"Unaware?" cried Scrope. "Why, man, the very good friend I foughtwith was Ensign Knightley. The woman on whose account we fought wasKnightley's wife. " He flung the words at the Surgeon with almost agesture of contempt. "Make the most of that!" And once again he beganto pace the room. 

"I am not in the least surprised, " returned Wyley with an easy smile. "Though I admit that I am interested. A wife is sauce to any story. "He looked placidly round the company. He alone held the key to thepuzzle, and since he was now become the centre of attraction he wasinclined to play with his less acute brethren. With a wave of the handhe stilled the requests for an explanation, and turned to Scrope. 

"Will you answer me a question?"

"I think it most unlikely. "

The curt reply in no way diminished the Surgeon's suavity. 

"I chose my words ill. I should have asked, Will you confirm anassertion? The assertion is this: Ensign Knightley had no suspicionbefore he actually discovered the--well, the lamentable truth. "

Scrope stopped his walk and came back to the table. 

"Why, that is so, " he agreed sullenly. "Knightley had no suspicions. It angered me that he had not. "

Wyley leaned back in his chair. 

"Really, really, " he said, and laughed a little to himself. "On thenight of January 6th Ensign Knightley discovers the lamentable truth. At what hour?" he asked suddenly. 

Scrope looked to the Major. "About midnight, " he suggested. 

"A little later, I should think, " corrected Major Shackleton. 

"A little after midnight, " repeated Wyley. "Ensign Knightley andLieutenant Scrope, I understand, immediately fight a duel, which seemsto have been interrupted before any hurt was done. "

The Major and Scrope agreed with a nod of their heads. 

"In the morning, " continued Wyley, "Ensign Knightley takes part in askirmish, and is clubbed on the head so fiercely that Major Shackletonthought his skull must be broken in. At what hour was he struck?"Again he put the question quickly. 

"'Twixt seven and eight of the morning, " replied the Major. 

"Quite so, " said Wyley. "The incidents fit to a nicety. Two yearsafterwards Ensign Knightley comes home. He knows nothing of the duel, or any cause for a duel. Lieutenant Scrope is still 'Harry' to him, and his best of friends. It is all very clear. "

He gazed about him. Perplexity sat on each face except one; that facewas Scrope's. 

"I spoke to you all some half an hour since concerning the effects ofa concussion. I could not have hoped for so complete an example, " saidWyley. 

Captain Tessin whistled; Major Shackleton bounced on to his feet. 

"Then Knightley knows nothing, " cried Tessin in a gust of excitement. 

"And never will know, " cried the Major. 

"Except by hearsay, " sharply interposed Scrope. "Gentlemen, you go toofast, Except by hearsay. That, Mr. Wyley, was the phrase, I think. Bywhat spells, Major, " he asked with irony, "will you bind Tangier tosilence when there's scandal to be talked? Let Knightley walk down tothe water-gate to-morrow; I'll warrant he'll have heard the story ahundred times with a hundred new embellishments before he gets there. "

Major Shackleton resumed his seat moodily. 

"And since that's the truth, why, he had best hear the story nakedlyfrom me. "

"From you?" exclaimed Tessin. "Another duel, then. Have you countedthe cost?"

"Why, yes, " replied Scrope quietly. 

"Two years of the bastinado, " said the Major. "That was what he said. He comes back to Tangier to find--who knows?--a worse torture here. Knightley, Knightley, a good officer marked for promotion until thatinfernal night. Scrope, I could turn moralist and curse you!"

Scrope dropped his head as though the words touched him. But it wasnot long before he raised it again. 

"You waste your pity, I think, Major, " he said coldly. "I disagreewith Mr. Wyley's conclusions. Knightley knows the truth of the mattervery well. For observe, he has made no mention of his wife. He hasbeen two years in slavery. He escapes, and he asks for no news of hiswife. That is unlike any man, but most of all unlike Knightley. He hashis own ends to serve, no doubt, but he knows. "

The argument appeared cogent to Major Shackleton. 

"To be sure, to be sure, " he said. "I had not thought of that. "

Tessin looked across to Wyley. 

"What do you say?"

"I am not convinced, " replied Wyley. "Indeed, I was surprised thatKnightley's omission had not been remarked before. When you firstshowed reserve in welcoming Knightley, I noticed that he became all atonce timid, hesitating. He seemed to be afraid. "

Major Shackleton admitted the Surgeon's accuracy. "Well, what then?"

"Well, I go back to what I said before Knightley appeared. A man haslost so many hours. The question, what he did during those hours, isone that may well appal any one. Lieutenant Scrope doubted whetherthat question would trouble a man, and needed an instance. I believehere is the instance. I believe Knightley is afraid to ask anyquestions, and I believe his reason to be fear of how he lived duringthose lost hours. "

There was a pause. No one was prepared to deny, however much he mightdoubt, what Wyley said. 

Wyley continued:

"At some point of time before this duel Knightley's recollectionsbreak off. At what precise point we are not aware, nor is it of anygreat importance. The sure thing is he does not know of the disputebetween Lieutenant Scrope and himself, and it is of more importancefor us to consider whether he cannot after all be kept from knowing. Could he not be sent home to England? Mrs. Knightley, I take it, is nolonger in Tangier?"

Major Shackleton stood up, took Wyley by the arm and led him out on tothe balcony. The town beneath them had gone to sleep; the streets werequiet; the white roofs of the houses in the star-shine descended tothe water's edge like flights of marble steps; only here and there dida light burn. To one of the lights close by the city wall the Majordirected Wyley's attention. The house in which it burned lay so nearlybeneath them that they could command a corner of the square open_patio_ in the middle of it; and the light shone in a window set inthat corner and giving on to the _patio_. 

"You see that house?" said the Major. 

"Yes, " said Wyley. "It is Scrope's. I have seen him enter and comeout. "

"No doubt, " said the Major; "but it is Knightley's house. "

"Knightley's! Then the light burning in the window is--"

The Major nodded. "She is still in Tangier. And never a care for himhas troubled her for two years, not so much as would bring a pucker toher pretty forehead--all my arrears of pay to a guinea-piece. "

Wyley leaned across the rail of the balcony, watching the light, andas he watched he was aware that his feelings and his thoughts changed. The interest which he had felt in Scrope died clean away, or ratherwas transferred to Knightley; and with this new interest there sprangup a new sympathy, a new pity. The change was entirely due to that oneyellow light burning in the window and the homely suggestions which itprovoked. It brought before him very clearly the bitter contrast: sothat light had burned any night these last two years, and Scrope hadgone in and out at his will, while up in the barbarous inlands ofMorocco the husband had had his daily portion of the bastinado andthe whip. It was her fault, too, and she made her profit of it. Wyleybecame sensible of an overwhelming irony in the disposition of theworld. 

"You spoke a true word to-night, Major, " he said bitterly. "That lightdown there might turn any man to a moralist, and send him preaching inthe market-places. "

"Well, " returned the Major, as though he must make what defence hecould for Scrope, "the story is not the politest in the world. But, then, you know Tangier--it is only a tiny outpost on the edges of theworld where we starve behind broken walls forgotten of our friends. Wehave the Moors ever swarming at our gates and the wolf ever snarlingat our heels, and so the niceties of conduct are lost. We have solittle time wherein to live, and that little time is filled with thenoise of battle. Passion has its way with us in the end, and honourcomes to mean no more than bravery and a gallant death. "

He remained a few moments silent, and then disconnectedly he toldWyley the rest of the story. 

"It was only three years ago that Knightley came to Tangier. He shouldnever have brought his wife with him. Scrope and Knightley becamefriends. All Tangier knew the truth pretty soon, and laughed atKnightley's ignorance.... I remember the night of January 6th verywell. I was Captain of the Guard that night too. A spy brought in newsthat we might expect a night attack. I sent Knightley with the news toLord Inchiquin. On the way back he stepped into his own house. It waslate at night. Mrs. Knightley was singing some foolish song to Scrope. The two men came down into the street and fought then and there. Thequarter was aroused, the combatants arrested and brought to me.... There are two faults which our necessities here compel us to punishbeyond their proper gravity: duelling, for we cannot afford to loseofficers that way; and brawling in the streets at night, because theMoors lie _perdus_ under our walls; ready to take occasion as itcomes. Of Scrope's punishment you have heard. Knightley I released forthat night. He was on guard--I could not spare him. We were attackedin the morning, and repulsed the attack. We followed up our success bya sortie in which Knightley fell. "

Wyley began again to wonder at what particular point in this storyKnightley's recollection broke off; and, further, what particular fearit was that kept him from all questions even concerning his wife. 

Knightley's voice was heard behind them, and they turned back into theroom. The Ensign had shaved his matted beard and combed out his hair, which now curled and shone graciously about his head and shoulders;his face, too, for all that it was wasted, had taken almost a boyishzest, and his figure, revealed in the graceful dress of his regiment, showed youth in every movement. He was plainly by some years a youngerman than Scrope. 

He saluted the Major, and Wyley noticed that with his uniform heseemed to have drawn on something of a soldierly confidence. 

"There's your supper, lad, " said Shackleton, pointing to a few poorherrings and a crust of bread which an orderly had spread upon thetable. "It is scanty. "

"I like it the better, " said Knightley with a laugh; "for so I amassured I am at home, in Tangier. There is no beef, I suppose?"

"Not so much as a hoof. "

"No butter?"

"Not enough to cover a sixpence. "

"There is cheese, however. " He lifted up a scrap upon a fork. 

"There will be none to-morrow. "

"And as for pay?" he asked slyly. 

"Two years and a half in arrears. "

Knightley laughed again. 

"Moreover, " added Shackleton, "out of our nothing we may presentlyhave to feed the fleet. It is indeed the pleasantest joke imaginable. "

"In a week, no doubt, " rejoined Knightley, "I shall be less sensibleof its humour. But to-night--well, I am home in Tangier, and thatcontents me. Nothing has changed. " At that he stopped suddenly. "Nothing has changed?" This time the phrase was put as a question, andwith the halting timidity which he had shown before. No one answeredthe question. "No, nothing has changed, " he said a third time, andagain his eyes began to travel wistfully from face to face. 

Tessin abruptly turned his back; Shackleton blinked his eyes at theceiling with altogether too profound an unconcern; Scrope reached outfor the wine, and spilt it as he filled his glass; Wyley busily drewdiagrams with a wet finger on the table. 

All these details Knightley remarked. He laid down his fork, he restedhis elbow on the table, his forehead upon his hand. Then absently hebegan to hum over to himself a tune. The rhythm of it was somehowfamiliar to the Surgeon's ears. Where had he heard it before? Thenwith a start he remembered. It was this very rhythm, that very tune, which Scrope's fingers had beaten out on the table when he firstsaw Knightley. And as he had absently drummed it then, so Knightleyabsently hummed it now. 

Surely, then, the tune had some part in the relations of the twomen--perhaps a part in this story. "A foolish song. " The words flashedinto Wyley's mind. 

"She was singing a foolish song. " What if the tune was the tune ofthat song? But then--Wyley's argument came to a sudden conclusion. Forif the tune _was_ the tune of that song, why, then Knightley must knowthe truth, since he remembered that song. Was Scrope right after all?Was Knightley playing with him? Wyley glanced at Knightley in thekeenest excitement. He wanted words fitted to that tune, and in alittle the words came--first one or two fitted here and there to anote, and murmured unconsciously, then an entire phrase which filledout a bar, finally this verse in its proper sequence:

 "No, no, fair heretick, it needs must be But an ill love in me, And worse for thee; For were it in my power To love thee now this hour More than I did the last, 'Twould then so fall I might not love at all. Love that can flow.... "

And then the song broke off, and silence followed. Wyley looked againat Knightley, but the latter had not changed his position. He stillsat with his face shaded by his hand. 

The Surgeon was startled by a light touch on the arm. He turned withalmost a jump, and he saw Scrope bending across the table towards him, his eyes ablaze with an excitement no less keen than his own. 

"He knows, he knows!" whispered Scrope. "It was that song she wassinging; at that word 'flow' he pushed open the door of the room. "

Knightley raised his head and drew his hand across his forehead, as though Scrope's whisper had aroused him. Scrope seated himselfhurriedly. 

"Nothing has changed, eh?" Knightley asked, like a man fresh from hissleep. Then he stood, and quietly, slowly, walked round the tableuntil he stood directly behind Scrope's chair. Scrope's face hardened;he laid the palms of his hands upon the edge of the table ready tospring up; he looked across to Wyley with the expectation of death inhis eyes. 

One of the officers shuffled his feet. Tessin said "Hush!" Knightleytook a step forward and dropped a hand on Scrope's shoulder, verylightly; but none the less Scrope started and turned white as thoughhe had been stabbed. 

"Harry, " said the Ensign, "my--my wife is still in Tangier?"

Scrope drew in a breath. "Yes. "

"Ah, waiting for me! You have shown her what kindness you could duringmy slavery?"

He spoke in a wavering voice, as if he were not sure of his ground, and as he spoke he felt Scrope shiver beneath his hand, and saw uponthe faces of his companions an unmistakable shrinking. He turned awayand staggered, rather than walked, to the window, where he stoodleaning against the sill. 

"The day is breaking, " he said quietly. Wyley looked up; outside thewindow the colour was fading down the sky. It was purple still towardsthe zenith, but across the Straits its edges rested white upon thehills of Spain. 

"Love that can flow ... " murmured Knightley, and of a sudden he flungback into the room. "Let me have the truth of it, " he burst out, confronting his brother-officers gathered about the table--"the truth, though it knell out my damnation. If you only knew how up there, atFez, at Mequinez, I have pictured your welcome when I should get back!I made of my anticipation a very anodyne. The cudgelling, the chains, the hunger, the sun, hot as though a burning glass was held above myhead--it would all make a good story for the guard-room when I gotback--when I got back. And yet I do get back, and one and all of youdraw away from me as though I were one of the Tangier lepers wejostle in the streets. 'Love that can flow ... '" he broke off. "I askmyself"--he hesitated, and with a great cry, "I ask you, did I playthe coward on that night I was captured two years ago?"

"The coward?" exclaimed Shackleton in bewilderment. 

Wyley, for all his sympathy, could not refrain from a triumphantglance at Scrope. "Here is the instance you needed, " he said. 

"Yes, did I play the coward?" Knightley seated himself sideways on theedge of the table, and clasping his hands between his knees, went onin a quick, lowered voice. "'Love that can flow'--those are the lastwords I remember. You sent me, Major, to the Governor with a message. I delivered it; I started back. On my way back I passed my house. Iwent in. I stood in the _patio_. My wife was singing that song. Thewindow of the room in which she sang opened on to the _patio_. I stoodthere listening for a second. Then I went upstairs. I turned thehandle of the door. I remember quite clearly the light upon the roomwall as I opened the door. Those words 'love that can flow' cameswelling through the opening; and--and--the next thing I am aware of, I was riding chained upon a camel into slavery. "

Tessin and Major Shackleton looked suddenly towards Wyley inrecognition of the accuracy of his guess. Scrope simply wiped theperspiration from his forehead and waited. 

"But how does that--forgetfulness, shall we say?--persuade you to thefear that you played the coward?" asked Wyley. 

"Well, " replied Knightley, and his voice sank to a whisper, "I playedthe coward afterwards at Mequinez. At the first it used to amuse me towonder what happened after I opened the door and before I was capturedoutside Tangier; later it only puzzled me, and in the end it began tofrighten me. You see, I could not tell; it was all a blank to me, asit is now; and a man overdriven--well, he nurses sickly fancies. No need to say what mine were until the day I played the coward inMequinez. They set me to build the walls of the Emperor's new Palace. We used the stones of the old Roman town and built them up inMequinez, and in the walls we were bidden to build Christian slavesalive to the glory of Allah. I refused. They stripped the flesh off myfeet with their bastinadoes, starved me of food and drink, and broughtme back again to the walls. Again I refused. " Knightley looked up athis audience, and whether or no he mistook their breathless silencefor disbelief, --"I did, " he implored. "Twice I refused, and twice theytortured me. The third time--I was so broken, the whistle of a canein the air made me cry out with pain--I was sunk to that pitch ofcowardice--" He stopped, unable to complete the sentence. He claspedand unclasped his hands convulsively, he moistened his dry lips withhis tongue, and looked about him with a weak, almost despairing laugh. Then he began in another way. "The Christian was a Portuguee fromMarmora. He was set in the wall with his arms outstretched on eitherside--the attitude of a man crucified. I built in his arms--his rightarm first--and mortised the stones, then his left arm in the same way. I was careful not to look in his face. No, no! I didn't look in hisface. " Knightley repeated the words with a horrible leer of cunning, and hugged himself with his arms. To Wyley's thinking he was strungalmost to madness. "After his arms I built in his feet, and upwardsfrom his feet I built in his legs and his body until I came to hisneck. All this while he had been crying out for pity, babblingprayers, and the rest of it. When I reached his neck he ceased hisclamour. I suppose he was dumb with horror. I did not know. All I knewwas that now I should have to meet his eyes as I built in his face. I thought for a moment of blinding him. I could have done it quiteeasily with a stone. I picked up a stone to do it, and then, well--Icould not help looking at him. He drew my eyes to his like a steelfiling to a magnet. And once I had looked, once I had heard his eyesspeaking, I--I tore down the stones. I freed his body, his legs, hisfeet and one arm. When the guards noticed what I was doing I cannottell. I could not tell you when their sticks began to beat me. Butthey dragged me away when I had freed only one arm. I remember seeinghim tugging at the other. What happened to me, "--he shivered, --"Icould not describe to you. But you see I had played the coward finelyat Mequinez, and when that question recurred to me as to what hadhappened after I had opened the door, I began to wonder whether by anychance I had played the coward at Tangier. I dismissed the thought asa sickly fancy, but it came again and again; and I came back here, andyou draw aloof from me with averted faces and forced welcomes on yourlips. Did I play the coward on that night I was captured? Tell me!Tell me!" And so the torrent of his speech came to an end. 

The Major rose gravely from his seat, walked round the table and heldout his hand. 

"Put your hand there, lad, " he said gravely. 

Knightley looked at the outstretched hand, then at the Major's face. He took the hand diffidently, and the Major's grasp was of theheartiest. 

"Neither at Mequinez nor at Tangier did you play the coward, " said theMajor. "You fell by my side in the van of the attack. "

And then Knightley began to cry. He blubbered like a child, and withhis blubbering he mixed apologies. He was weak, he was tired, hisrelief was too great; he was thoroughly ashamed. 

"You see, " he said, "there was need that I should know. My wife iswaiting for me. I could not go back to her bearing that stigma. Indeed, I hardly dared ask news of her. Now I can go back; and, gentlemen, I wish you good-night. "

He stood up, made his bow, wiped his eyes, and began to walk to thedoor. Scrope rose instantly. 

"Sit down, Lieutenant, " said the Major sharply, and Scrope obeyed withreluctance. 

The Major watched Knightley cross the room. Should he let the Ensigngo? Should he keep him? He could not decide. That Knightley would seekhis wife at once might of course have been foreseen; and yet it hadnot been foreseen either by the Major or the others. The presentfacts, as they had succeeded one after another had engrossed theirminds. 

Knightley's hand was on the door, and the Major had not decided. Hepushed the door open, he set a foot in the passage, and then the roarof a gun shook the room. 

"Ah!" remarked Wyley, "the signal for your sortie. "

Knightley stopped and listened. Major Shackleton stood in a fixedattitude with his eyes upon the floor. He had hit upon an issue, itseemed to him by inspiration. The noise of the gun was followed by tenclear strokes of a bell. 

"That's for the King's Battalion, " said Knightley with a smile. 

"Yes, " said Tessin, and picking up his sword from a corner he slungthe bandolier across his shoulder. 

The bell rang out again; this time the number of the strokes wastwenty. 

"That's for my Lord Dunbarton's Regiment, " said Knightley. 

"Yes, " said two of the remaining officers. They took their hats andfollowed Captain Tessin down the stairs. 

A third time the bell spoke, and the strokes were thirty. 

"Ah!" said Knightley, "that's for the Tangier Foot. Well, good luck toyou, Major!" and he passed through the door. 

"A moment, Knightley. The regiment first. You wear Ensign Barbour'suniform. You must do more than wear his uniform. The regiment first. "

Major Shackleton spoke in a husky voice and kept his eyes on thefloor. Scrope looked at him keenly from the table. Knightley hardlylooked at him at all. He stepped back into the room. 

"With all my heart, Major: the regiment first. "

"Your station is at Peterborough Tower. You will go there--at once. "

"At once, " replied Knightley cheerfully. "So she would wish, " and hewent down the stairs into the street. Major Shackleton picked up hishat. 

"I command this sortie, " he said to Wyley; but as he turned he foundhimself confronted by Scrope. 

"What do you intend?" asked Scrope. 

Major Shackleton looked towards Wyley. Wyley understood the look andalso what Shackleton intended. He went from the room and left the twomen together. 

The grey light poured through the window; the candles still burntyellow on the table. 

"What do you intend?"

The Major looked Scrope straight in the face. 

"I have heard a man speak to-night in a man's voice. I mean to do thatman the best service that I can. These two years at Mequinez cannotmate with these two years at Tangier. Knightley knows nothing now; henever shall know. He believes his wife a second Penelope; he shallkeep that belief. There is a trench--you called it very properly agrave. In that trench Knightley will not hear though all Tangierscream its gossip in his ears. I mean to give him his chance ofdeath. "

"No, Major, " cried Scrope. "Or listen! Give me an equal chance. "

"Trelawney's Regiment is not called out. Again, Lieutenant, I fear meyou will have the harder part of it. "

Shackleton repeated Scrope's own words in all sincerity, and hurriedoff to his post. 

Scrope was left alone in the guard-room. A vision of the trench, twelve feet deep, eight yards wide, yawned before his eyes. He closedthem, but that made no difference; he still saw the trench. Inimagination he began to measure its width and depth. Then he shook hishead to rid himself of the picture, and went out on to the balcony. His eyes turned instinctively to a house by the city wall, to a cornerof the _patio_ the house and the latticed shutter of a window justseen from the balcony. 

He stepped back into the room with a feeling of nausea, and blowingout the candles sat down alone, in the twilight, amongst the emptychairs. There were dark corners in the room; the broadening lightsearched into them, and suddenly the air was tinged with warm gold. Somewhere the sun had risen. In a little, Scrope heard a droppingsound of firing, and a few moments afterwards the rattle of a volley. The battle was joined. Scrope saw the trench again yawn up before hiseyes. The Major was right. This morning, again, Lieutenant Scrope hadthe harder part of it. 

THE MAN OF WHEELS. 

When Sir Charles Fosbrook was told by Mr. Pepys that Tangier had beensurrendered to the Moors, he asked at once after the fate of hisgigantic mole; and when he was informed that his mole had been, beforethe evacuation, so utterly blown to pieces that its scattered blocksmade the harbour impossible for anchorage, he forbade so much as themention in his presence of the name of Africa. But if he had done withTangier, Tangier had not done with him, and five years afterwardshe became concerned in the most unexpected way with certain tragicconsequences of that desperate siege. 

He received a letter from an acquaintance of whom he had long lostsight, a Mr. Mardale of the Quarry House near Leamington, imploringhim to give his opinion upon some new inventions. The value of theinventions could be easily gauged; Mr. Mardale claimed to haveinvented a wheel of perpetual rotation. Sir Charles, however, had hisimpulses of kindness. He knew Mr. Mardale to be an old and gentleperson, a little touched in the head perhaps, who with money enoughto surfeit every instinct of pleasure, had preferred to live a shysecluded life, busily engaged either in the collection of curiositiesor the invention of toy-like futile machines. There was a girl toowhom Sir Charles remembered, a weird elfin creature with extraordinaryblack eyes and hair and a clear white face. Her one regret in thosedays had been that she was not born a horse, and she had lived in thestables, in as horse like a fashion as was possible. Her ankle indeedstill must bear an unnecessary scar through the application of afierce horse-liniment to a sprain. No doubt, however, she had longsince changed her ambitions. Sir Charles calculated her age. ResildaMardale must be twenty-five years old and a deuced fine woman into thebargain. Sir Charles took a glance at his figure in his cheval-glass. He had reached middle-age to be sure, but he had a leg that many aspindle-shanked youngster might envy, nor was there any unbecomingprotuberance at his waist. He wrote a letter accepting the invitationand a week later in the dusk of a June evening, drove up the longavenue of trees to the terrace of the Quarry House. 

The house was a solid square mansion built upon the side of a hill, and the ground in front of it fell away very quickly from the terraceto what Sir Charles imagined must be a pond, for a light mist hung atthe bottom. On the other side of the pond the ground rose again in asteep hill. But Sir Charles had no opportunity at this moment to getany accurate knowledge of the house and its surroundings. For apartfrom the darkness, it was close upon supper-time and Miss ResildaMardale must assuredly not be kept waiting. His valet subsequentlydeclared that Sir Charles had seldom been so particular in the choiceof his coat and small-clothes; and the supper-bell certainly rang outbefore he was satisfied with the set of his cravat. 

He could not, however, consider his pains wasted when once he was setdown opposite to Resilda. She was taller than he had expected her tobe, but he did not count height a fault so long as there was graceto carry it off, and grace she had in plenty. Her face had gained indelicacy and lost nothing of its brilliancy, or of its remarkableclearness of complexion. Her hair too if it was less rebellious, andmore neatly coiled, had retained its glory of profusion, and her bigblack eyes, though to be sure they were grown a trifle sedate, nodoubt could sparkle as of old. Sir Charles set himself to make themsparkle. Old Mr. Mardale prattled of his inventions to his heart'sdelight--he described the wheel, and also a flying machine and besidesthe flying machine, an engine by which steam might be used to raisewater to great altitudes. Sir Charles was ready from time to time witha polite, if not always an appropriate comment, and for the rest hepaid compliments to Resilda. Still the eyes did not sparkle, indeed apucker appeared and deepened on her forehead. Sir Charles accordinglyredoubled his gallantries, he was slyly humorous about thehorse-liniment, and thereupon came the remark which so surprised himand was the beginning of his strange discoveries. For Resilda suddenlyleaned towards him and said frankly:

"I would much rather, Sir Charles, you told me something of your greatmole at Tangier. "

Sir Charles had reason for surprise. The world had long sinceforgotten his mole, if ever it had been concerned in it. Yet here wasa girl whose thoughts might be expected to run on youths and ribandstalking of it in a little village four miles from Leamington as thoughthere were no topic more universal. Sir Charles Fosbrook answered hergravely. 

"I thought never to speak of Tangier and the mole again. I spent manyyears upon the devising and construction of that great breakwater. Itcould have sheltered every ship of his Majesty's navy. It was wife andchildren to me. My heart lay very close to it. I fancied indeed myheart was disrupted with the disruption of the mole, and it has at allevents, lain ever since as heavy as King Charles' Chest. "

"Yes, I can understand that, " said Resilda. 

Sir Charles had vowed never to speak of the matter again. But he hadkept his vow for five long years, and besides here was a girl of aremarkable beauty expressing sympathy and asking for information. SirCharles broke his vow and talked, and the girl helped him. A suspicionthat she might have primed herself with knowledge in view of hiscoming, vanished before the flame of her enthusiasm. She knew thehistory of its building almost as well as he did himself, and couldeven set him right in his dates. It was she who knew the exact day onwhich King Charles' Chest, that great block of mortised stones, whichformed as it were the keystone of the breakwater, had been loweredinto its place. Sir Charles abandoned all reserve, and talked freelyof his hopes and fears as the pier ran farther out and out into thecurrents of the Straits, of his bitter disappointment when his labourswere destroyed. He forgot his gallantries, he showed himself the manhe was. Neither he nor Resilda noticed a low rumble of thunder or thebeating of sudden rain upon the windows, so occupied were they withthe theme of their talk; and at last Sir Charles, leaning back in hischair, cried out with astonishment and delight. 

"But how is it that my mole is so familiar a thing to you? Explain itif you please! Never have I spent so agreeable an evening. "

A momentary embarrassment seemed to follow upon his words. Resildalooked at her father who chuckled and explained. 

"Sir, an old soldier years ago came over the hill in front of thehouse and begged for alms. He found my daughter on the terrace in alucky moment for himself. He had all sorts of wonderful stories ofTangier and the great mole which was then a building. Resilda was seton fire that day, and though the King and the Parliament might shuttheir eyes to the sore straits of that town and the gallantry of itsdefenders, no one was allowed to forget them in the Quarry House. Totell the truth I sometimes envied the obliviousness of Parliament, "and he laughed gently. "So from the first my daughter was primed withthe history of that siege, and lately we have had further means ofknowledge--" He began to speak warily and with embarrassment--"For twoyears ago Resilda married an officer of The King's Battalion, MajorLashley. "

"Here are two surprises, " cried Sir Charles. "For in the first place, Madam, I had no thought you were wed. Blame a bachelor's stupidity!"and he glanced at her left hand which lay upon the table-cloth withthe band of gold gleaming upon a finger. "In the second place I knewMajor Lashley very well, though it is news to me that he ever troubledhis head with my mole. A very gallant officer, who defended CharlesFort through many nights of great suspense, and cleft his way backto Tangier when his ammunition was expended. I shall be very glad toshake the Major once more by the hand. "

At once Sir Charles was aware that he had uttered the most awkward andunsuitable remark. Resilda Lashley, as he must now term her, actuallyflinched away from him and then sat with a vague staring look of painas though she had been shocked clean out of her wits. She recoveredherself in a moment, but she did not speak, neither had Sir Charlesany words. He looked at her dress which was white and had not so muchas a black riband dangling anywhere about it. 

But there were other events than death which could make the utteranceof his wish a _gaucherie_. Sir Charles prided himself upon his tact, particularly with a good-looking woman, and he was therefore muchabashed and confused. The only one who remained undisturbed was Mr. Mardale. His mind was never for very long off his wheels, or hisworks of art. It was the turn of his pictures now. He had picked up agenuine Rubens in Ghent, he declared. It was standing somewhere in thegreat drawing-room on the carpet against the back of a chair, and SirCharles must look at it in the morning, if only it could be found. Hehad clean forgotten all about his daughter it appeared. She, however, had a mind to clear the mystery up, and interrupting her father. 

"It is right that you should know, " she said simply, "Major Lashleydisappeared six months ago. "

"Disappeared!" exclaimed Sir Charles in spite of himself, and theastonishment in his voice woke the old gentleman from his prattle. 

"To be sure, " said he apologetically, "I should have told you beforeof the sad business. Yes, Sir, Major Lashley disappeared, utterly fromthis very house on the eleventh night of last December, and though thecountry-side was scoured and every ragamuffin for miles round broughtto question, no trace of him has anywhere been discovered from thatday to this. "

An intuition slipped into Sir Charles Fosbrook's mind, and though hewould have dismissed it as entirely unwarrantable, persisted there. The thought of the steep slope of ground before the house and the mistin the hollow between the two hills. The mist was undoubtedly theexhalation from a pond. The pond might have reeds which might catchand gather a body. But the pond would have been dragged. Still thethought of the pond remained while he expressed a vague hope that theMajor might by God's will yet be restored to them. 

He had barely ended before a louder gust of rain than ordinary smoteupon the windows and immediately there followed a knocking upon thehall-door. The sound was violent, and it came with so opposite arapidity upon the heels of Fosbrook's words that it thrilled andstartled him. There was something very timely in the circumstances ofnight and storm and that premonitory clapping at the door. Sir Charleslooked towards the door in a glow of anticipation. He had time tonotice, however, how deeply Resilda herself was stirred; her left handwhich had lain loose upon the table-cloth was now tightly clenched, and she had a difficulty in breathing. The one strange point in herconduct was that although she looked towards the door like Sir CharlesFosbrook, there was more of suspense in the look than of the eagernessof welcome. The butler, however, had no news of Major Lashley toannounce. He merely presented the compliments of Mr. Gibson Jerkleywho had been caught in the storm near the Quarry House and ten milesfrom his home. Mr. Jerkley prayed for supper and a dry suit ofclothes. 

"And a bed too, " said Resilda, with a flush of colour in her cheeks, and begging Sir Charles' permission she rose from the table. SirCharles was disappointed by the mention of a strange name. Mr. Mardale, however, to whom that loud knocking upon the door had beenvoid of suggestion, now became alert. He looked with a strange anxietyafter his daughter, an anxiety which surprised Fosbrook, to whomthis man of wheels and little toys had seemed lacking in the naturalaffections. 

"And a bed too, " repeated Mr. Mardale doubtfully, "to be sure! To besure!" And though he went into the hall to welcome his visitor, it wasnot altogether without reluctance. 

Mr. Gibson Jerkley was a man of about thirty years. He had a brownopen personable countenance, a pair of frank blue eyes, and the steadyrestful air of a man who has made his account with himself, and whoneither speaks to win praise nor is at pains to escape dislike. SirCharles Fosbrook was from the first taken with the man, though hespoke little with him for the moment. For being tired with his longjourney from London, he retired shortly to his room. 

But however tired he was, Sir Charles found that it was quiteimpossible for him to sleep. The cracking of the rain upon hiswindows, the groaning trees in the park, and the wail of the windamong the chimneys and about the corners of the house were no doubtfor something in a Londoner's sleeplessness. But the mysteriousdisappearance of Major Lashley was at the bottom of it. He thoughtagain of the pond. He imagined a violent kidnapping and his fancieswent to work at devising motives. Some quarrel long ago in the crowdedcity of Tangier and now brought to a tragical finish amongst the oaksand fields of England. Perhaps a Moor had travelled over seas for hisvengeance and found his way from village to village like thatBaracen lady of old times. And when he had come to this point of hisreflections, he heard a light rapping upon his door. He got out of bedand opened it. He saw Mr. Gibson Jerkley standing on the thresholdwith a candle in one hand and a finger of the other at his lip. 

"I saw alight beneath your door, " said Jerkley, and Sir Charles maderoom for him to enter. He closed the door cautiously, and setting hiscandle down upon a chest of drawers, said without any hesitation:

"I have come, Sir, to ask for your advice. I do not wonder at yoursurprise, it is indeed a strange sort of intrusion for a man to makeupon whom you have never clapped your eyes before this evening. Butfor one thing I fancy Mrs. Lashley wishes me to ask you for thefavour. She has said nothing definitely, in faith she could not as youwill understand when you have heard the story. But that I come withher approval I am very sure. For another, had she disapproved, Ishould none the less have come of my own accord. Sir, though I knowyou very well by reputation, I have had the honour of few words withyou, but my life has taught me to trust boldly where my eyes bid metrust. And the whole affair is so strange that one more strange actlike this intrusion of mine is quite of apiece. I ask you therefore tolisten to me. The listening pledges you to nothing, and at the worst, I can promise you, my story will while away a sleepless hour. If whenyou have heard, you can give us your advice, I shall be very glad. Forwe are sunk in such a quandary that a new point of view cannot buthelp us. "

Sir Charles pointed to a chair and politely turned away to hide ayawn. For the young man's lengthy exordium had made him very drowsy. He could very comfortably had fallen asleep at this moment. But GibsonJerkley began to speak, and in a short space of time Sir Charles wasas wide-awake as any house-breaker. 

"Eight years ago, " said he, "I came very often to the Quarry House, but I always rode homewards discontented in the evening. Resilda atthat time had a great ambition to be a boy. The sight of any brownbare-legged lad gipsying down the hill with a song upon his lips, would set her viciously kicking the toes of her satin slippers againstthe parapet of the terrace, and clamouring at her sex. Now I was notof the same mind with Resilda. "

"That I can well understand, " said Sir Charles drily. "But, my youngfriend, I can remember a time when Resilda desired of all things to bea horse. There was something hopeful because more human in her wish tobe a boy, had you only known. "

Mr. Jerkley nodded gravely and continued:

"I was young enough to argue the point with her, which did me no good, and then to make matters worse, the soldier from Tangier came over thehill, with his stories of Major Lashley--Captain he was then. "

"Major Lashley, " exclaimed Sir Charles. "I did not hear the soldierwas one of Major Lashley's men!"

"But he was and thenceforward the world went very ill with me. Reportsof battles, and sorties came home at rare intervals. She was the firstto read of them. Major Lashley's name was more than once mentioned. Wecountry gentlemen who stayed at home and looked after our farms andour tenants, having no experience of war, suffered greatly in thecomparison. So at the last I ordered my affairs for a long voyage, andwithout taking leave of any but my nearest neighbours and friends, Islipped off one evening to the wars. "

"You did not wish your friends at the Quarry House good-bye?" saidFosbrook. 

"No. It might have seemed that I was making claims, and, after all, one has one's pride. I would never, I think, ask a woman to waitfor me. But she heard of course after I had gone and--I am speakingfrankly--I believe the news woke the woman in her. At all events therewas little talk after of Tangier at the Quarry House. "

Mr. Jerkley related his subsequent history. He had sailed at his owncharges to Africa; he had enlisted as a gentleman volunteer in TheKing's Battalion; he had served under Major Lashley in the CharlesFort where he was in charge of the great speaking-trumpet by whichthe force received its orders from the Lieutenant-Governor in TangierCastle; he took part in the desperate attempt to cut a way backthrough the Moorish army into the town. In that fight he was woundedand left behind for dead. 

"A year later peace was made. Tangier was evacuated, Major Lashleyreturned to England. Now the Major and I despite the differencein rank had been friends. I had spoken to him of Miss Mardale'sadmiration, and as chance would have it, he came to Leamington to takethe waters. "

"Chance?" said Sir Charles drily. 

"Well it may have been intention, " said Jerkley. "There was no reasonin the world why he should not seek her out. She was not promised tome, and very likely I had spoken of her with enthusiasm. For a longtime she would not consent to listen to him. He was, however, noless persistent--he pleaded his suit for three years. I was dead youunderstand, and what man worth a pinch of salt would wish a woman towaste her gift of life in so sterile a fidelity.... You follow me?At the end of three years Resilda yielded to his pleadings, and thepersuasions of her friends. For Major Lashley quickly made himself aposition in the country. They were married, Major Lashley was not arich man, it was decided that they should both live at the QuarryHouse. "

"And what had Mr. Mardale to say to it?" asked Fosbrook. 

"Oh, Sir, " said Gibson Jerkley with a laugh. "Mr. Mardale is a man ofwheels, and little steel springs. Let him sit at his work-table inthat crowded drawing-room on the first floor, without interruption, and he will be very well content, I can assure you.... Hush!" and hesuddenly raised his hand. In the silence which followed, they bothdistinctly heard the sound of some one stirring in the house. Mr. Jerkley went to the door and opened it. The door gave on to thepassage which was shut off at its far end by another door from thesquare tulip-wood landing, at the head of the stairs. He came backinto the bedroom. 

"There is a light on the other side of the passage-door, " said he. "But I have no doubt it is Mr. Mardale going to his bed. He sits lateat his work-table. "

Sir Charles brought him back to his story. 

"Meanwhile you were counted for dead, but actually you were takenprisoner. There is one thing which I do not understand. When peace wasconcluded the prisoners were freed and an officer was sent up intoMorocco to secure their release. "

"There were many oversights like mine, I have no doubt. The Moors werereluctant enough to produce their captives. We who were supposed to bedead were not particularly looked for. I have no doubt there is manya poor English soldier sweating out his soul in the uplands of thatcountry to this day. I escaped two years ago, just about the time, infact, when Miss Resilda Mardale became Mrs. Lashley. I crept downover the hillside behind Tangier one dark evening, and lay all nightbeneath a bush of tamarisks dreaming the Moors were still about me. But an inexplicable silence reigned and nowhere was the darknessspotted by the flame of any camp-fire. In the morning I looked downto Tangier. The first thing which I noticed was your broken stump ofmole, the second that nowhere upon the ring of broken wall could beseen the flash of a red coat or the glitter of a musket-barrel. I camedown into Tangier, I had no money and no friends. I got away in afelucca to Spain. From Spain I worked my passage to England. I camehome nine months ago. And here is the trouble. Three months after Ireturned Major Lashley disappeared. You understand?"

"Oh, " cried Sir Charles, and he jumped in his chair. "I understandindeed. Suspicion settled upon you, " and as it ever will upon theleast provocation suspicion passed for a moment into Fosbrook's brain. He was heartily ashamed of it when he looked into Jerkley's face. Itwould need, assuredly, a criminal of an uncommon astuteness to come atthis hour with this story. Mr. Jerkley was not that criminal. 

"Yes, " he answered simply, "I am looked at askance, devil a doubt ofit. I would not care a snap of the fingers were I alone in the matter;but there is Mrs. Lashley ... She is neither wife nor widow ... And, "he took a step across the room and said quickly--and were she knownfor a widow, there is still the suspicion upon me like a great irondoor between us. "

"Can you help us, Sir Charles! Can you see light?"

"You must tell me the details of the Major's disappearance, " said SirCharles, and the following details were given. 

On the eleventh of December and at ten o'clock of the evening MajorLashley left the house to visit the stables which were situated inthe Park and at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the house. Afavourite mare, which he had hunted the day before, had gone lame, and all day Major Lashley had shown some anxiety; so that there was anatural reason why he should have gone out at the last moment beforeretiring to bed. Mrs. Lashley went up to her room at the same time, indeed with so exact a correspondence of movement that as she reachedthe polished tulip-wood landing at the top of the stairs, she heardthe front door latch as her husband drew it to behind him. That wasthe last she heard of him. 

"She woke up suddenly, " said Jerkley, "in the middle of the night, andfound that her husband was not at her side. She waited for a littleand then rose from her bed. She drew the window-curtains aside and bythe glimmering light which came into the room, was able to read thedial of her watch. It was seven minutes past three of the morning. Sheimmediately lighted her candle and went to rouse her father. Her dooropened upon the landing, it is the first door upon the left hand sideas you mount the stairs; the big drawing-room opens on to the landingtoo, but faces the stairs. Mrs. Lashley at once went to that room, knowing how late Mr. Mardale is used to sit over his inventions, andas she expected, found him there. A search was at once arranged; everyservant in the house was at once impressed, and in the morning everyservant on the estate. Major Lashley had left the stable at a quarterpast ten. He has been seen by no one since. "

Sir Charles reflected upon this story. 

"There is a pond in front of the house, " said he. 

"It was dragged in the morning, " replied Jerkley. 

Sir Charles made various inquiries and received the mostunsatisfactory answers for his purpose. Major Lashley had been afavourite alike at Tangier, and in the country. He had a winningtrick of a smile, which made friends for him even among his country'senemies. Mr. Jerkley could not think of a man who had wished him ill. 

"Well, I will think the matter over, " said Sir Charles, who had not anidea in his head, and he held the door open for Mr. Jerkley. Both menstood upon the threshold, looked down the passage and then looked atone another. 

"It is strange, " said Jerkley. 

"The light has been a long while burning on the landing, " said SirCharles. They walked on tiptoe down the passage to the door beneathwhich one bright bar of light stretched across the floor. Jerkleyopened the door and looked through; Sir Charles who was the taller manlooked over Jerkley's head and never were two men more surprised. Inthe embrasure of that door to the left of the staircase, the doorbehind which Resilda Lashley slept, old Mr. Mardale reclined, with hisback propped against the door-post. He had fallen asleep at his post, and a lighted candle half-burnt flamed at his side. The reason of hispresence then was clear to them both. 

"A morbid fancy!" he said in a whisper, but with a considerable angerin his voice. "Such a fancy as comes only to a man who has lost hisjudgment through much loneliness. See, he sits like any negro outsidean Eastern harem! Sir, I am shamed by him. "

"You have reason I take the liberty to say, " said Sir Charlesabsently, and he went back to his room puzzling over what he had seen, and over what he could neither see nor understand. The desire forsleep was altogether gone from him. He opened his window and leanedout. The rain had ceased, but the branches still dripped and the airwas of an incomparable sweetness. Blackbirds and thrushes on thelawns, and in the thicket-depths were singing as though their liveshung upon the full fresh utterance of each note. A clear pure lightwas diffused across the world. Fosbrook went back to his old idea ofsome vengeful pursuit sprung from a wrong done long ago in Tangier. The picture of Major Lashley struck with terror as he got news of hispursuers, and slinking off into the darkness. Even now, somewhere oranother, on the uplands or the plains of England, he might be risingfrom beneath a hedge to shake the rain from his besmeared clothes, andstart off afresh on another day's aimless flight. The notion caughthis imagination and comforted him to sleep. But in the morning he woketo recognise its unreality. The unreality became yet more vivid tohim at the breakfast-table, when he sat with two pairs of young eyesturning again and again trustfully towards him. The very reliancewhich the man and woman so clearly placed in him spurred him. Sincethey looked to him to clear up the mystery, why he must do it, andthere was an end of the matter. 

He was none the less glad, however, when Mr. Jerkley announced hisintention of returning home. There would at all events be one pairof eyes the less. He strolled with Mr. Jerkley on the terraceafter breakfast with a deep air of cogitation, the better to avoidquestions. Gibson Jerkley, however, was himself in a ruminativemood. He stopped, and gazing across the valley to the riband of roaddescending the hill:

"Down that road the soldier came, " said he, "whose stories broughtabout all this misfortune. "

"And very likely down that road will come the bearer of news to makean end of it, " rejoined Fosbrook sententiously. Mr. Jerkley looked athim with a sudden upspringing of hope, and Sir Charles nodded withineffable mystery, never guessing how these lightly spoken words wereto return to his mind with the strength of a fulfilled prophecy. 

As he nodded, however, he turned about towards the house, and acertain disfigurement struck upon his eyes. Two windows on the firstfloor were entirely bricked up, and as the house was square with leveltiers of windows, they gave to it an unsightly look. Sir Charlesinquired of his companion if he could account for them. 

"To be sure, " said Jerkley, with the inattention of a man divertedfrom serious thought to an unimportant topic. "They are the windows ofthe room in which Mrs. Mardale died a quarter of a century ago. Mr. Mardale locked the door as soon as his wife was taken from it to thechurch, and the next day he had the windows blocked. No one but he hasentered the room during all these years, the key has never left hisperson. It must be the ruin of a room by now. You can imagine it, thedust gathering, the curtains rotting, in the darkness and at times theold man sitting there with his head running on days long since dead. But you know Mr. Mardale, he is not as other men. "

Sir Charles swung round alertly to his companion. To him at all eventsthe topic was not an indifferent one. 

"Yet you say, you believe that he is void of the natural affections. Last night we saw a proof, a crazy proof if you will, but none theless a proof of his devotion to his daughter. To-day you give me assure a one of his devotion to his dead wife, " and almost before he hadfinished, Mr. Mardale was calling to him from the steps of the house. 

He spent all that morning in the great drawing-room on the firstfloor. It was a room of rich furniture, grown dingy with dust andinattention, and crowded from end to end with tables and chairs andsofas, on which were heaped in a confused medley, pictures, statues ofmarble, fans and buckles from Spain, queer barbaric ornaments, ivorycarvings from the Chinese. Sir Charles could hardly make his way tothe little cleared space by the window, where Mr. Mardale worked, without brushing some irreplaceable treasure to the floor. Oncethere he was fettered for the morning. Mr. Mardale with all theundisciplined enthusiasm of an amateur, jumping from this invention tothat, beaming over his spectacles. Sir Charles listened with here andthere a word of advice, or of sympathy with the labour of creation. But his thoughts were busy elsewhere, he was pondering over hisdiscovery of the morning, over the sight which he and Jerkley had seenlast night, he was accustoming himself to regard the old man in astrange new light, as an over-careful father and a sorely-strickenhusband. Meanwhile he sat over against the window which was in theside of the house, and since the house was built upon a slope of hill, although the window was on the first floor, a broad terrace of grassstretched away from it to a circle of gravel ornamented with statues. On this terrace he saw Mrs. Lashley, and reflected uncomfortably thathe must meet her at dinner and again sustain the inquiry of her eyes. 

