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TERENCE CROUR KE
GENTILEMAN ADVENTURER.
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Terence O’Rourke
Gentleman Adventurer
By
Louis joseph Vance
Author of “Milady of the Mercenaries,” “The
Private War,” etc.
ū
New Tork
A. Wessels Company


Preface
S originally compiled, this history appeared serially
under the titles of “O’Rourke, Gentleman Adven-
turer,” and “The Further Adventures of O’Rourke,”
in The Popular Magazine, New York: to Messrs. Street and
Smith, the owners and publishers of which, thanks are due
for their courtesy in permitting this reproduction.
In welding together the many adventures in the career of
this Irish gentleman, with a view to their appearance in this
present form, the author found both convenient and advisable
the omission of certain passages, the addition of some new
material, as well as other minor changes in the text. It is
hoped that these alterations will meet with the approval of
the friends of Colonel O'Rourke: to whom his biographer
wishes to offer his gratitude for their appreciation.
L. J. V.
NEW YORK, April, 1905,





SHAPTER
II
III
IV
VI
VII
VIII
IX
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
Contents
$
PART FIRST
The Empire of Illusion
HE IS ROWELED OF THE SPUR OF NECESSITY
HE IS “CHEZ PAZ” . . . . . . . .
HE DECIDES THAT BEGGARS SHOULD RIDE .
HE DOEs RIDE; AND WITH HIS FATE . .
HE ENGAGES BOTH HIS WoRD AND SworD
HE DRAWS ONE CARD - - - - - - -
HE CONSIDERS THE GREAT SCHEME - -
HE COMES UPON THE RED-HEADED ONE -
HE DEMONSTRATES THE USES OF DISCIPLINE
HE TAKES COMMAND - - - - - - -
HE SAVES THAT WHICH HE LOVES THE BEST
HE RESPECTS A FLAG OF TRUCE - - - -
HE PROVES HIMSELF MASTER OF MEN . .
HE ACTS BY THE CODE • - - - - -
HE IS ASTONISHED . . . . . . . .
HE RACES WITH DEATH . . . . . .
HE HAS WON THE RACE - - - - - -
HE FINDS HIMSELF IN DEEP WATERS . . .
PAGE
IO
18
26
33
43
53
65
69
82
94
IoS
II4
127
137
151
I61
17o


Contents
*
PART SECOND
The Long Trail
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE CAF#, DE LA PAIX - - - - - - - 187
II THE INN of THE WINGED GoD . . . . . 199
III THE NIGHT OF MADNESS . . . . . . . 219
IV THE RAT TRAP . . . . . . . . . . 228
V THE OPEN ROAD . . . . . . . . . 242
VI THE GODDESS OF EGYPTIAN NIGHT . . . . 247
VII THE RUSS INCOGNITo . . . . . . . . 255
VIII THE WORDS OF DELILAH - - - - - - - 262
IX THE PALACE OF DUST . . . . . . . . 269
X THE HAND - - - - - - - - - - - 285
XI THE CONSPIRATORS - - - - - - - - - 291
XII THE CONSUL–GENERAL - - - - - - - 305
XIII THE VoICEs oF THE NIGHT . . . . . . .316
XIV THE CAPTAIN OF WILLAINY . . . . . . .329
XV THE HOMEwARD-BOUND - - - - - - - 342
XVI THE Two MESSAGES - - - - - - - - 349
XVII THE ROAD TO PARADISE - - - - - - - 355
XVIII THE DEVIL IN THE DUKE . . . . . . . 366
XIX THE DOOR TO ETERNITY - - - - - - - 375
XX THE END OF THE QUEST - - - - - - - 388