He avoided actual questions, however, and as soon as dinner was over, with a meaning look at the girl to assure her that he was busy withher business, he retired to the library. Then he sat himself down tothink the matter over restfully. But the room, walled with books uponits three sides, fronted the Southwest on its fourth, and as theafternoon advanced, the hot June sun streamed farther and farther intothe room. Sir Charles moved his chair back, and again back, and again, until at last it was pushed into the one cool dark corner of the room. Then Sir Charles closed his wearied eyes the better to think. But hehad slept little during the last night, and when he opened them again, it was with a guilty start. He rubbed his eyes, then he reached a handdown quickly at his side, and lifted a book out of the lowest shelf inthe corner. The book was a volume of sermons. Sir Charles replaced it, and again dipped his hand into the lucky-bag. He drew out a tome ofMr. Hobbes' philosophy; Sir Charles was not in the mood for Hobbes; hetried again. On this third occasion he found something very much moreto his taste, namely the second Volume of Anthony Hamilton's Memoirsof Count Grammont. This he laid upon his knee, and began glancingthrough the pages while he speculated upon the mystery of the Major'sdisappearance. His thoughts, however, lagged in a now well-worncircle, they begot nothing new in the way of a suggestion. On theother hand the book was quite new to him. He became less and lessinterested in his thoughts, more and more absorbed in the Memoirs. There were passages marked with a pencil-line in the margin, andmarked, thought Sir Charles, by a discriminating judge. He began tolook only for the marked passages, being sure that thus he would mosteasily come upon the raciest anecdotes. He read the story of theCount's pursuit by the brother of the lady he was affianced to. Thebrother caught up the Count when he was nearing Dover to return toFrance. "You have forgotten something, " said the brother. "So I have, "replied Grammont. "I have forgotten to marry your sister. " Sir Charleschuckled and turned over the pages. There was an account of how thereprobate hero rode seventy miles into the country to keep a trystwith an _inamorata_ and waited all night for no purpose in pouringrain by the Park gate. Sir Charles laughed aloud. He turned over morepages, and to his surprise came across, amongst the marked passages, aquite unentertaining anecdote of how Grammont lost a fine new suit ofclothes, ordered for a masquerade at White Hall. Sir Charles read thestory again, wondering why on earth this passage had been marked; andsuddenly he was standing by the window, holding the book to the lightin a quiver of excitement. Underneath certain letters in the words ofthis marked passage he had noticed dents in the paper, as though bythe pressure of a pencil point. Now that he stood by the light, hemade sure of the dents, and he saw also by the roughness of the paperabout them, that the pencil-marks had been carefully erased. He readthese underlined letters together--they made a word, two words--asentence, and the sentence was an assignation. 

Sir Charles could not remember that the critical moment in any of hisgreat engineering undertakings, had ever caused him such a flutterof excitement, such a pulsing in his temples, such a catching of hisbreath--no, not even the lowering of Charles' Chest into the Watersof Tangier harbour. Everything at once became exaggerated out of itsproportions, the silence of the house seemed potential and expectant, the shadows in the room now that the sun was low had their message, hefelt a queer chill run down his spine like ice, he shivered. Then hehurried to the door, locked it and sat down to a more careful study. And as he read, there came out before his eyes a story--a story toldas it were in telegrams, a story of passion, of secret meetings, ofgratitude for favours. 

Who was the discriminating judge who had marked these passages andunderlined these letters? The book was newly published, it was in theQuarry House, and there were three occupants of the Quarry House. Wasit Mr. Mardale? The mere question raised a laugh. Resilda? Never. Major Lashley then? If not Major Lashley, who else?

It flashed into his mind that here in this book he might hold thehistory of the Major's long courtship of Resilda. But he dismissed thenotion contemptuously. Gibson Jerkley had told him of that courtship, and of the girl's reluctance to respond to it. Besides Resilda wasnever the woman in this story. Perhaps the first volume might augmentit and give the clue to the woman's identity. Sir Charles hunteddesperately through the shelves. Nowhere was the first volume to befound. He wasted half-an-hour before he understood why. Of course theother volume would be in the woman's keeping, and how in the world todiscover her?

Things moved very quickly with Sir Charles that afternoon. He had shutup the volume and laid it on the table, the while he climbed up anddown the library steps. From the top of the steps he glanced about theroom in a despairing way, and his eyes lit upon the table. For thefirst time he remarked the binding which was of a brown leather. Butall the books on the shelves were bound uniformly in marble boardswith a red backing. He sprang down from the steps with the vigour of aboy, and seizing the book looked in the fly leaf for a name. There wasa name, the name of a bookseller in Leamington, and as he closed thebook again, some one rapped upon the door. Sir Charles opened it andsaw Mr. Mardale. He gave the old gentleman no time to speak. 

"Mr. Mardale, " said he, "I am a man of plethoric habits, and mustneeds take exercise. Can you lend me a horse?"

Mr. Mardale was disappointed as his manner showed. He had perhaps atthat very moment hit upon a new and most revolutionary invention. But his manners hindered him from showing more than a trace ofthe disappointment, and Sir Charles rode out to the bookseller atLeamington, with the volume beneath his coat. 

"Can you show me the companion to this?" said he, dumping it down uponthe counter. The bookseller seized upon the volume and fondled it. 

"It is not fair, " he cried. "In any other affair but books, it wouldbe called at once sheer dishonesty. Here have been my subscribersclamouring for the Memoirs for six months and more. "

"You hire out your books!" cried Sir Charles. 

"Give would be the properer word, " grumbled the man. 

Sir Charles humbly apologised. 

"It was the purest oversight, " said he, "and I will gladly pay double. But I need the first volume. "

"The first volume, Sir, " replied the bookseller in a mollified voice, "is in the like case with the second. There has been an oversight. "

"But who has it?"

The bookseller was with difficulty persuaded to search his list. Hekept his papers in the greatest disorder, so that it was no wonderpeople kept his volumes until they forgot them. But in the end hefound his list. 

"Mrs. Ripley, " he read out, "Mrs. Ripley of Burley Wood. "

"And where is Burley Wood?" asked Sir Charles. 

"It is a village, Sir, six miles from Leamington, " replied thebookseller, and he gave some rough directions as to the road. 

Sir Charles mounted his horse and cantered down the Parade. The sunwas setting; he would for a something miss his supper; but he meant tosee Burley Wood that day, and he would have just daylight enoughfor his purpose. As he entered the village, he caught up a labourerreturning from the fields. Sir Charles drew rein beside him. 

"Will you tell me, if you please, where Mrs. Ripley lives?"

The man looked up and grinned. 

"In the churchyard, " said he. 

"Do you mean she is dead?"

"No less. "

"When did she die?"

"Well, it may have been a month or two ago, or it may have been more. "

"Show me her grave and there's a silver shilling in your pocket. "

The labourer led Fosbrook to a corner of the churchyard. Then upona head-stone he read that Mary Ripley aged twenty-nine had died onDecember 7th. December the 7th thought Sir Charles, five days beforeMajor Lashley died. Then he turned quickly to the labourer. 

"Can you tell me when Mrs. Ripley was buried?"

"I can find out for another shilling. "

"You shall have it, man. "

The labourer hurried off, discovered the sexton, and came back. Butinstead of the civil gentleman he had left, he found now a man with aface of horror, and eyes that had seen appalling things. Sir Charleshad remained in the churchyard by the grave, he had looked about himfrom one to the other of the mounds of turf, his imagination alreadystimulated had been quickened by what he had seen; he stood with theface of a Medusa. 

"She was buried when?" he asked. 

"On December the 11th, " replied the labourer. 

Sir Charles showed no surprise. He stood very still for a moment, thenhe gave the man his two shillings, and walked to the gate where hishorse was tied. Then he inquired the nearest way to the Quarry House, and he was pointed out a bridle-path running across fields to a hill. As he mounted he asked another question. 

"Mr. Ripley is alive?"

"Yes. "

"It must be Mr. Ripley, " Sir Charles assured himself, as he rodethrough the dusk of the evening. "It must be ... It must be ... " untilthe words in his mind became a meaningless echo of his horse's hoofs. He rode up the hill, left the bridle-path for the road, and suddenly, and long before he had expected, he saw beneath him the red square ofthe Quarry House and the smoke from its chimneys. He was on that veryroad up which he and Gibson Jerkley had looked that morning. Down thatroad, he had said, would come the man who knew how Major Lashleyhad disappeared, and within twelve hours down that road the man wascoming. "But it must be Mr. Ripley, " he said to himself. 

None the less he took occasion at supper to speak of his ride. 

"I rode by Leamington to Burley Wood. I went into the churchyard. "Then he stopped, but as though the truth was meant to come to light, Resilda helped him out. 

"I had a dear friend buried there not so long ago, " she said. "Father, you remember Mrs. Ripley. "

"I saw her grave this afternoon, " said Fosbrook, with his eyes uponMr. Mardale. It might have been a mere accident, it was in any case atrifling thing, the mere shaking of a hand, the spilling of a spoonfulof salt upon the table, but trifling things have their suggestions. He remembered that Resilda, when she had waked up on the night ofDecember the 11th to find herself alone, had sought out her father, who was still up, and at work in the big drawing-room. He rememberedtoo that the window of that room gave on to a terrace of grass. A manmight go out by that window--aye and return without a soul but himselfbeing the wiser. 

Of course it was all guess work and inference, and besides, it must beMr. Ripley. Mr. Ripley might as easily have discovered the secretof the Memoirs as himself--or anyone else. Mr. Ripley would havejustification for anger and indeed for more--yes for what men who arenot affected are used to call a crime ... Sir Charles abruptly stoppedhis reasoning, seeing that it was prompted by a defence of Mr. Mardale. He made his escape from his hosts as soon as he decentlycould and retired to his room. He sat down in his room and thought, and he thought to some purpose. He blew out his candle, and stole downthe stairs into the hall. He had met no one. From the hall he went tothe library-door and opened it--ever so gently. The room was quitedark. Sir Charles felt his way across it to his chair in the corner. He sat down in the darkness and waited. After a time inconceivablylong, after every board in the house had cracked a million times, heheard distinctly a light shuffling step in the passage, and after thatthe latch of the door release itself from the socket. He heard nothingmore, for a little, he could only guess that the door was beingsilently opened by some one who carried no candle. Then the shufflingfootsteps began to move gently across the room, towards him, towardsthe corner where he was sitting. Sir Charles had had no doubt but thatthey would, not a single doubt, but none the less as he sat therein the dark, he felt the hair rising on his scalp, and all his bodythrill. Then a hand groped and touched him. A cry rang out, but it wasSir Charles who uttered it. A voice answered quietly:

"You had fallen asleep. I regret to have waked you. "

"I was not asleep, Mr. Mardale. "

There was a pause and Mr. Mardale continued. 

"I cannot sleep to-night, I came for a book. "

"I know. For the book I took back to Leamington to-day, before I wentto visit Mrs. Ripley's grave. "

There was a yet longer pause before Mr. Mardale spoke again. 

"Stay then!" he said in the same gentle voice. "I will fetch a light. "He shuffled out of the room, and to Sir Charles it seemed again aninconceivably long time before he returned. He came back with a singlecandle, which he placed upon the table, a little star of light, showing the faces of the two men shadowy and dim. He closed the doorcarefully, and coming back, said simply:

"You know. "

"Yes. "

"How did you find out?"

"I saw the grave. I noticed the remarkable height of the mound. Iguessed. "

"Yes, " said Mr. Mardale, and in a low voice he explained. "I found thebook here one day, that he left by accident. On December 11th Mrs. Ripley was buried, and that night he left the house--for the stables, yes, but he did not return from the stables. It seemed quite clear tome where he would be that night. People hereabouts take me for aman crazed and daft, I know that very well, but I know something ofpassion, Sir Charles. I have had my griefs to bear. Oh, I knew wherehe would be. I followed over the hill down to the churchyard of BurleyWood. I had no thought of what I should do. I carried a stick in myhand, I had no thought of using it. But I found him lying full-lengthupon the grave with his lips pressed to the earth of it, whispering toher who lay beneath him.... I called to him to stand up and he did. Ibade him, if he dared, repeat the words he had used to my face, tome, the father of the girl he had married, and he did--triumphantly, recklessly. I struck at him with the knob of my stick, the knob washeavy, I struck with all my might, the blow fell upon his forehead. The spade was lying on the ground beside the grave. I buried him withher. Now what will you do?"

"Nothing, " said Sir Charles. 

"But Mr. Jerkley asked you to help him. "

"I shall tell a lie. "

"My friend, there is no need, " said the old man with his gentlesmile. "When I went out for this candle I ... " Sir Charles broke inupon him in a whirl of horror. 

"No. Don't say it! You did not!"

"I did, " replied Mr. Mardale. "The poison is a kindly one. I shall bedead before morning. I shall sleep my way to death. I do not mind, forI fear that, after all, my inventions are of little worth. I have lefta confession on my writing-desk. There is no reason--is there?--why heand she should be kept apart?"

It was not a question which Sir Charles could discuss. He saidnothing, and was again left alone in the darkness, listening to theshuffling footsteps of Mr. Mardale as, for the last time, he mountedthe stairs. 

MR. MITCHELBOURNE'S LAST ESCAPADE. 

It was in the kitchen of the inn at Framlingham that Mr. Mitchelbournecame across the man who was afraid, and during the Christmas weekof the year 1681. Lewis Mitchelbourne was young in those days, andesteemed as a gentleman of refinement and sensibility, with a queertaste for escapades, pardonable by reason of his youth. It was hispride to bear his part in the graceful tactics of a minuet, while asaddled horse waited for him at the door. He delighted to vanish of asudden from the lighted circle of his friends into the byways wherenone knew him, or held him of account, not that it was all vanity withMitchelbourne though no doubt the knowledge that his associatesin London Town were speculating upon his whereabouts tickled himpleasurably through many a solitary day. But he was possessed both ofcourage and resource, qualities for which he found too infrequent anexercise in his ordinary life; and so he felt it good to be free forawhile, not from the restraints but from the safeguards, withwhich his social circumstances surrounded him. He had his spice ofphilosophy too, and discovered that these sharp contrasts, --luxury andhardship, treading hard upon each other and the new strange peoplewith whom he fell in, kept fresh his zest of life. 

Thus it happened that at a time when families were gathering cheerilyeach about a single fireside, Mr. Mitchelbourne was riding alonethrough the muddy and desolate lanes of Suffolk. The winter was notseasonable; men were not tempted out of doors. There was neitherbriskness nor sunlight in the air, and there was no snow upon theground. It was a December of dripping branches, and mists and steadypouring rains, with a raw sluggish cold, which crept into one'smarrow. 

The man who was afraid, a large, corpulent man, of a loose and heavybuild, with a flaccid face and bright little inexpressive eyes like abird's, sat on a bench within the glow of the fire. 

"You travel far to-night?" he asked nervously, shuffling his feet. 

"To-night!" exclaimed Mitchelbourne as he stood with his legs aparttaking the comfortable warmth into his bones. "No further than fromthis fire to my bed, " and he listened with enjoyment to the rainwhich cracked upon the window like a shower of gravel flung by somemischievous urchin. He was not suffered to listen long, for thecorpulent man began again. 

"I am an observer, sir. I pride myself upon it, but I have so muchhumility as to wish to put my observations to the test of fact. Now, from your carriage, I should judge you to serve His Majesty. "

"A civilian may be straight. There is no law against it, " returnedMitchelbourne, and he perceived that the ambiguity of his reply threwhis questioner into a great alarm. He was at once interested. Here, it seemed, was one of those encounters which were the spice of hisjourneyings. 

"You will pardon me, " continued the stranger with a great assumptionof heartiness, "but I am curious, sir, curious as Socrates, thoughI thank God I am no heathen. Here is Christmas, when a sensiblegentleman, as upon my word I take you to be, sits to his table anddrinks more than is good for him in honour of the season. Yet here areyou upon the roads to Suffolk which have nothing to recommend them. Iwonder at it, sir. "

"You may do that, " replied Mitchelbourne, "though to be sure, thereare two of us in the like case. "

"Oh, as for me, " said his companion shrugging his shoulders, "I am onmy way to be married. My name is Lance, " and he blurted it out witha suddenness as though to catch Mitchelbourne off his guard. Mitchelbourne bowed politely. 

"And my name is Mitchelbourne, and I travel for my pleasure, though mypleasure is mere gipsying, and has nothing to do with marriage. Itake comfort from thinking that I have no friend from one rim ofthis country to the other, and that my closest intimates have not aninkling of my whereabouts. "

Mr. Lance received the explanation with undisguised suspicion, and atsupper, which the two men took together, he would be forever layingtraps. Now he slipped some outlandish name or oath unexpectedly intohis talk, and watched with a forward bend of his body to mark whetherthe word struck home; or again he mentioned some person with whomMitchelbourne was quite unfamiliar. At length, however, he seemedsatisfied, and drawing up his chair to the fire, he showed himself atonce in his true character, a loud and gusty boaster. 

"An exchange of sentiments, Mr. Mitchelbourne, with a chanceacquaintance over a pipe and a glass--upon my word I think you are inthe right of it, and there's no pleasanter way of passing an evening. I could tell you stories, sir; I served the King in his wars, but Iscorn a braggart, and all these glories are over. I am now a man ofpeace, and, as I told you, on my way to be married. Am I wise? I donot know, but I sometimes think it preposterous that a man whohas been here and there about the world, and could, if he were someanly-minded, tell a tale or so of success in gallantry, shouldhamper himself with connubial fetters. But a man must settle, tobe sure, and since the lady is young, and not wanting in looks orbreeding or station, as I am told--"

"As you are told?" interrupted Mitchelbourne. 

"Yes, for I have never seen her. No, not so much as her miniature. Nor have I seen her mother either, or any of the family, except thefather, from whom I carry letters to introduce me. She lives in ahouse called 'The Porch' some miles from here. There is another househard by to it, I understand, which has long stood empty and I have amind to buy it. I bring a fortune, the lady a standing in the county. "

"And what has the lady to say to it?" asked Mitchelbourne. 

"The lady!" replied Lance with a stare. "Nothing but what is dutiful, I'll be bound. The father is under obligations to me. " He stoppedsuddenly, and Mitchelbourne, looking up, saw that his mouth hadfallen. He sat with his eyes starting from his head and a face grey aslead, an image of panic pitiful to behold. Mitchelbourne spoke but gotno answer. It seemed Lance could not answer--he was so arrested by aparalysis of terror. He sat staring straight in front of him, and itseemed at the mantelpiece which was just on a level with his eyes. Themantelpiece, however, had nothing to distinguish it from a score ofothers. Its counterpart might be found to this day in the parlour ofany inn. A couple of china figures disfigured it, to be sure, butMitchelbourne could not bring himself to believe that even theirbarbaric crudity had power to produce so visible a discomposure. Heinclined to the notion that his companion was struck by a physicaldisease, perhaps some recrudescence of a malady contracted in thoseforeign lands of which he vaguely spoke. 

"Sir, you are ill, " said Mitchelbourne. "I will have a doctor, ifthere is one hereabouts to be found, brought to your relief. " Hesprang up as he spoke, and that action of his roused Lance out of hisparalysis. "Have a care, " he cried almost in a shriek, "Do not move!For pity, sir, do not move, " and he in his turn rose from his chair. He rose trembling, and swept the dust off a corner of the mantelpieceinto the palm of his hand. Then he held his palm to the lamp. 

"Have you seen the like of this before?" he asked in a low shakingvoice. 

Mitchelbourne looked over Lance's shoulder. The dust was in reality avery fine grain of a greenish tinge. 

"Never!" said Mitchelbourne. 

"No, nor I, " said Lance, with a sudden cunning look at his companion, and opening his fingers, as he let the grain run between them. But hecould not remove as easily from Mitchelbourne's memories that picturehe had shown him of a shaking and a shaken man. Mitchelbourne went tobed divided in his feelings between pity for the lady Lance was tomarry, and curiosity as to Lance's apprehensions. He lay awake fora long time speculating upon that mysterious green seed which couldproduce so extraordinary a panic, and in the morning his curiositypredominated. Since, therefore, he had no particular destination hewas easily persuaded to ride to Saxmundham with Mr. Lance, who, forhis part, was most earnest for a companion. On the journey Lance gavefurther evidence of his fears. He had a trick of looking backwardswhenever they came to a corner of the road--an habitual trick, itseemed, acquired by a continued condition of fear. When they stoppedat midday to eat at an ordinary, he inspected the guests through thechink at the hinges of the door before he would enter the room; andthis, too, he did as though it had long been natural to him. He kepta bridle in his mouth, however; that little pile of grain uponthe mantelshelf had somehow warned him into reticence, so thatMitchelbourne, had he not been addicted to his tobacco, wouldhave learnt no more of the business and would have escaped theextraordinary peril which he was subsequently called upon to face. 

But he _was_ addicted to his tobacco, and no sooner had he finishedhis supper that night at Saxmundham than he called for a pipe. Themaidservant fetched a handful from a cupboard and spread them upon thetable, and amongst them was one plainly of Barbary manufacture. It hada straight wooden stem painted with hieroglyphics in red and greenand a small reddish bowl of baked earth. Nine men out of ten would nodoubt have overlooked it, but Mitchelbourne was the tenth man. Hisfancies were quick to kindle, and taking up the pipe he said in amusing voice:

"Now, how in the world comes a Barbary pipe to travel so far over seasand herd in the end with common clays in a little Suffolk village?"

He heard behind him the grating of a chair violently pushed back. Thepipe seemingly made its appeal to Mr. Lance also. 

"Has it been smoked?" he asked in a grave low voice. 

"The inside of the bowl is stained, " said Mitchelbourne. 

Mitchelbourne had been inclined to believe that he had seen lastevening the extremity of fear expressed in a man's face: he had now toadmit that he had been wrong. Mr. Lance's terror was a Circe to himand sunk him into something grotesque and inhuman; he ran once ortwice in a little tripping, silly run backwards and forwards like ananimal trapped and out of its wits; and his face had the look of aman suffering from a nausea; so that Mitchelbourne, seeing him, wasashamed and hurt for their common nature. 

"I must go, " said Lance babbling his words. "I cannot stay. I mustgo. "

"To-night?" exclaimed Mitchelbourne. "Six yards from the door you willbe soaked!"

"Then there will be the fewer men abroad. I cannot sleep here! No, though it rained pistols and bullets I must go. " He went intothe passage, and calling his host secretly asked for his score. Mitchelbourne made a further effort to detain him. 

"Make an inquiry of the landlord first. It may be a mere shadow thatfrightens you. "

"Not a word, not a question, " Lance implored. The mere suggestionincreased a panic which seemed incapable of increase. "And for theshadow, why, that's true. The pipe's the shadow, and the shadowfrightens me. A shadow! Yes! A shadow is a horrible, threatning thing!Show me a shadow cast by nothing and I am with you. But you might aseasily hold that this Barbary pipe floated hither across the seas ofits own will. No! 'Ware shadows, I say. " And so he continued harpingon the word, till the landlord fetched in the bill. 

The landlord had his dissuasions too, but they availed not a jot morethan Mr. Mitchelbourne's. 

"The road is as black as a pauper's coffin, " said he, "and damnablewith ruts. "

"So much the better, " said Lance. 

"There is no house where you can sleep nearer than Glemham, and no manwould sleep there could he kennel elsewhere. "

"So much the better, " said Lance. "Besides, I am expected to-morrowevening at 'The Porch' and Glemham is on the way. " He paid his bill, slipped over to the stables and lent a hand to the saddling of hishorse. Mitchelbourne, though for once in his life he regretted theprecipitancy with which he welcomed strangers, was still sufficientlyprovoked to see the business to its end. His imagination was seized bythe thought of this fat and vulgar person fleeing in terror throughEnglish lanes from a Barbary Moor. He had now a conjecture in his mindas to the nature of that greenish seed. He accordingly rode out withLance toward Glemham. 

It was a night of extraordinary blackness; you could not distinguisha hedge until the twigs stung across your face; the road was narrow, great tree-trunks with bulging roots lined it, at times it was verysteep--and, besides and beyond every other discomfort, there was therain. It fell pitilessly straight over the face of the country with acontinuous roar as though the earth was a hollow drum. Both travellerswere drenched to the skin before they were free of Saxmundham, and oneof them, when after midnight they stumbled into the poor tumble-downparody of a tavern at Glemham, was in an extreme exhaustion. It was nomore than an ague, said Lance, from which he periodically suffered, but the two men slept in the same bare room, and towards morningMitchelbourne was awakened from a deep slumber by an unfamiliar voicetalking at an incredible speed through the darkness in an uncouthtongue. He started up upon his elbow; the voice came from Lance's bed. He struck a light. Lance was in a high fever, which increased as themorning grew. 

Now, whether he had the sickness latent within him when he came fromBarbary, or whether his anxieties and corpulent habit made him aneasy victim to disease, neither the doctor nor any one else coulddetermine. But at twelve o'clock that day Lance was seized with anattack of cholera and by three in the afternoon he was dead. Thesuddenness of the catastrophe shocked Mr. Mitchelbourne inexpressibly. He stood gazing at the still features of the man whom fear had, duringthese last days, so grievously tormented, and was solemnly aware ofthe vanity of those fears. He could not pretend to any great esteemfor his companion, but he made many suitable reflections upon theshears of the Fates and the tenacity of life, in which melancholyoccupation he was interrupted by the doctor, who pointed out thenecessity of immediate burial. Seven o'clock the next morning was thehour agreed upon, and Mitchelbourne at once searched in Lance'scoat pockets for the letters which he carried. There were only two, superscribed respectively to Mrs. Ufford at "The Porch" near Glemham, and to her daughter Brasilia. At "The Porch" Mitchelbourne rememberedLance was expected this very evening, and he thought it right at onceto ride thither with his gloomy news. 

Having, therefore, sprinkled the letters plentifully with vinegar andtaken such rough precautions as were possible to remove the taint ofinfection from the letters, he started about four o'clock. The eveningwas most melancholy. For, though no rain any longer fell, there was acontinual pattering of drops from the trees and a ghostly creaking ofbranches in a light and almost imperceptible wind. The day, too, wasfalling, the grey overhang of cloud was changing to black, except forone wide space in the west, where a pale spectral light shone withoutradiance; and the last of that was fading when he pulled up at aparting of the roads and inquired of a man who chanced to be standingthere his way to "The Porch. " He was directed to ride down the roadupon his left hand until he came to the second house, which he couldnot mistake, for there was a dyke or moat about the garden wall. Hepassed the first house a mile further on, and perhaps half a milebeyond that he came to the dyke and the high garden wall, and saw thegables of the second house loom up behind it black against the sky. Awooden bridge spanned the dyke and led to a wide gate. Mitchelbournestopped his horse at the bridge. The gate stood open and he lookeddown an avenue of trees into a square of which three sides were madeby the high garden wall, and the fourth and innermost by the house. Thus the whole length of the house fronted him, and it struck him asvery singular that neither in the lower nor the upper windows wasthere anywhere a spark of light, nor was there any sound but thetossing of the branches and the wail of the wind among the chimneys. Not even a dog barked or rattled a chain, and from no chimney breatheda wisp of smoke. The house in the gloom of that melancholy evening hada singular eerie and tenantless look; and oppressive silence reignedthere; and Mitchelbourne was unaccountably conscious of a growingaversion to it, as to something inimical and sinister. 

He had crossed the mouth of a lane, he remembered, just at the firstcorner of the wall. The lane ran backwards from the road, parallelwith the side wall of the garden. Mitchelbourne had a strong desireto ride down that lane and inspect the back of the house before hecrossed the bridge into the garden. He was restrained for a moment bythe thought that such a proceeding must savour of cowardice. But onlyfor a moment. There had been no doubting the genuine nature of Lance'sfears and those fears were very close to Mr. Mitchelbourne now. Theywere feeling like cold fingers about his heart. He was almost in theicy grip of them. 

He turned and rode down the lane until he came to the end of the wall. A meadow stretched behind the house. Mitchelbourne unfastened thecatch of a gate with his riding whip and entered it. He found himselfupon the edge of a pool, which on the opposite side wetted the housewall. About the pool some elder trees and elms grew and overhung, andtheir boughs tapped like fingers upon the window-panes. Mitchelbournewas assured that the house was inhabited, since from one of thewindows a strong yellow light blazed, and whenever a sharper gust blewthe branches aside, swept across the face of the pool like a flaw ofwind. 

The lighted window was in the lowest storey, and Mitchelbourne, fromthe back of his horse, could see into the room. He was mystifiedbeyond expression by what he saw. A deal table, three wooden chairs, some ragged curtains drawn back from the window, and a single lampmade up the furniture. The boards of the floor were bare and unswept;the paint peeled in strips from the panels of the walls; thediscoloured ceiling was hung with cobwebs; the room in a word matchedthe outward aspect of the house in its look of long disuse. Yet it hadoccupants. Three men were seated at the table in the scarlet coats andboots of the King's officers. Their faces, though it was winter-time, were brown with the sun, and thin and drawn as with long privation andanxiety. They had little to say to one another, it seemed. Each mansat stiffly in a sort of suspense and expectation, with now and then arestless movement or a curt word as curtly answered. 

Mitchelbourne rode back again, crossed the bridge, fastened his horseto a tree in the garden, and walked down the avenue to the door. As hemounted the steps, he perceived with something of a shock, that thedoor was wide open and that the void of the hall yawned black beforehim. It was a fresh surprise, but in this night of surprises, one moreor less, he assured himself, was of little account. He stepped intothe hall and walked forwards feeling with his hands in front of him. As he advanced, he saw a thin line of yellow upon the floor ahead ofhim. The line of yellow was a line of light, and it came, no doubt, from underneath a door, and the door, no doubt, was that behind whichthe three men waited. Mitchelbourne stopped. After all, he reflected, the three men were English officers wearing His Majesty's uniform, and, moreover, wearing it stained with their country's service. Hewalked forward and tapped upon the door. At once the light within theroom was extinguished. 

It needed just that swift and silent obliteration of the slip of lightupon the floor to make Mitchelbourne afraid. He had been upon thebrink of fear ever since he had seen that lonely and disquietinghouse; he was now caught in the full stream. He turned back. Throughthe open doorway, he saw the avenue of leafless trees tossing againsta leaden sky. He took a step or two and then came suddenly to a halt. For all around him in the darkness he seemed to hear voices breathingand soft footsteps. He realised that his fear had overstepped hisreason; he forced himself to remember the contempt he had felt forLance's manifestations of terror; and swinging round again he flungopen the door and entered the room. 

"Good evening, gentlemen, " said he airily, and he got no answerwhatsoever. In front of him was the grey panel of dim twilight wherethe window stood. The rest was black night and an absolute silence. Amap of the room was quite clear in his recollections. The three menwere seated he knew at the table on his right hand. The faint lightfrom the window did not reach them, and they made no noise. Yet theywere there. Why had they not answered him, he asked himself. He couldnot even hear them breathing, though he strained his ears. He couldonly hear his heart drumming at his breast, the blood pulsing in histemples. Why did they hold their breath? He crossed the room, notknowing what he did, bereft of his wits. He had a confused, ridiculouspicture of himself wearing the flaccid, panic stricken face of Mr. Lance, like an ass' head, not holding the wand of Titania. He reachedthe window and stood in its embrasure, and there one definite, practical thought crept into his mind. He was visible to these men whowere invisible to him. The thought suggested a precaution, and withthe trembling haste of a man afraid, he tore at the curtains anddragged them till they met across the window so that even the faintgrey glimmer of the night no longer had entrance. The next momenthe heard the door behind him latch and a key turn in the lock. Hecrouched beneath the window and did not stand up again until a lightwas struck, and the lamp relit. 

The lighting of the lamp restored Mr. Mitchelbourne, if not to thefull measure of his confidence, at all events to an appreciation thatthe chief warrant for his trepidation was removed. What he had withsome appearance of reason feared was a sudden attack in the dark. Withthe lamp lit, he could surely stand in no danger of any violence atthe hands of three King's officers whom he had never come across inall his life. He took, therefore, an easy look at them. One, theyoungest, now leaned against the door, a youth of a frank, honestface, unremarkable but for a firm set of the jaws. A youth of no greatintellect, thought Mitchelbourne, but tenacious, a youth marked outfor a subordinate command, and never likely for all his sterlingqualities to kindle a woman to a world-forgetting passion, or to treadwith her the fiery heights where life throbs at its fullest. Mr. Mitchelbourne began to feel quite sorry for this young officer of thelimited capacities, and he was still in the sympathetic mood when oneof the two men at the table spoke to him. Mitchelbourne turned atonce. The officers were sitting with a certain air of the theatre intheir attitudes, one a little dark man and the other a stiff, lightcomplexioned fellow with a bony, barren face, unmistakably a stupidman and the oldest of the three. It was he who was speaking, and hespoke with a sort of aggravated courtesy like a man of no breedingcounterfeiting a gentleman upon the stage. 

"You will pardon us for receiving you with so little ceremony. Butwhile we expected you, you on the other hand were not expecting us, and we feared that you might hesitate to come in if the lamp wasburning when you opened the door. "

Mitchelbourne was now entirely at his ease. He perceived that therewas some mistake and made haste to put it right. 

"On the contrary, " said he, "for I knew very well you were here. Indeed, I knocked at the door to make a necessary inquiry. You did notextinguish the lamp so quickly but that I saw the light beneath thedoor, and besides I watched you some five minutes through the windowfrom the opposite bank of the pool at the back of the house. "

The officers were plainly disconcerted by the affability of Mr. Mitchelbourne's reply. They had evidently expected to carry off atriumph, not to be taken up in an argument. They had planned a strokeof the theatre, final and convincing, and behold the dialogue went on!There was a riposte to their thrust. 

The spokesman made some gruff noises in his throat. Then his facecleared. 

"These are dialectics, " he said superbly with a wave of the hand. 

"Good, " said the little dark fellow at his elbow, "very good!"

The youth at the door nodded superciliously towards Mitchelbourne. 

"True, these are dialectics, " said he with a smack of the lips uponthe word. It was a good cunning scholarly word, and the man who couldproduce it so aptly worthy of admiration. 

"You make a further error, gentlemen, " continued Mitchelbourne, "youno doubt are expecting some one, but you were most certainly notexpecting me. For I am here by the purest mistake, having beenmisdirected on the way. " Here the three men smiled to each other, andtheir spokesman retorted with a chuckle. 

"Misdirected, indeed you were. We took precautions that you should be. A servant of mine stationed at the parting of the roads. But we areforgetting our manners, " he added rising from his chair. "You shouldknow our names. The gentleman at the door is Cornet Lashley, thisis Captain Bassett and I am Major Chantrell. We are all three ofTrevelyan's regiment. "

"And my name, " said Mitchelbourne, not to be outdone in politeness, "is Lewis Mitchelbourne, a gentleman of the County of Middlesex. "

At this each of the officers was seized with a fit of laughter;but before Mitchelbourne had time to resent their behavior, MajorChantrell said indulgently:

"Well, well, we shall not quarrel about names. At all events we allfour are lately come from Tangier. "

"Oh, from Tangier, " cried Mitchelbourne. The riddle was becomingclear. That extraordinary siege when a handful of English red-coatsunpaid and ill-fed fought a breached and broken town against countlesshordes for the honour of their King during twenty years, had not yetbecome the property of the historian. It was still an actual warin 1681. Mitchelbourne understood whence came the sunburn on hisantagonists' faces, whence the stains and the worn seams of theirclothes. He advanced to the table and spoke with a greater respectthan he had used. 

"Did one of you, " he asked, "leave a Moorish pipe behind you at an innof Saxmundham?"

"Ah, " said the Major with a reproachful glance at Captain Bassett. TheCaptain answered with some discomfort:

"Yes. I made that mistake. But what does it matter? You are here nonethe less. "

"You have with you some of the Moorish tobacco?" continuedMitchelbourne. 

Captain Bassett fetched out of his pocket a little canvas bag, andhanded it to Mitchelbourne, who untied the string about the neck, andpoured some of the contents into the palm of his hand. The tobacco wasa fine, greenish seed. 

"I thought as much, " said Mitchelbourne, "you expected Mr. Lanceto-night. It is Mr. Lance whom you thought to misdirect to thissolitary house. Indeed Mr. Lance spoke of such a place in thisneighbourhood, and had a mind to buy it. "

Captain Bassett suddenly raised his hand to his mouth, not so quickly, however, but Mitchelbourne saw the grim, amused smile upon his lips. "It is Mr. Lance for whom you now mistake me, " he said abruptly. 

The young man at the door uttered a short, contemptuous laugh, MajorChantrell only smiled. 

"I am aware, " said he, "that we meet for the first time to-night, butyou presume upon that fact too far. What have you to say to this?" Anddragging a big and battered pistol from his pocket, he tossed it uponthe table, and folded his arms in the best transpontine manner. 

"And to this?" said Captain Bassett. He laid a worn leather powderflask beside the pistol, and tapped upon the table triumphantly. 

Mr. Mitchelbourne recognised clearly that villainy was somehowcheckmated by these proceedings and virtue restored, but how he couldnot for the life of him determine. He took up the pistol. 

"It appears to have seen some honourable service, " said he. Thiscasual remark had a most startling effect upon his auditors. It wasthe spark to the gun-powder of their passions. Their affectationsvanished in a trice. 

"Service, yes, but honourable! Use that lie again, Mr. Lance, and Iwill ram the butt of it down your throat!" cried Major Chantrell. Heleaned forward over the table in a blaze of fury. Yet his face did nomore than match the faces of his comrades. 

Mitchelbourne began to understand. These simple soldier-men hadendeavoured to conduct their proceedings with great dignity and ajudicial calmness; they had mapped out for themselves certain partswhich they were to play as upon a stage; they were to be three sternimposing figures of justice; and so they had become simply absurd andridiculous. Now, however, that passion had the upper hand of them, Mitchelbourne saw at once that he stood in deadly peril. These weremen. 

"Understand me, Mr. Lance, " and the Major's voice rang out firm, thevoice of a man accustomed to obedience. "Three years ago I was incommand of Devil's Drop, a little makeshift fort upon the sandsoutside Tangier. In front the Moors lay about us in a semicircle. Sir, the diameter was the line of the sea at our backs. We could not retiresix yards without wetting our feet, not twenty without drowning. Onenight the Moors pushed their trenches up to our palisades; in the duskof the morning I ordered a sortie. Nine officers went out with me andthree came back, we three. Of the six we left behind, five fell, by myorders, to be sure, for I led them out; but, by the living God, youkilled them. There's the pistol that shot my best friend down, anEnglish pistol. There's the powder flask which charged the pistol, anEnglish flask filled with English powder. And who sold the pistol andthe powder to the Moors, England's enemies? You, an Englishman. Butyou have come to the end of your lane to-night. Turn and turn as youwill you have come to the end of it. "

The truth was out now, and Mitchelbourne was chilled withapprehension. Here were three men very desperately set upon what theyconsidered a mere act of justice. How was he to dissuade them? Byargument? They would not listen to it. By proofs? He had none to offerthem. By excuses? Of all unsupported excuses which can match forfutility the excuse of mistaken identity? It springs immediate to thecriminal's lips. Its mere utterance is almost a conviction. 

"You persist in error, Major Chantrell, " he nevertheless began. 

"Show him the proof, Bassett, " Chantrell interrupted with a shrug ofthe shoulders, and Captain Bassett drew from his pocket a folded sheetof paper. 

"Nine officers went out, " continued Chantrell, "five were killed, three are here. The ninth was taken a prisoner into Barbary. The Moorsbrought him down to their port of Marmora to interpret. At Marmorayour ship unloaded its stores of powder and guns. God knows how oftenit had unloaded the like cargo during these twenty years--often enoughit seems, to give you a fancy for figuring as a gentleman in thecounty. But the one occasion of its unloading is enough. Our brotherofficer was your interpreter with the Moors, Mr. Lance. You may verylikely know that, but this you do not know, Mr. Lance. He escaped, hecrept into Tangier with this, your bill of lading in his hand, " andBassett tossed the sheet of paper towards Mitchelbourne. It fell uponthe floor before him but he did not trouble to pick it up. 

"Is it Lance's death that you require?" he asked. 

"Yes! yes! yes!" came from each mouth. 

"Then already you have your wish. I do not question one word of yourcharges against Lance. I have reason to believe them true. But I amnot Lance. Lance lies at this moment dead at Great Glemham. He diedthis afternoon of cholera. Here are his letters, " and he laid theletters on the table. "I rode in with them at once. You do not believeme, but you can put my words to the test. Let one of you ride to GreatGlemham and satisfy himself. He will be back before morning. "

The three officers listened so far with impassive faces, or barelylistened, for they were as indifferent to the words as to the passionwith which they were spoken. 

"We have had enough of the gentleman's ingenuities, I think, " saidChantrell, and he made a movement towards his companions. 

"One moment, " exclaimed Mitchelbourne. "Answer me a question! Theseletters are to the address of Mrs. Ufford at a house called 'ThePorch. ' It is near to here?"

"It is the first house you passed, " answered the Major and, as henoticed a momentary satisfaction flicker upon his victim's face, headded, "But you will not do well to expect help from 'The Porch'--atall events in time to be of much service to you. You hardly appreciatethat we have been at some pains to come up with you. We are notlikely again to find so many circumstances agreeing to favour us, adismantled house, yourself travelling alone and off your guard in acountry with which you are unfamiliar and where none know you, andjust outside the window a convenient pool. Besides--besides, " he brokeout passionately, "There are the little mounds about Tangier, underwhich my friends lie, " and he covered his face with his hands. "Myfriends, " he cried in a hoarse and broken voice, "my soldier-men!Come, let's make an end. Bassett, the rope is in the corner. There's anoose to it. The beam across the window will serve;" and Bassett roseto obey. 

But Mitchelbourne gave them no time. His fears had altogether vanishedbefore his indignation at the stupidity of these officers. He wasboiling with anger at the thought that he must lose his life in thisfutile ignominious way for the crime of another man, who was not evenhis friend, and who besides was already dead. There was just onechance to escape, it seemed to him. And even as Bassett stooped tolift the coil of rope in the corner he took it. 

"So that's the way of it, " he cried stepping forward. "I am to be hungup to a beam till I kick to death, am I? I am to be buried decently inthat stagnant pool, am I? And you are to be miles away before sunrise, and no one the wiser! No, Major Chantrell, I am not come to the end ofmy lane, " and before either of the three could guess what he was at, he had snatched up the pistol from the table and dashed the lamp intoa thousand fragments. 

The flame shot up blue and high, and then came darkness. 

Mitchelbourne jumped lightly back from his position to the centre ofthe room. The men he had to deal with were men who would follow theirinstincts. They would feel along the walls; of so much he could becertain. He heard the coil of rope drop down in a corner to his left;so that he knew where Captain Bassett was. He heard a chair upset infront of him, and a man staggered against his chest. Mitchelbourne hadthe pistol still in his hand and struck hard, and the man dropped witha crash. The fall followed so closely upon the upsetting of the chairthat it seemed part of the same movement and accident. It seemed soclearly part, that a voice spoke on Mitchelbourne's left, just wherethe empty hearth would be. 

"Get up! Be quick!"

The voice was Major Chantrell's and Mitchelbourne had a throb of hope. For since it was not the Major who had fallen nor Captain Bassett, itmust be Lashley. And Lashley had been guarding the door, of which thekey still remained in the lock. If only he could reach the door andturn the key! He heard Chantrell moving stealthily along the wall uponhis left hand and he suffered a moment's agony; for in the darkness hecould not surely tell which way the Major moved. For if he moved tothe window, if he had the sense to move to the window and tear asidethose drawn curtains, the grey twilight would show the shadowy movingfigures. Mitchelbourne's chance would be gone. And then somethingtotally unexpected and unhoped for occurred. The god of the machinewas in a freakish mood that evening. He had a mind for pranks andabsurdities. Mitchelbourne was strung to so high a pitch that theridiculous aspect of the occurrence came home to him before all else, and he could barely keep himself from laughing aloud. For he heard twomen grappling and struggling silently together. Captain Bassett andMajor Chantrell had each other by the throat, and neither of themhad the wit to speak. They reserved their strength for the struggle. Mitchelbourne stepped on tiptoe to the door, felt for the key, graspedit without so much as a click, and then suddenly turned it, flung openthe door and sprang out. He sprang against a fourth man--the servant, no doubt, who had misdirected him--and both tumbled on to the floor. Mitchelbourne, however, tumbled on top. He was again upon his feetwhile Major Chantrell was explaining matters to Captain Bassett;he was flying down the avenue of trees before the explanation wasfinished. He did not stop to untie his horse; he ran, conscious thatthere was only one place of safety for him--the interior of Mrs. Ufford's house. He ran along the road till he felt that his heart wascracking within him, expecting every moment that a hand would be laidupon his shoulder, or that, a pistol shot would ring out upon thenight. He reached the house, and knocked loudly at the door. He wasadmitted, breathless, by a man, who said to him at once, with thesmile and familiarity of an old servant:

"You are expected, Mr. Lance. "

Mitchelbourne plumped down upon a chair and burst into uncontrollablelaughter. He gave up all attempt for that night to establish hisidentity. The fates were too heavily against him. Besides he was nowquite hysterical. 

The manservant threw open a door. 

"I will tell my mistress you have come, sir, " said he. 

"No, it would never do, " cried Mitchelbourne. "You see I died at threeo'clock this afternoon. I have merely come to leave my letters ofpresentation. So much I think a proper etiquette may allow. But itwould never do for me to be paying visits upon ladies so soon afteran affair of so deplorable a gravity. Besides I have to be buriedat seven in the morning, and if I chanced not to be back in time, Ishould certainly acquire a reputation for levity, which since I amunknown in the county, I am unwilling to incur, " and, leaving thebutler stupefied in the hall, he ran out into the road. He heard nosound of pursuit. 

THE COWARD. 

I. 

"Geoffrey, " said General Faversham, "look at the clock!"

The hands of the clock made the acutest of angles. It was close uponmidnight, and ever since nine the boy had sat at the dinner-tablelistening. He had not spoken a word, indeed had barely once stirred inthe three hours, but had sat turning a white and fascinated face uponspeaker after speaker. At his father's warning he waked with a shockfrom his absorption, and reluctantly stood up. 

"Must I go, father?" he asked. 

The General's three guests intervened in a chorus. The conversationwas clear gain for the lad, they declared, --a first taste of powderwhich might stand him in good stead at a future time. So Geoffrey wasallowed furlough from his bed for another half-hour, and with his facesupported between his hands he continued to listen at the table. The flames of the candles were more and more blurred with a haze oftobacco smoke, the room became intolerably hot, the level of thewine grew steadily lower in the decanters, and the boy's face took astrained, quivering look, his pallour increased, his dark, wide-openedeyes seemed preternaturally large. 

The stories were all of that terrible winter in the Crimea, now tenyears past, and a fresh story was always in the telling before itspredecessor was ended. For each of the four men had borne his shareof that winter's wounds and privations. It was still a reality ratherthan a memory to them; they could feel, even in this hot summerevening and round this dinner-table, the chill of its snows, and thepinch of famine. Yet their recollections were not all of hardships. The Major told how the subalterns, of whom he had then been one, hadcheerily played cards in the trenches three hundred yards from theMalakoff. One of the party was always told off to watch for shellsfrom the fort's guns. If a black speck was seen in the midst of thecannon smoke, then the sentinel shouted, and a rush was made forsafety, for the shell was coming their way. At night the burning fusecould be seen like a rocket in the air; so long as it span and flew, the card-players were safe, but the moment it became stationary abovetheir heads it was time to run, for the shell was falling upon them. The guns of the Malakoff were not the rifled guns of a later decade. When the Major had finished, the General again looked at the clock, and Geoffrey said good-night. 

He stood outside the door listening to the muffled talk on the otherside of the panels, and, with a shiver, lighted his candle, and held italoft in the dark and silent hall. There was not one man's portrait uponthe walls which did not glow with the colours of a uniform, --and therewere the portraits of many men. Father and son the Faversham's had beensoldiers from the very birth of the family. Father and son, --nosteinkirks and plumed hats, no shakos and swallow tails, no froggedcoats and no high stocks. They looked down upon the boy as thoughsummoning him to the like service. No distinction in uniform couldobscure their resemblance to each other: that stood out with aremarkable clearness. The Favershams were men of one stamp, --lean-faced, hard as iron--they lacked the elasticity of steel--, rugged in feature;confident in expression, men with firm, level mouths but rather narrowat the forehead, men of resolution and courage, no doubt; but hardlyconspicuous for intellect, men without nerves or subtlety, fighting-menof the first-class, but hardly first-class soldiers. Some of theirfaces, indeed, revealed an actual stupidity. The boy, however, saw noneof their defects. To him they were one and all portentous and terrible;and he had an air of one standing before his judges and pleading mutelyfor forgiveness. The candle shook in his hand. 

These Crimean knights, as his father termed them, were the worst oftorturers to Geoffrey Faversham. He sat horribly thralled, so long ashe was allowed; he crept afterwards to bed and lay there shuddering. For his mother, a lady who some twenty years before had shone at theCourt of Saxe-Coburg, as much by the refinement of her intellect as bythe beauty of her person, had bequeathed to him a very burdensomegift of imagination. It was visible in his face, marking him offunmistakably from his father, and from the study portraits in thehall. He had the capacity to foresee possibilities, and he could notbut exercise that capacity. A hint was enough for the boy. Straightwayhe had a vivid picture before his mind, and as he listened to the menat the dinner-table, their rough clipped words set him down in themidst of their battlefields, he heard the drone of bullets, hequivered expecting the shock of a charge. But of all the Crimeannights this had been fraught with the most torments. 

His father had told a story with a lowered voice, and in his usualjerky way. But the gap was easy to fill up. 

"A Captain! Yes, and he bore one of the best names in all England. It seemed incredible, and mere camp rumour. But the rumour grew withevery fight he was engaged in. At the battle of Alma the thing wasproved. He was acting as galloper to his General. I believe, upon mysoul, that the General chose him for this duty so that the man mightset himself right. He was bidden to ride with a message a quarter of amile, and that quarter of a mile was bullet-swept. There were enoughmen looking on to have given him a reputation, had he dared and comethrough. But he did not dare, he refused, and was sent under arrest tohis tent. He was court-martialled and broken. He dropped out of hiscircle like a plummet of lead; the very women in Piccadilly spat ifhe spoke to them. He blew his brains out three years later in a backbedroom off the Haymarket. Explain that if you can. Turns tail, andsays 'I daren't!' But you, can you explain it? You can only say it'sthe truth, and shrug your shoulders. Queer, incomprehensible thingshappen. There's one of them. "

Geoffrey, however, understood only too well. He was familiar with manyphases of warfare of which General Faversham took little account, suchas, for instance, the strain and suspense of the hours between theparading of the troops and the first crack of a rifle. He took thatstory with him up the great staircase, past the portraits to his bed. He fell asleep only in the grey of the morning, and then only to dreamof a crisis in some hard-fought battle, when, through his cowardice, a necessary movement was delayed, his country worsted, and those deadmen in the hall brought to irretrievable shame. Geoffrey's power toforesee in one flash all the perils to be encountered, the hazards tobe run, had taught him the hideous possibility of cowardice. He wasnow confronted with the hideous fact. He could not afterwards clearhis mind of the memory of that evening. 

He grew up with it; he looked upon himself as a born coward, and allthe time he knew that he was destined for the army. He could not haveavoided his destiny without an explanation, and he could not explain. But what he could do, he did. He hunted deliberately, hopingthat familiarity with danger would overcome the vividness of hisanticipations. But those imagined hours before the beginnings ofbattles had their exact counterpart in the moments of waiting whilethe covers were drawn. At such times he had a map of the country-sidebefore his eyes, with every ditch and fence and pit underlined andmarked dangerous; and though he rode straight when the hounds wereoff, he rode straight with a fluttering heart. Thus he spent hisyouth. He passed into Woolwich and out of it with high honours;he went to India with battery, and returned home on a two years'furlough. He had not been home more than a week when his father brokeone morning into his bedroom in a great excitement--

"Geoff, " he cried, "guess the news to-day!"

Geoffrey sat up in his bed:--"Your manner, Sir, tells me the news. Waris declared. "

"Between France and Germany. "

Geoffrey said slowly:--

"My mother, Sir, was of Germany. "

"So we can wish that country all success. "

"Can we do no more?" said Geoffrey. And at breakfast-time he returnedto the subject. The Favershams held property in Germany; influencemight be exerted; it was only right that those who held a substantialstake in a country should venture something for its cause. The wordscame quite easily from Geoffrey's lips; he had been schooling himselfto speak them ever since it had become apparent that Germany andFrance were driving to the collision of war. General Faversham laughedwith content when he heard them. 

"That's a Faversham talking, " said he. "But there are obstacles, myboy. There is the Foreign Enlistment Act, for instance. You are halfGerman, to be sure, but you are an English subject, and, by the Lord!you are all Faversham. No, I cannot give you permission to seekservice in Germany. You understand. I cannot give you permission, " herepeated the words, so that the limit as well as the extent of theirmeaning might be fully understood; and as he repeated them, hesolemnly winked. "Of course, you can go to Germany; you can followthe army as closely as you are allowed. In fact, I will give you someintroductions with that end in view. You will gain experience, ofcourse; but seek service, --no! To do that, as I have said, I cannotgive you permission. "

The General went off chuckling to write his letters; and with themsafely tucked away in his pocket, Geoffrey drove later in the day tothe station. 

General Faversham did not encourage demonstrations. He shook his soncordially by the hand--

"There's no way I would rather you spent your furlough. But come back, Geoff, " said he. He was not an observant man except in the matter ofmilitary detail; and of Geoffrey's object he had never the slightestsuspicion. Had it been told him, however, he would only haveconsidered it one of those queer, inexplicable vagaries, like thehistory of his coward in the Crimea. 

Geoffrey's action, however, was of a piece with the rest of his life:it was due to no sudden, desperate resolve. He went out to the war asdeliberately as he had ridden out to the hunting-field. The realitiesof battle might prove his anticipations mere unnecessary torments ofthe mind. 

"If only I can serve, --as a volunteer, as a private, in any capacity, "he thought, "I shall at all events know. And if I fail, I fail not inthe company of my fellows. I disgrace only myself, not my name. But ifI do not fail--" He drew a great breath, he saw himself waking up onemorning without oppression, without the haunting dread that hewas destined one day to slink in forgotten corners of the world aforgotten pariah, destitute even of the courage to end his misery. Hewent out to the war because he was afraid of fear. 

II. 

On the evening of the capitulation of Paris, two subalterns ofGerman Artillery were seated before a camp fire on a slope of hilloverlooking the town. To both of them the cessation of alarm was asyet strange and almost incomprehensible, and the sudden silenceafter so many months lived amongst the booming of cannon had even adisquieting effect. Both were particularly alert on this night whenvigilance was never less needed. If a gust of wind caught the fire anddrove the red flare of the flame like a ripple across the grass, onewould be sure to look quickly over his shoulder, the other perhapswould lift a warning finger and listen to the shivering of the treesbehind them. Then with a relaxation of his attitude he would say "Allright" and light his pipe again at the fire. But after one such gust, he retained his position. 

"What is it, Faversham?" asked his companion. 

"Listen, Max, " said Geoffrey; and they heard a faint jingle. Thejingle became more distinct, another sound was added to it, the soundof a horse galloping over hard ground. Both officers turned theirfaces away from the yellow entrenchment with its brown streak of gun, below them and looked towards a roofless white-walled farmhouse on theleft, of which the rafters rose black against the sky like a giganticgallows. From behind that farmhouse an aide-de-camp galloped up to thefire. 

"I want the officer in command of this battery, " he cried out andGeoffrey stood up. 

"I am in command. "

The aide-de-camp looked at the subaltern in an extreme surprise. 

"You!" he exclaimed. "Since when?"

"Since yesterday, " answered Faversham. 

"I doubt if the General knows you have been hit so hard, " theaide-de-camp continued. "But my orders are explicit. The officer incommand is to take sixty men and march to-morrow morning into St. Denis. He is to take possession of that quarter, he is to make asearch for mines and bombs, and wait there until the German troopsmarch in. " There was to be no repetition, he explained, of a certainunfortunate affair when the Germans after occupying a surrendered forthad been blown to the four winds. He concluded with the comfortinginformation that there were 10, 000 French soldiers under arms in St. Denis and that discretion was therefore a quality to be much exercisedby Faversham during his day of search. Thereupon he galloped back. 

Faversham remained standing a few paces from the fire looking downtowards Paris. His companion petulantly tossed a branch upon the fire. 

"Luck comes your way, my friend, " said he enviously. 

Geoffrey looked up to the stars and down again to Paris which withits lights had the look of a reflected starlit firmament. Individuallights were the separate stars and here and there a gash of fire, where a wide thoroughfare cleaved, made a sort of milky way. 

"I wonder, " he answered slowly. 

Max started up on his elbow and looked at his friend in perplexity. 

"Why, you have sixty men and St. Denis to command. To-morrow may bringyou your opportunity;" and again with the same slowness, Geoffreyanswered, "I wonder. "

"You joined us after Gravelotte, " continued Max, "Why?"

"My mother was German, " said Faversham, and turning suddenly back tothe fire he dropped on the ground beside his companion. 

"Tell me, " he said in a rare burst of confidence, "Do you think abattle is the real test of courage? Here and there men run away to besure. But how many fight and fight no worse than the rest by reason ofa sort of cowardice? Fear of their companions in arms might dominatefear of the enemy. "

"No doubt, " said Max. "And you infer?"

"That the only touchstone is a solitary peril. When danger comes upona man and there is no one to see whether he shirks--when he has nofriends to share his risks--that I should think would be the time whenfear would twist a man's bowels. "

"I do not know, " said Max. "All I am sure of is that luck comes yourway and not mine. To-morrow you march into St. Denis. "

Geoffrey Faversham marched down at daybreak and formally occupied thequarter. The aide-de-camp's calculations were confirmed. There were atthe least 10, 000 French soldiers crowded in the district. Geoffrey'sdiscretion warned against any foolish effort to disarm them; hesimply ignored their chassepôts and bulging pouches, and searched thebarracks, which the Germans were to occupy, from floor to ceiling. Late in the afternoon he was able to assure himself that his duty wasended. He billeted his men, and inquired whether there was a hotelwhere he could sleep the night. A French sergeant led him through thestreets to an Inn which matched in every detail of its appearance thatdingy quarter of the town. The plaster was peeling from its walls, thewindow panes were broken, and in the upper storey and the roof therewere yawning jagged holes where the Prussian shells had struck. In thedusk the building had a strangely mean and sordid look. It recalledto Faversham's mind the inns in the novels of the elder Dumas andacquired thus something of their sinister suggestions. In the eagerand arduous search of the day he had forgotten these apprehensions towhich he had given voice by the camp fire. They now returned to himwith the relaxation of his vigilance. He looked up at the forbiddinghouse. "I wonder, " he said to himself. 

He was met in the hall by a little obsequious man who was full ofapologies for the disorder of his hostelry. He opened a door into alarge and dusty room. 

"I will do my best, Monsieur, " said he, "but food is not yet plentifulin Paris. "

In the centre of the room was a large mahogany table surrounded bychairs. The landlord began to polish the table with his napkin. 

"We had an ordinary, Sir, every day before the war broke out. But mostcheerful, every chair had its regular occupant. There were certainjokes, too, which every day were repeated. Ah, but it was like home. However, all is changed as you see. It has not been safe to sit inthis room for many a long month. "

Faversham unstrapped his sword and revolver from his belt and laidthem on the table. 

"I saw that your house had unfortunately suffered. "

"Suffered!" said the garrulous little man. "It is ruined, sir, and itsmaster with it. Ah, war! It is a fine thing no doubt for you younggentlemen, but for me? I have lived in a cellar, Sir, under the groundever since your guns first woke us from our sleep. Look, I will showyou. "

He went out from the dining-room into the hall and from the hall intothe street; Faversham followed him. There was a wooden trap in thepavement close by the wall with an iron ring. The landlord pulledat the ring and raised the trap disclosing a narrow flight of stonesteps. Faversham bent forward and peered down into a dark cellar. 

"Yes it is there that I have lived. Come down, Sir, and see foryourself;" and the landlord moved down a couple of steps. Favershamdrew back. At once the landlord turned to him. 

"But there is nothing to fear, Sir, " he said with a deprecatory smile. Faversham coloured to the roots of his hair. 

"Of course there is nothing, " said he and he followed the landlord. The cellar was only lighted by the trap-door and at first Favershamcoming out of the daylight could distinguish nothing at all. He stood, however, with his back to the light and in a little he began to see. Alittle truckle-bed with a patchwork counterpane stood at the end, thefloor was merely hard earth, the furniture consisted of a stove, astool and a small deal table. And as Faversham took in the poverty ofthis underground habitation, he suddenly found himself in darknessagain. The explanation came to him at once, the entrance to the cellarhad been blocked from the light. Yet he had heard no sound except thefootsteps of people in the street above his head. He turned and facedthe stair steps. As he did so, the light streamed down again; theobstruction had been removed, and that obstruction had not been thetrap-door as Faversham had suspected, but merely the body of someinquisitive passer-by. He recognised this with relief and immediatelyheard voices speaking together, and as it seemed to him in loweredtones. 

A sword rattled on the pavement, the entrance was again darkened, butFaversham had just time to see that the man who stooped down worethe buttons of a uniform and a soldier's kepi. He kept quite still, holding his breath while the man peered down into the cellar. Heremembered with a throb of hope that he had himself been unable todistinguish a thing in the gloom. And then the landlord knockedagainst the table and spoke aloud. At once the man at the head ofthe steps stood up. Faversham heard him cry out in French, "They arehere, " and he detected a note of exultation in the cry. At the samemoment a picture flashed before his eyes, the picture of that dustydesolate dining-room up the steps, and of a long table surroundedby chairs, upon which lay a sword and a revolver, --his sword, hisrevolver. He had dismissed his sixty soldiers, he was alone. 

"This is a trap, " he blurted out. 

"But, Sir, I do not understand, " began the landlord, but Faversham cuthim short with a whispered command for silence. 

The cellar darkened again, and the sound of boots rang upon the stonesteps. A rifle besides clanged as it struck against the wall. TheFrench soldiers were descending. Faversham counted them by the lightwhich escaped past their legs; there were three. The landlord keptthe silence which had been enjoined upon him but he fancied in thedarkness that he heard some one's teeth chattering. 

The Frenchmen descended into the cellar and stood barring the steps. Their leader spoke. 

"I have the honour to address the Prussian officer in command of St. Denis. "

The Frenchman got no reply whatever to his words but he seemed to hearsome one sharply draw in a breath. He spoke again into the darkness;for it was now impossible for any one of the five men in the cellar tosee a hand's breadth beyond his face. 

"I am the Captain Plessy of Mon Vandon's Division. I have the honourto address the Prussian officer. "

This time he received an answer, quietly spoken yet with aninexplicable note of resignation. 

"I am Lieutenant Faversham in command of St. Denis. "

Captain Plessy stepped immediately forward, and bowed. Now as hedipped his shoulders in the bow a gleam of light struck over his headinto the cellar, and--he could not be sure--but it seemed to him thathe saw a man suddenly raise his arm as if to ward off a blow. CaptainPlessy continued. 

"I ask Lieutenant Faversham for permission for myself and my twoofficers to sleep to-night at this hotel;" and now he very distinctlyheard a long, irrepressible sigh of relief. Lieutenant Faversham gavehim the permission he desired in a cordial, polite way. Moreover headded an invitation. "Your name, Captain Plessy, is well known to meas to all on both sides who have served in this campaign and to manymore who have not. I beg that you and your officers will favour mewith your company at dinner. "

Captain Plessy accepted the invitation and was pleased to deprecatethe Lieutenant's high opinion of his merits. But his achievement nonethe less had been of a redoubtable character. He had broken throughthe lines about Metz and had ridden across France into Paris withouta single companion. In the sorties from that beleaguered town he hadsuccessively distinguished himself by his fearless audacity. His nameand reputation had travelled far as Lieutenant Faversham was thatevening to learn. But Captain Plessy, for the moment, was all formaking little of his renown. 

"Such small exploits should be expected from a soldier. One brave manmay say that to another, --is it not so?--and still not be thoughtto be angling for praise, " and Captain Plessy went up the steps, wondering who it was that had drawn the long sharp breath of suspense, and uttered the long sigh of immense relief. The landlord orLieutenant Faversham? Captain Plessy had not been in the cellar atthe time when the landlord had seemed to hear the chatter of a man'steeth. 

The dinner was not a pronounced success, in spite of Faversham'savoidance of any awkward topic. They sat at the long table in the big, desolate and shabby room, lighted only by a couple of tallow candlesset up in their candlesticks upon the cloth. And the two juniorofficers maintained an air of chilly reserve and seldom spoke exceptwhen politeness compelled them. Faversham himself was absorbed, theburden of entertainment fell upon Captain Plessy. He strove nobly, hetold stories, he drank a health to the "Camaraderie of arms, " he drewone after the other of his companions into an interchange of words, ifnot of sympathies. But the strain told on him visibly towards the endof the dinner. His champagne glass had been constantly refilled, hisface was now a trifle overflushed, his eyes beyond nature bright, andhe loosened the belt about his waist and at a moment when Favershamwas not looking the throat buttons of his tunic. Moreover while uptill now he had deprecated any allusions to his reputation he nowbegan to talk of it himself; and in a particularly odious way. 

"A reputation, Lieutenant, it has its advantages, " and he blew a kisswith his fingers into the air to designate the sort of advantages towhich he referred. Then he leaned on one side to avoid the candlebetween Faversham and himself. 

"You are English, my Commandant?" he asked. 

"My mother was German, " replied Faversham. 

"But you are English yourself. Now have you ever met in England acertain Miss Marian Beveridge, " and his leer was the most disagreeablething that Faversham ever remembered to have set eyes upon. 

"No, " he answered shortly. 

"And you have not heard of her?"

"No. "

"Ah!"

Captain Plessy leaned back in his chair and filled his glass. Lieutenant Faversham's tone was not that of a man inviting confidence. But the Captain's brains were more than a little fuddled, he repeatedthe name over to himself once or twice with the chuckle which asks forquestions, and since the questions did not come, he must needs proceedof his own accord. 

"But I must cross to England myself. I must see this Miss MarianBeveridge. Ah, but your English girls are strange, name of Heaven, they are very strange. "

Lieutenant Faversham made a movement. The Captain was his guest, hewas bound to save him if he could from a breach of manners and saw noway but this of breaking up the party. Captain Plessy, however, wastoo quick for him, he lifted his hand to his breast. 

"You wish for something to smoke. It is true, we have forgotten tosmoke, but I have my cigarettes and I beg you to try them, the tobaccoI think is good and you will be saved the trouble of moving. "

He opened the case and reached it over to Faversham. But as Favershamwith a word of thanks took a cigarette, the Captain upset the caseas though by inadvertence. There fell out upon the table underFaversham's eyes not merely the cigarettes, but some of the Captain'svisiting-cards and a letter. The letter was addressed to CaptainPlessy in a firm character but it was plainly the writing of a woman. Faversham picked it up and at once handed it back to Plessy. 

"Ah, " said Plessy with a start of surprise, "Was the letter indeed inthe case?" and he fondled it in his hands and finally kissed it withthe upturned eyes of a cheap opera singer. "A pigeon, Sir, flew withit into Paris. Happy pigeon that could be the bearer of such sweetmessages. "

He took out the letter from the envelope and read a line or two with asigh, and another line or two with a laugh. 

"But your English girls are strange!" he said again. "Here is aninstance, an example, fallen by accident from my cigarette-case. M. LeCommandant, I will read it to you, that you may see how strange theyare. "

One of Plessy's subalterns extended his hand and laid it on hissleeve. Plessy turned upon him angrily, and the subaltern withdrew hishand. 

"I will read it to you, " he said again to Faversham. Faversham didnot protest nor did he now make any effort to move. But his face grewpale, he shivered once or twice, his eyes seemed to be taking themeasure of Plessy's strength, his brain to be calculating upon hisprowess; the sweat began to gather upon his forehead. 

Of these signs, however, Plessy took no note. He had reached howeverinartistically the point at which he had been aiming. 

He was no longer to be baulked of reading his letter. He read itthrough to the end, and Faversham listened to the end. It told its ownstory. It was the letter of a girl who wrote in a frank impulse ofadmiration to a man whom she did not know. There was nowhere a traceof coquetry, nowhere the expression of a single sentimentality. Itstone was pure friendliness, it was the work of a quite innocent girlwho because she knew the man to whom she wrote to be brave, thereforebelieved him to be honourable. She expressed her trust in the verylast words. "You will not of course show this letter to any one in theworld. But I wrong you even by mentioning such an impossibility. "

"But you have shown it, " said Faversham. 

His face was now grown of an extraordinary pallor, his lips twitchedas he spoke and his fingers worked in a nervous uneasy manner upon thetable-cloth. Captain Plessy was in far too complacent a mood to noticesuch trifles. His vanity was satisfied, the world was a rosy mistwith a sparkle of champagne, and he answered lightly as he unfastenedanother button of his tunic. 

"No, my friend, I have not shown it. I keep the lady's wish. "

"You have read it aloud. It is the same thing. "

"Pardon me. Had I shown the letter I should have shown the name. Andthat would have been a dishonour of which a gallant man is incapable, is it not so? I read it and I did not read the name. "

"But you took pains, Captain Plessy, that we should know the namebefore you read the letter. "

"I? Did I mention a name?" exclaimed Plessy with an air of concern anda smile upon his mouth which gave the lie to the concern. "Ah, yes, a long while ago. But did I say it was the name of the lady who hadwritten the letter? Indeed, no. You make a slight mistake, my friend. I bear no malice for it--believe me, upon my heart, no! After a dinnerand a little bottle of champagne, there is nothing more pardonable. But I will tell you why I read the letter. "

"If you please, " said Faversham, and the gravity of his tone struckupon his companion suddenly as something unexpected and noteworthy. Plessy drew himself together and for the first time took stock of hishost as of a possible adversary. He remarked the agitation of hisface, the beads of perspiration upon his forehead, the restlessfingers, and beyond all these a certain hunted look in the eyes withwhich his experience had made him familiar. He nodded his head once ortwice slowly as though he were coming to a definite conclusion aboutFaversham. Then he sat bolt upright. 

"Ah, " said he with a laugh. "I can answer a question which puzzled mea little this afternoon, " and he sank back again in his chair with aneasy confidence and puffed the smoke of his cigarette from his mouth. Faversham was not sufficiently composed to consider the meaning ofPlessy's remark. He put it aside from his thoughts as an evasion. 

"You were to tell me, I think, why you read the letter. "

"Certainly, " answered Plessy. He twirled his moustache, his voice hadlost its suavity and had taken on an accent of almost contemptuousraillery. He even winked at his two brother officers, he was beginningto play with Faversham. "I read the letter to illustrate how strange, how very strange, are your English girls. Here is one of them whowrites to me. I am grateful--oh, beyond words, but I think to myselfwhat a different thing the letter would be if it had been written bya Frenchwoman. There would have been some hints, nothing definite youunderstand, but a suggestion, a delicate, provoking suggestion ofherself, like a perfume to sting one into a desire for a neareracquaintance. She would delicately and without any appearance ofintention have permitted me to know her colour, perhaps her height, perhaps even to catch an elusive glimpse of her face. Very likely asilk thread of hair would have been left inadvertently clinging toa sheet of the paper. She would sketch perhaps her home and speakremorsefully of her boldness in writing. Oh, but I can imagine theletter, full of pretty subtleties, alluring from its omissions, avexation and a delight from end to end. But this, my friend!" Hetossed the letter carelessly upon the table-cloth. "I am grateful fromthe bottom of my heart, but it has no art. "

At once Geoffrey Faversham's hand reached out and closed upon theletter. 

"You have told me why you have read it aloud. "

"Yes, " said Plessy, a little disconcerted by the quickness ofFaversham's movement. 

"Now I will tell you why I allowed you to read it to the end. I was ofthe same mind as that English girl whose name we both know. I couldnot believe that a man, brave as I knew you to be, could outside hisbravery be so contemptible. "

The words were brought out with a distinct effort. None the less theywere distinctly spoken. 

A startled exclamation broke from the two subalterns. Plessy commencedto bluster. 

"Sir, do I understand you?" and he saw Faversham standing above him, in a quiver of excitement. 

"You will hold your tongue, Captain Plessy, until I have finished. Iallowed you to read the letter, never thinking but that some pang offorgotten honour would paralyse your tongue. You read it to theend. You complain there is no art in it, that it has no delicateprovocations, such as your own countrywomen would not fail to use. Itshould be the more sacred on that account, and I am glad to believethat you misjudge your country women. Captain Plessy, I acknowledgethat as you read out that letter with its simple, friendly expressionof gratitude for the spectacle of a brave man, I envied you heartily, I would have been very proud to have received it. I would have muchliked to know that some deed which I had done had made the world fora moment brighter to some one a long way off with whom I was notacquainted. Captain Plessy, I shall not allow you to keep this letter. You shall not read it aloud again. "

Faversham thrust the letter into the flame of the candle which stoodbetween Plessy and himself. Plessy sprang up and blew the candle out;but little colourless flames were already licking along the envelope. Faversham held the letter downwards by a corner and the colourlessflame flickered up into a tongue of yellow, the paper charred andcurled in the track of the flames, the flames leapt to Faversham'sfingers; he dropped the burning letter on the floor and crushed itwith his foot. Then he looked at Plessy and waited. He was as white asthe table-cloth, his dark eyes seemed to have sunk into his headand burned unnaturally bright, every nerve in his body seemed to betwitching; he looked very like the young boy who used to sit at thedinner-table on Crimean nights and listen in a quiver to the appallingstories of his father's guests. As he had been silent then, so he wassilent now. He waited for Captain Plessy to speak. Captain Plessy, however, was in no hurry to begin. He had completely lost his air ofcontemptuous raillery, he was measuring Faversham warily with the eyesof a connoisseur. 

"You have insulted me, " he said abruptly, and he heard again thatindrawing of the breath which he had remarked that afternoon in thecellar. He also heard Faversham speak immediately after he had drawnthe breath. 

"There are reparations for insults, " said Faversham. 

Captain Plessy bowed. He was now almost as sober as when he had satdown to his dinner. 

"We will choose a time and place, " said he. 

"There can be no better time than now, " suddenly cried Faversham, "nobetter place than this. You have two friends of whom with your leave Iwill borrow one. We have a large room and a candle apiece to fightby. To-morrow my duties begin again. We will fight to-night, CaptainPlessy, to-night, " and he leaned forward almost feverishly, his wordshad almost the accent of a prayer. The two subalterns rose from theirchairs, but Plessy motioned them to keep still. Then he seized thecandle which he had himself blown out, lighted it from the candle atthe far end of the table and held it up above his head so thatthe light fell clearly upon Faversham's face. He stood looking atFaversham for an appreciable time. Then he said quietly, "I will not fight you to-night. "

One of the subalterns started up, the other merely turned his headtowards Plessy, but both stared at their Captain with an unfeignedastonishment and an unfeigned disappointment. Faversham continued toplead. 

"But you must to-night, for to-morrow you cannot. To-night I am alonehere, to-night I give orders, to-morrow I receive them. You have yoursword at your side to-night. Will you be wearing it to-morrow? I prayyou gentlemen to help me, " he said turning to the subalterns, and hebegan to push the heavy table from the centre of the room. 

"I will not fight you to-night, Lieutenant, " Captain Plessy replied. 

"And why?" asked Faversham ceasing from his work. He made a gesturewhich had more of despair than of impatience. 

Captain Plessy gave his reason. It rang false to every man in theroom and indeed he made no attempt to give to it any appearance ofsincerity. It was a deliberate excuse and not his reason. 

"Because you are the Prussian officer in command and the Prussiantroops march into St. Denis to-morrow. Suppose that I kill you, whatsort of penalty should I suffer at their hands?"

"None, " exclaimed Faversham. "We can draw up an account of thequarrel, here now. Look here is paper and ink and as luck will have ita pen that will write. I will write an account with my own hand, andthe four of us can sign it. Besides if you kill me, you can escapeinto Paris. "

"I will not fight you to-night, " said Captain Plessy and he set downthe candle upon the table. Then with an elaborate correctness he drewhis sword from its scabbard and offered the handle of it to Faversham. 

"Lieutenant, you are in command of St. Denis. I am your prisoner ofwar. "

Faversham stood for a moment or two with his hands clenched. The lighthad gone out of his face. 

"I have no authority to make prisoners, " he said. He took up one ofthe candles, gazed at his guest in perplexity. 

"You have not given me your real reason, Captain Plessy, " he said. Captain Plessy did not answer a word. 

"Good-night, gentlemen, " said Faversham and Captain Plessy boweddeeply as Faversham left the room. 

A silence of some duration followed upon the closing of the door. Thetwo subalterns were as perplexed as Faversham to account for theirhero's conduct. They sat dumb and displeased. Plessy stood for amoment thoughtfully, then he made a gesture with his hands as thoughto brush the whole incident from his mind and taking a cigarette fromhis case proceeded to light it at the candle. As he stooped to theflame he noticed the glum countenances of his brother-officers, andlaughed carelessly. 

"You are not pleased with me, my friends, " said he as he threw himselfon to a couch which stood against the wall opposite to his companions. "You think I did not speak the truth when I gave the reason of myrefusal? Well you are right. I will give you the real reason why Iwould not fight. It is very simple. I do not wish to be killed. I knowthese white-faced, trembling men--there are no men more terrible. Theymay run away but if they do not, if they string themselves tothe point of action--take the word of a soldier older thanyourselves--then is the time to climb trees. To-morrow I would verylikely kill our young friend, he would have had time to think, topicture to himself the little point of steel glittering towards hisheart--but to-night he would assuredly have killed me. But as I say Ido not wish to be killed. You are satisfied?"

It appeared that they were not. They sat with all the appearancesof discontent. They had no words for Captain Plessy. Captain Plessyaccordingly rose lightly from his seat. 

"Ah, " said he, "my good friend the Lieutenant has after all left me mysword. The table too is already pushed sufficiently on one side. There is only one candle to be sure, but it will serve. You are notsatisfied, gentlemen? Then--" But both subalterns now hastened toassure Captain Plessy that they considered his conduct had beenentirely justified. 

THE DESERTER. 

Lieutenant Fevrier of the 69th regiment, which belonged to the firstbrigade of the first division of the army of the Rhine, was summonedto the Belletonge farm just as it was getting dusk. The Lieutenanthurried thither, for the Belletonge farm opposite the woods ofColombey was the headquarters of the General of his division. 

"I have been instructed, " said General Montaudon, "to select anofficer for a special duty. I have selected you. "

Now for days Lieutenant Fevrier's duties had begun and ended with himdriving the soldiers of his company from eating unripe fruit; andhere, unexpectedly, he was chosen from all the officers of hisdivision for a particular exploit. The Lieutenant trembled withemotion. 

"My General!" he cried. 

The General himself was moved. 

"What your task will be, " he continued, "I do not known. You will goat once to the Mareschal's headquarters when the chief of the staff, General Jarras, will inform you. "

Lieutenant Fevrier went immediately up to Metz. His division wasentrenched on the right bank of the Mosel and beyond the forts, sothat it was dark before he passed through the gates. He had never oncebeen in Metz before; he had grown used to the monotony of camps; hehad expected shuttered windows and deserted roads, and so the aspectof the town amazed him beyond measure. Instead of a town besieged, itseemed a town during a fairing. There were railway carriages, it istrue, in the Place Royale doing duty as hospitals; the provisionshops, too, were bare, and there were no horses visible. 

But on the other hand, everywhere was a blaze of light and a bustle ofpeople coming and going upon the footpaths. The cafés glittered andrang with noise. Here one little fat burgher was shouting that thetown-guard was worth all the red-legs in the trenches; another asloudly was criticising the tactics of Bazaine and comparing him forhis invisibility to a pasha in his seraglio; while a third sprang upona table and announced fresh victories. An army was already on the wayfrom Paris to relieve Metz. Only yesterday MacMahon had defeated thePrussians, any moment he might be expected from the Ardennes. Nor werethey only civilians who shouted and complained. Lieutenant Fevrier sawcaptains, majors, and even generals who had left their entrenchmentsto fight the siege their own way with dominoes upon the marble tablesof the cabarets. 

"My poor France, " he said to himself, and a passer-by overhearing himanswered:

"True, monsieur. Ah, but if we had a man at Metz!"

Lieutenant Fevrier turned his back upon the speaker and walked on. He at all events would not join in the criticisms. It was just, hereflected, because he had avoided the cafés of Metz that he wassingled out for special distinction, and he fell to wondering whatwork it was he had to do that night. Was it to surprise a field-watch?Or to spike a battery? Or to capture a convoy? Lieutenant Fevrierraised his head. For any exploit in the world he was ready. 

General Jarras was writing at a table when Fevrier was admitted to hisoffice. The Chief of the Staff inclined his lamp-shade so that thelight fell full upon Fevrier's face, and the action caused thelieutenant to rejoice. So much care in the choice of the officer meantso much more important a duty. 

"The General Montaudon tells me, " said Jarras, "that you are anobedient soldier. "

"Obedience, my General, is the soldier's first lesson. "

"That explains to me why it is first forgotten, " answered Jarras, drily. Then his voice became sharp and curt. "You will choose fiftymen. You will pick them carefully. "

"They shall be the best soldiers in the regiment, " said Fevrier. 

"No, the worst. "

Lieutenant Fevrier was puzzled. When dangers were to be encountered, when audacity was needed, one requires the best soldiers. That wasobvious, unless the mission meant annihilation. That thought came toFevrier, and remembering the cafés and the officers dishonouring theiruniforms, he drew himself up proudly and saluted. Already he saw hisdead body recovered from the enemy, and borne to the grave beneath atricolour. He heard the lamentations of his friends, and the firingof the platoon. He saw General Montaudon in tears. He was shaken withemotion. But Jarras's next words fell upon him like cold water. 

"You will parade your fifty men unarmed. You will march out of thelines, and to-morrow morning as soon as it is light enough for thePrussians to see you come unarmed you will desert to them. There aretoo many mouths to feed in Metz[A]. "

[Footnote A: See the Daily News War Correspondence, 1870. ]

The Lieutenant had it on his lips to shout, "Then why not lead us outto die?" But he kept silence. He could have flung his kepi in theGeneral's face; but he saluted. He went out again into the streetsand among the lighted cafés and reeled like a drunken man, thinkingconfusedly of many things; that he had a mother in Paris who mighthear of his desertion before she heard of its explanation; that it wasright to claim obedience but _lâche_ to exact dishonour--but chieflyand above all that if he had been wise, and had made light of hisduty, and had come up to Metz to re-arrange the campaign with dominoeson the marble-tables, he would not have been specially selected forignominy. It was true, it needed an obedient officer to desert! Andso laughing aloud he reeled blindly down to the gates of Metz. Andit happened that just by the gates a civilian looked after him, andshrugging his shoulders, remarked, "Ah! But if we had a _Man_ atMetz!"

From Metz Lieutenant Fevrier ran. The night air struck cool upon him. And he ran and stumbled and fell and picked himself up and ran againuntil he reached the Belletonge farm. 

"The General, " he cried, and so to the General a mud-plastered figurewith a white, tormented face was admitted. 

"What is it?" asked Montaudon. "What will this say?"

Lieutenant Fevrier stood with the palms of his hands extended, speechless like an animal in pain. Then he suddenly burst into tearsand wept, and told of the fine plan to diminish the demands upon thecommissariat. 

"Courage, my old one!" said the General. "I had a fear of this. Youare not alone--other officers in other divisions have the same hardduty, " and there was no inflection in the voice to tell Fevrier whathis General thought of the duty. But a hand was laid soothingly uponhis shoulder, and that told him. He took heart to whisper that he hada mother in Paris. 

"I will write to her, " said Montaudon. "She will be proud when shereceives the letter. "

Then Lieutenant Fevrier, being French, took the General's hand andkissed it, and the General, being French, felt his throat fill withtears. 

Fevrier left the headquarters, paraded his men, laid his sword andrevolver on the ground, and ordered his fifty to pile their arms. Thenhe made them a speech--a very short speech, but it cost him much tomake it in an even voice. 

"My braves, " said he, "my fellow-soldiers, it is easy to fight forone's country, it is not difficult to die for it. But the supreme testof patriotism is willingly to suffer shame for it. That test yourcountry now claims of you. Attention! March!"

For the last time he exchanged a password with a French sentinel, andtramped out into the belt of ground between the French outposts andthe Prussian field-watch. Now in this belt there stood a littlevillage which Fevrier had held with skill and honour all the twodays of the battle of Noisseville. Doubtless that recollection hadsomething to do with his choice of the village. For in his martyrdomof shame he had fallen to wonder whether after all he had not deservedit, and any reassurance such as the gaping house-walls of Vaudèrewould bring to him, was eagerly welcomed. There was another reason, however, in the position of the village. 

It stood in an abrupt valley at the foot of a steep vine-hill on thesummit, and which was the Prussian forepost. The Prussian field-watchwould be even nearer to Vaudère and dispersed amongst the vines. Sohe could get his ignominious work over quickly in the morning. Thevillage would provide, too, safe quarters for the night, since itwas well within range of the heavy guns in Fort St. Julien, and thePrussians on that account were unable to hold it. 

He led his fifty soldiers then northwestward from his camp, skirtedthe Bois de Grimont, and marched into the village. The night was dark, and the sky so overhung with clouds that not a star was visible. Theone street of Vaudère was absolutely silent. The glimmering whitecottages showed their black rents on either side, but never the lightof a candle behind any shutter. Lieutenant Fevrier left his men at thewestern or Frenchward end of the street, and went forward alone. 

The doors of the houses stood open. The path was encumbered with thewreckage of their contents, and every now and then he smelt a whiff ofparaffin, as though lamps had been broken or cans overset. Vaudère hadbeen looted, but there were no Prussians now in the village. 

He made sure of this by walking as far as the large house at the headof the village. Then he went back to his men and led them forwarduntil he reached the general shop which every village has. 

"It is not likely, " he said, "that we shall find even the makeshift ofa supper. But courage, my friends, let us try!"

He could not have eaten a crust himself, but it had become an instinctwith him to anticipate the needs of his privates, and he acted fromhabit. They crowded into the shop; one man shut the door, Fevrierlighted a match and disclosed by its light staved-in barrels, emptycannisters, broken boxes, fragments of lemonade bottles, but of foodnot so much as a stale biscuit. 

"Go upstairs and search. "

They went and returned empty-handed. 

"We have found nothing, monsieur, " said they. 

"But I have, " replied Fevrier, and striking another match he held upwhat he had found, dirty and crumpled, in a corner of the shop. Itwas a little tricolour flag of painted linen upon a bamboo stick, achild's cheap and gaudy toy. But Fevrier held it up solemnly, and ofthe fifty deserters no one laughed. 

"The flag of the Patrie, " said Fevrier, and with one accord thedeserters uncovered. 

The match burned down to Fevrier's fingers, he dropped it and trodupon it and there was a moment's absolute stillness. Then in thedarkness a ringing voice leapt out. 

"Vive la France!"

It was not the lieutenant's voice, but the voice of a peasant from thesouth of the Loire, one of the deserters. 

"Ah, but that is fine, that cry, " said Fevrier. 

He could have embraced that private on both cheeks. There was love inthat cry, pain as well--it could not be otherwise--but above all avery passion of confidence. 

"Again!" said Fevrier; and this time all his men took it up, shoutingit out, exultantly. The little ruined shop, in itself a contradictionof the cry, rang out and clattered with the noise until it seemed toFevrier that it must surely pierce across the country into Metz andpluck the Mareschal in his headquarters from his diffidence. But theywere only fifty deserters in a deserted village, lost in the darkness, and more likely to be overheard by the Prussian sentries than by anyof their own blood. 

It was Fevrier who first saw the danger of their ebullition. He cut itshort by ordering them to seek quarters where they could sleep untildaybreak. For himself, he thrust the little toy flag in his breast andwalked forward to the larger house at the end of the village beneaththe vine-hill; and as he walked, again the smell of paraffin wasforced upon his nostrils. 

He walked more slowly. That odour of paraffin began to seemremarkable. The looting of the village had not occurred to-day, forthere had been thick dust about the general shop. But the paraffin hadsurely been freshly spilt, or the odour would have evaporated. 

Lieutenant Fevrier walked on thinking this over. He found the brokendoor of his house, and still thinking it over, mounted the stairs. There was a door fronting the stairs. He felt for the handle andopened it, and from a corner of the room a voice challenged him inGerman. 

Fevrier was fairly startled. There were Germans in the village afterall. He explained to himself now the smell of paraffin. Meanwhile hedid not answer; neither did he move; neither did he hear any movement. He had forgotten for the moment that he was a deserter, and he stoodholding his breath and listening. There was a tiny window opposite tothe door, but it only declared itself a window, it gave no light. Andillusions came to Lieutenant Fevrier, such as will come to the bravestman so long as he listens hard enough in the dark--illusions ofstealthy footsteps on the floor, of hands scraping and feeling alongthe walls, of a man's breathing upon his neck, of many infinitesimalnoises and movements close by. 

The challenge was repeated and Fevrier remembered his orders. 

"I am Lieutenant Fevrier of Montaudon's division. "

"You are alone. "

Fevrier now distinguished that the voice came from the right-handcorner of the room, and that it was faint. 

"I have fifty men with me. We are deserters, " he blurted out, "andunarmed. "

There followed silence, and a long silence. Then the voice spokeagain, but in French, and the French of a native. 

"My friend, your voice is not the voice of a deserter. There is toomuch humiliation in it. Come to my bedside here. I spoke in German, expecting Germans. But I am the curé of Vaudère. Why are youdeserters?"

Fevrier had expected a scornful order to marshal his men as prisoners. The extraordinary gentleness of the curé's voice almost overcame him. He walked across to the bedside and told his story. The curé baselyheard him out. 

"It is right to obey, " said he, "but here you can obey and disobey. You can relieve Metz of your appetites, my friend, but you need notdesert. " The curé reached up, and drawing Fevrier down, laid a handupon his head. "I consecrate you to the service of your country. Doyou understand?"

Fevrier leaned his mouth towards the curé's ear. 

"The Prussians are coming to-night to burn the village. "

"Yes, they came at dusk. "

Just at the moment, in fact, when Fevrier had been summoned to Metz, the Prussians had crept down into Vaudère and had been scared back totheir répli by a false alarm. 

"But they will come back you may be sure, " said the curé, and raisinghimself upon his elbow he said in a voice of suspense "Listen!"

Fevrier went to the window and opened it. It faced the hill-side, butno sounds came through it beyond the natural murmurs of the night. Thecuré sank back. 

"After the fight here, there were dead soldiers in the streets--Frenchsoldiers and so French chassepôts. Ah, my friend, the Prussians havefound out which is the better rifle--the chassepôt or the needle gun. After your retreat they came down the hill for those chassepôts. Theycould not find one. They searched every house, they came here andquestioned me. Finally they caught one of the villagers hiding in afield, and he was afraid and he told where the rifles had been buried. The Prussians dug for them and the hole was empty. They believe theyare still hidden somewhere in the village; they fancy, too, that thereare secret stores of food; so they mean to burn the houses to theground. They did not know that I was here this afternoon. I would havecome into the French lines had it been possible, but I am tied here tomy bed. No doubt God had sent you to me--you and your fifty men. Youneed not desert. You can make your last stand here for France. "

"And perish, " cried Fevrier, caught up from the depths of hishumiliation, "as Frenchmen should, arms in hand. " Then his voicedropped again. "But we have no arms. "

The curé shook the lieutenant's arm gently. 

"Did I not tell you the chassepôts were not found? And why? Becausetoo many knew where they were hidden. Because out of that many Ifeared there might be one to betray. There is always a Judas. So I gotone man whom I knew, and he dug them up and hid them afresh. "

"Where, father?"

The question was put with a feverish eagerness--it seemed to the curéwith an eagerness too feverish. He drew his hand, his whole body away. 

"You have matches? Light one!" he said, in a startled voice. 

"But the window--!"

"Light one!"

Every moment of time was now of value. Fevrier took the risk and litthe match, shading it from the window so far as he could with hishand. 

"That will do. "

Fevrier blew out the light. The curé had seen him, his uniform and hisfeatures. He, too, had seen the curé, had noticed his thin emaciatedface, and the eyes staring out of it feverishly bright andpreternaturally large. 

"Shall I tell you your malady, father?" he said gently. "It isstarvation. "

"What will you, my son? I am alone. There is not a crust from one endof Vaudère to the other. You cannot help me. Help France! Go to thechurch, stand with your back to the door, turn left, and advancestraight to the churchyard wall. You will find a new grave there, therifles in the grave. Quick! There is a spade in the tower. Quick! Therifles are wrapped from the damp, the cartridges too. Quick! Quick!"

Fevrier hurried downstairs, roused three of his soldiers, bade one ofthem go from house to house and bring the soldiers in silence to thechurchyard, and with the others he went thither himself. In groups oftwo and three the men crept through the street, and gathered aboutthe grave. It was already open. The spade was driven hard and quick, deeper and deeper, and at last rang upon metal. There were seventychassepôts, complete with bayonets and ammunition. Fifty-one werehanded out, the remaining nineteen were hastily covered in again. Fevrier was immeasurably cheered to notice his men clutch at theirweapons and fondle them, hold them to their shoulders taking aim, andwork the breech-blocks. 

"It is like meeting old friends, is it not, my children, or rathernew sweethearts?" said he. "Come! The Prussians may advance fromthe Brasserie at Lanvallier, from Servigny, from Montay, or fromNoisseville, straight down the hill. The last direction is the mostlikely, but we must make no mistake. Ten men will watch on theLanvallier road, ten on the Servigny, ten on the Montay, twenty willfollow me. March!"

An hour ago Lieutenant Fevrier was in command of fifty men whoslouched along with their hands in their pockets, robbed even ofself-respect. Now he had fifty armed and disciplined soldiers, menalert and inspired. So much difference a chassepôt apiece had made. Lieutenant Fevrier was moved to the conception of another plan; and toprepare the way for its execution, he left his twenty men in a houseat the Prussian end of Vaudère, and himself crept in among the vinesand up the hill. 

Somewhere near to him would be the sentries of the field-watch. Hewent down upon his hands and knees and crawled, parting the vineleaves, that the swish of them might not betray him. In a little knollhigh above his head he heard the cracking of wood, the sound of menstumbling. The Prussians were coming down to Vaudère. He lay flatupon the ground waiting and waiting; and the sounds grew louder andapproached. At last he heard that for which he waited--the challengeof the field-watch, the answer of the burning-party. It came down tohim quite clearly through the windless air. "Sadowa. "

Lieutenant Fevrier turned about chuckling. It seemed that in somerespects the world after all was not going so ill with him that night. He crawled downwards as quickly as he could. But it was now more thaneven inspiration that he should not be detected. He dared not standup and run; he must still keep upon his hands and knees. His arms soached that he was forced now and then to stop and lie prone to givethem ease; he was soaked through and through with perspiration; hisblood hammered at his temples; he felt his spine weaken as though themarrow had melted into water; and his heart throbbed until the effortto breathe was a pain. But he reached the bottom of the hill, he gotrefuge amongst his men, he even had time to give his orders before thetread of the first Prussian was heard in the street. 

"They will make for the other end of Vaudère. They will give thevillage first as near to the French lines as it reaches and light therest as they retreat. Let them go forward! We will cut them off. Andremember, the bayonet! A shot will bring the Prussians down in force. It will bring the French too, so there is just the chance we may findthe enemy as silent as ourselves. "

But the plan was to undergo alteration. For as Lieutenant Fevrierended, the Prussians marched in single file into the street andhalted. Fevrier from the corner within his doorway counted them; therewere twenty-three in all. Well, he had twenty besides himself, and theadvantage of the surprise; and thirty more upon the other roads, forwhom, however, he had other work in mind. The officer in command ofthe Prussians carried a dark lantern, and he now turned the slide, sothat the light shone out. 

His men fell out of their rank, some to make a cursory search, othersto sprinkle yet more paraffin. One man came close to Fevrier'sdoorway, and even looked in, but he saw nothing, though Fevrier waswithin six feet of him, holding his breath. Then the officer closedhis lantern, the men re-formed and marched on. But they left behindwith Lieutenant Fevrier--an idea. 

He thought it quickly over. It pleased him, it was feasible, and therewas comedy in it. Lieutenant Fevrier laughed again, his spirits wererising, and the world was not after all going so ill with him. 

He had noticed by the lantern light that the Prussians had notre-formed in the same order. They were in single file again, but theman who marched last before the halt, did not march last after it. Each soldier, as he came up, fell in in the rear of the file. NowFevrier had in the darkness experienced some difficulty in countingthe number of Prussians, although he had strained his eyes to thatend. 

He whispered accordingly some brief instructions to his men; he senta message to the ten on the Servigny road, and when the Prussiansmarched on after their second halt, Lieutenant Fevrier and twoFrenchmen fell in behind them. The same procedure was followed at thenext halt and at the next; so that when the Prussians reached theFrenchward end of Vaudère there were twenty-three Prussians and tenFrenchmen in the file. To Fevrier's thinking it was sufficientlycomic. There was something artistic about it too. 

Fevrier was pleased, but he had not counted on the quick Prussianstep to which his soldiers were unaccustomed. At the fourth halt, theofficer moved unsuspiciously first on one side of the street, then onthe other, but gave no order to his men to fall out. It seemed thathe had forgotten, until he came suddenly running down the file andflashed his lantern into Fevrier's face. He had been secretly countinghis men. 

"The French, " he cried. "Load!"

The one word quite compensated Fevrier for the detection. The Germanshad come down into Vaudère with their rifles unloaded, lest anaccidental discharge should betray their neighbourhood to the French. 

"Load!" cried the German. And slipping back he tugged at the revolverin his belt. But before he could draw it out, Fevrier dashed hisbayonet through the lantern and hung it on the officer's heart. Hewhistled, and his other ten men came running down the street. 

"Vorwarts, " shouted Fevrier, derisively. "Immer Vorwarts. "

The Prussians surprised, and ignorant how many they had to face, fellback in disorder against a house-wall. The French soldiers dashed atthem in the darkness, engaging them so that not a man had the chanceto load. 

That little fight in the dark street between the white-ruined cottagesmade Fevrier's blood dance. 

"Courage!" he cried. "The paraffin!"

The combatants were well matched, and it was hand-to-hand andbayonet-to-bayonet. Fevrier loved his enemies at that moment. It evenoccurred to him that it was worth while to have deserted. After thesense of disgrace, the prospect of imprisonment and dishonour, itwas all wonderful to him--the feel of the thick coat yielding to thebayonet point, the fatigue of the beaten opponent, the vigour of thenew one, the feeling of injury and unfairness when a Prussian he hadwounded dropped in falling the butt of a rifle upon his toes. 

Once he cried, "_Voila pour la patrie_!" but for the rest he fought insilence, as did the others, having other uses for their breath. Allthat could be heard was a loud and laborious panting, as of wrestlersin a match, the clang of rifle crossing rifle, the rattle of bayonetguarding bayonet, and now and then a groan and a heavy fall. OnePrussian escaped and ran; but the ten who had been stationed on theServigny road were now guarding the entrance from Noisseville. Fevrierhad no fears of him. He pressed upon a new man, drove him against thewall, and the man shouted in despair:

"_A moi_!"

"You, Philippe?" exclaimed Fevrier. 

"That was a timely cry, " and he sprang back. There were six menstanding, and the six saluted Fevrier; they were all Frenchmen. Fevrier mopped his forehead. 

"But that was fine, " said he, "though what's to come will be stillbetter. Oh, but we will make this night memorable to our friends. Theyshall talk of us by their firesides when they are grown old and Francehas had many years of peace--we shall not hear, but they will talk ofus, the deserters from Metz. "

Lieutenant Fevrier in a word was exalted, and had lost his sense ofproportion. He did not, however, relax his activity. He sent off thesix to gather the rest of his contingent. He made an examination ofthe Prussians, and found that sixteen had been killed outright, andeight were lying wounded. He removed their rifles and ammunition outof reach, and from dead and wounded alike took the coats and caps. To the wounded he gave instead French uniforms; and then, biddingtwenty-three of his soldiers don the Prussian caps and coats, hesnatched a moment wherein to run to the curé. 

"It is over, " said he. "The Prussians will not burn Vaudère to-night. "And he jumped down the stairs again without waiting for any response. In the street he put on the cap and coat of the Prussian officer, buckled the sword about his waist, and thrust the revolver intohis belt. He had now twenty-three men who at night might pass forPrussians, and thirteen others. 

To these thirteen he gave general instructions. They were to spreadout on the right and left, and make their way singly up throughthe vines, and past the field-watch if they could without risk ofdetection. They were to join him high up on the slope, and opposite tothe bonfire which would be burning at the répli. His twenty-three heled boldly, following as nearly as possible the track by which thePrussians had descended. The party trampled down the vine-poles, brushed through the leaves, and in a little while were challenged. 

"Sadowa, " said Fevrier, in his best imitation of the German accent. 

"Pass Sadowa, " returned the sentry. 

Fevrier and his men filed upwards. He halted some two hundred yardsfarther on, and went down upon his knees. The soldiers behind himcopied his example. They crept slowly and cautiously forward until theflames of the bonfire were visible through the screen of leaves, untilthe faces of the officers about the bonfire could be read. 

Then Fevrier stopped and whispered to the soldier next to him. Thatsoldier passed the whisper on, and from a file the Frenchmen creptinto line. Fevrier had now nothing to do but to wait; and he waitedwithout trepidation or excitement. The night from first to last hadgone very well with him. He could even think of Mareschal Bazainewithout anger. 

He waited for perhaps an hour, watching the faces round the fireincrease in number and grow troubled with anxiety. The German officerstalked in low tones staring through their night-glasses down the hill, to catch the first leaping flame from the roofs of Vaudère, pushingforward their heads to listen for any alarm. Fevrier watched them withthe amusement of a spectator in a play house. He was fully aware thathe was shortly to step upon the stage himself. He was aware too thatthe play was to have a tragic ending. Meanwhile, however, herewas very good comedy! He had a Frenchman's appreciation of thepicturesque. The dark night, the glowing fire on the one broad levelof grass, the French soldiers hidden in the vines, within a stone'sthrow of the Germans, the Germans looking unconsciously on overtheir heads for the return of those comrades who never wouldreturn. --Lieutenant Fevrier was the dramatist who had created thisstriking and artistic situation. Lieutenant Fevrier could not but bepleased. Moreover there were better effects to follow. One occurred tohim at this very moment, an admirable one. He fumbled in his breastand took out the flag. A minute later he saw the Colonel of theforepost join the group, hack nervously with his naked sword ata burning log, and dispatch a subaltern down the hill to thefield-watch. 

The subaltern came crashing back through the vines. Fevrier did notneed to hear his words in order to guess at his report. It could onlybe that the Prussian party had given the password and come safely backan hour since. Besides, the Colonel's act was significant. 

He sent four men at once in different directions, and the rest of hissoldiers he withdrew into the darkness behind the bonfire. He did notfollow them himself until he had picked up and tossed a fusee into thefire. The fusee flared and spat and spurted, and immediately itseemed to Fevrier--so short an interval of time was there--that thecountry-side was alive with the hum of a stirring camp, and the rattleof harness-chains, as horses were yoked to guns. 

For a third time that evening Fevrier laughed softly. The desertershad roused the Prussian army round Metz to the expectation of anattack in force. He touched his neighbour on the shoulder. 

"One volley when I give the word. Then charge. Pass the order on!" andthe word went along the line like a ripple across a pond. 

He had hardly given it, the fusee had barely ceased to sputter, beforea company doubled out on the open space behind the bonfire. Thatcompany had barely formed up, before another arrived to support it. 

"Load!"

As the Prussian command was uttered, Fevrier was aware of a movementat his side. The soldier next to him was taking aim. Fevrier reachedout his hand and stopped the man. Fevrier was going to die in fiveminutes, and meant to die chivalrously like a gentleman. He waiteduntil the German companies had loaded, until they were ordered toadvance, and then he shouted, "Fire!"

The little flames shot out and crackled among the vines. He sawgaps in the Prussian ranks, he saw the men waver, surprised at theproximity of the attack. 

"Charge, " he shouted, and crashing through the few yards of shelter, they burst out upon the répli, and across the open space to thePrussian bayonets. But not one of the number reached the bayonets. 

"Fire!" shouted the Prussian officer, in his turn. 

The volley flashed out, the smoke cleared away, and showed a littleheap of men silent between the bonfire and the Prussian ranks. 

The Prussians loaded again and stood ready, waiting for the mainattack. The morning was just breaking. They stood silent andmotionless till the sky was flooded with light and the hills one afteranother came into view, and the files of poplars were seen marchingon the plains. Then the Colonel approached the little heap. A riflecaught his eye, and he picked it up. 

"They are all mad, " said he. Forced to the point of the bayonet was agaudy little linen tri-colour flag. 

THE CROSSED GLOVES. 

"Although you have not been near Ronda for five years, " said theSpanish Commandant severely to Dennis Shere, "the face of the countryhas not changed. You are certainly the most suitable officer Ican select, since I am told you are well acquainted with theneighbourhood. You will ride therefore to-day to Olvera and deliverthis sealed letter to the officer commanding the temporary garrisonthere. But it is not necessary that it should reach him before elevenat night, so that you will still have an hour or two before you startin which you can renew your acquaintanceships, as I can very wellunderstand you are anxious to do. "

Dennis Shere's reluctance, however, was now changed into alacrity. Forthe road to Olvera ran past the gates of that white-walled, stragglingresidencía where he had planned to spend this first evening that hewas stationed at Ronda. On his way back from his colonel's quartershe even avoided those squares and streets where he would be likely tomeet with old acquaintances, foreseeing their questions as to why hewas now a Spanish subject and wore the uniform of a captain of Spanishcavalry and by seven o'clock he was already riding through the Plazade Toros upon his mission. There, however, a familiar voice hailedhim, and turning about in his saddle he saw an old padre who had oncegained a small prize for logic at the University of Barcelona, and whohad since made his inferences and deductions an excuse for a greatdeal of inquisitiveness. Shere had no option but to stop. He broke in, however, at once on the inevitable questions as to his uniform withthe statement that he must be at Olvera by eleven. 

"Fifteen miles, " said the padre. "Does it need four hours and a freshhorse to journey fifteen miles?"

"But I have friends to visit on the way, " and to give convincingdetails to an excuse which was plainly disbelieved, Shere added, "Justthis side of Setenil I have friends. "

The padre was still dissatisfied. "There is only one house just thisside of Setenil, and Esteban Silvela I saw with my own eyes to-day inRonda. "

"He may well be home by now, and it is not Esteban whom I go to see. "

"Not Esteban, " exclaimed the padre. "Then it will be--"

"His sister, the Señora Christina, " said Shere with a laugh at hiscompanion's persistency. "Since the brother and sister live alone, andit is not the brother, why it will be the sister. You argue still veryclosely, padre. "

The padre stood back a little from Shere and stared. Then he saidslyly, and with the air of one who quotes:

"All women are born tricksters. "

"Those were rank words, " said Shere composedly. 

"Yet they were often spoken when you grew vines in the Ronda Valley. "

"Then a crowd of men must know me for a fool. A young man may make amistake, padre, and exaggerate a disappointment. Besides, I had notthen seen the señora. Esteban I knew, but she was a child, and knownto me only by name. " And then, warmed by the pleasure in his oldfriend's face, he said, "I will tell you about it. "

They walked on slowly side by side, while Shere, who now that he hadbegun to confide was quite swept away, bent over his saddle and toldhow after inheriting a modest fortune, after wandering for three yearsfrom city to city, he had at last come to Paris, and there, at aCarlist conversazione, had heard the familiar name called from adoorway, and had seen the unfamiliar face appear. Shere describedChristina. She walked with the grace of a deer, as though the floorbeneath her foot had the spring of turf. The blood was bright in herface; her brown hair shone; she was sweet with youth; the supplenessof her body showed it and the steadiness of her great clear eyes. 

"She passed me, " he went on, "and the arrogance of what I used tothink and say came sharp home to me like a pain. I suppose thatI stared--it was an accident, of course--perhaps my face showedsomething of my trouble; but just as she was opposite me her fanslipped through her fingers and clattered on the floor. "

The padre was at a loss to understand Shere's embarrassment inrelating so small a matter. 

"Well, " said he, "you picked up the fan and so--"

"No, " interrupted Shere. His embarrassment increased, and he stammeredout awkwardly, "Just for the moment, you see, I began to wonderwhether after all I had not been right before; whether after allany woman would or could baulk herself of a fraction of any man'sadmiration, supposing that it would only cost a trick to extort it. And while I was wondering she herself stooped, picked up the fan, andgood-humouredly dropped me a curtsey for my lack of manners. Estebanpresented me to her that evening. There followed two magical months inParis and a June in London. "

"But, Esteban?" said the padre, doubtfully. "I do not understand. Iknow something of Esteban Silvela. A lean man of plots and devices. Myfriend, do you know that Esteban has not a groat? The Silvela fortunesand estate came from the mother and went to the daughter. Estebanis the Señora Christina's steward, and her marriage would alter hisposition at the least. Did he not spoil the magic of the months inParis?"

Shere laughed aloud in assured confidence. 

"No, indeed, " said he. "I did not know Esteban was dependent on hissister, but what difference would her marriage make? Esteban is mybest friend. For instance, you questioned me about my uniform. It isby Esteban's advice and help that I wear it. "

"Indeed!" said the padre, quickly. "Tell me. "

"That June, in London, two years ago--it was by the way the last timeI saw the señora--we three dined at the same house. As the ladies rosefrom the table I said to Christina quietly, 'I want to speak to youto-night, ' and she answered very simply and quietly, 'With all myheart. ' She was not so quiet, however, but that Esteban overheard her. He hitched his chair up to mine; I asked him what my chances were, andwhether he would second them? He was most cordial, but he thought withhis Spaniard's pride that I ought--I use my words, not his--in someway to repair my insufficiency in station and the rest; and he pointedout this way of the uniform. I could not resist his argument; I didnot speak that night. I took out my papers and became a Spaniard; withEsteban's help I secured a commission. That was two years ago. I havenot seen her since, nor have I written, but I ride to her to-nightwith my two years' silence and my two years' service to prove thetruth of what I say. So you see I have reason to thank Esteban. " Andsince they were now come to the edge of the town they parted company. Shere rode smartly down the slope of the hill, the padre stood andwatched him with a feeling of melancholy. 

It was not merely that he distrusted Esteban, but he knew Shere, thecadet of an impoverished family, who had come out from England to asmall estate in the Ronda valley, which had belonged to his housesince the days of the Duke of Wellington in Spain. He knew him for aman of tempests and extremes, and as he thought of his ardent wordsand tones, of his ready acceptance of Esteban's good faith, of hisdescription of Christina, he fell to wondering whether so sudden andviolent a conversion from passionate cynic to passionate believerwould not lack permanence. There was that little instructive accidentof the dropped fan. Even in the moment of conversion so small a thinghad almost sufficed to dissuade Shere. 

Shere, however, was quite untroubled--so untroubled, indeed, that heeven rode slowly that he might not waste the luxury of anticipatingthe welcome which his unexpected appearance would surely provoke. Herode into the groves of almond and walnut trees and out again into awild and stony country. It was just growing dusk when he saw aheadof him the square white walls of the enclosure, and the cluster ofbuildings within, glimmering at the foot of a rugged hill. The lightsbegan to move in the windows as he approached, and then a man suddenlyappeared at his side on the roadway and whistled twice loudly asthough he were calling his dog. Shere rode past the man and throughthe open gates into the courtyard. There were three men loungingthere, and they came forward almost as if they had expected Shere. Hegave his horse into their charge and impetuously mounted the flight ofstone steps to the house. A servant in readiness came forward at onceand preceded Shere along a gallery towards a door. Shere's impetuosityled him to outstep the servant, he opened the door, and so entered theroom unannounced. 

It was a long, low room with a wainscot of dark walnut, and a singlelamp upon the table gave it shadows rather than light. He had justtime to notice that a girl and a man were bending over the table inthe lamplight, to recognise with a throb of the heart the play ofthe light upon the girl's brown hair, to understand that she wasexplaining something which she held in her hands, and then Estebancame quickly to him with a certain air of perplexity and a glance ofinquiry towards the servant. Then he said:--

"Of course, of course, you stopped and came in of your own accord. "

"Of my own accord, indeed, " said Shere, who was looking at Christinainstead of heeding Esteban's words. His unexpected coming hadcertainly not missed its effect, although it was not the effect whichShere had desired. There was, to be sure, a great deal of astonishmentin her looks, but there was also consternation; and when she spoke itwas in a numbed and absent way. 

"You are well? We have not seen you this long while. Two years is it?More than two years. "

"There have been changes, " said Esteban. "We have had war and, alas, defeats. "

"Yes, I was in Cuba, " said Shere, and the conversation draggedon impersonal and dull. Esteban talked continually with a forcedheartiness, Christina barely spoke at all, and then absently. Sherenoticed that she had but lately come in, for she still wore her hat, and her gloves lay crossed on the table in the light of the lamp; shemoved restlessly about the room, stopping now and then to give an earto any chance noise in the courtyard, and to glance alertly at thedoor; so that Shere understood that she was expecting another visitor, and that he himself was in the way. An inopportune intrusion, itseemed, was the sole outcome of the two years' anticipations, andutterly discouraged he rose from his chair. On the instant, however, Esteban signed to Shere to remain, and with a friendly smile himselfmade an excuse and left the room. 

Christina was now walking up and down one particular seam in the floorwith as much care as if the seam was a tight-rope, and this exerciseshe continued. Shere moved over to the table and quite absently playedwith the gloves which lay there, disarranging their position, so thatthey no longer made a cross. 

"You remember that night in London, " said he, and Christina stoppedfor a second to say simply and without any suggestion that she wasoffended, "You should have spoken that night, " and then resumed herwalk. 

"Yes, " returned Shere. "But I was always aware that I could not offeryou your match, and I found, I thought, quite suddenly that evening away to make my insufficiency less insufficient. "

"Less insufficient by a strip of brass upon your shoulder, " sheexclaimed passionately. She came and stood opposite to him. "Well, that strip of brass stops us both. It stops my ears, it must stop yourlips too. Where did we meet first?"

"In Paris. "

"Go on!"

"At a Carlist--" and Shere broke off and took a step towards her. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "I never thought of it. I imagined you went thereto laugh as I did. "

"Does one laugh at one's creed?" she cried violently; and Shere with ahelpless gesture of the hands sat down in a chair. Esteban had fooledhim, and why, the padre had shown Shere that afternoon, Esteban hadfooled him irreparably; it did not need a glance at Christina, as shestood facing him, to convince him of that. There was no anger againsthim, he noticed, in her face, but on the contrary a great friendlinessand pity. But he knew her at that moment. Her looks might soften, butnot her resolve. She was heart-whole a Carlist. Carlism was her creed, and her creed would be more than a creed, it would be a passion too. So it was not to persuade her but rather in acknowledgment that hesaid:

"And one does not change one's creed?"

"No, " she answered, and suggested, but in a doubtful voice, "but onecan put off one's uniform. "

Shere stood up. "Neither can one do that, " he said simply. "It isquite true that I sought my commission upon your account. I would justas readily have become a Carlist had I known. I had no inclination oneway or the other, only a great hope and longing for you. But I havemade the mistake, and I cannot retrieve it. The strip of brass obligesme to good faith. Already you will understand the uniform has had itsinconvenience. It sent me to Cuba, and set me armed against men almostof my own blood. There was no escape then; there is no escape now. "

Christina moved closer to him. The reticence with which Shere spoke, and the fact that he made no claim upon her made her voice verygentle. 

"No, " she agreed. "I thought that you would make that answer. And inmy heart I do not think that I should like to have heard from you anyother. "

"Thank you, " said Shere. He drew out his watch. "I have still someway to go. I have to reach Olvera by eleven;" and he was aware thatChristina at his side became at once very still, so that even herbreathing was arrested. For her sigh of emotion at the abrupt mentionof parting he was thankful, but it made him keep his eyes turned fromher lest a sight of any distress of hers might lead him to falter fromhis purpose. 

"You are riding to Olvera?" she asked, after a pause, and in a queermuffled voice. 

"Yes. So I must say good-bye, " and now he turned to her. But she wastoo quick for him to catch a glimpse of her face. She had alreadyturned from him and was walking towards the door. 

"You must also say good-bye to Esteban, " said she, as though to gaintime. With her fingers on the door-handle she stopped. "Tell me, " sheexclaimed. "It was Esteban who advised the army, who helped you toyour commission? You need not deny it! It was Esteban, " she stoodsilent, turning over this revelation in her mind. Then she added, "Didyou see Esteban in Ronda this afternoon?"

"No, but I heard that he was there. I must go. "

He took up his hat, and turning again towards the door saw thatChristina stood with her back against the panels and her armsoutstretched across them like a barrier. 

"You need not fear, " he said to reassure her. "I shall not quarrelwith Esteban. He is your brother, and the harm is done. Besides, I donot know that it is all harm when I look back in the years before Iwore the uniform. In those times it was all one's own dissatisfactionsand trivial dislikes and trivial ambitions. Now I find a repose inlosing them, in becoming a little necessary part of a big machine, even though it is not the best machine of its kind and works creakily. I find a dignity in it too. "

It was the man of extremes who spoke, and he spoke quite sincerely. Christina, however, neither answered him nor heard. Her eyes werefixed with a strange intentness upon him; her breath came and went asif she had run a race, and in the silence seemed unnaturally audible. 

"You carry orders to Olvera?" she said at length. Shere fetched thesealed letter out of his pocket. 

"So I must go, or fail in my duty, " said he. 

"Give me the letter, " said Christina. 

Shere stared at her in amazement. The amazement changed to suspicion. His whole face seemed to narrow and sharpen out of his own likenessinto something foxy and mean. 

"I will not, " he said, and slowly replaced the letter. "There was aman in the road, " he continued slowly, "who whistled as I passed--asignal, no doubt. You are Carlist. This is a trap. "

"A trap not laid for you, " said Christina. "Be sure of that! Until youspoke of Olvera I did not know. "

"No, " admitted Shere, "not laid for me to your knowledge, but toEsteban's. You were surprised at my coming--Esteban only at the mannerof my coming. He asked if I had ridden into the gates of my own accordI remember. He was in Ronda this afternoon. Very likely it was he whotold my colonel of my knowledge of the neighbourhood. It would suithis purposes well to present me to you suddenly, not merely as anenemy, but an active enemy. Yes, I understand that. But, " and hisvoice hardened again, "even to your knowledge the trap was laid forthe man who carries the letter. You have your share in the trick. " Herepeated the word with a sharp laugh, savouring it, dwelling upon itas upon something long forgotten, and now suddenly remembered. "Amurderous trick, too, it seems! I wonder what would have happened ifI had not turned in at the gates of my own accord. How much farthershould I have ridden towards Olvera, and by what gentle means should Ihave been stopped?"

"By nothing more dangerous than a hand upon your bridle and an excusethat you might do me some small service at Olvera. "

"An excuse, a falsity! To be sure, " said Shere bitterly. "Yet youstill stand before the door though you know the letter will not beyours. Is the trick after all so harmless? Is there no one--Esteban, for instance--in the dark passage outside the door or on the dark roadoutside the gates?"

"I will prove to you you are wrong. "

Christina dropped her arms to her side, moved altogether from thedoor, and rang a bell. "Esteban shall come here; he will see yououtside the gates; he will set you safely on your road to Olvera. " Shespoke now quite quietly; all the panic and agitation had gone ina moment from her face, her manner, and her words. But the verysuddenness of the change in her increased Shere's suspicions. A momentago Christina was standing before the door with every nerve astrain, her face white, and her eyes bewildered with horror. Now she stoodeasily by the table with the lighted lamp, speaking easily, playingeasily with the gloves upon the table. Shere watched for the secret ofthis sudden change. 

A servant answered the bell and was bidden to find Esteban. No look ofsignificance passed between them; by no gesture was any signal given. "No harm was intended to any man, " Christina continued as soon asthe door again was closed; "I insisted--I mean there was no need toinsist; for I promised to get the letter from the bearer once he hadcome into this room. "

"How?" Shere asked with a blunt contempt. "By tricks?"

Christina raised her head quickly, stung to a moment's anger; but shedid not answer him, and again her head drooped. 

"At all events, " she said quietly, "I have not tried to trick you, "and Shere noticed that she arranged with an absent carelessness thegloves in the form of a cross beneath the lamp; and at once he feltthat her action contradicted her words. It was merely an instinct atfirst. Then he began to reason. Those gloves had been so arranged whenfirst he entered the room. Christina and Esteban were bending over thetable. Christina was explaining something. Was she explaining thatarrangement of the gloves? Was that arrangement the reason of herready acceptance of his refusal to part with his orders? Was it, in aword, a signal for Esteban--a signal which should tell him whetheror not she had secured the letter? Shere saw a way to answer thatquestion. He was now filled with distrust of Christina as half an hourback he had been filled with faith in her; so that he paid no heedto her apology, or to the passionate and pleading voice in which shespoke it. 

"So much was at stake for us, " she said. "It seemed a necessity thatwe must have that letter, that no sudden orders must reach Olverato-night. For there is some one at Olvera--I must trust you, you see, though you are our pledged enemy--some one of great consequence to us, some one we love, some one to whom we look to revive this Spain ofours. No, it is not our King, but his son--his young and gallant son. He will be gone to-morrow, but he is at Olvera to-night. And so whenEsteban found out to-day that orders were to be sent to the commandantthere it seemed we had no choice. It seemed those orders must notreach him, and it seemed therefore--just so that no hurt might bedone, which otherwise would surely have been done, whatever I mightorder or forbid--that I must use a woman's way and secure the letter. "

"And the bearer?" asked Shere, advancing to the table. "What of him?He, I suppose, might creep back to Ronda, broken in honour and with alie to tell? The best lie he could invent. Or would you have helpedhim to the lie?"

Christina shrank away from the table as though she had been struck. 

"You had not thought of his plight, " continued Shere. "He rides outfrom Ronda an honest soldier and returns--what? No more a soldier thanthis glove of yours is your hand, " and taking up one of the gloves heheld it for a moment, and then tossed it down at a distance from itsfellow. He deliberately turned his back to the table as Christinareplied:

"The bearer would be just our pledged enemy--pledged to outwit us, aswe to outwit him. But when you came there was no effort made to outwityou. Own that at all events? You carry your orders safely, with yourhonour safe, though the consequence may be disaster for us, anddisgrace for that we did not prevent you. Own that! You and I, Isuppose, will meet no more. So you might own this that I have used notricks with you?"

The appeal coming as an answer to his insult and contempt, and comingfrom one whose pride he knew to be a real and dominant quality, touched Shere against his expectation. He faced Christina on animpulse to give her the assurance she claimed, but he changed hismind. 

"Are you sure of that?" he asked slowly, for he saw that the gloveswhile his back was turned had again been crossed. He at all eventswas now sure. He was sure that those crossed gloves were a signal forEsteban, a signal that the letter had not changed hands. "You haveused no tricks with me?" he repeated. "Are you sure of that?"

The handle of the door rattled; Christina quickly crossed towards it. Shere followed her, but stopped for the fraction of a second at thetable and deliberately and unmistakably placed the gloves in parallellines. As the door opened, he was standing between Christina and thetable, blocking it from her view. 

It was not she, however, who looked to the table, but Esteban. Shekept her eyes upon her brother, and when he in his turn looked to herShere noticed a glance of comprehension swiftly interchanged. So Sherewas confident that he had spoiled this trick of the gloves, and whenhe took a polite leave of Christina and followed Esteban from the roomit was not without an air of triumph. 

Christina stood without changing her attitude, except that perhaps shepushed her head a little forward that she might the better hear thelast of her lover's receding steps. When they ceased to sound she ranquickly to the window, opened it, and leaned out that she might thebetter hear his horse's hoofs on the flagged courtyard. She heardbesides Esteban's voice speaking amiably and Shere's making amiablereplies. The sharp hard clatter upon the stones softened into theduller thud upon the road; the voices became fainter and lost theircharacter. Then one clear "good-night" rang out loudly, and wasfollowed by the quick beats of a horse trotting. Christina slowlyclosed the window and turned her eyes upon the room. She saw the lampupon the table and the gloves in parallel lines beneath it. 

Now Shere was so far right in that the gloves were intended as asignal for Esteban; only owing to that complete revulsion of which thepadre had seen the possibility, Shere had mistaken the signal. Thepassionate believer had again become the passionate cynic. He saw thetrick, and setting no trust in the girl who played it, heeding neitherher looks nor words nor the sincerity of her voice, had no doubt thatit was aimed against him; whereas it was aimed to protect him. Sherehad no doubt that the gloves crossed meant that he still had thesealed letter in his keeping, and therefore he disarranged them. Butin truth the gloves crossed meant that Christina had it, and that themessenger might go unhindered upon his way. 

Christina uttered no cry. She simply did not believe what her eyessaw. She needed to touch the gloves before she was convinced, and whenshe had done that she was at once not sure but that she herself intouching them had ranged them in these lines. In the end, however, she understood, not the how or why, but the mere fact. She ran to thedoor, along the gallery, down the steps into the courtyard. She met noone. The house might have been a deserted ruin from its silence. She crossed the courtyard to the glimmering white walls, and passedthrough the gates on to the road. The night was clear; and ahead ofher far away in the middle of the road a lantern shone very red. Christina ran towards it, and as she approached she saw faces likeminiatures grouped above it. They did not heed her until she was closeupon them, until she had noticed one man holding a riderless horseapart from the group and another coiling up a stout rope. ThenEsteban, who was holding the lantern, raised his hand to keep herback. 

"There has been an accident, " said he. "He fell, and fell awkwardly, the horse with him. "

"An accident, " said Christina, and she pointed to the coil of rope. Itwas no use for her now to say that she had forbidden violence. Indeed, at no time, as she told Shere, would it have been of any use. Shepushed through the group to where Dennis Shere lay on the ground, hisface white and shiny and tortured with pain. She knelt down on theground and took his head in her hands as though she would raise it onto her lap, but one man stopped her, saying, "It is his back, señora. "Shere opened his eyes and saw who it was that bent over him, andChristina, reading their look, was appalled. It was surely impossiblethat human eyes could carry so much hate. His lips moved, and sheleaned her ear close to his mouth to catch the words. But it was onlyone word he spoke and repeated:--

"Tricks! Tricks!"

There was no time to disprove or explain. Christina had but oneargument. She kissed him on the lips. 

"This is no trick, " she cried, and Esteban, laying a hand upon hershoulder, said, "He does not hear, nor can his lips answer;" andEsteban spoke the truth. Shere had not heard, and never would hear, asChristina knew. 

"He still has the letter, " said Esteban. Christina thrust him backwith her hand and crouched over the dead man, protecting him. In alittle she said, "True, there is the letter. " She unbuttoned Shere'sjacket and gently took the letter from his breast. Then she knelt backand looked at the superscription without speaking. Esteban opened thedoor of the lantern and held the flame towards her. "No, " said she. "It had better go to Olvera. "

She rode to Olvera that night. They let her go, deceived by hercomposure and thinking that she meant to carry it to "the man of greatconsequence. "

But Christina's composure meant nothing more than that her mind andher feelings were numbed. She was conscious of only one conviction, that Shere must not fail in his duty, since he had staked his honourupon its fulfilment. And so she rode straight to the commandant'squarters at Olvera, and telling of an accident to the bearer, handedhim the letter. The commandant read it, and was most politelydistressed that Christina should have put herself to so much trouble, for the orders merely recalled his contingent to Ronda in the morning. It was about this time that Christina began to understand preciselywhat had happened. 

THE SHUTTERED HOUSE. 

If ever a man's pleasures jumped with his duties mine did in the year1744, when, as a clerk in the service of the Royal African Companyof Adventurers, I was despatched to the remote islands of Scilly insearch of certain information which, it was believed, Mr. RobertLovyes alone could impart. For even a clerk that sits all day conninghis ledgers may now and again chance upon a record or name whichwill tickle his dull fancies with the suggestion of a story. Such asuggestion I had derived from the circumstances of Mr. Lovyes. He hadpassed an adventurous youth, during which he had for eight yearsbeen held to slavery by a negro tribe on the Gambia river; he hadafterwards amassed a considerable fortune, and embarked it in theventures of the Company; he had thereupon withdrawn himself to Tresco, where he had lived for twenty years: so much any man might knowwithout provocation to his curiosity. The strange feature of Mr. Lovyes' conduct was revealed to me by the ledgers. For during allthose years he had drawn neither upon his capital nor his interest, sothat his stake in the Company grew larger and larger, with no profitto himself that any one could discover. It seemed to me, in fact, clean against nature that a man so rich should so disregard hiswealth; and I busied myself upon the journey with discovering strangereasons for his seclusion, of which none, I may say, came near themark, by so much did the truth exceed them all. 

I landed at the harbour of New Grimsey, on Tresco, in the greytwilight of a September evening; and asking for Mr. Lovyes, wasdirected across a little ridge of heather to Dolphin Town, which lieson the eastward side of Tresco, and looks across Old Grimsey Sound tothe island of St. Helen's. Dolphin Town, you should know, for all itsgrand name, boasts but a poor half-score of houses dotted about theferns and bracken, with no semblance of order. One of the houses, however, attracted my notice--first, because it was built in twostoreys, and was, therefore, by a storey taller than the rest; and, secondly, because all its windows were closely shuttered, and it worein that falling light a drooping, melancholy aspect, like a derelictship upon the seas. It stood in the middle of this scanty village, andhad a little unkempt garden about it inclosed within a wooden paling. There was a wicket-gate in the paling, and a rough path from the gateto the house door, and a few steps to the right of this path a wellwas sunk and rigged with a winch and bucket. I was both tired andthirsty, so I turned into the garden and drew up some water in thebucket. A narrow track was beaten in the grass between the well andthe house, and I saw with surprise that the stones about the mouth ofthe well were splashed and still wet. The house, then, had an inmate. I looked at it again, but the shutters kept their secret: there was noglimmer of light visible through any chink. I approached the house, and from that nearer vantage discovered that the shutters were commonplanks fitted into the windows and nailed fast to the woodwork fromwithout. Growing yet more curious, I marched to the door and knocked, with an inquiry upon my tongue as to where Mr. Lovyes lived. But theexcuse was not needed; the sound of my blows echoed through the housein a desolate, solitary fashion, and no step answered them. I knockedagain, and louder. Then I leaned my ear to the panel, and I distinctlyheard the rustling of a woman's dress. I held my breath to hear themore surely. The sound was repeated, but more faintly, and it wasfollowed by a noise like the closing of a door. I drew back from thehouse, keeping an eye upon the upper storey, for I thought it possiblethe woman might reconnoitre me thence. But the windows stared at meblind, unresponsive. To the right and left lights twinkled in thescattered dwellings, and I found something very ghostly in the thoughtof this woman entombed as it were in the midst of them and movingalone in the shuttered gloom. The twilight deepened, and suddenly thegate behind me whined on its hinges. At once I dropped to my fulllength on the grass--the gloom was now so thick there was littlefear I should be discovered--and a man went past me to the house. He walked, so far as I could judge, with a heavy stoop, but was yetuncommon tall, and he carried a basket upon his arm. He laid thebasket upon the doorstep, and, to my utter disappointment, turnedat once, and so down the path and out at the gate. I heard the gaterattle once, twice, and then a click as its latch caught. I wassufficiently curious to desire a nearer view of the basket, anddiscovered that it contained food. Then, remembering me that all thiswhile my own business waited, I continued on my way to Mr. Lovyes'house. It was a long building of a brownish granite, under Merchant'sPoint, at the northern extremity of Old Grimsey Harbour. Mr. Lovyeswas sitting over his walnuts in the cheerless solitude of hisdining-room--a frail old gentleman, older than his years, which I tookto be sixty or thereabouts, and with the air of a man in a decline. I unfolded my business forthwith, but I had not got far before heinterrupted me. 

"There is a mistake, " he said. "It is doubtless my brother Robert youare in search of. I am John Lovyes, and was, it is true, capturedwith my brother in Africa, but I escaped six years before he did, andtraded no more in those parts. We fled together from the negroes, butwe were pursued. My brother was pierced by an arrow, and I left him, believing him to be dead. "

I had, indeed, heard something of a brother, though I little expectedto find him in Tresco too. He pressed upon me the hospitality of hishouse, but my business was with Mr. Robert, and I asked him to directme on my path, which he did with some hesitation and reluctance. I hadonce more to pass through Dolphin Town, and an impulse prompted me totake another look at the shuttered house. I found that the basket offood had been removed, and an empty bucket stood in its place. Butthere was still no light visible, and I went on to the dwelling ofMr. Robert Lovyes. When I came to it, I comprehended his brother'shesitation. It was a rough, mean little cottage standing on the edgeof the bracken close to the sea--a dwelling fit for the poorestfisherman, but for no one above that station, and a large open boatwas drawn up on the hard beside it as though the tenant fished forhis bread. I knocked at the door, and a man with a candle in his handopened it. 

"Mr. Robert Lovyes?" I asked. 

"Yes, I am he. " And he led the way into a kitchen, poor and mean asthe outside warranted, but scrupulously clean and bright with a fire. He led the way, as I say, and I was still more mystified to observefrom his gait, his height, and the stoop of his shoulders that he wasthe man whom I had seen carrying the basket through the garden. I hadnow an opportunity of noticing his face, wherein I could detect noresemblance to his brother's. For it was broader and more vigorous, with a great, white beard valancing it; and whereas Mr. John's hairwas neatly powdered and tied with a ribbon, as a gentleman's shouldbe, Mr. Robert's, which was of a black colour with a little sprinklingof grey, hung about his head in a tangled mane. There was but atwo-years difference between the ages of the brothers, but there mighthave been a decade. I explained my business, and we sat down to asupper of fish, freshly caught, which he served himself. And duringsupper he gave me the information I was come after. But I lent onlyan inattentive ear to his talk. For my knowledge of his wealth, thepicture of him as he sat in his great sea-boots and coarse seaman'svest, as though it was the most natural garb in the world, and hiseasy discourse about those far African rivers, made a veritable jumbleof my mind. To add to it all, there was the mystery of the shutteredhouse. More than once I was inclined to question him upon this lastaccount, but his manner did not promise confidences, and I saidnothing. At last he perceived my inattention. 

"I will repeat all this to-morrow, " he said grimly. "You are, nodoubt, tired. I cannot, I am afraid, house you, for, as you see, Ihave no room; but I have a young friend who happens by good luck tostay this night on Tresco, and no doubt he will oblige me. " Thereuponhe led me to a cottage on the outskirts of Dolphin Town, and of all inthat village nearest to the sea. 

"My friend, " said he, "is named Ginver Wyeth, and, though he comesfrom these parts, he does not live here, being a school-master on themainland. His mother has died lately, and he is come on that account. "

Mr. Wyeth received me hospitably, but with a certain pedantry ofspeech which somewhat surprised me, seeing that his parents werecommon fisherfolk. He readily explained the matter, however, over apipe, when Mr. Lovyes had left us. "I owe everything to Mrs. Lovyes, "he said. "She took me when a boy, taught me something herself, andsent me thereafter, at her own charges, to a school in Falmouth. "

"Mrs. Lovyes!" I exclaimed. 

"Yes, " he continued, and, bending forward, lowered his voice. "Youwent up to Merchant's Point, you say? Then you passed Crudge'sFolly--a house of two storeys with a well in the garden. "

"Yes, yes!" I said. 

"She lives there, " said he. 

"Behind those shutters!" I cried. 

"For twenty years she has lived in the midst of us, and no one hasseen her during all that time. Not even Robert Lovyes. Aye, she haslived behind the shutters. "

There he stopped. I waited, thinking that in a little he would take uphis tale, but he did not, and I had to break the silence. 

"I had not heard that Mr. Robert was ever married, " I said ascarelessly as I might. 

"Nor was he, " replied Mr. Wyeth. "Mrs. Lovyes is the wife of John. The house at Merchant's Point is hers, and there twenty years ago shelived. "

His words caught my breath away, so little did I expect them. 

"The wife of John Lovyes!" I stammered, "but--" And I told him how Ihad seen Robert Lovyes carry his basket up the path. 

"Yes, " said Wyeth. "Twice a day Robert draws water for her at thewell, and once a day he brings her food. It is in his house, too, thatshe lives--Crudge's Folly, that was his name for it, and the nameclings. But, none the less, she is the wife of John;" and with littlemore persuasion Mr. Wyeth told me the story. 

"It is the story of a sacrifice, " he began, "mad or great, as youplease; but, mark you, it achieved its end. As a boy, I witnessed itfrom its beginnings. For it was at this very door that Robert Lovyesrapped when he first landed on Tresco on the night of the seventh ofMay twenty-two years ago, and I was here on my holidays at the time. Ihad been out that day in my father's lugger to the Poul, which isthe best fishing-ground anywhere near Scilly, and the fog took us, Iremember, at three of the afternoon. So what with that and the windfailing, it was late when we cast anchor in Grimsey Sound. The nighthad fallen in a brown mirk, and so still that the sound of our feetbrushing through the ferns was loud, like the sweep of scythes. We satdown to supper in this kitchen about nine, my mother, my father, twomen from the boat, and myself, and after supper we gathered about thefire here and talked. The talk in these parts, however it may begin, slides insensibly to that one element of which the noise is ever inour ears; and so in a little here were we chattering of wrecks andwrecks and wrecks and the bodies of dead men drowned. And then, in thethick of the talk, came the knock on the door--a light rapping of theknuckles, such as one hears twenty times a day; but our minds wereso primed with old wives' tales that it fairly shook us all. No onestirred, and the knocking was repeated. 

"Then the latch was lifted, and Robert Lovyes stepped in. His beardwas black then--coal black, like his hair--and his face looked outfrom it pale as a ghost and shining wet from the sea. The waterdripped from his clothes and made a puddle about his feet. 

"'How often did I knock?' he asked pleasantly. 'Twice, I think. Yes, twice. '

"Then he sat down on the settle, very deliberately pulled off hisgreat sea-boots, and emptied the water out of them. 

"'What island is this?' he asked. 

"'Tresco. '

"'Tresco!' he exclaimed, in a quick, agitated whisper, as though hedreaded yet expected to hear the name. 'We were wrecked, then, on theGolden Ball. '

"'Wrecked?' cried my father; but the man went on pursuing his ownthoughts. 

"'I swam to an islet. '

"'It would be Norwithel, ' said my father. 

"'Yes, ' said he, 'it would be Norwithel. ' And my mother askedcuriously--

"'You know these islands?' For his speech was leisurely and delicate, such as we heard neither from Scillonians nor from the sailors whovisit St. Mary's. 

"'Yes, ' he answered, his face breaking into a smile of unexpectedsoftness, 'I know these islands. From Rosevean to Ganilly, fromPeninnis Head to Maiden Bower: I know them well. '"

 * * * * *

At this point Mr. Wyeth broke off his story, and crossing to thewindow, opened it. "Listen!" he said. I heard as it were the sound ofinnumerable voices chattering and murmuring and whispering in somemysterious language, and at times the voices blended and the murmursbecame a single moan. 

"It is the tide making on the Golden Ball, " said Mr. Wyeth. "The reefstretches seawards from St. Helen's island and half way across theSound. You may see it at low tide, a ledge level as a paved causeway, and God help the ship that strikes on it!"

Even while he spoke, from these undertones of sound there swelledsuddenly a great booming like a battery of cannon. 

"It is the ledge cracking, " said Mr. Wyeth, "and it cracks in thecalmest weather. " With that, he closed the window, and, lighting hispipe, resumed his story. 

 * * * * *

"It was on that reef that Mr. Robert Lovyes was wrecked. The ship, hetold us, was the schooner _Waking Dawn_, bound from Cardiff to Africa, and she had run into the fog about half-past three, when they were amile short of the Seven Stones. She bumped twice on the reef, and sankimmediately, with, so far as he knew, all her crew. 

"'So now, ' Robert continued, tapping his belt, 'since I have the meansto pay, I will make bold to ask for a lodging, and for this night Iwill hang up here my dripping garments to Neptune. '

 "'Me tabula sacer Votiva paries--'

"I began in the pride of my schooling, for I had learned that verse ofHorace but a week before. 

"'This, no doubt, is the Cornish tongue, ' he interrupted gravely, 'andwill you please to carry my boots outside?'

"What followed seemed to me then the strangest part of all thisbusiness, though, indeed, our sea-fogs come and go as often as notwith a like abruptness. But the time of this fog's dispersion shockedthe mind as something pitiless and arbitrary. For had the air clearedan hour before, the _Waking Dawn_ would not have struck. I opened thedoor, and it was as though a panel of brilliant white was of a suddenpainted on the floor. Robert Lovyes sprang up from the settle, ranpast me into the open, and stood on the bracken in his stockingedfeet. A little patch of fog still smoked on the shining beach of Tean;a scarf of it was twisted about the granite bosses of St. Helen's; andfor the rest the moonlight sparkled upon the headlands and was spilledacross miles of placid sea. There was a froth of water upon the GoldenBall, but no sign of the schooner sunk among its weeds. 

"My father, however, and the two boatmen hurried down to the shore, while I was despatched with the news to Merchant's Point. My motherasked Mr. Lovyes his name, that I might carry it with me. But he spokein a dreamy voice, as though he had not heard her. 

"'There were eight of the crew. Four were below, and I doubt if thefour on deck could swim. '

"I ran off on my errand, and, coming back a little later with a bottleof cordial waters, found Mr. Lovyes still standing in the moonlight. He seemed not to have moved a finger. I gave him the bottle, with amessage that any who were rescued should be carried to Merchant'sPoint forthwith, and that he himself should go down there in themorning. 

"'Who taught you Latin?' he asked suddenly. 

"'Mrs. Lovyes taught me the rudiments, ' I began; and with that he ledme on to talk of her, but with some cunning. For now he would divertme to another topic and again bring me back to her, so that it allseemed the vagrancies of a boy's inconsequent chatter. 

"Mrs. Lovyes, who was remotely akin to the Lord Proprietor, had cometo Tresco three years before, immediately after her marriage, and, itwas understood, at her husband's wish. I talked of her readily, for, apart from what I owed to her bounty, she was a woman most sure toengage the affections of any boy. For one thing she was past heryouth, being thirty years of age, tall, with eyes of the kindliestgrey, and she bore herself in everything with a tender toleration, like a woman that has suffered much. 

"Of the other topics of this conversation there was one which later Ihad good reason to remember. We had caught a shark twelve feet long atthe Poul that day, and the shark fairly divided my thoughts with Mrs. Lovyes. 

"'You bleed a fish first into the sea, ' I explained. 'Then you baitwith a chad's head, and let your line down a couple of fathoms. Youcan see your bait quite clearly, and you wait. '

"'No doubt, ' said Robert; 'you wait. '

"'In a while, ' said I, 'a dim lilac shadow floats through the clearwater, and after a little you catch a glimpse of a forked tail andwaving fins and an evil devil's head. The fish smells at the bait andsinks again to a lilac shadow--perhaps out of sight; and again itrises. The shadow becomes a fish, the fish goes circling round yourboat, and it may be a long while before he turns on his back andrushes at the bait. '

"'And as like as not, he carries the bait and line away. "

"'That depends upon how quick you are with the gaff, ' said I. ' Herecomes my father. '

"My father returned empty-handed. Not one of the crew had been saved. 

"'You asked my name, ' said Robert Lovyes, turning to my mother. 'It isCrudge--Jarvis Crudge. ' With that he went to his bed, but all nightlong I heard him pacing his room. 

"The next morning he complained of his long immersion in the sea, andcertainly when he told his story to Mr. And Mrs. Lovyes as they satover their breakfast in the parlour at Merchant's Point, he spoke withsuch huskiness as I never heard the like of. Mr. Lovyes took littleheed to us, but went on eating his breakfast with only a sour commenthere and there. I noticed, however, that Mrs. Lovyes, who sat overagainst us, bent her head forward and once or twice shook it as thoughshe would unseat some ridiculous conviction. And after the story wastold, she sat with no word of kindness for Mr. Crudge, and, what wasyet more unlike her, no word of pity for the sailors who were lost. Then she rose and stood, steadying herself with the tips of herfingers upon the table. Finally she came swiftly across the room andpeered into Mr. Crudge's face. 

"'If you need help, ' she said, 'I will gladly furnish it. No doubt youwill be anxious to go from Tresco at the earliest. No doubt, no doubtyou will, ' she repeated anxiously. 

"'Madame, ' he said, 'I need no help, being by God's leave a man'--andhe laid some stress upon the 'man, ' but not boastfully--rather asthough all _women_ did, or might need help, by the mere circumstanceof their sex--'and as for going hence, why yesterday I was bound forAfrica. I sailed unexpectedly into a fog off Scilly. I was wrecked ina calm sea on the Golden Ball--I was thrown up on Tresco--no oneon that ship escaped but myself. No sooner was I safe than the foglifted---'

"'You will stay?' Mrs. Lovyes interrupted. 'No?'

"'Yes, ' said he, 'Jarvis Grudge will stay. '

"And she turned thoughtfully away. But I caught a glimpse of her faceas we went out, and it wore the saddest smile a man could see. 

"Mr. Grudge and I walked for a while in silence. 

"'And what sort of a name has Mr. John Lovyes in these parts?' heasked. 

"'An honest sort, ' said I emphatically--'the name of a man who loveshis wife. '

"'Or her money, ' he sneered. 'Bah! a surly ill-conditioned dog, I'llwarrant, the curmudgeon!"

"'You are marvellously recovered of your cold, ' said I. 

"He stopped, and looked across the Sound. Then he said in a soft, musing voice: 'I once knew just such another clever boy. He was soclever that men beat him with sticks and put on great sea-boots tokick him with, so that he lived a miserable life, and was subsequentlyhanged in great agony at Tyburn. '

"Mr. Grudge, as he styled himself, stayed with us for a week, duringwhich time he sailed much with me about these islands; and I made adiscovery. Though he knew these islands so well, he had never visitedthem before, and his knowledge was all hearsay. I did not mention mydiscovery to him, lest I should meet with another rebuff. But I wasnone the less sure of its truth, for he mistook Hanjague for Nornor, and Priglis Bay for Beady Pool, and made a number of suchlikemistakes. After a week he hired the cottage in which he now lives, bought his boat, leased from the steward the patch of ground inDolphin Town, and set about building his house. He undertook the work, I am sure, for pure employment and distraction. He picked up thegranite stones, fitted them together, panelled them, made the floorsfrom the deck of a brigantine which came ashore on Annet, pegged downthe thatch roof--in a word, he built the house from first to last withhis own hands and he took fifteen months over the business, duringwhich time he did not exchange a single word with Mrs. Lovyes, noranything more than a short 'Good-day' with Mr. John. He worked, however, with no great regularity. For while now he laboured in afeverish haste, now he would sit a whole day idle on the headlands;or, again, he would of a sudden throw down his tools as though thework overtaxed him, and, leaping into his boat, set all sail andrun with the wind. All that night you might see him sailing in themoonlight, and he would come home in the flush of the dawn. 

"After he had built the house, he furnished it, crossing for thatpurpose backwards and forwards between Tresco and St. Mary's. Iremember that one day he brought back with him a large chest, and Ioffered to lend him a hand in carrying it. But he hoisted it on hisback and took it no farther than the cottage in which he lived, whereit remained locked with a padlock. 

"Towards Christmas-time, then, the house was ready, but to oursurprise he did not move into it. He seemed, indeed, of a sudden, tohave lost all liking for it, and whether it was that he had no longerany work upon his hands, he took to following Mrs. Lovyes about, butin a way that was unnoticeable unless you had other reasons to suspectthat his thoughts were following her. 

"His conduct in this respect was particularly brought home to me onChristmas Day. The afternoon was warm and sunny, and I walked over thehill at Merchant's Point, meaning to bathe in the little sequesteredbay beyond. From the top of the hill I saw Mrs. Lovyes walking alongthe strip of beach alone, and as I descended the hill-side, whichis very deep in fern and heather, I came plump upon Jarvis Grudge, stretched full-length on the ground. He was watching Mrs. Lovyes withso greedy a concentration of his senses that he did not remark myapproach. I asked him when he meant to enter his new house. 

"'I do not know that I ever shall, ' he replied. 

"'Then why did you build it?' I asked. 

"'Because I was a fool!' and then he burst out in a passionatewhisper. 'But a fool I was to stay here, and a fool's trick it wasto build that house!' He shook his fist in its direction. 'Call itGrudge's Folly, and there's the name for it!' and with that he turnedhim again to spying upon Mrs. Lovyes. 

"After a while he spoke again, but slowly and with his eyes fixed uponthe figure moving upon the beach. 

"'Do you remember the night I came ashore? You had caught a shark thatday, and you told me of it. The great lilac shadow which rises fromthe depths and circles about the bait, and sinks again and rises againand takes--how long?--two years maybe before he snaps it. '

"'But he does not carry it away, ' said I, taking his meaning. 

"'Sometimes--sometimes, " he snarled. 

"'That depends on how quick we are with the gaff. "

"'You!' he laughed, and taking me by the elbows, he shook me till Iwas giddy. 

"'I owe Mrs. Lovyes everything, ' I said. At that he let me go. Theferocity of his manner, however, confirmed me in my fears, and, with aboy's extravagance, I carried from that day a big knife in my belt. 

"'The gaff, I suppose, ' said Mr. Grudge with a polite smile whenfirst he remarked it. During the next week, however, he showed morecontentment with his lot, and once I caught him rubbing his hands andchuckling, like a man well pleased; so that by New Year's Eve I waswellnigh relieved of my anxiety on Mrs. Lovyes' account. 

"On that night, however, I went down to Grudge's cottage, and peepingthrough the window on my way to the door, I saw a strange man in theroom. His face was clean-shaven, his hair tied back and powdered; hewas in his shirt-sleeves, with a satin waistcoat, a sword at his side, and shining buckles to his shoes. Then I saw that the big chest stoodopen. I opened the door and entered. 

"'Come in!' said the man, and from his voice I knew him to be Mr. Crudge. He took a candle in his hand and held it above his head. 

"'Tell me my name, ' he said. His face, shaved of its beard and nolonger hidden by his hair, stood out distinct, unmistakable. 

"'Lovyes, ' I answered. 

"'Good boy, ' said he. 'Robert Lovyes, brother to John. '

"'Yet he did not know you, ' said I, though, indeed, I could notwonder. 

"'But she did, ' he cried, with a savage exultation. 'At the firstglance, at the first word, she knew me. ' Then, quietly, 'My coat is onthe chair beside you. '

"I took it up. 'What do you mean to do?' I asked. 

"'It is New Year's Eve, ' he said grimly. 'The season of good wishes. It is only meet that I should wish my brother, who stole my wife, muchhappiness for the next twelve months. '

"He took the coat from my hands. 

"'You admire the coat? Ah! true, the colour is lilac. ' He held it outat arm's length. Doubtless I had been staring at the coat, but I hadnot even given it a thought. 'The lilac shadow!' he went on, with asneer. 'Believe me, it is the purest coincidence. ' And as he preparedto slip his arm into the sleeve I flashed the knife out of my belt. Hewas too quick for me, however. He flung the coat over my head. I feltthe knife twisted out of my hand; he stumbled over the chair; we bothfell to the ground, and the next thing I know I was running over thebracken towards Merchant's Point with Robert Lovyes hot upon my heels. He was of a heavy build, and forty years of age. I had the doubleadvantage, and I ran till my chest cracked and the stars danced aboveme. I clanged at the bell and stumbled into the hall. 

"'Mrs. Lovyes!' I choked the name out as she stepped from the parlour. 

"'Well?' she asked. 'What is it?'

"'He is following--Robert Lovyes!'

"She sprang rigid, as though I had whipped her across the face. Then, 'I knew it would come to this at the last, ' she said; and even as shespoke Robert Lovyes crossed the threshold. 

"'Molly, ' he said, and looked at her curiously. She stood singularlypassive, twisting her fingers. 'I hardly know you, ' he continued. 'Inthe old days you were the wilfullest girl I ever clapped eyes on. '

"'That was thirteen years ago, ' she said, with a queer little laugh atthe recollection. 

"He took her by the hand and led her into the parlour. I followed. Neither Mrs. Lovyes nor Robert remarked my presence, and as for JohnLovyes, he rose from his chair as the pair approached him, stretchedout a trembling hand, drew it in, stretched it out again, all withouta word, and his face purple and ridged with the veins. 

"'Brother, ' said Robert, taking between his fingers half a gold coin, which was threaded on a chain about Mrs. Lovyes' wrist, 'where is thefellow to this? I gave it to you on the Gambia river, bidding youcarry it to Molly as a sign that I would return. '

"I saw John's face harden and set at the sound of his brother's voice. He looked at his wife, and, since she now knew the truth, he took thebold course. 

"'I gave it to her, ' said he, 'as a token of your death; and, by God!she was worth the lie!'

"The two men faced one another--Robert smoothing his chin, John withhis arms folded, and each as white and ugly with passion as the other. Robert turned to Mrs. Lovyes, who stood like a stone. 

"'You promised to wait, ' he said in a constrained voice. 'I escapedsix years after my noble brother. '

"'Six years?' she asked. 'Had you come back then you would have foundme waiting. '

"'I could not, ' he said. 'A fortune equal to your own--that was what Ipromised to myself before I returned to marry you. '

"'And much good it has done you, ' said John, and I think that he meantby the provocation to bring the matter to an immediate issue. 'Pride, pride!' and he wagged his head. 'Sinful pride!'

"Robert sprang forward with an oath, and then, as though the movementhad awakened her, Mrs. Lovyes stepped in between the two men, with anarm outstretched on either side to keep them apart. 

"'Wait!' she said. 'For what is it that you fight? Not, indeed, forme. To you, my husband, I will no more belong; to you, my lover, Icannot. My woman's pride, my woman's honour--those two things are mineto keep. '

"So she stood casting about for an issue, while the brothers gloweredat one another across her. It was evident that if she left them alonethey would fight, and fight to the death. She turned to Robert. 

"'You meant to live on Tresco here at my gates, unknown to me; but youcould not. '

"'I could not, ' he answered. 'In the old days you had spoken so muchof Scilly--every island reminded me--and I saw you every day. '

"I could read the thought passing through her mind. It would not servefor her to live beside them, visible to them each day. Sooner or laterthey would come to grips. And then her face flushed as the notion ofher great sacrifice came to her. 

"'I see but the one way, ' she said. 'I will go into the house thatyou, Robert, have built. Neither you nor John shall see me, but nonethe less, I shall live between you, holding you apart, as my hands donow. I give my life to you so truly that from this night no one shallsee my face. You, John, shall live on here at Merchant's Point. Robert, you at your cottage, and every day you will bring me food andwater and leave it at my door. '

"The two men fell back shamefaced. They protested they would part andput the world between them; but she would not trust them. I think, too, the notion of her sacrifice grew on her as she thought of it. Forwomen are tenacious of sacrifice even as men are of revenge. And inthe end she had her way. That night Robert Lovyes nailed the boardsacross the windows, and brought the door-key back to her; and thatnight, twenty years ago, she crossed the threshold. No man has seenher since. But, none the less, for twenty years she has lived betweenthe brothers, keeping them apart. "

This was the story which Mr. Wyeth told me as we sat over ourpipes, and the next day I set off on my journey back to London. Theconclusion of the affair I witnessed myself. For a year later wereceived a letter from Mr. Robert, asking that a large sum of moneyshould be forwarded to him. Being curious to learn the reason for hisdemand, I carried the sum to Tresco myself. Mr. John Lovyes had died amonth before, and I reached the island on Mr. Robert's wedding-day. I was present at the ceremony. He was now dressed in a manner whichbefitted his station--an old man bent and bowed, but still handsome, and he bore upon his arm a tall woman, grey-haired and very pale, yetwith the traces of great beauty. As the parson laid her hand in herhusband's, I heard her whisper to him, "Dust to Dust. "

KEEPER OF THE BISHOP. 

For a fortnight out of every six weeks the little white faced manwalked the garrison on St. Mary's Island in a broadcloth frock-coat, a low waistcoat and a black riband of a tie fastened in a bow; and itgave him great pleasure to be mistaken for a commercial traveller. Butduring the other four weeks he was head-keeper of the lighthouse onthe Bishop's Rock, with thirty years of exemplary service to hiscredit. By what circumstances he had been brought to enlist under theTrinity flag I never knew. But now, at the age of forty-eight he wasentirely occupied with a great horror of the sea and its hunger forthe bodies of men; the frock-coat which he wore during his spells onshore was a protest against the sea; and he hated not only the sea butall things that were in the sea, especially rock lighthouses, and ofall rock lighthouses especially the Bishop. 

"The Atlantic's as smooth as a ballroom floor, " said he. It was aclear, still day and we were sitting among the gorse on the top of thegarrison, looking down the sea towards the west. Five miles from theScillies, the thin column of the Bishop showed like a cord strungtight in the sky. "But out there all round the lighthouse there areeddies twisting and twisting, without any noise, and extraordinaryquick, and every other second, now here, now there, you'll notice thesea dimple, and you'll hear a sound like a man hiccoughing, and all atonce, there's a wicked black whirlpool. The tide runs seven miles anhour past the Bishop. But in another year I have done with her. " Toher Garstin nodded across from St. Mary's to that grey finger post ofthe Atlantic. "One more winter, well, very likely during this one morewinter the Bishop will go--on some night when a storm blows from westor west-nor'west and the Irish coast takes none of its strength. "

He was only uttering the current belief of the islands. The firstBishop lighthouse had been swept away before its building wasfinished, and though the second stood, a fog bell weighing no lessthan a ton, and fixed ninety feet above the water, had been liftedfrom its fittings by a single wave, and tossed like a tennis-ball intothe sea. I asked Garstin whether he had been stationed on the rock atthe time. 

"People talk of lightships plunging and tugging at their cables, " hereturned. "Well, I've tried lightships, and what I say is, ships arebuilt to plunge and tug at their cables. That's their business. But itisn't the business of one hundred and twenty upright feet of graniteto quiver and tremble like a steel spring. No, I wasn't on the Bishopwhen the bell went. But I was there when a wave climbed up from thebase of the rock and smashed in the glass wall of the lantern, and putthe light out. That was last spring at four o'clock in the morning. The day was breaking very cold and wild, and one could just see thewaves below, a lashing tumble of grey and white water as far as theeye could reach. I was in the lantern reading 'It's never too late tomend. ' I had come to where the chaplain knocks down the warder, and Iwas thinking how I'd like to have a go at that warder myself, when allthe guns in the world went off together in my ears. And there I wasdripping wet, and fairly sliced with splinters of glass, and the windblowing wet in my face, and the lamp out, and a bitter grey light ofmorning, as though there never, never had been any sun, and all thedead men in the sea shouting out for me one hundred feet below, " andGarstin shivered, and rose to his feet. "Well, I have only one morewinter of it. "

"And then?" I asked. 

"Then I get the North Foreland, and the trippers come out fromMargate, and I live on shore with my wife and--By the way, I wanted tospeak to you about my boy. He's getting up in years. What shall I makeof him? A linen-draper, eh? In the Midlands, what? or something in aFree Library, handing out Charles Reade's books? He's at home now. Come and see him!"

In Garstin's quarters, within the coastguard enclosure, I wasintroduced to his wife and the lad, Leopold. "What shall we call him?"Mrs. Garstin had asked, some fifteen years before. "I don't know anyseafaring man by the name of Leopold, " Garstin had replied, after amoment of reflection. So Leopold he was named. 

Mrs. Garstin was a buxom, unimaginative woman, but she shared to thefull her husband's horror of the sea. She told me of nights when shelay alone listening to the moan of the wind overhead, and seeing thecolumn of the Bishop rock upon its base, and of mornings when sheclimbed from the sheltered barracks up the gorse, with her hearttugging in her breast, certain, certain that this morning, at least, there would be no Bishop lighthouse visible from the top of thegarrison. 

"It seems a sort of insult to the works of God, " said she, in a hushedvoice. "It seems as if it stood up there in God's face and cried, 'Youcan't hurt me!'"

"Yes, most presumptuous and provoking, " said Garstin; and so they fellto talking of the boy, who, at all events, should fulfil hisdestiny very far inland from the sea. Mrs. Garstin leaned to thelinen-drapery; Garstin inclined to the free library. 

"Well, I will come down to the North Foreland, " said I, "and you shalltell me which way it is. "

"Yes, if--" said Garstin, and stopped. 

"Yes, if--" repeated his wife, with a nod of the head. 

"Oh! it won't go this winter, " said I. 

And it didn't. But, on the other hand, Garstin did not go to the NorthForeland, nor for two years did I hear any more of him. But two yearslater I returned to St. Mary's and walked across the beach of theisland to the little graveyard by the sea. A new tablet upon the outerwall of the church caught and held my eye. I read the inscription andremained incredulous. For the Bishop still stood. But the letters werethere engraved upon the plate, and as I read them again, the futilityof Garstin's fears was enforced upon me with a singular pathos. 

For the Bishop still stood and Garstin had died on the Christmas Eveof that last year which he was to spend upon rock lighthouses. Of howhe died the tablet gave a hint, but no more than a hint. There werefour words inscribed underneath his name:

 "And he was not. "

I walked back to Hugh Town, wondering at the tragedy which those fourwords half hid and half revealed, and remembering that the tide runsseven miles an hour past the Bishop, with many eddies and whirlpools. Almost unconsciously I went up the hill above Hugh Town and came tothe signal station on the top of the garrison. And so occupied was Iwith my recollections of Garstin that it did not strike me as strangethat I should find Mrs. Garstin standing now where he had stood andlooking out to the Bishop as he was used to look. 

"I had not heard, " I said to her. 

"No?" she returned simply, and again turned her eyes seawards. It waslate on a midsummer afternoon. The sun hung a foot or so above thewater, a huge ball of dull red fire, and from St. Mary's out to thehorizon's rim the sea stretched a rippling lagoon of the colour ofclaret. Over the whole expanse there was but one boat visible, alugger, between Sennen and St. Agnes, beating homewards against alight wind. 

"It was a storm, I suppose, " said I. "A storm out of the west?"

"No. There was no wind, but--there was a haze, and it was growingdark. " Mrs. Garstin spoke in a peculiar tone of resignation, with ayearning glance towards the Bishop as I thought, towards the lugger asI know. But even then I was sure that those last words: "There was ahaze and it was growing dark, " concealed the heart of her distress. She explained the inscription upon the tablet, while the lugger tackedtowards St. Mary's, and while I gradually began to wonder what stillkept her on the island. 

At four o'clock on the afternoon of that Christmas Eve, the lighthouseon St. Agnes' Island showed its lamps; five minutes later the redbeams struck out from Round Island to the north; but to the west onthe Bishop all was dark. The haze thickened, and night came on; stillthere was no flash from the Bishop, and the islands wondered. Half anhour passed; there was still darkness in the west, and the islandsbecame alarmed. The Trinity Brethren subsidise a St. Agnes' lugger toserve the Bishop, and this boat was got ready. At a quarter to fivesuddenly the Bishop light shot through the gloom, but immediatelyafter a shutter was interposed quickly some half-a-dozen times. It wasthe signal of distress, and the lugger worked out to the Bishop withthe tide. Of the three keepers there were now only two. 

It appeared from their account that Garstin took the middle day watch, that they themselves were asleep, and that Garstin should have rousedthem to light the lamps at a quarter to four. They woke of their ownaccord in the dark, and at once believed they had slept into thenight. The clock showed them it was half-past four. They mounted tothe lantern room, and nowhere was there any sign of Garstin. They litthe lamps. The first thing they saw was the log. It was open and thelast entry was written in Garstin's hand and was timed 3. 40 P. M. Itmentioned a ketch reaching northwards. The two men descended thewinding-stairs, and the cold air breathed upon their faces. The brassdoor at the foot of the stairs stood open. From that door thirty feetof gun-metal rungs let in to the outside of the lighthouse lead downto the set-off, which is a granite rim less than a yard wide, andunprotected by any rail. They shouted downwards from the doorway, and received no answer. They descended to the set-off, and again noGarstin, not even his cap. He was not. 

Garstin had entered up the log, had climbed down to the set-off forfive minutes of fresh air, and somehow had slipped, though the windwas light and the sea whispering. But the whispering sea ran sevenmiles an hour past the Bishop. 

This was Mrs. Garstin's story and it left me still wondering why shelived on at St. Mary's. I asked after her son. 

"How is Leopold? What is he--a linen-draper?" She shaded her eyes withher hand and said:

"That's the St. Agnes' lugger from the Bishop, and if we go down tothe pier now we shall meet it. "

We walked down to the pier. The first person to step on shore wasLeopold, with the Trinity House buttons on his pilot coat. 

"He's the third hand on the Bishop now, " said Mrs. Garstin. "You aresurprised?" She sent Leopold into Hugh Town upon an errand, and as wewalked back up the hill she said: "Did you notice a grave underneathJohn's tablet?"

"No, " said I. 

"I told you there was a mention in the log of a ketch. "

"Yes. "

"The ketch went ashore on the Crebinachs at half-past four on thatChristmas Eve. One man jumped for the rocks when the ketch struck, andwas drowned. The rest were brought off by the lugger. But one man wasdrowned. "

"He drowned because he jumped, " said I. 

"He drowned because my man hadn't lit the Bishop light, " said she, brushing my sophistry aside. "So I gave my boy in his place. "

And now I knew why those words--"There was a haze and it was growingdark"--held the heart of her distress. 

"And if the Bishop goes next winter, " she continued, "why, it willjust be a life for a life;" and she choked down a sob as a young voicehailed us from behind. 

But the Bishop still stands in the Atlantic, and Leopold, now thesecond hand, explains to the Margate trippers the wonders of the NorthForeland lights. 

THE CRUISE OF THE "WILLING MIND. "

The cruise happened before the steam-trawler ousted the smack from theNorth Sea. A few newspapers recorded it in half-a-dozen lines ofsmall print which nobody read. But it became and--though nowadays the_Willing Mind_ rots from month to month by the quay--remains stapletalk at Gorleston ale-houses on winter nights. 

The crew consisted of Weeks, three fairly competent hands, and abaker's assistant, when the _Willing Mind_ slipped out of Yarmouth. Alexander Duncan, the photographer from Derby, joined the smackafterwards under peculiar circumstances. Duncan was a timid person, but aware of his timidity. He was quite clear that his paramountbusiness was to be a man; and he was equally clear that he was notsuccessful in his paramount business. Meanwhile he pretended to be, hoping that on some miraculous day a sudden test would prove the strawman he was to have become real flesh and blood. A visit to a surgeonand the flick of a knife quite shattered that illusion. He wentdown to Yarmouth afterwards, fairly disheartened. The test had beenapplied, and he had failed. 

Now, Weeks was a particular friend of Duncan's. They had chummedtogether on Gorleston Quay some years before, perhaps because theywere so dissimilar. Weeks had taught Duncan to sail a boat, and hadonce or twice taken him for a short trip on his smack; so that thefirst thing that Duncan did on his arrival at Yarmouth was to take thetram to Gorleston and to make inquiries. 

A fisherman lounging against a winch replied to them---

"If Weeks is a friend o' yours I should get used to missin' 'im, as Itell his wife. "

There was at that time an ingenious system by which the skipper mightbuy his smack from the owner on the instalment plan--as people buytheir furniture--only with a difference: for people sometimes gettheir furniture. The instalments had to be completed within a certainperiod. The skipper could do it--he could just do it; but he couldn'tdo it without running up one little bill here for stores, and anotherlittle bill there for sail-mending. The owner worked in with thesail-maker, and just as the skipper was putting out to earn his lastinstalment, he would find the bailiffs on board, his cruise would bedelayed, he would be, consequently, behindhand with his instalment andback would go the smack to the owner with a present of four-fifths ofits price. Weeks had to pay two hundred pounds, and had eight weeks toearn it in. But he got the straight tip that his sail-maker would stophim; and getting together any sort of crew he could, he slipped out atnight with half his stores. 

"Now the No'th Sea, " concluded the fisherman, "in November andDecember ain't a bobby's job. "

Duncan walked forward to the pier-head. He looked out at a greytumbled sky shutting down on a grey tumbled sea. There were flecks ofwhite cloud in the sky, flecks of white breakers on the sea, and itwas all most dreary. He stood at the end of the jetty, and his greatpossibility came out of the grey to him. Weeks was shorthanded. Cribbed within a few feet of the smack's deck, there would be nochance for any man to shirk. Duncan acted on the impulse. He bought afisherman's outfit at Gorleston, travelled up to London, got a passagethe next morning on a Billingsgate fish-carrier, and that night wentthrobbing down the great water street of the Swim, past the greenglobes of the Mouse. The four flashes of the Outer Gabbard winked himgood-bye away on the starboard, and at eleven o'clock the next nightfar out in the North Sea he saw the little city of lights swinging onthe Dogger. 

The _Willing Mind's_ boat came aboard the next morning and CaptainWeeks with it, who smiled grimly while Duncan explained how he hadlearnt that the smack was shorthanded. 

"I can't put you ashore in Denmark, " said Weeks knowingly. "There'llbe seven weeks, it's true, for things to blow over; but I'll have totake you back to Yarmouth. And I can't afford a passenger. If youcome, you come as a hand. I mean to own my smack at the end of thisvoyage. "

Duncan climbed after him into the boat. The _Willing Mind_ had nowsix for her crew, Weeks; his son Willie, a lad of sixteen; Upton, the first hand; Deakin, the decky; Rall, the baker's assistant, andAlexander Duncan. And of these six four were almost competent. Deakin, it is true, was making his second voyage; but Willie Weeks, thoughyoung, had begun early; and Upton, a man of forty, knew the banks andcurrents of the North Sea as well as Weeks. 

"It's all right, " said the skipper, "if the weather holds. " And fora month the weather did hold, and the catches were good, and Duncanlearned a great deal. He learnt how to keep a night-watch frommidnight till eight in the morning, and then stay on deck till noon;how to put his tiller up and down when his tiller was a wheel, and howto vary the order according as his skipper stood to windward or tolee; he learnt to box a compass and to steer by it; to gauge theleeway he was making by the angle of his wake and the black line inthe compass; above all, he learnt to love the boat like a live thing, as a man loves his horse, and to want every scanty inch of brass onher to shine. 

But it was not for this that Duncan had come out to sea. He gazed outat night across the rippling starlit water, and the smacks nestlingupon it, and asked of his God: "Is this all?" And his God answeredhim. 

The beginning of it was the sudden looming of ships upon the horizon, very clear, till they looked like carved toys. The skipper got out hisaccounts and totted up his catches, and the prices they had fetchedin Billingsgate Market. Then he went on deck and watched the sun set. There were no cloud-banks in the west, and he shook his head. 

"It'll blow a bit from the east before morning, " said he, and hetapped on the barometer. Then he returned to his accounts and addedthem up again. After a little he looked up, and saw the first handwatching him with comprehension. 

"Two or three really good hauls would do the trick, " suggested Weeks. 

The first hand nodded. "If it was my boat I should chance it to-morrowbefore the weather blows up. "

Weeks drummed his fists on the table and agreed. 

On the morrow the Admiral headed north for the Great Fisher Bank, andthe fleet followed, with the exception of the _Willing Mind_. The_Willing Mind_ lagged along in the rear without her topsails tillabout half-past two in the afternoon, when Captain Weeks becamesuddenly alert. He bore away till he was right before the wind, hoisted every scrap of sail he could carry, rigged out a spinnakerwith his balloon fore-sail, and made a clean run for the coast ofDenmark. Deakin explained the manoeuvre to Duncan. "The old man'sgoin' poachin'. He's after soles. "

"Keep a look-out, lads!" cried Weeks. "It's not the Danish gun-boatI'm afraid of; it's the fatherly English cruiser a-turning of usback. "

Darkness, however, found them unmolested. They crossed the three-milelimit at eight o'clock, and crept close in under the Danish headlandswithout a glimmer of light showing. 

"I want all hands all night, " said Weeks; "and there's a couple ofpounds for him as first see the bogey-man. "

"Meaning the Danish gun-boat, " explained Deakin. 

The trawl was down before nine. The skipper stood by his lead. Uptontook the wheel, and all night they trawled in the shallows, bumping onthe grounds, with a sharp eye for the Danish gun-boat. They hauled inat twelve and again at three and again at six, and they had just gottheir last catch on deck when Duncan saw by the first grey of themorning a dun-coloured trail of smoke hanging over a projecting knoll. 

"There she is!" he cried. 

"Yes, that's the gun-boat, " answered Weeks. "We can laugh at her withthis wind. "

He put his smack about, and before the gun-boat puffed round theheadland, three miles away, was reaching northwards with his sailsfree. He rejoined the fleet that afternoon. "Fifty-two boxes ofsoles!" said Weeks. "And every one of them worth two-pound-ten inBillingsgate Market. This smack's mine!" and he stamped on the deck inall the pride of ownership. "We'll take a reef in, " he added. "There'sa no'th-easterly gale blowin' up and I don't know anything worse inthe No'th Sea. The sea piles in upon you from Newfoundland, piles intill it strikes the banks. Then it breaks. You were right, Upton;we'll be lying hove-to in the morning. "

They were lying hove-to before the morning. Duncan, tossing aboutin his canvas cot, heard the skipper stamping overhead, and in aninterval of the wind caught a snatch of song bawled out in a highvoice. The song was not reassuring, for the two lines which Duncancaught ran as follows--

 You never can tell when your death-bells are ringing, Your never can know when you're going to die. 

Duncan tumbled on to the floor, fell about the cabin as he pulledon his sea-boots and climbed up the companion. He clung to themizzen-runners in a night of extraordinary blackness. To port and tostarboard the lights of the smacks rose on the crests and sank in thetroughs, with such violence they had the air of being tossed up intothe sky and then extinguished in the water; while all round him thereflashed little points of white which suddenly lengthened out intoa horizontal line. There was one quite close to the quarter of the_Willing Mind_. It stretched about the height of the gaff in a line ofwhite. The line suddenly descended towards him and became a sheet; andthen a voice bawled, "Water! Jump! Down the companion! Jump!"

There was a scamper of heavy boots, and a roar of water plunging overthe bulwarks, as though so many loads of wood had been dropped on thedeck. Duncan jumped for the cabin. Weeks and the mate jumped the nextsecond and the water sluiced down after them, put out the fire, andwashed them, choking and wrestling, about on the cabin floor. Weekswas the first to disentangle himself, and he turned fiercely onDuncan. 

"What were you doing on deck? Upton and I keep the watch to-night. Youstay below, and, by God, I'll see you do it! I have fifty-two boxes ofsoles to put aboard the fish-cutter in the morning, and I'm not goingto lose lives before I do that! This smack's mine!"

Captain Weeks was transformed into a savage animal fighting for hisown. All night he and the mate stood on the deck and plunged down theopen companion with a torrent of water to hurry them. All night Duncanlay in his bunk listening to the bellowing of the wind, the greatthuds of solid green wave on the deck, the horrid rush and roaring ofthe seas as they broke loose to leeward from under the smack's keel. And he listened to something more--the whimpering of the baker'sassistant in the next bunk. "Three inches of deck! What's the useof it! Lord ha' mercy on me, what's the use of it? No more than aneggshell! We'll be broken in afore morning, broken in like a man'sskull under a bludgeon.... I'm no sailor, I'm not; I'm a baker. Itisn't right I should die at sea!"

Duncan stopped his ears, and thought of the journey some one wouldhave to make to the fish-cutter in the morning. There were fifty-twoboxes of soles to be put aboard. 

He remembered the waves and the swirl of foam upon their crests andthe wind. Two men would be needed to row the boat, and the boat mustmake three trips. The skipper and the first hand had been on deck allnight. There remained four, or rather three, for the baker's assistanthad ceased to count--Willie Weeks, Deakin, and himself, not a greatnumber to choose from. He felt that he was within an ace of a panic, and not so far, after all, from that whimperer his neighbour. Two mento row the boat--two men! His hands clutched at the iron bar of hishammock; he closed his eyes tight; but the words were thundered out athim overhead, in the whistle of the wind, and slashed at him by thewater against the planks at his side. He found that his lips wereframing excuses. 

Duncan was on deck when the morning broke. It broke extraordinarilyslowly, a niggardly filtering of grey, sad light from the under edgeof the sea. The bare topmasts of the smacks showed one after theother. Duncan watched each boat as it came into view with a keensuspense. This was a ketch, and that, and that other, for there wasthe peak of its reefed mainsail just visible, like a bird's wing, andat last he saw it--the fish-cutter--lurching and rolling in the verymiddle of the fleet, whither she had crept up in the night. He staredat it; his belly was pinched with fear as a starveling's withhunger; and yet he was conscious that, in a way, he would have beendisappointed if it had not been there. 

"No other smack is shipping its fish, " quavered a voice at his elbow. It was the voice of the baker's assistant. 

"But this smack is, " replied Weeks, and he set his mouth hard. "And, what's more, my Willie is taking it aboard. Now, who'll go withWillie?"

"I will. "

Weeks swung round on Duncan and stared at him. Then he stared out tosea. Then he stared again at Duncan. 

"You?"

"When I shipped as a hand on the _Willing Mind_, I took all a hand'srisks. "

"And brought the willing mind, " said Weeks with a smile, "Go, then!Some one must go. Get the boat tackle ready, forward. Here, Willie, put your life-belt on. You, too, Duncan, though God knows life-beltswon't be of no manner of use; but they'll save your insurance. Steadywith the punt there! If it slips inboard off the rail there will be abroken back! And, Willie, don't get under the cutter's counter. She'llcome atop of you and smash you like an egg. I'll drop you as close asI can to windward, and pick you up as close as I can to leeward. "

The boat was dropped into the water and loaded up with fish-boxes. Duncan and Willie Weeks took their places, and the boat slid away intoa furrow. Duncan sat in the boat and rowed. Willie Weeks stood in thestern, facing him, and rowed and steered. 

"Water!" said Willie every now and then, and a wave curled over thebows and hit Duncan a stunning blow on the back. 

"Row, " said Willie, and Duncan rowed and rowed. His hands were ice, hesat in water ice-cold, and his body perspired beneath his oil-skins, but he rowed. Once, on the crest of a wave, Duncan looked out and sawbelow them the deck of a smack, and the crew looking upwards at themas though they were a horserace. "Row!" said Willie Weeks. Once, too, at the bottom of a slope down which they had bumped dizzily, Duncanagain looked out, and saw the spar of a mainmast tossing just over theedge of a grey roller. "Row, " said Weeks, and a moment later, "Shipyour oar!" and a rope caught him across the chest. 

They were alongside the cutter. 

Duncan made fast the rope. 

"Push her off!" suddenly cried Willie, and grasped an oar. But he wastoo late. The cutter's bulwarks swung down towards him, disappearedunder water, caught the punt fairly beneath the keel and scooped itclean on to the deck, cargo and crew. 

"And this is only the first trip!" said Willie. 

The two following trips, however, were made without accident. 

"Fifty-two boxes at two-pound-ten, " said Weeks, as the boat was swunginboard. "That's a hundred and four, and ten two's are twenty, andcarry two, and ten fives are fifty, and two carried, and twenties intothat makes twenty-six. One hundred and thirty pounds--this smack'smine, every rope on her. I tell you what, Duncan: you've done me agood turn to-day, and I'll do you another. I'll land you at Helsund, in Denmark, and you can get clear away. All we can do now is to lieout this gale. "

Before the afternoon the air was dark with a swither of foam and sprayblown off the waves in the thickness of a fog. The heavy bows ofthe smack beat into the seas with a thud and a hiss--the thud of asteam-hammer, the hiss of molten iron plunged into water; the wavesraced exultingly up to the bows from windward, and roared angrily awayin a spume of foam from the ship's keel to lee; and the thrumming andscreaming of the storm in the rigging exceeded all that Duncan hadever imagined. He clung to the stays appalled. This storm was surelythe perfect expression of anger, too persistent for mere fury. Thereseemed to be a definite aim of destruction, a deliberate attempt towear the boat down, in the steady follow of wave upon wave, and in thesteady volume of the wind. 

Captain Weeks, too, had lost all of a sudden all his exhilaration. Hestood moodily by Duncan's side, his mind evidently labouring likehis ship. He told Duncan stories which Duncan would rather not havelistened to, the story of the man who slipped as he stepped from thedeck into the punt, and weighted by his boots, had sunk down and downand down through the clearest, calmest water without a struggle; thestory of the punt which got its painter under its keel and drownedthree men; the story of the full-rigged ship which got driven acrossthe seven-fathom part of the Dogger--the part that looks like a man'sleg in the chart--and which was turned upside-down through the bankbreaking. The skipper and the mate got outside and clung to herbottom, and a steam-cutter tried to get them off, but smashed themboth with her iron counter instead. 

"Look!" said Weeks, gloomily pointing his finger. "I don't know whythat breaker didn't hit us. I don't know what we should have done ifit had. I can't think why it didn't hit us! Are you saved?"

Duncan was taken aback, and answered vaguely--"I hope so. "

"But you must know, " said Weeks, perplexed. The wind made atheological discussion difficult. Weeks curved his hand into atrumpet, and bawled into Duncan's ear: "You are either saved or notsaved! It's a thing one knows. You must know if you are saved, ifyou've felt the glow and illumination of it. " He suddenly broke offinto a shout of triumph: "But I got my fish on board the cutter. The_Willing Mind's_ the on'y boat that did. " Then he relapsed again intomelancholy: "But I'm troubled about the poachin'. The temptation wasgreat, but it wasn't right; and I'm not sure but what this storm ain'ta judgment. "

He was silent for a little, and then cheered up. "I tell you what. Since we're hove-to, we'll have a prayer-meeting in the cabin to-nightand smooth things over. "

The meeting was held after tea, by the light of a smokingparaffin-lamp with a broken chimney. The crew sat round and smoked, the companion was open, so that the swish of the water and the man ondeck alike joined in the hymns. Rail, the baker's assistant, who hadonce been a steady attendant at Revivalist meetings, led off with aMoody and Sankey hymn, and the crew followed, bawling at the top pitchof their lungs, with now and then some suggestion of a tune. Thelittle stuffy cabin rang with the noise. It burst upwards through thecompanion-way, loud and earnest and plaintive, and the winds caughtit and carried it over the water, a thin and appealing cry. After thehymn Weeks prayed aloud, and extempore and most seriously. Heprayed for each member of the crew by name, one by one, taking theopportunity to mention in detail each fault which he had had tocomplain of, and begging that the offender's chastisement might belight. Of Duncan he spoke in ambiguous terms. 

"O Lord!" he prayed, "a strange gentleman, Mr. Duncan, has comeamongst us. O Lord! we do not know as much about Mr. Duncan as You do, but still bless him, O Lord!" and so he came to himself. 

"O Lord! this smack's mine, this little smack labouring in the NorthSea is mine. Through my poachin' and your lovin' kindness it's mine;and, O Lord, see that it don't cost me dear!" And the crew solemnlyand fervently said "Amen!"

But the smack was to cost him dear. For in the morning Duncan woke tofind himself alone in the cabin. He thrust his head up the companion, and saw Weeks with a very grey face standing by the lashed wheel. 

"Halloa!" said Duncan. "Where's the binnacle?"

"Overboard, " said Weeks. 

Duncan looked round the deck. 

"Where's Willie and the crew?"

"Overboard, " said Weeks. "All except Rail! He's below deck forward andclean daft. Listen and you'll hear 'im. He's singing hymns for thosein peril on the sea. "

Duncan stared in disbelief. The skipper's face drove the disbelief outof him. 

"Why didn't you wake me?" he asked. 

"What's the use? You want all the sleep you can get, because you an'me have got to sail my smack into Yarmouth. But I was minded to callyou, lad, " he said, with a sort of cry leaping from his throat. "Thewave struck us at about twelve, and it's been mighty lonesome on decksince with Willie callin' out of the sea. All night he's been callin'out of the welter of the sea. Funny that I haven't heard Upton orDeakin, but on'y Willie! All night until daybreak he called, first onone side of the smack and then on t'other, I don't think I'll tell hismother that. An' I don't see how I'm to put you on shore in Denmark, after all. "

What had happened Duncan put together from the curt utterances ofCaptain Weeks and the crazy lamentations of Rail. Weeks had roused allhands except Duncan to take the last reef in. They were forward by themainmast at the time the wave struck them. Weeks himself was on theboom, threading the reefing-rope through the eye of the sail. Heshouted "Water!" and the water came on board, carrying the three menaft. Upton was washed over the taffrail. Weeks threw one end of therope down, and Rail and Willie caught it and were swept overboard, dragging Weeks from the boom on to the deck and jamming him againstthe bulwarks. 

The captain held on to the rope, setting his feet against the side. The smack lifted and dropped and tossed, and each movement wrenchedhis arms. He could not reach a cleat. Had he moved he would have beenjerked overboard. 

"I can't hold you both!" he cried, and then, setting his teeth andhardening his heart, he addressed his words to his son: "Willie! Ican't hold you both!" and immediately the weight upon the rope wasless. With each drop of the stern the rope slackened, and Weeksgathered the slack in. He could now afford to move. He made the ropefast and hauled the one survivor on deck. He looked at him for amoment. "Thank God, it's not my son!" he had the courage to say. 

"And my heart's broke!" had gasped Rail. "Fair broke. " And he had goneforward and sung hymns. 

They saw little more of Rall. He came aft and fetched his meals away;but he was crazed and made a sort of kennel for himself forward, andthe two men left on the smack had enough upon their hands to hinderthem from waiting on him. The gale showed no sign of abatement; thefleet was scattered; no glimpse of the sun was visible at any time;and the compass was somewhere at the bottom of the sea. 

"We may be making a bit of headway no'th, or a bit of leeway west, "said Weeks, "or we may be doing a sternboard. All that I'm sure ofis that you and me are one day going to open Gorleston Harbour. Thissmack's cost me too dear for me to lose her now. Lucky there's thetell-tale compass in the cabin to show us the wind hasn't shifted. "

All the energy of the man was concentrated upon this wrestle with thegale for the ownership of the _Willing Mind_; and he imparted hisenergy to his companion. They lived upon deck, wet and starved andperishing with the cold--the cold of December in the North Sea, whenthe spray cuts the face like a whip-cord. They ate by snatches whenthey could, which was seldom; and they slept by snatches when theycould, which was even less often. And at the end of the fourth daythere came a blinding fall of snow and sleet, which drifted downthe companion, sheeted the ropes with ice, and hung the yards withicicles, and which made every inch of brass a searing-iron and everyyard of the deck a danger to the foot. 

It was when this storm began to fall that Weeks grasped Duncanfiercely by the shoulder. 

"What is it you did on land?" he cried. "Confess it, man! There may besome chance for us if you go down on your knees and confess it. "

Duncan turned as fiercely upon Weeks. Both men were overstrained withwant of food and sleep. 

"I'm not your Jonah--don't fancy it! I did nothing on land!"

"Then what did you come out for?"

"What did you? To fight and wrestle for your ship, eh? Well, I cameout to fight and wrestle for my immortal soul, and let it go at that!"

Weeks turned away, and as he turned, slipped on the frozen deck. Alurch of the smack sent him sliding into the rudder-chains, where helay. Once he tried to rise, and fell back. Duncan hauled himself alongthe bulwarks to him. 

"Hurt?"

"Leg broke. Get me down into the cabin. Lucky there's the tell-tale. We'll get the _Willing Mind_ berthed by the quay, see if we don't. "That was still his one thought, his one belief. 

Duncan hitched a rope round Weeks, underneath his arms, and loweredhim as gently as he could down the companion. 

"Lift me on to the table so that my head's just beneath the compass!Right! Now take a turn with the rope underneath the table, or I'llroll off. Push an oily under my head, and then go for'ard and see ifyou can find a fish-box. Take a look that the wheel's fast. "

It seemed to Duncan that the last chance was gone. There was just oneinexperienced amateur to change the sails and steer a seventy-tonketch across the North Sea into Yarmouth Roads. He said nothing, however, of his despair to the indomitable man upon the table, andwent forward in search of a fish-box. He split up the sides into roughsplints and came aft with them. 

"Thank 'ee, lad, " said Weeks. "Just cut my boot away, and fix it upbest you can. "

The tossing of the smack made the operation difficult and long. Weeks, however, never uttered a groan. Only Duncan once looked up, andsaid--"Halloa! You've hurt your face too. There's blood on your chin!"

"That's all right!" said Weeks, with an effort. "I reckon I've justbit through my lip. "

Duncan stopped his work. 

"You've got a medicine-chest, skipper, with some laudanum in it--?"

"Daren't!" replied Weeks. "There's on'y you and me to work the ship. Fix up the job quick as you can, and I'll have a drink of Friar'sBalsam afterwards. Seems to me the gale's blowing itself out, and ifon'y the wind holds in the same quarter--" And thereupon he fainted. 

Duncan bandaged up the leg, got Weeks round, gave him a drink ofFriar's Balsam, set the teapot within his reach, and went on deck. Thewind was going down; the air was clearer of foam. He tallowed the leadand heaved it, and brought it down to Weeks. Weeks looked at the sandstuck on the tallow and tasted it, and seemed pleased. 

"This gives me my longitude, " said he, "but not my latitude, worseluck. Still, we'll manage it. You'd better get our dinner now; any oddthing in the way of biscuits or a bit of cold fish will do, and then Ithink we'll be able to run. "

After dinner Duncan said: "I'll put her about now. "

"No; wear her and let her jibe, " said Weeks, "then you'll on'y have toease your sheets. "

Duncan stood at the wheel, while Weeks, with the compass swingingabove his head, shouted directions through the companion. They sailedthe boat all that night with the wind on her quarter, and at daybreakDuncan brought her to and heaved his lead again. There was rough sandwith blackish specks upon the tallow, and Weeks, when he saw it, forgot his broken leg. 

"My word, " he cried, "we've hit the Fisher Bank! You'd best lash thewheel, get our breakfast, and take a spell of sleep on deck. Tie astring to your finger and pass it down to me, so that I can wake youup. "

Weeks waked him up at ten o'clock, and they ran southwest with asteady wind till six, when Weeks shouted--

"Take another cast with your lead. "

The sand upon the tallow was white like salt. 

"Yes, " said Weeks; "I thought we was hereabouts. We're on the edge ofthe Dogger, and we'll be in Yarmouth by the morning. " And all throughthe night the orders came thick and fast from the cabin. Weeks was onhis own ground; he had no longer any need of the lead; he seemed nolonger to need his eyes; he felt his way across the currents from theDogger to the English coast; and at daybreak he shouted--

"Can you see land?"

"There's a mist. "

"Lie to, then, till the sun's up. "

Duncan lay the boat to for a couple of hours, till the mist was tingedwith gold and the ball of the sun showed red on his starboard quarter. The mist sank, the brown sails of a smack thrust upwards through it;coastwards it shifted and thinned and thickened, as though cunninglyto excite expectation as to what it hid. Again Weeks called out--

"See anything?"

"Yes, " said Duncan, in a perplexed voice. "I see something. Looks likea sort of mediaeval castle on a rock. "

A shout of laughter answered him. 

"That's the Gorleston Hotel. The harbour-mouth's just beneath. We'vehit it fine, " and while he spoke the mist swept clear, and the long, treeless esplanade of Yarmouth lay there a couple of miles fromDuncan's eyes, glistening and gilded in the sun like a row of dolls'houses. 

"Haul in your sheets a bit, " said Weeks. "Keep no'th of the hotel, forthe tide'll set you up and we'll sail her in without dawdlin' behinda tug. Get your mainsail down as best you can before you make theentrance. "

Half an hour afterwards the smack sailed between the pier-heads. 

"Who are you?" cried the harbour-master. 

"The _Willing Mind_. "

"The _Willing Mind's_ reported lost with all hands. "

"Well, here's the _Willing Mind_, " said Duncan, "and here's one of thehands. "

The irrepressible voice bawled up the companion to complete thesentence--

"And the owner's reposin' in his cabin. " But in a lower key he addedwords for his own ears. "There's the old woman to meet. Lord! but the_Willing Mind_ has cost me dear. "

HOW BARRINGTON RETURNED TO JOHANNESBURG. 

Norris wanted a holiday. He stood in the marketplace lookingsouthwards to the chimney-stacks, and dilating upon the subject tothree of his friends. He was sick of the Stock Exchange, the men, thewomen, the drinks, the dances--everything. He was as indifferent tothe price of shares as to the rise and fall of the quicksilver in hisbarometer; he neither desired to go in on the ground floor nor to comeout in the attics. He simply wanted to get clean away. Besides heforesaw a slump, and he would be actually saving money on the veld. Atthis point Teddy Isaacs strolled up and interrupted the oration. 

"Where are you off to, then?"

"Manicaland, " answered Norris. 

"Oh! You had better bring Barrington back. "

Teddy Isaacs was a fresh comer to the Rand, and knew no better. Barrington meant to him nothing more than the name of a man who hadbeen lost twelve months before on the eastern borders of Mashonaland. But he saw three pairs of eyebrows lift simultaneously, and heardthree simultaneous outbursts on the latest Uitlander grievance. However, Norris answered him quietly enough. 

"Yes, if I come across Barrington, I'll bring him back. " He nodded hishead once or twice and smiled. "You may make sure of that, " he added, and turned away from the group. 

Isaacs gathered that there had been trouble between Barringtonand Morris, and applied to his companions for information. Thecommencement of the trouble, he was told, dated back to the time whenthe two men were ostrich-farming side by side, close to Port Elizabethin the Cape Colony. Norris owned a wife; Barrington did not. The storywas sufficiently ugly as Johannesburg was accustomed to relate it, butupon this occasion Teddy Isaacs was allowed to infer the details. Hewas merely put in possession of the more immediate facts. Barringtonhad left the Cape Colony in a hurry, and coming north to the Transvaalwhen Johannesburg was as yet in its brief infancy, had prosperedexceedingly. Meanwhile, Norris, as the ostrich industry declined, hadgone from worse to worse, and finally he too drifted to Johannesburgwith the rest of the flotsam of South Africa. He came to the townalone, and met Barrington one morning eye to eye on the StockExchange. A certain amount of natural disappointment was expressedwhen the pair were seen to separate without hostilities; but it wassubsequently remarked that they were fighting out their duel, thoughnot in the conventional way. They fought with shares, and Barringtonwon. He had the clearer head, and besides, Norris didn't need muchruining; Barrington could see to that in his spare time. It was, infact, as though Norris stood up with a derringer to face a machinegun. His turn, however, had come after Barrington's disappearance, andhe was now able to contemplate an expedition into Manicaland withoutreckoning up his pass-book. 

He bought a buck-wagon with a tent covering over the hinder part, provisions sufficient for six months, a span of oxen, a couple ofhorses salted for the thickhead sickness, hired a Griqua lad aswagon-driver, and half a dozen Matabele boys who were waiting for achance to return, and started northeastward. 

From Johannesburg he travelled to Makoni's town, near the Zimbabweruins, and with half a dozen brass rings and an empty cartridge casehired a Ma-ongwi boy, who had been up to the Mashonaland plateaubefore. The lad guided him to the head waters of the Inyazuri, andthere Norris fenced in his camp, in a grass country fairly wooded, andstudded with gigantic blocks of granite. 

The Ma-ongwi boy chose the site, fifty yards west of an ant-heap, andabout a quarter of a mile from a forest of machabel. He had camped onthe spot before, he said. 

"When?" asked Norris. 

"Twice, " replied the boy. "Three years ago and last year. "

"Last year?" Norris looked up with a start of surprise. "You were uphere last year?"

"Yes!"

For a moment or two Norris puffed at his pipe, then he asked slowly--

"Who with?"

"Mr. Barrington, " the boy told him, and added, "It is his wagon-trackwhich we have been following. "

Norris rose from the ground, and walked straight ahead for thedistance of a hundred yards until he reached a jasmine bush, whichstood in a bee-line with the opening of his camp fence. Thence hemoved round in a semicircle until he came upon a wagon-track in therear of the camp, and, after pausing there, he went forward again, andcompleted the circle. He returned to his wagon chuckling. Barrington, he remembered, had been lost while travelling northwards to theZambesie; but the track stopped here. There was not a trace of it tothe north or the east or the west. It was evident that the boy hadchosen Barrington's last camping-ground as the site for his own, andhe discovered a comforting irony in the fact. He felt that he wasstanding in Barrington's shoes. 

That night, as he was smoking by the fire, he called out to theMa-ongwi boy. The lad came forward from his hut behind the wagon. 

"Tell me how you lost him, " said Norris. 

"He rode that way alone after a sable antelope. " The boy pointed anarm to the southwest. "The beast was wounded, and we followed itsblood-spoor. We found Mr. Barrington's horse gored by the antelope'shorns. He himself had gone forward on foot. We tracked him to a littlestream, but the opposite bank was trampled, and we lost all sign ofhim. " This is what the boy said though his language is translated. 

Norris remained upon this encampment for a fortnight. Bluewildebeests, koodoos, elands, and gems-bok were plentiful, and once hegot a shot at a wart-hog boar. At the end of the fortnight he walkedround the ant-heap early one morning, and of a sudden plumped downfull length in the grass. Straight in front of him he saw a herd ofbuffaloes moving in his direction down a glade of the forest a quarterof a mile away. Norris cast a glance backwards; the camp was hiddenfrom the herd by the intervening ant-heap. He looked again towards theforest; the buffaloes advanced slowly, pasturing as they moved. Norriscrawled behind the ant-heap on his hands and knees, ran thence intothe camp, buckled on a belt of cartridges, snatched up a 450-boreMetford rifle, and got back to his position just as the first of theherd stepped into the open. It turned to the right along the edge ofthe wood, and the others followed in file. Norris wriggled forwardthrough the grass, and selecting a fat bull in the centre of the line, aimed behind its shoulder and fired. The herd stampeded into theforest, the bull fell in its tracks. 

Norris sprang forward with a shout; but he had not run more thanthirty yards before the bull began to kick. It kneeled upon itsforelegs, rose thence on to its hind legs, and finally stood up. Norris guessed what had happened. He had hit the bull in the neckinstead of behind the shoulders, and had broken no bones. He firedhis second barrel as the brute streamed away in an oblique linesoutheastwards from the wood, and missed. Then he ran back to camp, slapped a bridle on to his swiftest horse, and without waiting tosaddle it, sprang on its back and galloped in pursuit. He rode as itwere along the base of a triangle, whereas the bull galloped from theapex, and since his breakfast was getting hot behind him, he wishedto make that triangle an isosceles. So he jammed his heels into hishorse's ribs, and was fast drawing within easy range, when the buffalogot his wind and swerved on the instant into a diagonal course duesouthwest. 

The manoeuvre left Norris directly behind his quarry, and with a long, stern chase in prospect. However, his blood was up, and he held on towear the beast down. He forgot his breakfast; he took no more than acasual notice of the direction he was following; he simply braced hisknees in a closer grip, while the distorted shadows of himself and thehorse lengthened and thinned along the ground as the sun rose over hisright shoulder. 

Suddenly the buffalo disappeared in a dip of the veld, and a fewmoments later came again into view a good hundred yards further to thesouth. Norris pulled his left rein, and made for the exact spot atwhich the bull had reappeared. He found himself on the edge of a tinycliff which dropped twenty feet in a sheer fall to a little stream, and he was compelled to ride along the bank until he reached theincline which the buffalo had descended. He forded the stream, galloped under the opposite bank across a patch of ground which hadbeen trampled into mud by the hoofs of beasts coming here to water, and mounted again to the open. The bull had gained a quarter of amile's grace from his mistake, and was heading straight for a hugecone of granite. 

Norris recognised the cone. It towered up from the veld, its cliffsseamed into gullies by the rain-wash of ages, and he had used it morethan once as a landmark during the last fortnight, for it rose duesouthwest of his camp. 

He watched the bull approach the cone and vanish into one of thegullies. It did not reappear, and he rode forward, keeping a close eyeupon the gully. As he came opposite to it, however, he saw through theopening a vista of green trees flashing in the sunlight. He turned hishorse through the passage, and reined up in a granite amphitheatre. The floor seemed about half a mile in diameter; it was broken intohillocks, and strewn with patches of a dense undergrowth, while hereand there a big tree grew. The walls, which converged slightly towardsan open top, were robed from summit to base with wild flowers, so thatthe whole circumference of the cone was one blaze of colour. 

Norris hitched forward and reloaded the rifle. Then he advanced slowlybetween the bushes on the alert for a charge from the wounded bull;but nothing stirred. No sound came to his ears except the soft paddingnoise of his horse's hoofs upon the turf. There was not a crackleof the brushwood, and the trees seemed carved out of metal. He rodethrough absolute silence in a suspension of all movement. Once hishorse trod upon a bough, and the snapping of the twigs sounded like somany cracks of a pistol. At first the silence struck Norris as merelycurious, a little later as very lonesome. Once or twice he stopped hishorse with a sudden jerk of the reins, and sat crouched forwards withhis neck outstretched, listening. Once or twice he cast a quick, furtive glance over his shoulder to make certain that no one stoodbetween himself and the entrance to the hollow. He forgot the buffalo;he caught himself labouring his breath, and found it necessary toelaborately explain the circumstance in his thoughts on the ground ofheat. 

The next moment he began to plead this heat not merely as an excusefor his uneasiness, but as a reason for returning to camp. The heatwas intense, he argued. Above him the light of an African midday sunpoured out of a brassy sky into a sort of inverted funnel, and lay inblinding pools upon the scattered slabs of rock. Within the hollow, every cup of the innumerable flowers which tapestried the cliffsseemed a mouth breathing heat. He became possessed with a parchingthirst, and he felt his tongue heavy and fibrous like a dried fig. There was, however, one obstacle which prevented him from acting uponhis impulse, and that obstacle was his sense of shame. It was not somuch that he thought it cowardly to give up the chase and quietlyreturn, but he knew that the second after he had given way, he wouldbe galloping madly towards the entrance in no child's panic of terror. He finally compromised matters by dropping the reins upon his horse'sneck in the unformulated hope that the animal would turn of its ownaccord; but the horse kept straight on. 

As Norris drew towards the innermost wall of granite, there was aquick rustle all across its face as though the screen of shrubs andflowers had been fluttered by a draught of wind. Norris drew himselferect with a distinct appearance of relief, loosened the clench of hisfingers upon his rifle, and began once more to search the bushes forthe buffalo. 

For a moment his attention was arrested by a queer object lying uponthe ground to his left. It was in shape something like a melon, butbigger, and it seemed to be plastered over with a black mould. Norrisrode by it, turned a corner, and then with a gasp reined back hishorse upon its haunches. Straight in front of him a broken rifle layacross the path. 

Norris stood still, and stared at it stupidly. Some vague recollectionfloated elusively through his brain. He tried to grasp and fix itclearly in his mind. It was a recollection of something which hadhappened a long while ago, in England, when he was at school. Suddenly, he remembered. It was not something which had happened, butsomething he had read under the great elm trees in the close. It wasthat passage in _Robinson Crusoe_ which tells of the naked footprintin the sand. 

Norris dismounted, and stooped to lift the rifle; but all at once hestraightened himself, and swung round with his arms guarding his head. There was no one, however, behind him, and he gave a little quaveringlaugh, and picked up the rifle. It was a heavy lo-bore Holland, aHolland with a single barrel, and that barrel was twisted like acorkscrew. The lock had been wrenched off, and there were marks uponthe stock--marks of teeth, and other queer, unintelligible marks aswell. 

Norris held the rifle in his hands, gazing vacantly straight ahead. Hewas thinking of the direction in which he had come, southwest, and ofthe stream which he had crossed, and of the patch of trampled mud, where track obliterated track. He dropped the rifle. It rang upon astone, and again the screen of foliage shivered and rustled. Norris, however, paid no attention to the movement, but ran back to thatobject which he had passed, and took it in his hands. 

It was oval in shape, being slightly broader at one end than theother. Norris drew his knife and cleaned the mould from one sideof it. To the touch of the blade it seemed softer than stone, andsmoother than wood. "More like bone, " he said to himself. In the sidewhich he had cleaned, there was a little round hole filled up withmould. Norris dug his knife in and scraped round the hole as onecleans a caked pipe. He drew out a little cube of mud. There was asecond corresponding hole on the other side. He turned the narrowerend of the thing upwards. It was hollow, he saw, but packed full ofmould, and more deliberately packed, for there were finger-marks inthe mould. "What an aimless trick!" he muttered vaguely. 

He carried the thing back to the rifle, and, comparing them, understood those queer marks upon the stock. They were the mark offingers, of human fingers, impressed faintly upon the wood withsuperhuman strength. He was holding the rifle in his hands and lookingdown at it; but he saw below the rifle, and he saw that his knees wereshaking in a palsy. 

On an instant he tossed the rifle away, and laughed to reassurehimself--laughed out boldly, once, twice; and then he stopped with hiseyes riveted upon the granite wall. At each laugh that he gave theshrubs and flowers rippled, and shook the sunlight from their leaves. For the first time he remarked the coincidence as something strange. He lifted up his face, but not a breath of air fanned it; he lookedacross the hollow, the trees and bushes stood immobile. He laughed athird time, louder than before, and all at once his laughter got holdof him; he sent it pealing out hysterically, burst after burst, untilthe hollow seemed brimming with the din of it. His body began totwist; he beat time to his laughter with his feet, and then he danced. He danced there alone in the African sunlight faster and faster, witha mad tossing of his limbs, and with his laughter grown to a yell. Andas though to keep pace with him, each moment the shiver of the foliageincreased. Up and down, crosswise and breadthwise, the flowers weretossed and flung, while their petals rained down the cliff's face ina purple storm. It appeared, indeed, to Norris that the very granitewalls were moving. 

In the midst of his dance he kicked something and stumbled. Hestopped dead when he saw what that something was. It was the queer, mud-plastered object which he had compared with the broken rifle, andthe sight of it recalled him to his wits. He tucked it hastily beneathhis jacket, and looked about him for his horse. The horse was standingbehind him some distance away, and nearer to the cliff. Norrissnatched up his own rifle, and ran towards it. His hand was on thehorse's mane, when just above its head he noticed a clean patch ofgranite, and across that space he saw a huge grey baboon leap, andthen another, and another. He turned about, and looked across to theopposite wall, straining his eyes, and a second later to the wall onhis right. Then he understood; the twisted rifle, the finger marks, this thing which he held under his coat, he understood them all. Thewalls of the hollow were alive with baboons, and the baboons weremaking along the cliffs for the entrance. 

Norris sprang on to his horse, and kicked and beat it into a gallop. He had only to traverse the length of a diameter, he told himself, thebaboons the circumference of a circle. He had covered three-quartersof the distance when he heard a grunt, and from a bush fifty yardsahead the buffalo sprang out and came charging down at him. 

Norris gave one scream of terror, and with that his nerves steadiedthemselves. He knew that it was no use firing at the front of abuffalo's head when the beast was charging. He pulled a rein andswerved to the left; the bull made a corresponding turn. A momentafterwards Norris swerved back into his former course, and shot justpast the bull's flanks. He made no attempt to shoot them; he held hisrifle ready in his hands, and looked forwards. When he was fifty yardsfrom the passage he saw the first baboon perched upon a shoulder ofrock above the entrance. He lifted his rifle, and fired at a venture. He saw the brute's arms wave in the air, and heard a dull thud on theground behind him as he drove through the gully and out on to the openveld. 

The next morning Norris broke up his camp, and started homewards forJohannesburg. He went down to the Stock Exchange on the day of hisarrival, and chanced upon Teddy Isaacs. 

"What's that?" asked Isaacs, touching a bulge of his coat. 

"That?" replied Norris, unfastening the buttons. "I told you I wouldbring back Barrington if I found him, " and he trundled a scoured andpolished skull across the floor of the Stock Exchange. 

HATTERAS. 

The story was told to us by James Walker in the cabin of a seven-toncutter one night when we lay anchored in Helford river. It was towardsthe end of September; during this last week the air had grown chillywith the dusk, and the sea when it lost the sun took on a leaden and adreary look. There was no other boat in the wooded creek and the swishof the tide against the planks had a very lonesome sound. All thecircumstances I think provoked Walker to tell the story but most ofall the lonely swish of the tide against the planks. For it is thestory of a man's loneliness and the strange ways into which lonelinessmisled him. However, let the story speak for itself. 

Hatteras and Walker had been schoolfellows, though never schoolmates. Hatteras indeed was the head of the school and prophecy vaguelysketched out for him a brilliant career in some service of importance. The definite law, however, that the sins of the fathers shall bevisited upon the children, overbore the prophecy. Hatteras, thefather, disorganised his son's future by dropping unexpectedly throughone of the trap ways of speculation into the bankruptcy court beneathjust two months before Hatteras, the son, was to have gone up toOxford. The lad was therefore compelled to start life in a stony worldwith a stock in trade which consisted of a school boy's command of theclassics, a real inborn gift of tongues and the friendship of JamesWalker. The last item proved of the most immediate value. For Walker, whose father was the junior partner in a firm of West Africanmerchants, obtained for Hatteras an employment as the bookkeeper at abranch factory in the Bight of Benin. 

Thus the friends parted. Hatteras went out to West Africa alone andmet with a strange welcome on the day when he landed. The incidentdid not come to Walker's ears until some time afterwards, nor when heheard of it did he at once appreciate the effect which it had uponHatteras. But chronologically it comes into the story at this point, and so may as well be immediately told. 

There was no settlement very near to the factory. It stood by itselfon the swamps of the Forcados river with the mangrove forest closingin about it. Accordingly the captain of the steamer just putHatteras ashore in a boat and left him with his traps on the beach. Half-a-dozen Kru boys had come down from the factory to receive him, but they could speak no English, and Hatteras at this time could speakno Kru. So that although there was no lack of conversation there wasnot much interchange of thought. At last Hatteras pointed to histraps. The Kru boys picked them up and preceded Hatteras to thefactory. They mounted the steps to the verandah on the first floor andlaid their loads down. Then they proceeded to further conversation. Hatteras gathered from their excited faces and gestures that theywished to impart information, but he could make neither head nor tailof a word they said and at last he retired from the din of theirchatter through the windows of a room which gave on the verandah, andsat down to wait for his superior, the agent. It was early in themorning when Hatteras landed and he waited until midday patiently. Inthe afternoon it occurred to him that the agent would have showna kindly consideration if he had left a written message or anintelligible Kru boy to receive him. It is true that the blacks camein at intervals and chattered and gesticulated, but matters were notthereby appreciably improved. He did not like to go poking about thehouse, so he contemplated the mud-banks and the mud-river and themangrove forest, and cursed the agent. The country was very quiet. There are few things in the world quieter than a West African forestin the daytime. It is obtrusively, emphatically quiet. It does notlet you forget how singularly quiet it is. And towards sundown thequietude began to jar on Hatteras' nerves. He was besides very hungry. To while away the time he took a stroll round the verandah. 

He walked along the side of the house towards the back, and as heneared the back he head a humming sound. The further he went thelouder it grew. It was something like the hum of a mill, only not sometallic and not so loud; and it came from the rear of the house. 

Hatteras turned the corner and what he saw was this--a shutteredwindow and a cloud of flies. The flies were not aimlessly swarmingoutside the window; they streamed in through the lattices of theshutters in a busy practical way; they came in columns from the forestand converged upon the shutters; and the hum sounded from within theroom. 

Hatteras looked about for a Kru boy just for the sake of company, but, at that moment there was not one to be seen. He felt the cold strikeat his spine, he went back to the room in which he had been sitting. He sat again, but he sat shivering. The agent had left no work forhim.... The Kru boys had been anxious to explain something. Thehumming of the flies about that shuttered window seemed to Hatterasto have more explicit language than the Kru boys' chatterings. Hepenetrated into the interior of the house, and reckoned up the doors. He opened one of them ever so slightly, and the buzzing came throughlike the hum of a wheel in a factory, revolving in the collar ofa strap. He flung the door open and stood upon the threshold. Theatmosphere of the room appalled him; he felt the sweat break cold uponhis forehead and a deadly sickness in all his body. Then he nervedhimself to enter. 

At first he saw little because of the gloom. In a moment, however, hemade out a bed stretched along the wall and a thing stretched upon thebed. The thing was more or less shapeless because it was covered witha black, furry sort of rug. Hatteras, however, had little trouble indefining it. He knew now for certain what it was that the Kru boys hadbeen so anxious to explain to him. He approached the bed and bent overit, and as he bent over it the horrible thing occurred which left sovivid an impression on Hatteras. The black, furry rug suddenly lifteditself from the bed, beat about Hatteras' face, and dissolved intoflies. The Kru boys found Hatteras in a dead swoon on the floorhalf-an-hour later, and next day, of course, he was down with thefever. The agent had died of it three days before. 

Hatteras recovered from the fever, but not from the impression. Itleft him with a prevailing sense of horror and, at first, with a senseof disgust too. "It's a damned obscene country, " he would say. But hestayed in it, for he had no choice. All the money which he could savewent to the support of his family, and for six years the firm heserved moved him from district to district, from factory to factory. 

Now the second item in the stock in trade was a gift of tongues andabout this time it began to bring him profit. Wherever Hatteras wasposted, he managed to pick up a native dialect and with the dialectinevitably a knowledge of native customs. Dialects are numerous on thewest coast, and at the end of six years, Hatteras could speak as manyof them as some traders could enumerate. Languages ran in his blood;because he acquired a reputation for knowledge and was offered serviceunder the Niger Protectorate, so that when two years later, Walkercame out to Africa to open a new branch factory at a settlement on theBonny river, he found Hatteras stationed in command there. 

Hatteras, in fact, went down to Bonny river town to meet the steamerwhich brought his friend. 

"I say, Dick, you look bad, " said Walker. 

"People aren't, as a rule, offensively robust about these parts. "

"I know that; but your the weariest bag of bones I've ever seen. "

"Well, look at yourself in a glass a year from now for my double, "said Hatteras, and the pair went up river together. 

"Your factory's next to the Residency, " said Hatteras. "There's acompound to each running down to the river, and there's a palisadebetween the compounds. I've cut a little gate in the palisade as itwill shorten the way from one house to the other. "

The wicket gate was frequently used during the next fewmonths--indeed, more frequently than Walker imagined. He was onlyaware that, when they were both at home, Hatteras would come throughit of an evening and smoke on his verandah. Then he would sitfor hours cursing the country, raving about the lights inPiccadilly-circus, and offering his immortal soul in exchange for acomic-opera tune played upon a barrel-organ. Walker possessed a bigatlas, and one of Hatteras' chief diversions was to trace with hisfinger a bee-line across the African continent and the Bay of Biscayuntil he reached London. 

More rarely Walker would stroll over to the Residency, but he sooncame to notice that Hatteras had a distinct preference for the factoryand for the factory verandah. The reason for the preference puzzledWalker considerably. He drew a quite erroneous conclusion thatHatteras was hiding at the Residency--well, some one whom it wasprudent, especially in an official, to conceal. He abandoned theconclusion, however, when he discovered that his friend was in thehabit of making solitary expeditions. At times Hatteras would beabsent for a couple of days, at times for a week, and, so far asWalker could ascertain, he never so much as took a servant with himto keep him company. He would simply announce at night his intendeddeparture, and in the morning he would be gone. Nor on his returndid he ever offer to Walker any explanation of his journeys. On oneoccasion, however, Walker broached the subject. Hatteras had come backthe night before, and he sat crouched up in a deck chair, lookingintently into the darkness of the forest. 

"I say, " asked Walker, "isn't it rather dangerous to go slumming aboutWest Africa alone?"

Hatteras did not reply for a moment. He seemed not to have heard thesuggestion, and when he did speak it was to ask a quite irrelevantquestion. 

"Have you ever seen the Horse Guards' Parade on a dark, rainy night?"he asked; but he never moved his head, he never took his eyes fromthe forest. "The wet level of ground looks just like a lagoon and thearches a Venice palace above it. "

"But look here, Dick!" said Walker, keeping to his subject. "You neverleave word when you are coming back. One never knows that you havecome back until you show yourself the morning after. "

"I think, " said Hatteras slowly, "that the finest sight in the worldis to be seen from the bridge in St. James's Park when there's a Stateball on at Buckingham Palace and the light from the windows reddensthe lake and the carriages glance about the Mall like fireflies. "

"Even your servants don't know when you come back, " said Walker. 

"Oh, " said Hatteras quietly, "so you have been asking questions of myservants?"

"I had a good reason, " replied Walker, "your safety, " and with thatthe conversation dropped. 

Walker watched Hatteras. Hatteras watched the forest. A West Africanmangrove forest at night is full of the eeriest, queerest sounds thatever a man's ears harkened to. And the sounds come not so much fromthe birds, or the soughing of the branches; they seem to come from theswamp life underneath the branches, at the roots of trees. There'sa ceaseless stir as of a myriad of reptiles creeping in the slime. Listen long enough and you will fancy that you hear the whirr and rushof innumerable crabs, the flapping of innumerable fish. Now and againa more distinctive sound emerges from the rest--the croaking of abull-frog, the whining cough of a crocodile. At such sounds Hatteraswould start up in his chair and cock his head like a dog in a roomthat hears another dog barking in the street. 

"Doesn't it sound damned wicked?" he said, with a queer smile ofenjoyment. 

Walker did not answer. The light from a lamp in the room behind themstruck obliquely upon Hatteras' face and slanted off from it in anarrowing column until it vanished in a yellow thread among the leavesof the trees. It showed that the same enjoyment which ran in Hatteras'voice was alive upon his face. His eyes, his ears, were alert, and hegently opened and shut his mouth with a little clicking of the teeth. In some horrible way he seemed to have something in common with, heappeared almost to participate in, the activity of the swamp. Thus, had Walker often seen him sit, but never with the light so clear uponhis face, and the sight gave to him a quite new impression of hisfriend. He wondered whether all these months his judgment had beenwrong. And out of that wonder a new thought sprang into his mind. 

"Dick, " he said, "this house of mine stands between your house andthe forest. It stands on the borders of the trees, on the edge of theswamp. Is that why you always prefer it to your own?"

Hatteras turned his head quickly towards his companion, almostsuspiciously. Then he looked back into the darkness, and after alittle he said:--

"It's not only the things you care about, old man, which tug at you, it's the things you hate as well. I hate this country. I hate thesemiles and miles of mangroves, and yet I am fascinated. I can't get theforest and the undergrowth out of my mind. I dream of them at nights. I dream that I am sinking into that black oily batter of mud. Listen, "and he suddenly broke off with his head stretched forwards. "Doesn'tit sound wicked?"

"But all this talk about London?" cried Walker. 

"Oh, don't you understand?" interrupted Hatteras roughly. Then hechanged his tone and gave his reason. "One has to struggle against afascination of that sort. It's devil's work. So for all I am worth Italk about London. "

"Look here, Dick, " said Walker. "You had better get leave and go backto the old country for a spell. "

"A very solid piece of advice, " said Hatteras, and he went home to theResidency. 

II. 

The next morning he had again disappeared. But Walker discovered uponhis table a couple of new volumes. He glanced at the titles. They wereBurton's account of his pilgrimage to al-Madinah and Mecca. 

Five nights afterwards Walker was smoking a pipe on the verandah whenhe fancied that he heard a rubbing, scuffling sound as if some onevery cautiously was climbing over the fence of his compound. The moonwas low in the sky and dipping down toward the forest; indeed the rimof it touched the tree-tops so that while a full half of the enclosurewas bare to the yellow light that half which bordered on the forestwas inky black in shadow; and it was from the furthest corner of thissecond half that the sound came. Walker bent forward listening. Heheard the sound again, and a moment after another sound, which lefthim in no doubt. For in that dark corner he knew that a number ofpalisades for repairing the fence were piled and the second soundwhich he heard was a rattle as some one stumbled against them. Walkerwent inside and fetched a rifle. 

When he came back he saw a negro creeping across the bright open spacetowards the Residency. Walker hailed to him to stop. Instead the negroran. He ran towards the wicket gate in the palisades. Walker shoutedagain; the figure only ran the faster. He had covered half thedistance before Walker fired. He clutched his right forearm with hisleft hand, but he did not stop. Walker fired again, this time at hislegs, and the man dropped to the ground. Walker heard his servantsstirring as he ran down the steps. He crossed quickly to the negroand the negro spoke to him, but in English, and with the voice ofHatteras. 

"For God's sake keep your servants off!"

Walker ran to the house, met his servants at the foot of the steps, and ordered them back. He had shot at a monkey he said. Then hereturned to Hatteras. 

"Dicky, are you hurt?" he whispered. 

"You hit me each time you fired, but not very badly I think. "

He bandaged Hatteras' arm and thigh with strips of his shirt andwaited by his side until the house was quiet. Then he lifted him andcarried him across the enclosure to the steps and up the steps intohis bedroom. It was a long and fatiguing process. For one thing Walkerdared make no noise and must needs tread lightly with his load; foranother, the steps were steep and ricketty, with a narrow balustradeon each side waist high. It seemed to Walker that the day would dawnbefore he reached the top. Once or twice Hatteras stirred in his arms, and he feared the man would die then and there. For all the time hisblood dripped and pattered like heavy raindrops on the wooden steps. 

Walker laid Hatteras on his bed and examined his wounds. One bullethad passed through the fleshy part of the forearm, the other throughthe fleshy part of his right thigh. But no bones were broken and noarteries cut. Walker lit a fire, baked some plaintain leaves, andapplied them as a poultice. Then he went out with a pail of water andscrubbed down the steps. 

Again he dared not make any noise, and it was close on daybreak beforehe had done. His night's work, however, was not ended. He had still tocleanse the black stain from Hatteras' skin, and the sun was up beforehe stretched a rug upon the ground and went to sleep with his backagainst the door. 

"Walker, " Hatteras called out in a low voice, an hour or so later. 

Walker woke up and crossed over to the bed. 

"Dicky, I'm frightfully sorry. I couldn't know it was you. "

"That's all right, Jim. Don't you worry about that. What I wanted tosay was that nobody had better know. It wouldn't do, would it, if itgot about?"

"Oh, I am not so sure. People would think it rather a creditableproceeding. "

Hatteras shot a puzzled look at his friend. Walker, however, did notnotice it, and continued, "I saw Burton's account of his pilgrimage inyour room; I might have known that journeys of the kind were just thesort of thing to appeal to you. "

"Oh, yes, that's it, " said Hatteras, lifting himself up in bed. Hespoke eagerly--perhaps a thought too eagerly. "Yes, that's it. I havealways been keen on understanding the native thoroughly. It's afterall no less than one's duty if one has to rule them, and since I couldspeak their lingo--" he broke off and returned to the subject whichhad prompted him to rouse Walker. "But, all the same, it wouldn't doif the natives got to know. "

"There's no difficulty about that, " said Walker. "I'll give outthat you have come back with the fever and that I am nursing you. Fortunately there's no doctor handy to come making inconvenientexaminations. "

Hatteras knew something of surgery, and under his directions Walkerpoulticed and bandaged him until he recovered. The bandaging, however, was amateurish, and, as a result, the muscles contracted in Hatteras'thigh and he limped--ever so slightly, still he limped--he limpedto his dying day. He did not, however, on that account abandon hisexplorations, and more than once Walker, when his lights were out andhe was smoking a pipe on the verandah, would see a black figure witha trailing walk cross his compound and pass stealthily through thewicket in the fence. Walker took occasion to expostulate with hisfriend. 

"It's too dangerous a game for a man to play for any length of time. It is doubly dangerous now that you limp. You ought to give it up. "

Hatteras made a strange reply. 

"I'll try to, " he said. 

Walker pondered over the words for some time. He set them side by sidein his thoughts with that confession which Hatteras had made tohim one evening. He asked himself whether, after all, Hatteras'explanation of his conduct was sincere, whether it was really adesire to know the native thoroughly which prompted these mysteriousexpeditions; and then he remembered that he himself had firstsuggested the explanation to Hatteras. Walker began to feeluneasy--more than uneasy, actually afraid on his friend's account. Hatteras had acknowledged that the country fascinated him, andfascinated him through its hideous side. Was this masquerading as ablack man a further proof of the fascination? Was it, as it were, astep downwards towards a closer association? Walker sought to laughthe notion from his mind, but it returned and returned, and here andthere an incident occurred to give it strength and colour. 

For instance, on one occasion after Hatteras had been three weeksabsent, Walker sauntered over to the Residency towards four o'clockin the afternoon. Hatteras was trying cases in the court-house, whichformed the ground floor of the Residency. Walker stepped into theroom. It was packed with a naked throng of blacks, and the heat wasoverpowering. At the end of the hall sat Hatteras. His worn face shoneout amongst the black heads about him white and waxy like a gardeniain a bouquet of black flowers. Walker invented his simile and realisedits appositeness at one and the same moment. Bouquet was not aninappropriate word since there is a penetrating aroma about the nativeof the Niger delta when he begins to perspire. 

Walker, however, thinking that the Court would rise, determined towait for a little. But, at the last moment, a negro was put up toanswer to a charge of participation in Fetish rites. The case seemedsufficiently clear from the outset, but somehow Hatteras delayed itsconclusion. There was evidence and unrebutted evidence of the usualdetails--human sacrifice, mutilations and the like, but Hatteraspressed for more. He sat until it was dusk, and then had candlesbrought into the Court-house. He seemed indeed not so much to beinvestigating the negro's guilt as to be adding to his own knowledgeof Fetish ceremonials. And Walker could not but perceive that hetook more than a merely scientific pleasure in the increase of hisknowledge. His face appeared to smooth out, his eyes became quick, interested, almost excited; and Walker again had the queer impressionthat Hatteras was in spirit participating in the loathsome ceremonies, and participating with an intense enjoyment. In the end the negro wasconvicted and the Court rose. But he might have been convicted a goodthree hours before. Walker went home shaking his head. He seemed tobe watching a man deliberately divesting himself of his humanity. Itseemed as though the white man were ambitious to decline into theblack. Hatteras was growing into an uncanny creature. His friend beganto foresee a time when he should hold him in loathing and horror. Andthe next morning helped to confirm him in that forecast. 

For Walker had to make an early start down river for Bonny town, andas he stood on the landing-stage Hatteras came down to him from theResidency. 

"You heard that negro tried yesterday?" he asked with an assumption ofcarelessness. 

"Yes, and condemned. What of him?"

"He escaped last night. It's a bad business, isn't it?"

Walker nodded in reply and his boat pushed off. But it stuck in hismind for the greater part of that day that the prison adjoined theCourt-house and so formed part of the ground floor of the Residency. Had Hatteras connived at his escape? Had the judge secretly set freethe prisoner whom he had publicly condemned? The question troubledWalker considerably during his month of absence, and stood in the wayof his business. He learned for the first time how much he loved hisfriend and how eagerly he watched for the friend's advancement. Each day added to his load of anxiety. He dreamed continually of ablack-painted man slipping among the tree-boles nearer and nearertowards the red glow of a fire in some open space secure amongst theswamps, where hideous mysteries had their celebration. He cut shorthis business and hurried back from Bonny. He crossed at once to theResidency and found his friend in a great turmoil of affairs. Walkercame back from Bonny a month later and hurried across to his friend. 

"Jim, " said Hatteras, starting up, "I've got a year's leave; I amgoing home. "

"Dicky!" cried Walker, and he nearly wrung Hatteras' hand from hisarm. "That's grand news. "

"Yes, old man, I thought you would be glad; I sail in a fortnight. "And he did. 

For the first month Walker was glad. A year's leave would make a newman of Dick Hatteras, he thought, or, at all events, restore the oldman, sane and sound, as he had been before he came to the West Africancoast. During the second month Walker began to feel lonely. In thethird he bought a banjo and learnt it during the fourth and fifth. During the sixth he began to say to himself, "What a time poor Dickmust have had all those six years with those cursed forests about him. I don't wonder--I don't wonder. " He turned disconsolately to his banjoand played for the rest of the year; all through the wet season whilethe rain came down in a steady roar and only the curlews cried--untilHatteras returned. He returned at the top of his spirits and health. Of course he was hall-marked West African, but no man gets rid of thatstamp. Moreover there was more than health in his expression. Therewas a new look of pride in his eyes and when he spoke of a bachelor itwas in terms of sympathetic pity. 

"Jim, " said he, after five minutes of restraint, "I am engaged to bemarried. "

Jim danced round him in delight. "What an ass I have been, " hethought, "why didn't I think of that cure myself?" and he asked, "Whenis it to be?"

"In eight months. You'll come home and see me through. "

Walker agreed and for eight months listened to praises of the lady. There were no more solitary expeditions. In fact, Hatteras seemedabsorbed in the diurnal discovery of new perfections in his futurewife. 

"Yes, she seems a nice girl, " Walker commented. He found her upon hisarrival in England more human than Hatteras' conversation had led himto expect, and she proved to him that she was a nice girl. For shelistened for hours to him lecturing her on the proper way to treatDick without the slightest irritation and with only a faintly visibleamusement. Besides she insisted on returning with her husband to Bonnyriver, which was a sufficiently courageous thing to undertake. 

For a year in spite of the climate the couple were commonplace andhappy. For a year Walker clucked about them like a hen after itschickens and slept the sleep of the untroubled. Then he returned toEngland and from that time made only occasional journeys to WestAfrica. Thus for awhile he almost lost sight of Hatteras andconsequently still slept the sleep of the untroubled. One morning, however, he arrived unexpectedly at the settlement and at once calledon Hatteras. He did not wait to be announced, but ran up the stepsoutside the house and into the dining-room. He found Mrs. Hatterascrying. She dried her eyes, welcomed Walker, and said that she wassorry, but her husband was away. 

Walker started, looked at her eyes, and asked hesitatingly whether hecould help. Mrs. Hatteras replied with an ill-assumed surprise thatshe did not understand. Walker suggested that there was trouble. Mrs. Hatteras denied the truth of the suggestion. Walker pressed the pointand Mrs. Hatteras yielded so far as to assert that there was notrouble in which Hatteras was concerned. Walker hardly thought it theoccasion for a parade of manners, and insisted on pointing outthat his knowledge of her husband was intimate and dated from hisschooldays. Thereupon Mrs. Hatteras gave way. 

"Dick goes away alone, " she said. "He stains his skin and goes away atnight. He tells me that he must, that it's the only way by which hecan know the natives, and that so it's a sort of duty. He says theblack tells nothing of himself to the white man--ever. You must goamongst them if you are to know them. So he goes, and I never knowwhen he will come back. I never know whether he will come back. "

"But he has done that sort of thing on and off for years, and he hasalways come back, " replied Walker. 

"Yes, but one day he will not. " Walker comforted her as well as hecould, praised Hatteras for his conduct, though his heart was hotagainst him, spoke of risks that every one must run who serve theEmpire. "Never a lotus closes, you know, " he said, and went back tothe factory with the consciousness that he had been telling lies. 

It was no sense of duty that prompted Hatteras, of that he wascertain, and he waited--he waited from darkness to daybreak in hiscompound for three successive nights. On the fourth he heard thescuffling sound at the corner of the fence. The night was black as theinside of a coffin. Half a regiment of men might steal past him and henot have seen them. Accordingly he walked cautiously to the palisadewhich separated the enclosure of the Residency from his own, feltalong it until he reached the little gate and stationed himselfin front of it. In a few moments he thought that he heard a manbreathing, but whether to the right or the left he could not tell;and then a groping hand lightly touched his face and drew away again. Walker said nothing, but held his breath and did not move. The handwas stretched out again. This time it touched his breast and movedacross it until it felt a button of Walker's coat. Then it wassnatched away and Walker heard a gasping in-draw of the breath andafterwards a sound as of a man turning in a flurry. Walker sprangforward and caught a naked shoulder with one hand, a naked arm withthe other. 

"Wait a bit, Dick Hatteras, " he said. 

There was a low cry, and then a husky voice addressed him respectfullyas "Daddy" in trade-English. 

"That won't do, Dick, " said Walker. 

The voice babbled more trade-English. 

"If you're not Dick Hatteras, " continued Walker, tightening his grasp, "You've no manner of right here. I'll give you till I count ten andthen I shall shoot. "

Walker counted up to nine aloud and then--

"Jim, " said Hatteras in his natural voice. 

"That's better, " said Walker. "Let's go in and talk. "

III. 

He went up the step and lighted the lamp. Hatteras followed him andthe two men faced one another. For a little while neither of themspoke. Walker was repeating to himself that this man with the blackskin, naked except for a dirty loincloth and a few feathers on hishead was a white man married to a white wife who was sleeping--Nay, more likely crying--not thirty yards away. 

Hatteras began to mumble out his usual explanation of duty and therest of it. 

"That won't wash, " interrupted Walker. "What is it? A woman?"

"Good Heaven, no!" cried Hatteras suddenly. It was plain that thatexplanation was at all events untrue. "Jim, I've a good mind to tellyou all about it. "

"You have got to, " said Walker. He stood between Hatteras and thesteps. 

"I told you how this country fascinated me in spite of myself, " hebegan. 

"But I thought, " interrupted Walker, "that you had got over thatsince. Why, man, you are married, " and he came across to Hatteras andshook him by the shoulder. "Don't you understand? You have a wife!"

"I know, " said Hatteras. "But there are things deeper at the heartof me than the love of woman, and one of those things is the love ofhorror. I tell you it bites as nothing else does in this world. It'slike absinthe that turns you sick at the beginning and that you can'tdo without once you have got the taste of it. Do you remember my firstlanding? It made me sick enough at the beginning, you know. But now--"He sat down in a chair and drew it close to Walker. His voice droppedto a passionate whisper, he locked and unlocked his fingers withfeverish movements, and his eyes shifted and glittered in an unnaturalexcitement. 

"It's like going down to Hell and coming up again and wanting to godown again. Oh, you'd want to go down again. You'd find the wholeearth pale. You'd count the days until you went down again. Do youremember Orpheus? I think he looked back not to see if Eurydice wascoming after him but because he knew it was the last glimpse he wouldget of Hell. " At that he broke off and began to chant in a crazyvoice, wagging his head and swaying his body to the rhythm of thelines:--

 "Quum subita in cantum dementia cepit amantem Ignoscenda quidem scirent si ignoscere manes; Restilit Eurydicengue suam jam luce sub ipsa Immemor heu victusque animi respexit. "

"Oh, stop that!" cried Walker, and Hatteras laughed. "For God's sake, stop it!"

For the words brought back to him in a flash the vision of aclass-room with its chipped desks ranged against the varnished walls, the droning sound of the form-master's voice, and the swish of lilacbushes against the lower window panes on summer afternoons. "Go on, "he said. "Oh, go on, and let's have done with it. "

Hatteras took up his tale again, and it seemed to Walker that the manbreathed the very miasma of the swamp and infected the room with it. He spoke of leopard societies, murder clubs, human sacrifices. He hadwitnessed them at the beginning, he had taken his share in them at thelast. He told the whole story without shame, with indeed a growingenjoyment. He spared Walker no details. He related them in theirloathsome completeness until Walker felt stunned and sick. "Stop, " hesaid, again, "Stop! That's enough. "

Hatteras, however, continued. He appeared to have forgotten Walker'spresence. He told the story to himself, for his own amusement, as achild will, and here and there he laughed and the mere sound of hislaughter was inhuman. He only came to a stop when he saw Walker holdout to him a cocked and loaded revolver. 

"Well?" he asked. "Well?"

Walker still offered him the revolver. 

"There are cases, I think, which neither God's law nor man's law seemsto have provided for. There's your wife you see to be considered. Ifyou don't take it I shall shoot you myself now, here, and mark you Ishall shoot you for the sake of a boy I loved at school in the oldcountry. "

Hatteras took the revolver in silence, laid it on the table, fingeredit for a little. 

"My wife must never know, " he said. 

"There's the pistol. Outside's the swamp. The swamp will tell notales, nor shall I. Your wife need never know. "

Hatteras picked up the pistol and stood up. 

"Good-bye, Jim, " he said, and half pushed out his hand. Walker shookhis head, and Hatteras went out on to the verandah and down the steps. 

Walker heard him climb over the fence; and then followed as far as theverandah. In the still night the rustle and swish of the undergrowthcame quite clearly to his ears. The sound ceased, and a few minutesafterwards the muffled crack of a pistol shot broke the silence likethe tap of a hammer. The swamp, as Walker prophesied, told no tales. Mrs. Hatteras gave the one explanation of her husband's disappearancethat she knew and returned brokenhearted to England. There was someloud talk about the self-sacrificing energy, which makes the English adominant race, and there you might think is the end of the story. 

But some years later Walker went trudging up the Ogowé river in CongoFrançais. He travelled as far as Woermann's factory in Njole Islandand, having transacted his business there, pushed up stream in thehope of opening the upper reaches for trade purposes. He travelled fora hundred and fifty miles in a little stern-wheel steamer. At thatpoint he stretched an awning over a whale-boat, embarked himself, hisbanjo and eight blacks from the steamer, and rowed for another fiftymiles. There he ran the boat's nose into a clay cliff close to a Fanvillage and went ashore to negotiate with the chief. 

There was a slip of forest between the village and the river bank, andwhile Walker was still dodging the palm creepers which tapestried ithe heard a noise of lamentation. The noise came from the village andwas general enough to assure him that a chief was dead. It rose in achorus of discordant howls, low in note and long-drawn out--wordless, something like the howls of an animal in pain and yet human by reasonof their infinite melancholy. 

Walker pushed forward, came out upon a hillock, fronting the palisadewhich closed the entrance to the single street of huts, and passeddown into the village. It seemed as though he had been expected. Forfrom every hut the Fans rushed out towards him, the men dressed intheir filthiest rags, the women with their faces chalked and theirheads shaved. They stopped, however, on seeing a white man, and Walkerknew enough of their tongue to ascertain that they looked for thecoming of the witch doctor. The chief, it appeared, had died a naturaldeath, and, since the event is of sufficiently rare occurrence in theFan country, it had promptly been attributed to witchcraft, and thewitch doctor had been sent for to discover the criminal. The villagewas consequently in a lively state of apprehension, since the end ofthose who bewitch chiefs to death is not easy. The Fans, however, politely invited Walker to inspect the corpse. It lay in a dark hut, packed with the corpse's relations, who were shouting to it at the topof their voices on the on-chance that its spirit might think better ofits conduct and return to the body. They explained to Walker that theyhad tried all the usual varieties of persuasion. They had put redpepper into the chief's eyes while he was dying. They had propped openhis mouth with a stick; they had burned fibres of the oil nut underhis nose. In fact, they had made his death as uncomfortable aspossible, but none the less he had died. 

The witch doctor arrived on the heels of the explanation, and Walker, since he was powerless to interfere, thought it wise to retire forthe time being. He went back to the hillock on the edge of the trees. Thence he looked across and over the palisade and had the whole lengthof the street within his view. 

The witch doctor entered it from the opposite end, to the beatingof many drums. The first thing Walker noticed was that he wore asquare-skirted eighteenth century coat and a tattered pair of brocadedknee breeches on his bare legs; the second was that he limped--everso slightly. Still he limped and--with the right leg. Walker felt astrong desire to see the man's face, and his heart thumped within himas he came nearer and nearer down the street. But his hair was somatted about his cheeks that Walker could not distinguish a feature. "If I was only near enough to see his eyes, " he thought. But he wasnot near enough, nor would it have been prudent for him to have gonenearer. 

The witch doctor commenced the proceedings by ringing a handbell infront of every hut. But that method of detection failed to work. The bell rang successively at every door. Walker watched theman's progress, watched his trailing limb, and began to discoverfamiliarities in his manner. "Pure fancy, " he argued with himself. "Ifhe had not limped I should have noticed nothing. "

Then the doctor took a wicker basket, covered with a rough wooden lid. The Fans gathered in front of him; he repeated their names one afterthe other and at each name he lifted the lid. But that plan appearedto be no improvement, for the lid never stuck. It came off readily ateach name. Walker, meanwhile, calculated the distance a man would haveto cover who walked across country from Bonny river to the Ogowé, andhe reflected with some relief that the chances were several thousandto one that any man who made the attempt, be he black or white, wouldbe eaten on the way. 

The witch doctor turned up the big square cuffs of his sleeves, as aconjurer will do, and again repeated the names. This time, however, at each name, he rubbed the palms of his hands together. Walker wasseized with a sudden longing to rush down into the village and examinethe man's right forearm for a bullet mark. The longing grew on him. The witch doctor went steadily through the list. Walker rose to hisfeet and took a step or two down the hillock, when, of a sudden, atone particular name, the doctor's hands flew apart and waved wildlyabout him. A single cry from a single voice went up out of the groupof Fans. The group fell back and left one man standing alone. He madeno defence, no resistance. Two men came forward and bound his handsand his feet and his body with tie-tie. Then they carried him within ahut. 

"That's sheer murder, " thought Walker. He could not rescue the victim, he knew. But--he could get a nearer view of that witch doctor. Alreadythe man was packing up his paraphernalia. Walker stepped back amongthe trees and, running with all his speed, made the circuit of thevillage. He reached the further end of the street just as the witchdoctor walked out into the open. 

Walker ran forward a yard or so until he too stood plain to see on thelevel ground. The witch doctor did see him and stopped. He stoppedonly for a moment and gazed earnestly in Walker's direction. Then hewent on again towards his own hut in the forest. 

Walker made no attempt to follow him. "He has seen me, " he thought. "If he knows me he will come down to the river bank to-night. "Consequently, he made the black rowers camp a couple of hundred yardsdown stream. He himself remained alone in his canoe. 

The night fell moonless and black, and the enclosing forest made ityet blacker. A few stars burned in the strip of sky above his headlike gold spangles on a strip of black velvet. Those stars and theglimmering of the clay bank to which the boat was moored were theonly lights which Walker had. It was as dark as the night when Walkerwaited for Hatteras at the wicket-gate. 

He placed his gun and a pouch of cartridges on one side, an unlightedlantern on the other, and then he took up his banjo and again hewaited. He waited for a couple of hours, until a light crackle as oftwigs snapping came to him out of the forest. Walker struck a chord onhis banjo and played a hymn tune. He played "Abide with me, " thinkingthat some picture of a home, of a Sunday evening in England's summertime, perhaps of a group of girls singing about a piano might flashinto the darkened mind of the man upon the bank and draw him as withcords. The music went tinkling up and down the river, but no onespoke, no one moved upon the bank. So Walker changed the tune andplayed a melody of the barrel organs and Piccadilly circus. He had notplayed more than a dozen bars before he heard a sob from the bank andthen the sound of some one sliding down the clay. The next instant afigure shone black against the clay. The boat lurched under the weightof a foot upon the gunwale, and a man plumped down in front of Walker. 

"Well, what is it?" asked Walker, as he laid down his banjo and feltfor a match in his pocket. 

It seemed as though the words roused the man to a perception that hehad made a mistake. He said as much hurriedly in trade-English, andsprang up as though he would leap from the boat. Walker caught hold ofhis ankle. 

"No, you don't, " said he, "you must have meant to visit me. This isn'tHeally, " and he jerked the man back into the bottom of the boat. 

The man explained that he had paid a visit out of the purestfriendliness. 

"You're the witch doctor, I suppose, " said Walker. The other repliedthat he was and proceeded to state that he was willing to giveinformation about much that made white men curious. He would explainwhy it was of singular advantage to possess a white man's eyeball, andhow very advisable it was to kill any one you caught making Itung. Thedanger of passing near a cotton-tree which had red earth at the rootsprovided a subject which no prudent man should disregard; and Tando, with his driver ants, was worth conciliating. The witch doctor wasprepared to explain to Walker how to conciliate Tando. Walker repliedthat it was very kind of the witch doctor but Tando didn't reallyworry him. He was, in fact, very much more worried by an inability tounderstand how a native so high up the Ogowé River had learned how tospeak trade-English. 

The witch doctor waved the question aside and remarked that Walkermust have enemies. "Pussim bad too much, " he called them. "Pussimwoh-woh. Berrah well! Ah send grand Krau-Krau and dem pussim die onetime. " Walker could not recollect for the moment any "pussim" whomhe wished to die one time, whether from grand Krau-Krau or anyother disease. "Wait a bit, " he continued, "there is one man--DickHatteras!" and he struck the match suddenly. The witch doctor startedforward as though to put it out. Walker, however, had the door of thelantern open. He set the match to the wick of the candle and closedthe door fast. The witch doctor drew back. Walker lifted the lanternand threw the light on his face. The witch doctor buried his face inhis hands and supported his elbows on his knees. Immediately Walkerdarted forward a hand, seized the loose sleeve of the witch doctor'scoat and slipped it back along his arm to the elbow. It was the sleeveof the right arm and there on the fleshy part of the forearm was thescar of a bullet. 

"Yes, " said Walker. "By God, it is Dick Hatteras!"

"Well?" cried Hatteras, taking his hands from his face. "What thedevil made you turn-turn 'Tommy Atkins' on the banjo? Damn you!"

"Dick, I saw you this afternoon. "

"I know, I know. Why on earth didn't you kill me that night in yourcompound?"

"I mean to make up for that mistake to-night!"

Walker took his rifle on to his knees. Hatteras saw the movement, leaned forward quickly, snatched up the rifle, snatched up thecartridges, thrust a couple of cartridges into the breech, and handedthe loaded rifle back to his old friend. 

"That's right, " he said. "I remember. There are some cases neitherGod's law nor man's law has quite made provision for. " And then hestopped, with his finger on his lip. "Listen!" he said. 

From the depths of the forest there came faintly, very sweetly thesound of church-bells ringing--a peal of bells ringing at midnight inthe heart of West Africa. Walker was startled. The sound seemed fairywork, so faint, so sweet was it. 

"It's no fancy, Jim, " said Hatteras, "I hear them every night and atmatins and at vespers. There was a Jesuit monastery here two hundredyears ago. The bells remain and some of the clothes. " He touched hiscoat as he spoke. "The Fans still ring the bells from habit. Justthink of it! Every morning, every evening, every midnight, I hearthose bells. They talk to me of little churches perched on hillsidesin the old country, of hawthorn lanes, and women--English women, English girls, thousands of miles away--going along them to church. God help me! Jim, have you got an English pipe?"

"Yes; an English briarwood and some bird's-eye. "

Walker handed Hatteras his briarwood and his pouch of tobacco. Hatteras filled the pipe, lit it at the lantern, and sucked at itavidly for a moment. Then he gave a sigh and drew in the tobacco moreslowly, and yet more slowly. 

"My wife?" he asked at last, in a low voice. 

"She is in England. She thinks you dead. "

Hatteras nodded. 

"There's a jar of Scotch whiskey in the locker behind you, " saidWalker. Hatteras turned round, lifted out the jar and a couple of tincups. He poured whiskey into each and handed one to Walker. 

"No thanks, " said Walker. "I don't think I will. "

Hatteras looked at his companion for an instant. Then he emptieddeliberately both cups over the side of the boat. Next he took thepipe from his lips. The tobacco was not half consumed. He poised thepipe for a little in his hand. Then he blew into the bowl and watchedthe dull red glow kindle into sparks of flame as he blew. Very slowlyhe tapped the bowl against the thwart of the boat until the burningtobacco fell with a hiss into the water. He laid the pipe gently downand stood up. 

"So long, old man, " he said, and sprang out on to the clay. Walkerturned the lantern until the light made a disc upon the bank. 

"Good bye, Jim, " said Hatteras, and he climbed up the bank until hestood in the light of the lantern. Twice Walker raised the rifle tohis shoulder, twice he lowered it. Then he remembered that Hatterasand he had been at school together. 

"Good bye, Dicky, " he cried, and fired. Hatteras tumbled down to theboat-side. The blacks down-river were roused by the shot. Walkershouted to them to stay where they were, and as soon as their camp wasquiet he stepped on shore. He filled up the whiskey jar with water, tied it to Hatteras' feet, shook his hand, and pushed the body intothe river. The next morning he started back to Fernan Vaz. 

THE PRINCESS JOCELIANDE. 

The truth concerning the downfall of the Princess Joceliande has neveras yet been honestly inscribed. Doubtless there be few alive exceptmyself that know it; for from the beginning many strange and insidiousrumours were set about to account for her mishap, whereby great damagewas done to the memory of the Sieur Rudel le Malaise and Solita hiswife; and afterwards these rumours were so embroidered and painted byrhymesters that the truth has become, as you might say, doubly lost. For minstrels take more thought of tickling the fancies of those towhom they sing with joyous and gallant histories than of their highcraft and office, and hence it is that though many and variousaccounts are told to this day throughout the country-side bygrandsires at their winter hearths, not one of them has so much as agrain of verity. They are but rude and homely versions of the chauntsof Troubadours. 

And yet the truth is sweet and pitiful enough to furnish forth a song, were our bards so minded. Howbeit, I will set it down here in simpleprose; for so my duty to the Sieur Rudel bids me, and, moreover, 'twasfrom this event his wanderings began wherein for twenty years I barehim company. 

And let none gainsay my story, for that I was not my master's servantat the time, and saw not the truth with mine own eyes. I had it fromthe Sieur Rudel's lips, and more than once when he was vexed at theaspersions thrown upon his name. But he was ever proud, as befitted soknightly a gentleman, and deigned not to argue or plead his honourto the world, but only with his sword. Thus, then, it falls to me toright him as skilfully as I may. Though, alas! I fear my skill islittle worth, and calumnies are ever fresh to the palate, while truthneeds the sauce of a bright fancy to command it. 

These columnies have assuredly gained some credit, because with ladiesmy lord was ever blithe and _débonnaire_. That he loved many I do notdeny; but while he loved, he loved right loyally, and, indeed, it isno small honour to be loved by a man of so much worship, even fora little--the which many women thought also, and those amongst thefairest. And I doubt not that as long as she lived, he loved his wifeSolita no less ardently than those with whom he fell in after she hadmost unfortunately died. 

The Sieur Rudel was born within the castle of Princess Joceliande, and there grew to childhood and from childhood to youth, being everentreated with great amity and love for his own no less than for hisfather's sake. Though of a slight and delicate figure, he excelled inall manly exercises and sports and in venery and hawking. There wasnot one about the court that could equal him. Books too he read, andin many languages, labouring at philosophies and logics, so that hadyou but heard him speak, and not marked the hardihood of his limbsand his open face, you might have believed you were listening to somedoxical monk. 

In the tenth year of his age came Solita to the castle, whence no manknew, nor could they ever learn more than this, that she sailed out ofthe grey mists of a November morning to our bleak Brittany coast in awhite-painted boat. A fisherman drew the boat to land, perceivingit when he was casting his nets, and found a woman-child therein, cushioned upon white satin; and marvelling much at the richness of herpurveyance, for even the sail of the boat was of white silk, he boreher straightway to the castle. And the abbot took her and baptised herand gave her Sola for a name. "For, " said he, "she hath come alone andnone knoweth her parentage or place. " In time she grew to exceedingbeauty, with fair hair clustering like finest silk above her templesand curling waywardly about her throat; wondrous fair she was andwhite, shaming the snowdrops, so that all men stopped and gazed at heras she passed. 

And the Princess Joceliande, perceiving her, joined her to the companyof her hand-maidens and took great delight in her for her modesty andbeauty, so that at last she changed her name. "Sola have you beencalled till now, " she said, "but henceforth shall your name be Solita, as who shall say 'you have become my wont. '"

Meanwhile the Sieur Rudel was advanced from honour to honour, untilhe stood ever at the right hand of the Princess, and ruled over herkingdom as her chancellor and vicegerent. Her enemies he conquered andadded their lands and sovereignties to hers, until of all the kingsin those parts, none had such power and dominions as the PrincessJoceliande. Many ladies, you may believe, cast fond eyes on him, anddropped their gauntlet that he might bend to them upon his knee andpick it up, but his heart they could not bend, strive how they might, and to each and all he showed the same courtesy and gentleness. Forhe had seen the maiden Solita, and of an evening when the Court wasfeasting in the hall and the music of harps rippled sweetly inthe ears, he would slip from the table as one that was busied instatecraft, and in company with Solita pace the terrace in the dark, beneath the lighted windows. Yet neither spoke of love, though lovingwas their intercourse. Solita for that her modesty withheld her, andshe feared even to hope that so great a lord should give his heart toher keeping; Rudel because he had not achieved enough to merit sheshould love him. "In a little, " he would mutter, "in a little! Onemore thing must I do, and then will I claim my guerdon of the PrincessJoceliande. "

Now this one more thing was the highest and most dangerous emprise ofall that he had undertaken. Beyond the confines of the kingdom theredwelt a great horde of men that had come to Brittany from the Eastin many deep ships and had settled upon the coast, whence theywould embark and, travelling hard by the land, burn and ravage thesea-borders for many days. 

Against these did the Sieur Rudel make war, and gathering the noblesand yeomen he mustered them in boats and prepared to sail forth towhat he believed was the last of his adventures, knowing not that itwas indeed but the beginning. And to the princess he said: "Lady, Ihave served you faithfully, as a gentleman should serve his queen. From nothing have I drawn back that could establish or increase you. Therefore when I get me home again, one boon will I ask of you, and Ipray you of your mercy grant it me. "

"I will well, " replied the princess. "For such loyal service hath noqueen known before--nay, not even Dame Helen among the Trojans. "

So right gladly did the Sieur Rudel depart from her, and down hewalked among the sandhills, where he found Solita standing in a hollowin the midst of a cloud of sand which the sharp wind whirled abouther. Nothing she said to him, but she stood with downcast head andeyes that stung with tears. 

"Solita, " said he, "the Princess hath granted me such boon as I mayask on my return. What say you?"

And she answered in a low voice. "Who am I, my lord, that I shouldoppose the will of the princess? A nameless maiden, meet only to yokewith a nameless yeoman!"

At that the Sieur Rudel laughed and said, "Look you into a mirror, sweet! and your face will gainsay your words. "

She lifted her eyes to his and the light came into them again, so thatthey danced behind the tears, and Rudel clipped her about the waistfor all that he had not as yet merited her, and kissed her upon thelips and the forehead and upon her white hands and wrists. 

But she, gazing past his head, saw the blowing sands beyond and thearmed men in the boats upon the sea, and "O, Rudel, my sweet lord!"she cried, "never till this moment did I know how barren and lonelywas the coast. Come back, and that soon--for of a truth I dread to beleft alone!"

"In God's good time and if so He will, I will come back, and from themoment of my coming I will never again depart from you. "

"Promise me that!" she said, clinging to him with her arms twinedabout his neck, and he promised her, and so, comforting her a littlemore, he got him into his boat and sailed away upon his errand. 

But of all this, the Princess Joceliande knew nothing. From herbalcony in the castle she saw the Sieur Rudel sail forth. He stoodupon the poop, the wind blowing the hair back from his face, and asshe watched his straight figure, she said, "A boon he shall ask, buta greater will I grant. Surely no man ever did such loyal service butfor love, and for love's sake, he shall share my throne with me. " Withthat she wept a little for fear he might be slain or ever he shouldreturn; but she remembered from how many noble exploits he had comescatheless, and so taking heart once more she fell to thinking of hisblack locks and clear olive face and darkly shining eyes. For, intruth, these outward qualities did more enthral and delight her thanhis most loyal services. 

But for the maiden Solita, she got her back to her chamber and, remembering her lord's advice, spied about for a mirror. No mirror, however, did she possess, having never used aught else but a basin ofclear water, and till now found it all-sufficient, so little curioushad she been concerning the whiteness of her beauty. Thereupon shethought for a little, and unbinding her hair so that it fell to herfeet in a golden cloud, hied her to Joceliande, who bade her take abook of chivalry and read aloud. But Solita so bent her head that herhair fell ever across the pages and hindered her from reading, andeach time she put it roughly back from her forehead with some smallword of anger as though she was vexed. 

"What ails you, child?" asked the princess. 

"It is my hair, " replied Solita. But the princess paid no heed. Sheheard little, indeed, even of what was read, but sat by the windowgazing out across the grey hungry sea, and bethinking her of the SieurRudel and his gallant men. And again Solita let her hair fall upon thescroll, and again she tossed it back, saying, "Fie! Fie!"

"What ails you, child?" the princess asked. 

"It is my hair, " she replied, and Joceliande, smiling heedlessly, badeher read on. So she read until Joceliande bade her stop and called toher, and Solita came over to the window and knelt by the side of theprincess, so that her hair fell across the wrist of Joceliande andfettered it. "It _is_ ever in the way, " said Solita, and she loosedit from the wrist of the princess. But the princess caught the silkycoils within her hand and smoothed them tenderly. "That were easilyremedied, " she replied with a smile, and she sought for the scissorswhich hung at her girdle. 

But Solita bethought her that many men had praised the colour andsoftness of her hair--why, she could not tell, for dark locks alonewere beautiful in her eyes. Howbeit men praised hers, and for SieurRudel's sake she would fain be as praiseworthy as might be. Thereforeshe stayed Joceliande's hand and cried aloud in fear, "Nay, nay, sweetlady, 'tis all the gold I have, and I pray you leave it me who am sopoor. "

And the Princess Joceliande laughed, and replaced the scissors in hergirdle. "I did but make pretence, to try you, " she said, "for, intruth, I had begun to think you were some holy angel and no woman, solittle share had you in a woman's vanities. But 'tis all unbound, andI wonder not that it hinders you. Let me bind it up!"

And while the princess bound the hair cunningly in a coronal upon herhead, Solita spake again hesitatingly, seeking to conceal her craft. 

"Madame, it is easy for you to bind my hair, but for myself, I have nomirror and so dress it awkwardly. "

Joceliande laughed again merrily at the words. "Dear heart!" shecried. "What man is it? Hast discovered thou art a woman after all?First thou fearest for thy hair, and now thou askest a mirror. But intruth I like thee the better for thy discovery. " And she kissed Solitavery heartily, who blushed that her secret was so readily found out, and felt no small shame at her lack of subtlety. For many ladies, sheknew, had secrets--ay, even from their bosom lords and masters---andkept them without effort in the subterfuge, whereas she, poor fool, betrayed hers at the first word. 

"And what man is it?" laughed the princess. "For there is not onethat deserves thee, as thou shalt judge for thyself. " Whereupon shesummoned one of her servants and bade him place a mirror in thebed-chamber of Solita, wherein she might see herself from top to toe. 

"Art content?" she asked. "Thus shalt thou see thyself, withoutblemish or fault even for this crown of hair to the heel of thy foot. But I fear me the sight will change all thy thoughts and incline theeto scorn of thy suitor. "

Then she stood for a little watching the sunlight play upon the goldenhead and pry into the soft shadows of the curls, and her face saddenedand her voice faltered. 

"But what of me, Solita?" she said. "All men give me reverence, notone knows me for a woman. I crave the bread of love, all day long Ihunger for it, but they offer me the polished stones of courtesy andrespect, and so I starve slowly to my death. What of me, Solita? Whatof me?"

But Solita made reply, soothing her:

"Madame, " she said, "all your servants love you, but it beseems themnot to flaunt it before your face, so high are you placed above them. You order their fortunes and their lives, and surely 'tis nobler workthan meddling with this idle love-prattle. "

"Nay, " replied the princess, laughing in despite of her heaviness, for she noted how the blush on Solita's cheek belied the scorn of hertongue. "There spoke the saint, and I will hear no more from her nowthat I have found the woman. Tell me, did he kiss you?"

And Solita blushed yet more deeply, so that even her neck down to hershoulders grew rosy, and once or twice she nodded her head, for herlips would not speak the word. 

Then Joceliande sighed to herself and said--

 "And yet, perchance, he would not die for you, whereas men die for me daily, and from mere obedience. How is he called?"

 "Madame, " she replied, "I may not tell you, for all my pride in him. 'Twill be for my lord to answer you in his good time. But that he would die for me, if need there were, I have no doubt. For I have looked into his eyes and read his soul. "

So she spake with much spirit, upholding Sieur Rudel; but Joceliandewas sorely grieved for that Solita would not trust her with herlover's name, and answered bitterly:

 "And his soul which you did see was doubtless your own image. And thus it will be with the next maiden who looks into his eyes. Her own image will she see, and she will go away calling it his soul, and not knowing, poor fool, that it has already faded from his eyes. "

At this Solita kept silence, deeming it unnecessary to make reply. Itmight be as the princess said with other men and other women, but theSieur Rudel had no likeness to other men, and in possessing the SieurRudel's love she was far removed from other women. Therefore did shekeep silence, but Joceliande fancied that she was troubled by thewords which she had spoken, and straightway repented her of them. 

"Nay, child, " she said, and she laid her hand again upon Solita'shead. "Take not the speech to heart. 'Tis but the plaint of a womanwhose hair is withered from its brightness and who grows peevish inher loneliness. But open your mind to me, for you have twined about myheart even as your curls did but now twine and coil about my wrist, and the more for this pretty vanity of yours. Therefore tell me hisname, that I may advance him. "

But once more Solita did fob her off, and the princess would no longerquestion her, but turned her wearily to the window. 

"All day long, " she said, "I listen to soft speeches and honeyedtongues, and all night long I listen to the breakers booming upon thesands, and in truth I wot not which sound is the more hollow. "

Such was the melancholy and sadness of her voice that the tearssprang into Solita's eyes and ran down her cheeks for very pity ofJoceliande. 

"Think not I fail in love to you, sweet princess, " she cried. "But Imay not tell you, though I would be blithe and proud to name him. But'tis for him to claim me of you, and I must needs wait his time. "

But Joceliande would not be comforted, and chiding her roughly, senther to her chamber. So Solita departed out of her sight, her heartheavy with a great pity, though little she understood of Joceliande'sdistress. For this she could not know: that at the sight of her whitebeauty the Princess Joceliande was ashamed. 

And coming into her chamber, Solita beheld the mirror ranged againstthe wall, and long she stood before it, being much comforted by theimage which she saw. From that day ever she watched the ladies of thecourt, noting jealously if any might be more fair than she whom SieurRudel had chosen; and often of a night when she was troubled by theaspect of some fair and delicate new-comer, she would rise from hercouch and light a taper, and so gaze at herself until the fear of herunworthiness diminished. For there were none that could compare withher in daintiness and fair looks ever came to the castle of thePrincess Joceliande. 

But of the Sieur Rudel, though oft she thought, she never spake, biding his good time, and the princess questioned her in vain. Forshe, whose heart hitherto had lain plain to see, like a pebble in aclear brook of water, had now learnt all the sweet cunning of love'sduplicity. 

Thus the time drew on towards the Sieur Rudel's home-coming, and everthe twain looked out across the sea for the black boats to round thebluff and take the beach--Joceliande from her balcony, Solita from thewindow of her little chamber in the tower; and each night the princessgave orders to light a beacon on the highest headland that thewayfarers might steer safely down that red path across the tumblingwaters. 

So it fell that one night both ladies beheld two ships swim to theshore, and each made dolorous moan, seeing how few of the goodlycompany that sailed forth had got them home again, and wondering insore distress whether Rudel had returned with them or no. 

But in a little there came a servant to the princess and told of oneSir Broyance de Mille-Faits, a messenger from the neighbouring kingdomof Broye, that implored instant speech with her. And being admittedbefore all the Court assembled in the great hall, he fell upon hisknees at the foot of the princess, and, making his obeisance, said--

 "Fair Lady Joceliande, I crave a boon, and I pray you of your gentleness to grant it me. "

 "But what boon, good Sir Broyance?" replied the princess. "I know you for a true and loyal gentleman who has ever been welcome at my castle. Speak, then, your need, and if so be I may, you shall find me complaisant to your request. "

Thereupon, Sir Broyance took heart and said:

 "Since our king died, God rest his soul, there has been no peace or quiet in our kingdom of Broye. 'Tis rent with strife and factions, so that no man may dwell in it but he must fight from morn to night, and withal win no rest for the morrow. The king's three sons contend for the throne, and meanwhile is the country eaten up. Therefore am I sent by many, and those our chiefest gentlemen, to ask you to send us Sieur Rudel, that he may quell these conflicts and rule over us as our king. "

So Sir Broyance spake and was silent, and a great murmur andacclamation rose about the hall for that the Sieur Rudel was heldin such honour and worship even beyond his own country. But for thePrincess Joceliande, she sat with downcast head, and for a whilevouchsafed no reply. For her heart was sore at the thought that SieurRudel should go from her. 

"There is much danger in the adventure, " she said at length, doubtfully. 

"Were there no danger, madame, " he replied, "we should not ask SieurRudel of you to be our leader, and great though the danger be, greaterfar is the honour. For we offer him a kingdom. "

Then the princess spake again to Sir Broyance:

"It may not be, " she said. "Whatever else you crave, that shall youhave, and gladly will I grant it you. But the Sieur Rudel is theflower of our Court, he stands ever at my right hand, and woe is me ifI let him go, for I am only a woman. "

"But, madame, for his knighthood's sake, I pray you assent to ourprayer, " said Sir Broyance. "Few enemies have you, but many friends, whereas we are sore pressed on every side. "

But the princess repeated: "I am only a woman, " and for a long whilehe made his prayer in vain. 

At last, however, the princess said:

"For his knighthood's sake thus far will I yield to you: Bide herewithin my castle until Sieur Rudel gets him home, and then shall youmake your prayer to him, and by his answer will I be bound. "

"That I will well, " replied Sir Broyance, bethinking him of the SieurRudel's valour, and how that he had a kingdom to proffer to him. 

But the Princess Joceliande said to herself:

"I, too, will offer him a kingdom. My throne shall he share with me;"and so she entertained Sir Broyance right pleasantly until the SieurRudel should get him back from the foray. Meanwhile she would sayto Solita, "He shall not go to Broye, for in truth I need him;" andSolita would laugh happily, replying, "It is truth: he will not go toBroye, " and thinking thereto silently, "but it is not the princess whowill keep him, but even I, her poor handmaiden. For I have his promisenever to depart from me. " So much confidence had her mirror taughther, as it ever is with women. 

But despite them both did the Sieur Rudel voyage to Broye and ruleover the kingdom as its king, and how that came about ye shall hear. 

Now on the fourth day after the coming of Sir Broyance, the PrincessJoceliande was leaning over the baluster of her balcony and gazingseawards as was her wont. The hours had drawn towards evening, and thesun stood like a glowing wheel upon the farthest edge of the sea'sgrey floor, when she beheld a black speck crawl across its globe, andthen another and another, to the number of thirty. Thereupon, sheknew that the Sieur Rudel had returned, and joyfully she summoned hertirewomen and bade them coif and robe her as befitted a princess. A coronet of gold and rubies they set upon her head, and a robe ofpurple they hung about her shoulders. With pearls they laced her neckand her arms, and with pearls they shod her feet, and when she saw theships riding at their anchorage, and the Sieur Rudel step forth amidthe shouts of the sailors, then she hied her to the council-chamberand prepared to give him instant audience. Yet for all her jewels andrich attire, she trembled like a common wench at the approach of herlover, and feared that the loud beating of her heart would drown thesound of his footsteps in the passage. 

But the Sieur Rudel came not, and she sent a messenger to inquire whyhe tarried, and the messenger brought word and said:

"He is with the maiden Solita in the tower. "

Then the princess stumbled as though she were about to fall, and herwomen came about her. But she waved them back with her hand, and sostood shivering for a little. "The night blows cold, " she said; "Iwould the lamps were lit. " And when her servants had lighted thecouncil-chamber, she sent yet another messenger to Sieur Rudel, bidding him instantly come to her, and waited in great bitterness ofspirit. For she remembered how that she had promised to grant him theboon that he should ask, and much she feared that she knew what thatboon was. 

Now leave we the Princess Joceliande, and hie before her messenger tothe chamber of Solita. No pearls or purple robes had she to clad herbeauty in, but a simple gown of white wool fastened with a silvergirdle about the waist, and her hair she loosed so that it rippleddown her shoulders and nestled round her ears and face. 

Thither the Sieur Rudel came straight from the sea, and--

"Love, " he said, kissing her, "it has been a weary waste of days andnights, and yet more weary for thee than for me. For stern work wasthere ever to my hand--ay, and well-nigh more than I could do; but forthee nought but to wait. "

"Yet, my dear lord, " she replied, "the princess did give me thismirror, wherein I could see myself from top to toe, and a greatcomfort has it been to me. "

So she spake, and the messenger from the princess brake in upon them, bidding the Sieur Rudel hasten to the council-chamber, for that thePrincess Joceliande waited this long while for his coming. 

"Now will I ask for the fulfilment of her promise, " said Rudel toSolita, "and to-night, sweet, I will claim thee before the wholeCourt. " With that he got him from the chamber and, following themessenger, came to where the princess awaited him. 

"Madame, " he said, "good tidings! By God's grace we have won thevictory over your enemies. Never again will they buzz like wasps aboutyour coasts, but from this day forth they will pay you yearly truage. "

"Sir, " she replied, rebuking him shrewdly, "indeed you bring me goodtidings, but you bring them over-late. For here have I tarried for youthis long while, and it beseems neither you nor me. "

"Madame, " he answered, "I pray you acquit me of the fault and lay theblame on Love. For when sweet Cupid thrones a second queen in one'sheart beside the first, what wonder that a man forgets his duty? Andnow I would that of your gentleness you would grant me your maidenSolita for wife. "

"That I may not, " returned Joceliande, stricken to the soul at thatimage of a second queen. "A nameless child, and my handmaiden! SieurRudel, it befits a man to look above him for a wife. "

"And that, madame, " he answered, "in very truth I do. Moreover, thoughno man knows Solita's parentage and place, yet must she be of gentlenurture, else had there been no silk sail to float her hitherwards;and so much it liketh you to grant my boon, for God's love, I prayyou, hold your promise. "

Thereupon was the princess sore distressed for that she had given herpromise. Howbeit she said: "Since it is so, and since my maiden Solitais the boon you crave, I give her to you;" and so dismissed the SieurRudel from her presence, and getting her back to her chamber, mademoan out of all measure. 

"Lord Jesu, " she cried, "of all my kingdom and barony, but one thingdid I hunger for and covet, and that one thing this child, whom of mykindness I loved and fostered, hath traitorously robbed me of! Why didI take her from the sea?"

So she wept for a great while, until she bethought her of a remedy. Then she wiped her tears and gave order that Sir Broyance should cometo her. To him she said: "To-night at the high feast you shall makeyour prayer to the Lord Rudel, and I myself will join with you, sothat he shall become your leader and rule over you as king. "

So she spake, thinking that when the Sieur Rudel had departed, shewould privily put Solita to death--openly she dared not do it, for thegreat love the nobles bore towards Rudel--and when Solita was dead, then would she send again for Rudel and share her siege with him. SirBroyance, as ye may believe, was right glad at her words, and made himready for the feast. Hither, when the company was assembled, came theSieur Rudel, clad in a green tunic edged with fur of a white fox, anda chain set with stones of great virtue about his neck. His hose weregreen and of the finest silk, and on his feet he wore shoes of whitedoeskin, and the latchets were of gold. So he came into the hall, andseeing him thus gaily attired with all his harness off, much did allmarvel at his knightly prowess. For in truth he looked more like sometender minstrel than a gallant warrior. Then up rose Sir Broyance andsaid;

"From the kingdom of Broye the nobles send greeting to the SieurRudel, and a message. "

And with that he set forth his errand and request; but the Sieur Rudellaughed and answered:

"Sir Broyance, great honour you do me, and so, I pray, tell yourcountrymen of Broye. But never more will I draw sword or feuter spear, for this day hath the Princess Joceliande granted me her maiden Solitafor wife, and by her side I will bide till death. "

Thereupon rose a great murmur of astonishment within the hall, the menlamenting that the Sieur Rudel would lead them no more to battle, andthe women marvelling to each other that he should choose so mean athing as Solita for wife. But Sir Broyance said never a word, but gothim from the table and out of the hall, so that the company marvelledyet more for that he had not sought to persuade the Sieur Rudel. Thensaid the Princess Joceliande, and greatly was she angered both againstSolita and Rudel:

"Fie, my lord! shame on you; you forget your knighthood!"

And he replied, "My knighthood, your highness, had but one use, andthat to win my sweet Solita. "

Wherefore was Joceliande's heart yet hotter against the twain, and shecried aloud:

"Nay, but it is on us that the shame of your cowardice will fall. Evennow Sir Broyance left our hall in anger and scorn. It may not be thatour chiefest noble shall so disgrace us. "

But Sieur Rudel laughed lightly, and answered her:

"Madame, full oft have I jeopardised my life in your good cause, and Ifear no charge of cowardice more than I fear thistle-down. "

His words did but increase the fury of the princess, and she brake outin most bitter speech:

"Nay, but it is a kitchen knave we have been honouring unawares, andbidding sit with us at table!"

And straightway she called to her servants and bade them fetch thewarden of the castle with the fetters. But the Sieur Rudel laughedagain, and said:

"Thus it will be impossible that I leave my dear Solita and voyageperilously to Broye. "

Nor any effort or resistance did he make, but lightly suffered themto fetter him, the while the princess most foully mis-said him. Withfetters they prisoned his feet, and manacles they straitly fastenedabout his wrists, and they bound him to a pillar in the hall by achain about his middle. 

"There shall you bide, " she said, "in shameful bonds until you makepromise to voyage forth to Broye. For surely there is nothing so vilein all this world as a craven gentleman. "

With that she turned her again to the feast, though little heart shehad thereto. But the Sieur Rudel was well content; for not for allthe honour in Christendom would he break his word to his dear Solita. Howbeit, the nobles were ever urgent that the princess should set himfree, pleading the worshipful deeds he had accomplished in her cause. But to none of them would she hearken, and the fair gentle ladies ofthe Court greatly applauded her for her persistence--and especiallythose who had erstwhile dropped their gauntlets that Rudel might bendand pick them up. And many pleasant jests they passed upon the SieurRudel, bidding him dance with them, since he was loth to fight. Buthe paid no heed to them, nor could they provoke him by any number oftaunts. Whereupon, being angered at his silence, they were fain tosend to Solita and make their sport with her. 

But that Joceliande would not suffer, and, rising, she went toSolita's chamber and entreated her most kindly, telling her that forlove of her the Sieur Rudel would not adventure himself at Broye. Nota word did she say of how she had mistreated him, and Solita answeredher jocundly for that her lord had held his pledge with her. But whenthe castle was still, the princess took Solita by the hand and led herdown the steps to where Rudel stood against the pillar in the darkhall. 

"For thy sake, sweet Solita, " she said, "is he bound. For thy sake!"and she made her feel the manacles upon his hands. And when Solita hadso felt his bonds, she wept, and made the greatest sorrow that everman heard. 

"Alas!" she cried, "that my dear lord should suffer in such straits. In God's mercy, madame, I pray you let him go! Loyal service hath hedone for you, such as no other in the kingdom. "

"Loyal service, I trow, " replied the princess. "He hath brought suchshame upon my Court that for ever am I dishonoured. It may not be thatI let him go, without you give him back his word and bid him forth toBroye. "

"And that will I never do, " replied Solita, "for all your cruelty. "

So the princess turned her away and gat her from the hall, but Solitaremained with her lord, making moan and easing his fetters with herhands as best she might. Hence it fell out that she who should havecomforted must needs be comforted herself, and that the Sieur Rudeldid right willingly. 

The like, he would say to me, hath often happened to him since, andwhen he was harassed with sore distress he must needs turn him aboutto stop a woman's tears; for which he thanked God most heartily, andprayed that so it might ever be, since thus he clean forgot his ownsad plight. Whence, meseems, may men understand how noble a gentlemanwas my good lord the Sieur Rudel. 

Now when the night was well spent and drawing on to dawn, Solita, forvery weariness, fell asleep at the pillar's foot, and Rudel began totake counsel with himself if, by any manner of means, he might outwitthe Princess Joceliande. For this he saw, that she would not have himwed her handmaiden, and for that cause, and for no cowardice of his, had so cruelly entreated him. And when he had pondered a little withhimself, he bent and touched Solita with his hands, and called to herin a low voice. 

"Solita, " he said, "it is in Joceliande's heart to keep us twaineach from other. Rise, therefore, and get thee to the good abbot whobaptised thee. Ever hath he stood my friend, and for friendship's sakethis thing he will do. Bring him hither into the hall, that he maymarry us even this night, and when the morning comes I will tell theprincess of our marriage; and so will she know that her cruelty is ofsmall avail, and release me unto thee. "

Thereupon Solita rose right joyously. 

"Surely, my dear lord, " said she, "no man can match thee, neither incraft nor prowess, " and she hurried through the dark passages towardsthe lodging of the abbot. Hard by this lodging was the chapel of thecastle, and when she came thereto the windows were ablaze with light, and Solita clapped her ear to the door. But no sound did she hear, no, not so much as the stirring of a mouse, and bethinking her that thegood abbot might be holding silent vigil, she gently pressed upon thedoor, so that it opened for the space of an inch; and when she lookedinto the chapel, she beheld the Princess Joceliande stretched uponthe steps before the altar. Her coronet had fallen from her head androlled across the stones, and she lay like one that had fallen asleepin the counting of her beads. Greatly did Solita marvel at the sight, but no word she said lest she should wake the princess; and in alittle, becoming afeard of the silence and of the shadows which theflickering candles set racing on the wall, she shut the door quicklyand stole on tiptoe to the abbot. Long she entreated him or ever sheprevailed, for the holy man was timorous, and feared the wrath of theprincess. But at the last, for the Sieur Rudel's sake, he consented, and married them privily in the hall as the grey dawn was breakingacross the sea. 

Now, in the morning, the princess bid Solita be brought to her, andwhen they were alone, gently and cunningly she spake:

"Child, " she said, "I doubt not thy heart is hot against me for that Iwill not enlarge the Sieur Rudel. Alas! fain were I to do this thing, but for the honour of my Court I may not. Bound are we not by ourwills but by our necessities--and thus it is with all women. Men mayride forth and shape their lives with their good swords; but for us, we must needs bide where we were born, and order such things as fallto us, as best we can. Therefore, child, take my word to heart: theSieur Rudel loves thee, and thou wouldst keep his love. Let my agepoint to thee the way! What if I release him? No longer can he staywith us, holding high honour and dignity, since he hath turned himfrom his knightlihood and avoided this great adventure, but forthwith you must he fare. And all day long will he sit with you in yourchamber, idle as a woman, and ever his thoughts will go back to thetimes of his nobility. The clash of steel will grow louder inhis ears; he will list again to the praises of minstrels in thebanquet-hall, and when men speak to him of great achievements wroughtby other hands, then thou wilt see the life die out of his eyes, andhis heart will become cold as stone, and thou wilt lose his love. Agreat thing will it be for thee if he come not to hate thee in theend. But if, of thy own free will, thou send him from thee, then shaltthou ever keep his love. Thy image will ride before his eyes in thevan of battles; for very lack of thee he will move from endeavour toendeavour; and so thy life will be enshrined in his most noble deeds. "

At these words, with such cunning gentleness were they spoken, Solitawas sore troubled. 

"I cannot send him from me, " she cried, "for never did woman so loveher lord--no, not ever in the world!"

"Then prove thy love, " said Joceliande again. "A kingdom is given intohis hand, and he will not take it because of thee. It is a hard thing, I trow right well. But the cross becomes a crown when a woman liftsit. Think! A kingdom! And never yet was kingdom established but thestones of its walls were mortised with the blood of women's hearts. "

So she pleaded, hiding her own thoughts, until Solita answered her, and said:

"God help me, but he shall go to Broye!"

Much ado had the Princess Joceliande to hide her joy for the successof her device; but Solita, poor lass! had neither eyes nor thoughtsfor her. Forthwith she rose to her feet, and quickly gat her to thehall, lest her courage should fail, before that she had accomplishedher resolve. But when she came near to the Sieur Rudel, blithely hesmiled at her and called "Solita, my wife. " It seemed to her thatwords so sweet had never as yet been spoken since the world began, andall her strength ebbed from her, and she stood like one that is dumb, gazing piteously at her husband. Again Rudel called to her, but noanswer could she make, and she turned and fled sobbing to the chamberof the princess. 

"I could not speak, " she said; "my lips were locked, and Rudel holdsthe key. "

But the princess spoke gently and craftily, bidding her take heart, for that she herself would go with her and second her words; andtaking Solita by the hand, she led her again to the hall. 

This time Solita made haste to speak first. "Rudel, " she said, "nohonour can I bring to you, but only foul disgrace, and that is no fitgift from one who loves you. Therefore, from this hour I hold you quitof your promise and pray you to undertake this mission and set forthfor Broye. "

But the Sieur Rudel would hearken to nothing of what she said. 

"No foul disgrace can come to me, " he cried, "but only if I provefalse to you and lose your love. My promise I will keep, and all themore for that I see the Princess Joceliande hath set you on to this. "

But Solita protested that it was not so, and that of her own will anddesire she released him, for the longing to sacrifice herself for herdear lord's sake grew upon her as she thought upon it. Yet he wouldnot consent. 

"My word I passed to you when you were a maid, and shall I not keep itnow that you are a wife?" he cried. 

"Wife?" cried the princess, "you are his wife?" And she roughlygripped Solita's wrist so that the girl could not withhold a cry. 

"In truth, madame, " replied the Sieur Rudel, "even last night, in thishall, Solita and I were married by the good abbot, and therefore Iwill not leave her while she lives. "

Still Joceliande would not believe it, bethinking her that the SieurRudel had hit upon the pretence as a device for his enlargement; butSolita showed to her the ring which the abbot had taken from thefinger of her lord and placed upon hers, and then the princess knewthat of a surety they were married, and her hatred for Solita burnedin her blood like fire. 

But no sign she gave of what she felt, but rather spoke with greatersoftness to them both, bidding them look forward beyond the firstdelights of love, and behold how all their years to come were theprice they needs must pay. 

Now, while they were yet debating each with other, came Sir Broyanceinto the hall, and straightway the princess called to him and beggedhim to add his prayers to Solita's. But he answered:

"That, madame, I will not do, for, indeed, the esteem I have for theSieur Rudel is much increased, and I hold it no cowardice that heshould refuse a kingdom for his wife's sake, but the sweetest bravery. And therefore it was that I broke off my plea last night and soughtnot to persuade him. "

At that Rudel was greatly rejoiced, and said:

"Dost hear him, Solita? Even he who most has need of me acquits me ofdisgrace. Truly I will never leave thee while I live. "

But the princess turned sharply to Sir Broyance. "Sir, have youchanged your tune?" she said; "for never was a man so urgent as youwith me for the Sieur Rudel's help. "

"Alas! madame, " he replied, "I knew not then that he was plighted tothe maiden Solita, or never would I have borne this message. Forthis I surely know, that all my days are waste and barren because Isuffered my mistress to send me from her after a will-of-the-wisphonour, even as Solita would send her lord. "

Thereupon Solita brake in upon him:

"But, my lord, you have won great renown, and far and wide is yourprowess known and sung. "

"That avails me nothing, " he replied, "my life rings hollow like anempty cup, and so are two lives wasted. "

"Nay, my lord, neither life is wasted. For much have you done forothers, though maybe little for yourself, while for her you loved thenoise of your achievements must have been enough. "

"Of that I cannot tell, " he answered. "But this I know: she drags apale life out behind convent walls. Often have I passed the gate withmy warriors, but never could I hold speech with her. "

"She will have seen your banners glancing in the sun, " said Solita, "and so will she know her sacrifice was good. " Thereupon she turnedher again to her husband. "For my sake, dear Rudel, I pray you go toBroye. "

But still he persisted, saying he would not depart from her tilldeath, until at last she ceased from her importunities, and went sadlyto her chamber. Then she unbound her hair and stood gazing at herlikeness in the mirror. 

"O cursed beauty, " she cried, "wherein I took vain pride for my sweetlord's sake--truly art thou my ruin and snare!" And while she thusmade moan, the princess came softly into her chamber. 

"He will not leave me, madame, " she sobbed. Joceliande came over toher and gently laid her hand upon her head and whispered in her ear, "Not while you live!"

For awhile Solita sat silent. 

"Ay, madame, " she said at length, "even as I came alone to thesecoasts, so will I go from them;" and slowly she drew from its sheath alittle knife which she carried at her girdle. She tried the point uponher finger, so that the blood sprang from the prick and dropped on herwhite gown. At the sight she gave a cry and dropped the knife, and "Icannot do it" she said, "I have not the courage. But you, madame! Everhave you been kind to me, and therefore show me this last kindness. "

"I will well, " said the princess; and she made Solita to sit upon acouch, and with two bands of her golden hair she tied her hands fastbehind her, and so laid her upon her back on the couch. And when shehad so laid her she said:

"But for all that you die, he shall not go to Broye, but here shall hebide, and share my throne with me. "

Thereupon did Solita perceive all the treachery of PrincessJoceliande, and vainly she struggled to free her hands and to cry outfor help. But Joceliande clapped her palm upon Solita's mouth, anddrawing a gold pin from her own hair, she drove it straight into herheart, until nothing but the little knob could be seen. So Solitadied, and quickly the princess wiped the blood from her breast, andunbound her hands and arranged her limbs as though she slept. Then shereturned to the hall, and, summoning the warden, bade him loose theSieur Rudel. 

"It shall be even as you wish, " she said to him. Wise and prudent hadshe been, had she ended with that; but her malice was not yet sated, and so she suffered it to lead her to her ruin. For she stretched outher hand to him and said, "I myself will take you to your wife. " Andgreatly marvelling, the Sieur Rudel took her hand and followed. 

Now when they were come to Solita's chamber, the princess enteredfirst, and turned her again to my Lord Rudel and laid her finger toher lips, saying, "Hush!" Therefore he came in after her on tiptoe andstood a little way from the foot of the couch, fearing lest he mightwake his wife. 

"Is she not still?" asked Joceliande in a whisper. "Is she not stilland white?"

"Still and white as a folded lily, " he replied, "and like a foldedlily, too, in her white flesh there sleeps a heart of gold. " Therewithhe crept softly to the couch and bent above her, and in an instant heperceived that her bosom did not rise and fall. He gazed swiftly atthe princess; she was watching him, and their glances met. He droppedupon his knees by the couch and felt about Solita's heart that hemight know whether it beat or not, and his fingers touched the knob ofJoceliande's bodkin. Gently he drew the gown from Solita's bosom, andbeheld how that she had been slain. Then did he weep, believing thatin truth she had killed herself, but the princess must needs touch himupon the shoulder. 

"My lord, " she said, "why weep for the handmaid when the princesslives?"

Then the Sieur Rudel rose straightway to his feet and said:

"This is thy doing!" For a little Joceliande denied it, saying that ofher own will and desire Solita had perished. But Rudel looked her eversternly in the face, and again he said, "This is thy doing!" and atthat Joceliande could gainsay him no more. But she dropped upon thefloor, and kissed his feet, and cried:

"It was for love of thee, Rudel. Look, my kingdom is large and of muchwealth, yet of no worth is it to me, but only if it bring thee serviceand great honour. A princess am I, yet no joy do I have of my degree, but only if thou share my siege with me. "

Then Rudel broke out upon her, thrusting her from him with his handand spurning her with his foot as she crouched upon the floor. 

"No princess art thou, but a changeling. For surely princess never didsuch foul wrong and crime;" and even as he spake, many of the noblesburst into the chamber, for they had heard the outcry below andmarvelled what it might mean. And when Rudel beheld them crowdingthe doorway, "Come in, my lords, " said he, "so that ye may know whatmanner of woman ye serve and worship. There lies my dear wife, Solita, murdered by this vile princess, and for love of me she saith, for loveof me!" And again he turned him to Joceliande. "Now all the reverenceI held thee in is turned to hatred, God be thanked; such is theguerdon of thy love for me. "

Joceliande, when she heard his injuries, knew indeed that her love wasunavailing, and that by no means might she win him to share her siegewith her. Therefore her love changed to a bitter fury, and standingup forthwith she bade the nobles take their swords and smite off theSieur Rudel's head. But no one so much as moved a hand towards hishilt. Then spake Rudel again:

"O vile and treacherous, " he cried, "who will obey thee?" and his eyesfell upon Solita where she lay in her white beauty upon the goldenpillow of her hair. Thereupon he dropped again upon his knees by thecouch, and took her within his arms, kissing her lips and her eyes, and bidding her wake; this with many tears. But seeing she would not, but was dead in very truth, he got him to his feet and turned to wherethe princess stood like stone in the middle of the chamber. "Now forthy sin, " he cried, "a shameful death shalt thou die and a painful, and may the devil have thy soul!"

He bade the nobles depart from the chamber, and following them thelast, firmly barred the door upon the outside. Thus was the PrincessJoceliande left alone with dead Solita, and ever she heard the closingand barring of doors and the sound of feet growing fainter andfainter. But no one came to her, loud though she cried, and sorely wasshe afeard, gazing now at the dead body, now wondering what manner ofdeath the Sieur Rudel planned for her. Then she walked to the windowif by any chance she might win help that way, and saw the ships ridingat their anchorage with sails loose, and heard the songs of thesailors as they made ready to cast free; and between the coast andthe castle were many men hurrying backwards and forwards with all thepurveyance of a voyage. Then did she think that she was to be leftalone in the tower, to starve to death in company of the girl she hadmurdered, and great moan she made; but other device was in the mindof my ingenious master Lord Rudel. For all about the castle he piledstacks of wood and drenched them with oil, bethinking him thatSolita his wife, if little joy she had had of her life, should haveundeniable honour in her obsequies. And so having set fire to thestacks, he got him into the ships with all the company that haddwelled within the castle, and drew out a little way from shore. Thenthe ships lay to and watched the flames mounting the castle walls. Thetower wherein the Princess Joceliande was prisoned was the topmostturret of the building, so that many a roof crashed in, and many arampart bowed out and crumbled to the ground, or ever the fire touchedit. But just as night was drawing on, lo! a great tongue of flameburst through the window from within, and the Sieur Rudel beheld inthe midst of it as it were the figure of a woman dancing. 

Thereupon he signed to his sailors to hoist the sail again, and theother ships obeying his example, he led the way gallantly to Broye. 

A LIBERAL EDUCATION. 

"So you couldn't wait!"

Mrs. Branscome turned full on the speaker as she answereddeliberately: "You have evidently not been long in London, Mr. Hilton, or you would not ask that question. "

"I arrived yesterday evening. "

"Quite so. Then will you forgive me one tiny word of advice? You willlearn the truth of it soon by yourself; but I want to convince you atonce of the uselessness--to use no harder word--of trying to revive aflirtation--let me see! yes, quite two years old. You might as wellgalvanise a mummy and expect it to walk about. Besides, " she addedinconsistently, "I had to marry and--and--you never came. "

"Then you sent the locket!"

The word sent a shiver through Mrs. Branscome with a remembrance ofthe desecration of a gift which she had cherished as a holy thing. Sheclung to flippancy as her defence. 

"Oh, no! I never sent it. I lost it somewhere, I think. Must you go?"she continued, as Hilton moved silently to the door. "I expect myhusband in just now. Won't you wait and meet him?"

"How dare you?" Hilton burst out. "Is there nothing of your true selfleft?"

 * * * * *David Hilton's education was as yet in its infancy. This was not onlyhis first visit to England, but, indeed, to any spot further afieldthan Interlaken. All of his six-and-twenty years that he couldrecollect had been passed in a _châlet_ on the Scheidegg aboveGrindelwald, his only companion an elderly recluse who haddeliberately cut himself off from communion with his fellows. Thetrouble which had driven Mr. Strange, an author at one time of somemark, into this seclusion, was now as completely forgotten as hisname. Even David knew nothing of its cause. That Strange was his uncleand had adopted him when left an orphan at the age of six, was thesum of his information. For although the pair had lived together fortwenty years, there had been little intercourse of thought betweenthem, and none of sentiment. Strange had, indeed, throughout shut hisnephew, not merely from his heart, but also from his confidence, atfirst out of sheer neglect, and afterwards, as the lad grew towardsmanhood, from deliberate intent. For, by continually brooding over hisembittered life, he had at last impregnated his weak nature with thesavage cynicism which embraced even his one comrade; and the child hehad originally chosen as a solace for his loneliness, became in theend the victim of a heartless experiment. Strange's plan was basedupon a method of training. In the first place, he thoroughly isolatedDavid from any actual experience of persons beyond the simpleshepherd folk who attended to their needs and a few Alpine guides whoaccompanied him on mountain expeditions. He kept incessant guard overhis own past life, letting no incidents or deductions escape, and fedthe youth's mind solely upon the ideal polities of the ancients, his object being to launch him suddenly upon the world with littleknowledge of it beyond what had filtered through his books, andpossessed of an intuitive hostility to existing modes. What kind of acareer would ensue? Strange anticipated the solution of the problemwith an approach to excitement. Two events, however, prevented thecomplete realisation of his scheme. One was a lingering illness whichstruck him down when David was twenty-four and about to enter on hisordeal. The second, occurring simultaneously, was the advent of Mrs. Branscome--then Kate Alden--to Grindelwald. 

They met by chance on the snow slopes of the Wetterhorn early oneAugust morning. Miss Alden was trying to disentangle some meaningfrom the _pâtois_ of her guides, and gratefully accepted Hilton'sassistance. Half-an-hour after she had continued the ascent, Davidnoticed a small gold locket glistening in her steps. It recalled himto himself, and he picked it up and went home with a strange troubleclutching at his heart. The next morning he carried the locket downinto the valley, found its owner and--forgot to restore it. It becamean excuse for further descents. Meanwhile, the theories were wooedwith a certain coldness. In front of them stood perpetually the onereal thing which had surged up through the quiet of his life, and, lover-like, he justified its presence to himself, by seeing in KateAlden's frank face the incarnation of the ideal patterns of his books. The visits to Grindelwald grew more frequent and more prolonged. Theclimax, however, came unexpectedly to both. David had commissioned ajeweller at Berne to fashion a fac-simile of the locket for his ownwearing, and, meaning to restore the original, handed Kate Alden thecopy the evening before she left. An explanation of the mistake led tomutual avowals and a betrothal. Hilton returned to nurse his adoptivefather, and was to seek England as soon as he could obtain hisrelease. Meanwhile, Kate pledged herself to wait for him. She kept thenew locket, empty except for a sprig of edelweiss he had placed init, and agreed that if she needed her lover's presence, she shoulddespatch it as an imperative summons. 

During the next two years Strange's life ebbed sullenly away. Theapproach of death brought no closer intimacy between uncle and nephew, since indeed the former held it almost as a grievance againstDavid that he should die before he could witness the issue of hisexperiment. Consequently the younger man kept his secret to himself, and embraced it the more closely for his secrecy, fostering it throughthe dreary night watches, until the image of Kate Alden became aStar-in-the-East to him, beckoning towards London. When the end came, David found himself the possessor of a moderate fortune; and with thehumiliating knowledge that this legacy awoke his first feeling ofgratitude towards his uncle, he locked the door of the _châlet_, andso landed at Charing Cross one wet November evening. Meanwhile thelocket had never come. 

 * * * * *

After Hilton had left, Mrs. Branscome's forced indifference gave way. As she crouched beside the fire, numbed by pain beyond the power ofthought, she could conjure up but one memory--the morning of theirfirst meeting. She recollected that the sun had just risen over theshoulder of the Shreckhorn, and how it had seemed to her young fancythat David had come to her straight from the heart of it. The sound ofher husband's step in the hall brought her with a shock to facts. "Hemust go back, " she muttered, "he must go back. "

David, however, harboured no such design. One phrase of hers hadstruck root in his thoughts. "I had to marry, " she had said, andcertain failings in her voice warned him that this, whatever itmeant, was in her eyes the truth. It had given the lie direct to theflippancy which she had assumed, and David determined to remain untilhe had fathomed its innermost meaning. A fear, indeed, lest the onesingle faith he felt as real should crumble to ashes made his resolvealmost an instinct of self-preservation. The idea of accepting thesituation never occurred to him, his training having effectuallyprevented any growth of respect for the _status quo_ as such. Nor didhe realise at this time that his determination might perhaps proveunfair to Mrs. Branscome. A certain habit of abstraction, nurtured inhim by the spirit of inquiry which he had imbibed from his books, hadbecome so intuitive as to penetrate even into his passion. From thefirst he had been accustomed to watch his increasing intimacy withKate Alden from the standpoint of a third person, analysing heractions and feelings no less than his own. And now this tendency gavethe crowning impetus to a resolve which sprang originally from hisnecessity to find sure foothold somewhere amid the wreckage of hishopes. 

From this period might be dated the real commencement of Hilton'seducation. He returned to the Branscomes' house, sedulously schooledhis looks and his words, save when betrayed into an occasionaldenunciation of the marriage laws, and succeeded at last in overcominga distaste which Mr. Branscome unaccountably evinced for him. To acertain extent, also, he was taken up by social entertainers. Therewas an element of romance in the life he had led which appealedfavourably to the seekers after novelty--"a second St. SimeonSkylights" he had been rashly termed by one good lady, whose wealthoutweighed her learning. At first his gathering crowd of acquaintancesonly served to fence him more closely within himself; but as he beganto realise that this was only the unit of another crowd, a crowd ofdesigns and intentions working darkly, even he, sustained by thestrength of a single aim, felt himself whirling at times. Thus heslowly grew to some knowledge of the difficulties and complicationswhich must beset any young girl like Kate Alden, whose nearestrelation and chaperon had been a feather-headed cousin not somany years her elder. At last, in a dim way, he began to see thepossibility of replacing his bitterness with pity. For Mrs. Branscomedid not love her husband; he plainly perceived that, if only from theformal precision with which she performed her duties. She appeared tohim, indeed, to be paying off an obligation rather than working outthe intention of her life. 

The actual solution of his perplexities came by an accident. Amongstthe visitors who fell under Hilton's observation at the Branscomes'was a certain Mr. Marston, a complacent widower of somefive-and-thirty years, and Branscome's fellow servant at theAdmiralty. Hilton's attention was attracted to this man by the airof embarrassment with which Mrs. Branscome received his approaches. Resolute to neglect no clue, however slight, David sought Marston'scompanionship, and, as a reward, discovered one afternoon in a CrownDerby teacup on the mantel-shelf of the latter's room his own presentof two years back. The exclamation which this discovery extortedaroused Marston. 

"What's up?"

"Where did you get this?"

"Why? Have you seen it before?"

The question pointed out to David the need of wariness. 

"No!" he answered. "Its shape rather struck me, that's all. The emblemof a conquest, I suppose?"

The invitation stumbled awkwardly from unaccustomed lips, butMarston noticed no more than the words. He was chewing the cud of adisappointment and answered with a short laugh:

"No! Rather of a rebuff. The lady tore her hand away in a hurry--thelink on the bracelet was thin, I suppose. Anyway, that was left in myhand. "

"You were proposing to her?"

"Well, hardly. I was married at the time. "

There was a silence for some moments, during which Hilton slowlygathered into his mind a consciousness of the humiliation which Katemust have endured, and read in that the explanation of her words "Ihad to marry. " Marston took up the tale, babbling resentfully ofa nursery prudishness, but his remarks fell on deaf ears until hementioned a withered flower, which he had found inside the locket. Then David's self control partially gave way. In imagination he sawMarston carelessly tossing the sprig aside and the touch of hisfingers seemed to sully the love of which it was the token. The locketburned into his hand. Without a word he dropped it on to the floor, and ground it to pieces with his heel. A new light broke in uponMarston. 

"So this accounts for all your railing against the marriage laws, " helaughed. "By Jove, you have kept things quiet. I wouldn't have givenyou credit for it. "

His eyes travelled from the carpet to David's face, and he stoppedabruptly. 

"You had better hold your tongue, " David said quietly. "Pick up thepieces. "

"Do you think I would touch them now?"

Marston rose from his lounge; David stepped in front of the door. There was a litheness in his movements which denoted obedient muscles. Marston perceived this now with considerable discomfort, and thoughtit best to comply: he knelt down and picked up the fragments of thelocket. 

"Now throw them into the grate!"

That done, David took his leave. Once outside the house, however, hisemotion fairly mastered him. The episode of which he had just heardwas so mean and petty in itself, and yet so far-reaching in itsconsequences that it set his senses aflame in an increased revoltagainst the order of the world. Marriage was practically a necessityto a girl as unprotected as Kate Alden; he now acquiesced in that. Butthat it should have been forced upon her by the vanity of a trivialperson like Marston, engaged in the pursuit of his desires, sent afever of repulsion through his veins. He turned back to the doordeluded by the notion that it was his duty to render the occurrenceimpossible of repetition. He was checked, however, by the thought ofMrs. Branscome. The shame he felt hinted the full force of degradationof which she must have been conscious, and begot in him a strangefeeling of loyalty. Up till now the true meaning of chivalry hadbeen unknown to him. In consequence of his bringing up he had beenincapable of regarding faith in persons as a working motive in one'slife. Even the first dawn of his passion had failed to teach him that;all the confidence and trust which he gained thereby being a merereflection, from what he saw in Kate Alden, of truth to him. It wasnecessary that he should feel her trouble first and his poignant senseof that now revealed to him, not merely the wantonness of the perilswomen are compelled to run, but their consequent sufferings and theirendurance in suppressing them. 

A feverish impulse towards self-sacrifice sprang up within him. Hewould bury the incident of that afternoon as a dead thing--nay, more, for Mrs. Branscome's sake he would leave England and return to hisretreat among the mountains. If she had suffered, why should he claiman exemption? The idea had just sufficient strength to impel him tocatch the night-mail from Charing Cross. That it was already weakeningwas evidenced by a half-feeling of regret that he had not missed thetrain. 

The regret swelled during his journey to the coast. The scene he hadjust come through became, from much pondering on it, almost unreal, and, with the blurring of the impression it had caused, there rose adoubt as to the accuracy of his vision of Mrs. Branscome's distress, which he had conjured out of it. His chivalry, in a word, had growntoo quickly to take firm root. It was an exotic planted in soil notyet fully prepared. David began to think himself a fool, and at last, as the train neared Dover, a question which had been vaguely throbbingin his brain suddenly took shape. Why had she not sent for him? True, the locket was lost, but she might have written. The formulation ofthe question shattered almost all the work of the last few hours. Hecursed his recent thoughts as a child's fairy dreams. Why should heleave England after all? If he was to sacrifice himself it should befor some one who cared sufficiently for him to justify the act. 

There might, of course, have been some hidden obstacle in the way, which Mrs. Branscome could not surmount. The revelation of Marston'sunimagined story warned him of the possibility of that. But thechances were against it. Anyway, he quibbled to himself, he had aclear right to pursue the matter until he unearthed the truth. Actingupon this decision, David returned to town, though not without alurking sense of shame. 

A few evenings after, he sought out Mrs. Branscome at a dance. Theblood rushed to her face when she caught his figure, and as quicklyebbed away. 

"So you have not gone, after all?" There was something pitiful in hertone of reproach. 

"No. What made you think I had?"

"Mr. Marston told me!"

"Did he tell you why?"

"I guessed that, and I thanked you in my heart. "

David was disconcerted; the woman he saw corresponded so ill with whathe was schooling himself to believe her. He sought to conceal hisconfusion, as she had once done, and played a part. Like her, heoverplayed it. 

"Well! I came to see London life, you know. It makes a pretty comedy. "

"Comedies end in tears at times. "

"Even then common politeness makes us sit them out. Can you spare me adance?"

Mrs. Branscome pleaded fatigue, and barely suppressed a sigh of reliefas she noted her husband's approach. David followed her glance, andbent over her, speaking hurriedly:--

"You said you knew why I went away; I want to tell you why I cameback. "

"No! no!" she exclaimed. "It could be of no use--of no help to eitherof us. "

"I came back, " he went on, ignoring her interruption, "merely to askyou one question. Will you hear it and answer it? I can wait, " headded, as she kept silence. 

"Then, to-morrow, as soon as possible, " Mrs. Branscome replied, beatenby his persistency. "Come at seven; we dine at eight, so I can giveyou half-an-hour. But you are ungenerous. "

That night began what may be termed the crisis of Hilton's education. This was the second time he had caught Mrs. Branscome unawares. On thefirst occasion--that of his unexpected arrival in England--he did notpossess the experience to measure accurately looks and movements, or to comprehend them as the connotation of words. It is doubtful, besides, whether, had he owned the skill, he would have had the powerto exercise it, so engrossed was he in his own distress. By theprocess, however, of continually repressing the visible signs of hisown emotions, he had now learnt to appreciate them in others. Andin Mrs. Branscome's sudden change of colour, in little convulsivemovements of her hands, and in a certain droop of eyelids veiling eyeswhich met the gaze frankly as a rule, he read this evening sure proofsof the constancy of her heart. This fresh knowledge affected him intwo ways. On the one hand it gave breath to the selfish passion whichnow dominated his ideas. At the same time, however it assured himthat when he asked his question: "Why did you not send for me?" anunassailable answer would be forthcoming; and, moreover, by convincinghim of this, it destroyed the sole excuse he had pleaded to himselffor claiming the right to ask it. In self-defence Hilton had recourseto his old outcry against the marriage laws and, finding this barren, came in the end to frankly devising schemes for their circumvention. Such inward personal conflicts were, of necessity, strange to a mandry-nursed on abstractions, and, after a night of tension, they tossedhim up on the shores of the morning broken in mind and irresolute forgood or ill. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Branscome received him impassively at the appointed time. Davidsaw that he was expected to speak to the point, and a growing scornfor his own insistence urged him to the same course. He plungedabruptly into his subject and his manner showed him in the rough, moreparticularly to himself. 

"What I came back to ask you is just this. You know--you mustknow--that I would have come, whatever the consequence. Why did younot send for me after, after--?"

"Why did I not send for you?" Mrs. Branscome took him up, repeatinghis words mechanically, as though their meaning had not reached her. "You don't mean that you never received my letter. Oh, don't say that!It can't have miscarried, I registered it. "

"Then you did write?"

This confirmation of her fear drove a breach through her composure. 

"Of course, of course, I wrote, " she cried. "You doubt that? What canyou think of me? Yes, I wrote, and when no answer came, I fanciedyou had forgotten me--that you had never really cared, and so I--Imarried. "

Her voice dried in her throat. The thought of this ruin of two lives, made inevitable by a mistake in which neither shared, brought a senseof futility which paralysed her. 

The same idea was working in Hilton's mind, but to a different end. Itfixed the true nature of this woman for the first time clearly withinhis recognition, and the new light blinded him. Before, his imaginedgrievance had always coloured the picture; now, he began to realisenot only that she was no more responsible for the catastrophe thanhimself, but that he must have stood in the same light to her as shehad done to him. The events of the past few months passed before hismind as on a clear mirror. He compared the gentle distinction of herbearing with his own flaunting resentment. 

"I am sorry, " he said, "I have wronged you in thought and word andaction. The fact is, I never saw you plainly before; myself stood inthe way. "

Mrs. Branscome barely heeded his words. The feelings her watchfulnesshad hitherto restrained having once broken their barriers swept heraway on a full flow. She recalled the very terms of her letter. Shehad written it in the room in which they were standing. Mr. Branscomehad called just as she addressed the envelope--she had questioned himabout its registration to Switzerland, and, yes, he had promised tolook after it and had taken it away. "Yes!" she repeated to herselfaloud, directing her eyes instinctively towards her husband's studydoor. "He promised to post it. "

The sound of the words and a sudden movement from Hilton woke her toalarm. David had turned to the window, and she felt that he had heardand understood. The silence pressed on her like a dead weight. ForHilton, this was the crucial moment of his ordeal. He had understoodonly too clearly, and this second proof of the harm a petty sin couldradiate struck through him the same fiery repulsion which had stunghim to revolt when he quitted Marston's rooms. He flung up the windowand faced the sunset. Strips of black cloud barred it across, and henoticed, with a minute attention of which he was hardly conscious, that their lower edges took a colour like the afterglow on a Swissrock mountain. The perception sent a riot of associations through hisbrain which strengthened his wavering purpose. Must he lose her afterall, he thought; now that he had risen to a true estimation of herworth? His fancy throned Kate queen of his mountain home, and heturned towards her, but a light of fear in her eyes stopped the wordson his lips. 

"I trust you, " she said, simply. 

The storm of his passions quieted down. That one sentence justexpressed to him the debt he owed to her. In return--well, he could dono less than leave her her illusion. 

"Good-bye, " he said. "All the good that comes to us, somehow, seems tospring from women like yourself, while we give you nothing but troublein return. Even this last misery, which my selfishness has brought toyou, lifts me to breathe a cleaner air. "

"He must have forgotten to post it, " Mrs. Branscome pleaded. 

"Yes; we must believe that. Good-bye!"

For a moment he stayed to watch her white figure, outlined against thedusk of the room, and then gently closed the door on her. The nextmorning David left England, not, however, for Grindelwald. He dreadedthe morbid selfishness which grows from isolation, and sought afinishing school in the companionship of practical men. 

THE TWENTY-KRONER STORY. 

The surgeon has a weakness for men who make their living on the sea. From the skipper of a Dogger Bank fishing-smack to the stoker of aCardiff tramp, from Margate 'longshoreman to a crabber of the StillyIsles, he embraces them all in a lusty affection. And this not merelyout of his own love of salt water but because his diagnosis revealsthe gentleman in them more surely than in the general run of hiswealthier patients. "A primitive gentleman, if you like, " Lincott willsay, "not above tearing his meat with his fingers or wearing thesame shirt night and day for a couple of months on end, but still agentleman. " As one of the innumerable instances which had built up hisconviction, Lincott will offer you the twenty-kroner story. 

As he was walking through the wards of his hospital he stopped fora moment by the bed of a brewer's drayman who was suffering from anaccess of _delirium tremens_. The drayman's language was violent andvoluble. But he sank into a coma with the usual suddenness common tosuch cases, and in the pause which followed Lincott heard a gentlevoice a few beds away earnestly apologising to a nurse for the troubleshe was put to. "Why, " she replied with a laugh, "I am here to betroubled. " Apologies of the kind are not so frequently heard in thewards of an East End hospital. This one, besides, was spoken with anaccent not very pronounced, it is true, but unfamiliar. Lincott moveddown to the bed. It was occupied by a man apparently tall, with a pairof remorseful blue eyes set in an open face, and a thatch of yellowhair dusted with grey. 

"What's the matter?" asked Lincott, and the patient explained. He wasa Norseman from Finland, fifty-three years old, and he had worked allhis life on English ships. He had risen from "decky" to mate. Then hehad injured himself, and since he could work no more he had come intothe hospital to be cured. Lincott examined him, found that a slightoperation was all the man needed, and performed it himself. In sixweeks time Helling, as the sailor was named, was discharged. He made asimple and dignified little speech of thanks to the nurses for theirattention, and another to the surgeon for saving his life. 

"Nonsense!" said Lincott, as he held out his hand. "Any medicalstudent could have performed that operation. "

"Then I have another reason to thank you, " answered Helling. "Thenurses have told me about you, sir, and I'm grateful you spared thetime to perform it yourself. "

"What are you going to do?" asked Lincott. 

"Find a ship, sir, " answered Helling. Then he hesitated, and slowlyslipped his finger and thumb along the waist-band of his trousers. Buthe only repeated, "I must find a ship, " and so left the hospital. 

Three weeks later Helling called at Lincott's house in Harley Street. Now, when hospital patients take the trouble, after they have beendischarged, to find out the doctor's private address and call, itgenerally means they have come to beg. Lincott, remembering howHelling's simple courtesies had impressed him, experienced an actualdisappointment. He felt his theories about the seafaring man begin tototter. However, Helling was shown into the consulting-room, and atthe sight of him Lincott's disappointment vanished. He did not startup, since manifestations of surprise are amongst those things withwhich doctors find it advisable to dispense, but he hooked a chairforward with his foot. 

"Now then, sit down! Chuck yourself about! Sit down, " said Lincottgenially. "You look bad. "

Helling, in fact, was gaunt with famine; his eyes were sunk and dull;he was so thin that he seemed to have grown in height. 

"I had some trouble in finding a ship, " he said; and sitting down onthe edge of the chair, twirled his hat in some embarrassment. 

"It is three weeks since you left the hospital?"

"Yes. "

"You should have come here before, " the surgeon was moved to say. 

"No, " answered Helling. "I couldn't come before, sir. You see, I hadno ship. But I found one this morning, and I start to-morrow. "

"But for these three weeks? You have been starving. " Lincott slippedhis hand into his pocket. It seemed to him afterwards simplyprovidential that he did not fumble his money, that no clink of coinswas heard. For Helling answered, "Yes, sir, I've been starving. " He drew back his shoulders andlaughed. "I'm proud to know that I've been starving. "

He laid his hat on the ground, drew out and unclasped his knife, feltalong the waist-band of his breeches, cut a few stitches, and finallyproduced a little gold coin. This coin he held between his forefingerand thumb. 

"Forty years ago, " he said, "when I was a nipper and starting onmy first voyage, my mother gave me this. She sewed it up in thewaist-band of my breeches with her own hands and told me never to partwith it until I'd been starving. I've been near to starvation oftenand often enough. But I never have starved before. This coin hasalways stood between that and me. Now, however, I have actually beenstarving and I can part with it. "

He got up from his chair and timidly laid the piece of gold on thetable by Lincott's elbow. Then he picked up his hat. The surgeonsaid nothing, and he did not touch the coin. Neither did he look atHelling, but sat with his forehead propped in his hand as though hewere reading the letters on his desk. Helling, afraid to speak lesthis coin should be refused, walked noiselessly to the door andnoiselessly unlatched it. 

"Wait a bit!" said Lincott. Helling stopped anxiously in the doorway. 

"Where have you slept"--Lincott paused to steady his voice--"for thelast three weeks?" he continued. 

"Under arches by the river, sir, " replied Helling. "On benches alongthe Embankment, once or twice in the parks. But that's all over now, "he said earnestly. "I'm all right. I've got my ship. I couldn't partwith that before, because it was the only thing I had to hang on tothe world with. But I'm all right now. "

Lincott took up the coin and turned it over in the palm of his hand. 

"Twenty kroners, " he said. "Do you know what that's worth in England?"

"Yes, I do, " answered Helling with some trepidation. 

"Fifteen shillings, " said Lincott. "Think of it, fifteen shillings, perhaps sixteen. "

"I know, " interrupted Helling quickly, mistaking the surgeon'smeaning. "But please, please, you mustn't think I value what you havedone for me at that. It's only fifteen shillings, but it has meant afortune to me all the last three weeks. Each time that I've drawn mybelt tighter I have felt that coin underneath it burn against my skin. When I passed a coffee-stall in the early morning and saw the steamand the cake I knew I could have bought up the whole stall if I chose. I could have had meals, and meals, and meals. I could have slept inbeds under roofs. It's only fifteen shillings; nothing at all toyou, " and he looked round the consulting-room, with its pictures andelectric lights, "but I want you to take it at what it has been worthto me ever since I came out of the hospital. "

Lincott took Helling into his dining-room. On a pedestal stood a greatsilver vase, blazing its magnificence across the room. 

"You see that?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said Helling. 

"It was given to me by a patient. It must have cost at the least£500. "

Helling tapped the vase with his knuckles. 

"Yes, sir, that's a present, " he said enviously. "That _is_ apresent. "

Lincott laughed and threw up the window. 

"You can pitch it out into the street if you like. By the side of yourcoin it's muck. "

Lincott keeps the coin. He points out that Helling was fifty-three atthe time that he gave him this present, and that the operation was onewhich any practitioner could have performed. 

THE FIFTH PICTURE. 

Lady Tamworth felt unutterably bored. The sensation of lassitude, evenin its less acute degrees, was rare with her; for she possessed anature of so fresh a buoyancy that she was able, as a rule, to extractdiversion from any environment. Her mind took impressions with thevivid clearness of a mirror, and also, it should be owned, with amirror's transient objectivity. To-day, however, the mirror wasclouded. She looked out of the window; a level row of grey housesfrowned at her across the street. She looked upwards; a grey pall ofcloud swung over the rooftops. The interior of the room appeared toher even less inviting than the street. It was the afternoon of thefirst drawing-room, and a _debutante_ was exhibiting herself to herfriends. She stood in the centre, a figure from a Twelfth-Night cake, amidst a babble of congratulations, and was plainly occupied in aperpetual struggle to conceal her moments of enthusiasm beneath acrust of deprecatory languor. 

The spectacle would have afforded choice entertainment to LadyTamworth, had she viewed it in the company of a sympathetic companion. Solitary appreciation of the humorous, however, only induced in hera yet more despondent mood. The tea seemed tepid; the conversationmatched the tea. Epigrams without point, sallies void of wit, andcynicisms innocent of the sting of an apt application floated abouther on a ripple of unintelligent laughter. A phrase of Mr. Dale'srecurred to her mind, "Hock and seltzer with the sparkle out of it;"so he had stigmatised the style and she sadly thanked him for themetaphor. 

There was, moreover, a particular reason for her discontent. Nobodyrealised the presence of Lady Tamworth, and this unaccustomed neglectshot a barbed question at her breast. "After all why should they?" Shewas useless, she reflected; she did nothing, exercised no influence. The thought, however, was too painful for lengthened endurance; thevery humiliation of it produced the antidote. She remembered that shehad at last persuaded her lazy Sir John to stand for Parliament. Onlywait until he was elected! She would exercise an influence then. Thevision of a _salon_ was miraged before her, with herself in the middledeftly manipulating the destinies of a nation. 

"Lady Tamworth!" a voice sounded at her elbow. 

"Mr. Dale!" She turned with a sudden sprightliness. "My guardian angelsent you. "

"So bad as that?"

"I have an intuition. " She paused impressively upon the word. 

"Never mind!" said he soothingly. "It will go away. "

Lady Tamworth glared, that is, as well as she could; nature had notreally adapted her for glaring. "I have an intuition, " she resumed, "that this is what the suburbs mean. " And she waved her handcomprehensively. 

"They are perhaps a trifle excessive, " he returned. "But then youneedn't have come. "

"Oh, yes! Clients of Sir John. " Lady Tamworth sighed and sank with aweary elegance into a chair. Mr. Dale interpreted the sigh. "Ah! Awife's duties, " he began. 

"No man can know, " she interrupted, and she spread out her hands inpathetic forgiveness of an over-exacting world. Her companion laughedbrutally. "You _are_ rude!" she said and laughed too. And then, "Tellme something new!"

"I met an admirer of yours to-day. "

"But that's nothing new. " She looked up at him with a plaintivereproach. 

"I will begin again, " he replied submissively. "I walked down theMile-End road this morning to Sir John's jute-factory. "

"You fail to interest me, " she said with some emphasis. 

"I am so sorry. Good-bye!"

"Mr. Dale!"

"Yes!"

"You may, if you like, go on with the first story. "

"There is only one. It was in the Mile-End road I met theadmirer--Julian Fairholm. "

"Oh!" Lady Tamworth sat up and blushed. However, Lady Tamworth blushedvery readily. 

"It was a queer incident, " Mr. Dale continued. "I caught sight of anecktie in a little dusty shop-window near the Pavilion Theatre. Ihad never seen anything like it in my life; it fairly fascinated me, seemed to dare me to buy it. "

The lady's foot began to tap upon the carpet. Mr. Dale stopped andleaned critically forward. 

"Well! Why don't you go on?" she asked impatiently. 

"It's pretty, " he reflected aloud. 

The foot disappeared demurely into the seclusion of petticoats. "Youexasperate me, " she remarked. But her face hardly guaranteed herwords. "We were speaking of ties. "

"Ah, the tie wasn't pretty. It was of satin, bright yellow with bluespots. And an idea struck me; yes, an idea! Sir John's electioncolours are yellow, his opponent's blue. So I thought the tie wouldmake a tactful present, symbolical (do you see?) of the state of theparties in the constituency. "

He paused a second time. 

"Well?"

"I went in and bought it. "

"Well?"

"Julian Fairholm sold it to me. "

Lady Tamworth stared at the speaker in pure perplexity. Then all atonce she understood and the blood eddied into her cheeks. "I don'tbelieve it!" she exclaimed. 

"His face would be difficult to mistake, " Mr. Dale objected. "BesidesI had time to assure myself, for I had to wait my turn. When I enteredthe shop, he was serving a woman with baby-linen. Oh yes! JulianFairholm sold me the tie. "

Lady Tamworth kept her eyes upon the ground. Then she looked up. Shestruck the arm of her chair with her closed fist and cried in a quickpetulance, "How dare he?"

"Exactly what I thought, " answered her companion smoothly. "Thecolours were crude by themselves, the combination was detestable. Andhe an artist too!" Mr. Dale laughed pleasantly. 

"Did he speak to you?"

"He asked me whether I would take a packet of pins instead of afarthing. "

"Ah, don't, " she entreated, and rose from her chair. It might havebeen her own degradation of which Mr. Dale was speaking. 

"By the way, " he added, "I was so taken aback that I forgot to presentthe tie. Would you?"

"No! No!" she said decisively and turned away. But a sudden notionchecked her. "On second thoughts I will; but I can't promise to makehim wear it. "

The smile which sped the words flickered strangely upon quivering lipsand her eyes shone with anger. However the tie changed hands, and LadyTamworth tripped down stairs and stepped into her brougham. The packetlay upon her lap and she unfolded it. A round ticket was enclosed, andthe bill. On the ticket was printed, _A Present from Zedediah Moss_. With a convulsion of disgust she swept the parcel on to the floor. "How dare he?" she cried again, and her thoughts flew back to thebrief period of their engagement. She had been just Kitty Arlton inthose days, the daughter of a poor sea-captain but dowered withthe compensating grace of personal attractions. Providence hadindisputably designed her for the establishment of the familyfortunes; such at all events was the family creed, and the girlherself felt no inclination to doubt a faith which was backed by theevidence of her looking-glass. Julian Fairholm at that time shared astudio with her brother, and the acquaintance thus begun ripened intoan attachment and ended in a betrothal. For Julian, in the commonprediction, possessed that vague blessing, a future. It is true thecommon prediction was always protected by a saving clause: "If hecould struggle free from his mysticism. " But none the less hispictures were beginning to sell, and the family displayed a moderatecontent. The discomposing appearance of Sir John Tamworth, however, gave a different complexion to the matter. Sir John was rich, and hadbesides the confident pertinacity of success. In a word, Kitty Arltonmarried Sir John. 

Lady Tamworth's recollections of the episode were characteristicallyvague; they came back to her in pieces like disconnected sections ofa wooden puzzle. She remembered that she had written an exquisitelypathetic letter to Fairholm "when the end came, " as she expressed it;and she recalled queer scraps of the artist's talk about the dangerof forming ties. "New ties, " he would say, "mean new duties, and theyhamper and clog the will. " Ah yes, the will; he was always holdingforth about that and here was the lecture finally exemplified! Hewas selling baby-linen in the Mile-End road. She had borne herdisappointment, she reflected, without any talk about will. Thethought of her self-sacrifice even now brought the tears to her eyes;she saw herself wearing her orange-blossoms in the spirit of anIphigeneia. 

Sections of the puzzle, however, were missing to Lady Tamworth'sperceptions. For, in fact, her sense of sacrifice had been mainlyartificial, and fostered by a vanity which made the possession of abroken romance seem to pose her on a notable pedestal of duty. Whathad really attracted her to Julian was the evidence of her power shownin the subjugation of a being intellectually higher than his compeers. It was not so much the man she had cared for, as the sight of herselfin a superior setting; a sure proof whereof might have been found in acertain wilful pleasure which she had drawn from constantly impellinghim to acts and admissions which she knew to be alien to his nature. 

It was some revival of this idea which explained her exclamation, "Howdare he?" For his conduct appeared more in the light of an outrage andinsult to her than of a degradation of himself. He must be rescuedfrom his position, she determined. 

She stooped to pick up the bill from the floor as the brougham swungsharply round a corner. She looked out of the window; the coachman hadturned into Berkeley Square; in another hundred yards she would reachhome. She hastily pulled the check-string, and the footman came to thedoor. "Drive down the Mile-End road, " she said; "I will fetch Sir Johnhome. " Lady Tamworth read the address on the bill. "Near the PavilionTheatre, " Mr. Dale had explained. She would just see the place thisevening, she determined, and then reflect on the practical course tobe pursued. 

The decision relieved her of her sense of humiliation, and she nestledback among her furs with a sigh of content. There was a pleasurableexcitement about her present impulse which contrasted very brightlywith her recent _ennui_. She felt that her wish to do something, to exert an influence, had been providentially answered. The task, besides, seemed to her to have a flavour of antique chivalry; itsmacked of the princess undoing enchantments, and reminded her vaguelyof Camelot. She determined to stop at the house and begin the workat once; so she summoned the footman a second time and gave him theaddress. So great indeed was the charm which her conception exercisedover her, that her very indignation against Julian changed to pity. He had to be fitted to the chivalric pattern, and consequentlyrefashioned. Her harlequin fancy straightway transformed him into theromantic lover who, having lost his mistress, had lost the world andtherefore, naturally, held the sale of baby-linen on a par with thepainting of pictures. "Poor Julian!" she thought. 

The carriage stopped suddenly in front of a shuttered window. Aneighbouring gas-lamp lit up the letters on the board above it, _Z. Moss_. This unexpected check in the full flight of ardour dropped herto earth like a plummet. And as if to accentuate her disappointmentthe surrounding shops were aglare with light; customers pressedbusily in and out of them, and even on the roadway naphtha-jets wavedflauntingly over barrows of sweet-stuff and fruit. Only this sordidlittle house was dark. "They can't afford to close at this hour, " shemurmured reproachfully. 

The footman came to the carriage door, disdain perceptibly strugglingthrough his mask of impassivity. 

"Why is the shop closed?" Lady Tamworth asked. 

"The name, perhaps, my lady, " he suggested. "It is Friday. "

Lady Tamworth had forgotten the day. "Very well, " she said sullenly. "Home at once!" However, she corrected herself adroitly: "I mean, ofcourse, fetch Sir John first. "

Sir John was duly fetched and carried home jubilant at so rare anattention. The tie was presented to him on the way, and he bellowedhis merriment at its shape and colour. To her surprise Lady Tamworthfound herself defending the style, and inveighing against the monotonyof the fashions of the West End. Nor was this the only occasion onwhich she disagreed with her husband that evening. He launched anaphorism across the dinner-table which he had cogitated from thereport of a divorce-suit in the evening papers. "It is a strangething, " he said, "that the woman who knows her influence over a manusually employs it to hurt him; the woman who doesn't, employs itunconsciously for his good. "

"You don't mean that?" she asked earnestly. 

"I have noticed it more than once, " he replied. 

For a moment Lady Tamworth's chivalric edifice showed cracks andrents; it threatened to crumble like a house of cards; but only fora moment. For she merely considered the remark in reference to thefuture; she applied it to her present wish to exercise an influenceover Julian. The issue of that, however, lay still in the dark, andwas consequently imaginable as inclination prompted. A glance at SirJulian sufficed to finally reassure her. He was rosy and modern, andso plainly incapable of appreciating chivalric impulses. To estimatethem rightly one must have an insight into their nature, and thereforean actual experience of their fire; but such fire left traces on theperson. Chivalric people were hollow-cheeked with luminous eyes; atleast chivalric men were hollow-cheeked, she corrected herself witha look at the mirror. At all events Sir John and his aphorism werebeneath serious reflection; and she determined to repeat her journeyupon the first opportunity. 

The opportunity, however, was delayed for a week and occasioned LadyTamworth no small amount of self-pity. Here was noble work waiting forher hand, and duty kept her chained to the social oar!

On the afternoon, then, of the following Friday she dressed withwhat even for her was unusual care, aiming at a complex effect ofdaintiness and severity, and drove down in a hansom to Whitechapel. She stopped the cab some yards from the shop and walked up to thewindow. Through the glass she could see Julian standing behind thecounter. His hands (she noticed them particularly because he wasdisplaying some cheap skeins of coloured wool) seemed perhaps a triflethinner and more nervous, his features a little sharpened, and therewas a sprinkling of grey in the black of his hair. For the first timesince the conception of her scheme Lady Tamworth experienced a feelingof irresolution. With Fairholm in the flesh before her eyes, the taskappeared difficult; its reality pressed in upon her, driving a breachthrough the flimsy wall of her fancies. She resolved to wait until theshop should be empty, and to that end took a few steps slowly up thestreet and returned yet more slowly. She looked into the window again;Julian was alone now, and still she hesitated. The admiring commentsof two loungers on the kerb concerning her appearance at lastdetermined her, and she brusquely thrust open the door. A little belljangled shrilly above it and Julian looked up. 

"Lady Tamworth!" he said after the merest pause and with no more thana natural start of surprise. Lady Tamworth, however, was too takenaback by the cool manner of his greeting to respond at once. She hadforecast the commencement of the interview upon such wholly differentlines that she felt lost and bewildered. An abashed confusion was theleast that she expected from him, and she was prepared to increase itwith a nicely-tempered indignation. Now the positions seemed actuallyreversed; he was looking at her with a composed attention, while shewas filled with embarrassment. 

A suspicion flashed through her mind that she had come upon a fool'serrand. "Julian!" she said with something of humility in her voice, and she timidly reached out her little gloved hand towards him. Juliantook it into the palm of his own and gazed at it with a sort ofwondering tenderness, as though he had lighted upon a toy which heremembered to have prized dearly in an almost forgotten childhood. 

This second blow to her pride quickened in her a feeling ofexasperation. She drew her fingers quickly out of his grasp. "Whatbrought you down to this!" She snapped out the words at him; she hadnot come to Whitechapel to be slighted at all events. 

"I have risen, " he answered quietly. 

"Risen? And you sell baby-linen!"

Julian laughed in pure contentment. "You don't understand, " he said. For a moment he looked at her as one debating with himself and then:"You have a right to understand. I will tell you. " He leaned acrossthe counter, and as he spoke the eager passion of a devotee began tokindle in his eyes and vibrate through the tones of his voice. "Theknowledge of a truth worked into your heart will lift you, eh, mustlift you high? But base your life upon that truth, centre yourselfabout it, till your thoughts become instincts born from it! It mustlift you still higher then; ah, how much higher! Well, I have donethat. Yes, that's why I am here. And I owe it all to you. "

Lady Tamworth repeated his words in sheer bewilderment. "You owe itall to me?"

"Yes, " he nodded, "all to you. " And with genuine gratitude he added, "You didn't know the good that you had done. "

"Ah, don't say that!" she cried. 

The bell tinkled over the shop-door and a woman entered. Lady Tamworthbent forward and said hastily, "I must speak to you. "

"Then you must buy something; what shall it be?" Fairholm had alreadyrecovered his self-possession and was drawing out one of the shelvesin the wall behind him. 

"No, no!" she exclaimed, "not here; I can't speak to you here. Comeand call on me; what day will you come?"

Julian shook his head. "Not at all, I am afraid. I have not the time. "

A boy came out from the inner room and began to get ready theshutters. "Ah, it's Friday, " she said. "You will be closing soon. "

"In five minutes. "

"Then I will wait for you. Yes, I will wait for you. "

She paused at the door and looked at Julian. He was deferentiallywaiting on his customer, and Lady Tamworth noticed with a queerfeeling of repugnance that he had even acquired the shopman's trick ofrubbing the hands. Those five minutes proved for her a most unenviableperiod. Julian's sentence, --"I owe it all to you"--pressed heavilyupon her conscience. Spoken bitterly, she would have given little heedto it; but there had been a convincing sincerity in the ring ofhis voice. The words, besides, brought back to her Sir John'suncomfortable aphorism and freighted it with an accusation. Sheapplied it now as a search-light upon her jumbled recollections ofJulian's courtship, and began to realise that her efforts during thattime had been directed thoughtlessly towards enlarging her influenceover him. If, indeed, Julian owed this change in his condition to her, then Sir John was right, and she had employed her influence to hishurt. And it only made her fault the greater that Julian was himselfunconscious of his degradation. She commenced to feel a personalresponsibility commanding her to rescue him from his slough, whichwas increased moreover by a fear that her persuasions might proveineffectual. For Julian's manner pointed now to an utter absence offeeling so far as she was concerned. 

At last Julian came out to her. "You will leave here, " she criedimpulsively. "You will come back to us, to your friends!"

"Never, " he answered firmly. 

"You must, " she pleaded; "you said you owed it all to me. "

"Yes. "

"Well, don't you see? If you stay here, I can never forgive myself; Ishall have ruined your life. "

"Ruined it?" Julian asked in a tone of wonder. "You have made it. " Hestopped and looked at Lady Tamworth in perplexity. The same perplexitywas stamped upon her face. "We are at cross-purposes, I think, " hecontinued. "My rooms are close here. Let me give you some tea, andexplain to you that you have no cause to blame yourself. "

Lady Tamworth assented with some relief. The speech had an oddcivilised flavour which contrasted pleasantly with what she hadimagined of his mode of life. 

They crossed the road and turned into a narrow side-street. Julianhalted before a house of a slovenly exterior, and opened the door. Abare rickety staircase rose upwards from their feet. Fairholm closedthe door behind Lady Tamworth, struck a match (for it was quite darkwithin this passage), and they mounted to the fourth and topmostfloor. They stopped again upon a little landing in front of a seconddoor. A wall-paper of a cheap and offensive pattern, which had hereand there peeled from the plaster, added, Lady Tamworth observed, apaltry air of tawdriness to the poverty of the place. Julian fumbledin his pocket for a key, unlocked the door, and stepped aside for hiscompanion to enter. Following her in, he lit a pair of wax candleson the mantelpiece and a brass lamp in the corner of the room. LadyTamworth fancied that unawares she had slipped into fairyland;so great was the contrast between this retreat and the sordidsurroundings amidst which it was perched. It was furnished with adainty, and almost a feminine luxury. The room, she could see, was nomore than an oblong garret; but along one side mouse-coloured curtainsfell to the ground in folds from the angle where the sloping roof metthe wall; on the other a cheerful fire glowed from a hearth of whitetiles and a kettle sang merrily upon the hob. A broad couch, piledwith silk cushions occupied the far end beneath the window, and thefeet sank with a delicate pleasure into a thick velvety carpet. In thecentre a small inlaid table of cedar wood held a silver tea-service. The candlesticks were of silver also, and cast in a light andfantastic fashion. The solitary discord was a black easel funereallydraped. 

Julian prepared the tea, and talked while he prepared it. "It is thisway, " he began quietly. "You know what I have always believed; thatthe will was the man, his soul, his life, everything. Well, in the olddays thoughts and ideas commenced to make themselves felt in me, tocrop up in my work. I would start on a picture with a clear settleddesign; when it was finished, I would notice that by some unconsciousfreak I had introduced a figure, an arabesque, always something whichmade the whole incongruous and bizarre. I discovered the cause duringthe week after I received your last letter. The thoughts, the ideaswere yours; better than mine perhaps, but none the less death to me. "

Lady Tamworth stirred uneasily under a sense of guilt, and murmureda faint objection. Julian shook off the occupation of his theme andhanded her some cake, and began again, standing over her with the cakein his hand, and to all seeming unconscious that there was a strain ofcruelty in his words. "I found out what that meant. My emotions weremastering me, drowning the will in me. You see, I cared for you somuch--then. "

A frank contempt stressing the last word cut into his hearer with thekeenness of a knife. "You are unkind, " she said weakly. 

"There's no reproach to you. I have got over it long ago, " he repliedcheerily. "And you showed me how to get over it; that's why I amgrateful. For I began to wonder after that, why I, who had always beenon my guard against the emotions, should become so thoroughly theirslave. And at last I found out the reason; it was the work I wasdoing. "

"Your work?" she exclaimed. 

"Exactly! You remember what Plato remarked about the actor?"

"How should I?" asked poor Lady Tamworth. 

"Well, he wouldn't have him in his ideal State because acting developsthe emotions, the shifty unstable part of a man. But that's true ofart as well; to do good work in art you must feel your work as anemotion. So I cut myself clear from it all. I furnished these roomsand came down here, --to live. " And Julian drew a long breath, like aman escaped from danger. 

"But why come here?" Lady Tamworth urged. "You might have gone intothe country--anywhere. "

"No, no, no!" he answered, setting down the cake and pacing about theroom. "Wherever else I went, I must have formed new ties, created newduties. I didn't want that; one's feelings form the ties, one'ssoul pays the duties. No, London is the only place where a man candisappear. Besides I had to do something, and I chose this work, because it didn't touch me. I could throw it off the moment it wasdone. In the shop I earn the means to live; I live here. "

"But what kind of a life is it?" she asked in despair. 

"I will tell you, " he replied, sinking his tone to an eager whisper;"but you mustn't repeat it, you must keep it a secret. When I am inthis room alone at night, the walls widen and widen away until at lastthey vanish, " and he nodded mysteriously at her. "The roof curls uplike a roll of parchment, and I am left on an open platform. "

"What do you mean?" gasped Lady Tamworth. 

"Yes, on an open platform underneath the stars. And do you know, "he sank his voice yet lower, "I hear them at times; very faintly ofcourse, --their songs have so far to travel; but I hear them, --yes, Ihear the stars. "

Lady Tamworth rose in a whirl of alarm. Before this crazy exaltation, her very desire to pursue her purpose vanished. For Julian's mannereven more than his words contributed to her fears. In spite of hishomily, emotion was dominant in his expression, swaying his body, burning on his face and lighting his eyes with a fire of changingcolours. And every note in his voice was struck within the scale ofpassion. 

She glanced about the room; her eyes fell on the easel. "Don't youever paint?" she asked hurriedly. 

He dropped his head and stood shifting from one foot to the other, asif he was ashamed. "At times, " he said hesitatingly; "at times I haveto, --I can't help it, --I have to express myself. Look!" He steppedsuddenly across the room and slid the curtains back along the rail. The wall was frescoed from floor to ceiling. 

"Julian!" Lady Tamworth cried. She forgot all her fears in face ofthis splendid revelation of his skill. Here was the fulfilment of hispromise. 

In the centre four pictures were ranged, the stages in the progress ofan allegory, but executed with such masterful craft and of so vivid anintention that they read their message straightway into the heart ofone's understanding. Round about this group, were smaller sketches, miniatures of pure fancy. It seemed as if the artist had sought reliefin painting these from the pressure of his chief design. Here, forinstance, Day and Night were chasing one another through the rings ofSaturn; there a swarm of silver stars was settling down through thedarkness to the earth. 

"Julian, you must come back. You can't stay here. "

"I don't mean to stay here long. It is merely a halting-place. "

"But for how long?"

"I have one more picture to complete. "

They turned again to the wall. Suddenly something caught LadyTamworth's eye. She bent forward and examined the four pictures witha close scrutiny. Then she looked back again to Julian with a happysmile upon her face. "You have done these lately?"

"Quite lately; they are the stages of a man's life, of the strugglebetween his passions and his will. "

He began to describe them. In the first picture a brutish god wasseated on a throne of clay; before the god a man of coarse heavyfeatures lay grovelling; but from his shoulders sprang a white figure, weak as yet and shadowy, but pointing against the god the shadow of aspear; and underneath was written, "At last he knoweth what he made. "In the second, the figure which grovelled and that which sprang fromits shoulders were plodding along a high-road at night, chainedtogether by the wrist. The white figure halted behind, the otherpressed on; and underneath was written, "They know each other not. " Inthe third the figures marched level, that which had grovelled scowlingat its companion; but the white figure had grown tall and strong andwatched its companion with contempt. Above the sky had brightenedwith the gleam of stars; and underneath was written, "They know eachother. " In the fourth, the white figure pressed on ahead and draggedthe other by the chain impatiently. Before them the sun was risingover the edge of a heath and the road ran straight towards it in agolden line; and underneath was written, "He knoweth his burden. "

Lady Tamworth waited when he had finished, in a laughing expectancy. "And is that all?" she asked. "Is that all?"

"No, " he replied slowly; "there is yet a further stage. It isunfinished. " And he pointed to the easel. 

"I don't mean that. Is that all you have to say of these?"

"I think so. Yes. "

"Look at me!"

Julian turned wonderingly to Lady Tamworth. She watched him with adancing sparkle of her eyes. "Now look at the pictures!" Julian obeyedher. "Well, " she said after a pause, with a touch of anxiety. "What doyou see now?"

"Nothing. "

"Nothing?" she asked. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes! What should I see?" She caught him by the arm and staredintently into his eyes in a horror of disbelief. He met her gaze witha frank astonishment. She dropped his arm and turned away. 

"What should I see?" he repeated. 

"Nothing, " she echoed with a quivering sadness in her voice. "It islate, I must go. "

The white figure in each of those four pictures wore her face, idealised and illumined, but still unmistakably her face; and he didnot know it, could not perceive it though she stood by his side! Thefutility of her errand was proved to her. She drew on her gloves andlooking towards the easel inquired dully, "What stage is that?"

"The last; and it is the last picture I shall paint. As soon as it iscompleted I shall leave here. "

"You will leave?" she asked, paying little heed to his words. 

"Yes! The experiment has not succeeded, " and he waved a hand towardsthe wall. "I shall take better means next time. "

"How much remains to be done?" Lady Tamworth stepped over to theeasel. With a quick spring Julian placed himself in front of it. 

"No!" he cried vehemently, raising a hand to warn her off. "No!"

Lady Tamworth's curiosity began to reawaken. "You have shown me therest. "

"I know; you had a right to see them. "

"Then why not that?"

"I have told you, " he said stubbornly. "It is not finished. "

"But when it is finished?" she insisted. 

Julian looked at her strangely. "Well, why not?" he said reasoningwith himself. "Why not? It is the masterpiece. "

"You will let me know when it's ready?"

"I will send it to you; for I shall leave here the day I finish it. "

They went down stairs and back into the Mile-End road. Julian hailed apassing hansom, and Lady Tamworth drove westwards to Berkeley Square. 

The fifth picture arrived a week later in the dusk of the afternoon. Lady Tamworth unpacked it herself with an odd foreboding. 

It represented an orchard glowing in the noontide sun. From thebranches of a tree with lolling tongue and swollen twisted face swungthe figure which had grovelled before the god. A broken chain dangledon its wrist, a few links of the chain lay on the grass beneath, andabove the white figure winged and triumphant faded into the blue ofthe sky; and underneath was written, "He freeth himself from hisburden. "

Lady Tamworth rushed to the bell and pealed loudly for her maid. "Quick!" she cried, "I am going out. " But the shrill screech of anewsboy pierced into the room. With a cry she flung open the window. She could hear his voice plainly at the corner of the square. For awhile she clung to the sash in a dumb sickness. Then she said quietly:"Never mind! I will not go out after all! I did not know I was solate. "