+++++++++++&-
PART FIRST
The Empire of Illusion
CHAPTER I
HE IS ROWELED OF THE SPUR OF NECESSITY
ADAME THERESE was of a heavy build–round
and stout and comfortable-looking; nevertheless she
possessed a temper. The vicious bang of the door behind
her was evidence of that sufficient unto O’Rourke, even if he
had not the memory of her recent words to remind him of
the fact.
He drew a long and disconsolate face, standing in the
precise center of what he called his “compartment” — it
was six feet one way by nine another, and boasted of but one
window, set in a slanting roof. His mobile and sympathetic
lips drooped dolefully at the corners; his expressive brows
puckered wofully over the bridge of his nose; and even the
nose itself was crinkling with dismay. Madame's words
still rang in his ears, even as the sound of her descending
footsteps was still distinctly audible — and Madame Thérèse
was by then on the fifth flight down, the second up from the
Street.
“The rent!” she had shrilled tempestuously. “The rent,
m’sieur, must be paid by to-morrow morning! Otherwise—”
O'Rourke sighed from the bottom of his heart. “Faith,
yes!” he said plaintively. “Otherwise . . . Oh, sure!” He
frowned at the cracks in the floor, and with one forefinger
[1]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
tentatively caressed a light stubble of beard on his square
chin.
But presently it occurred to him that care had been re-
sponsible for the death of the domestic cat. He smiled
faintly, apprehensively, as though half afraid that a smile
would hurt; finding the experiment painless he prolonged
it, grinning broadly.
Below stairs, the last echoing thump of Madame's feet was
to be heard. O'Rourke lifted his shoulders together, sighed,
chuckled, and anathematized his landlady.
“Brrrrr!” cried O'Rourke, with a flirt of his hand in the
general direction of the conciergerie. “Brrrrrp! And may
the Old Boy fly away with ye!”
He turned to the window, dismissing his troubles with a
second shrug of his broad shoulders, and, leaning his elbows
on the sills and himself perilously far out over the eaves,
stared earnestly at a window in the attic of the house that
stood just behind O’Rourke's hôtel. But it proved vacant.
O'Rourke pursed his lips and whistled persuasively.
“Faith, darlint,” said he, and as earnestly as though he really
expected to be heard, “’tis no more than a glimpse of your
red cheeks and bright eyes that I’m needing to put the heart
into me. Will ye not come, — only for one little minute?”
He whistled again, more piercingly. There was no re-
sponse; the little dormer window, where a black-eyed and
red-cheeked little seamstress ordinarily sat of a morning,
sewing industriously — but not too industriously to be alto-
gether unaware of the infatuated Irishman’s burning glances
– remained desolately empty.
“Oh, well!” conceded O'Rourke, in the end. “If 'tis
obstinate ye are, me dear, sure and that only proves ye a true
daughter of Mother Eve!”
[2]


He is Roweled of the Spur of Necessity
And he swung a chair up to the window and sat down,
cocking his feet upon the sill. A pipe lay convenient to his
hand — a small and intensely black clay; unconsciously
O'Rourke's fingers wandered towards it. They clasped with
loving tenderness about the bowl, while the fingers of his
other hand explored his coat pocket for a match. That
found, the Irishman discovered a fresh beauty in the brilliant
morning — a beauty but enhanced by the clouds of blue-
gray incense that floated between him and the open casement.
By degrees, however, his smile faded. Not always was it
possible for O'Rourke to laugh in the teeth of his adversities.
His gaze wandered far out from the open window and over
the billowy sea of Parisian roofs that lay steaming in a bath
of May sunshine.
The morning was one clear and brilliant, following on the
heels of a day of scourging rain. Paris was happy; her face
was washed, and she had on a clean pinafore dashed with the
perfume of the spring things that were budding in her gar-
dens. O'Rourke alone, perhaps, was out of tune with the
universal spirit of contentment.
Now, good reasons why a man may be out of sorts in a
Parisian springtide are few and far between; but they exist;
O'Rourke had brought his with him when he had moved
upon the capital on the edge of the winter, just vanished; and
thereafter he had eaten and slept, moved and had his being
in their company, enduring them with what patience he
might — which was not overmuch, in truth. But now he
was especially wistful and uneasy in his actions.
His supply of ready cash was not alarmingly low; it was
non-existent – one all-sufficient reason for the disquietude
of his soul. -
Again, city life irked the man, who was of a nature tran-
[3]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
sient, delaying under one roof no longer than was unavoid-
able – happiest, indeed, with no more than the wide sky for
his bed canopy, the soft stars for his night lamps.
Finally, for some months O'Rourke had been kicking the
heels of him about the pavements of civilization, devoutly
praying for a war of magnitude; but in answer to his prayers
no war had been vouchsafed unto him.
The broad world drowsed, sluggish, at peace with its
neighbors — save in a corner of Afghanistan, where the
British Empire was hurling army corps after army corps at
the devoted heads of an insignificant, bewildered tribe of hill-
men who had presumed to call their souls their own — know-
ing no better.
But the tempest in that particular teapot had slight attrac-
tions for O'Rourke, sincere seeker after distraction and de-
struction that he was. He felt rather sorry for the hill tribe
who at the same time were beginning to feel rather more than
sorry for themselves, and to wish that they hadn’t done so.
The Irishman, however, positively refused to fight with,
if he did not care to fight against, England. So there was,
in his own disconsolate phrasing, nothing doing at all,
at all.
And now the concierge was insisting upon the payment of
that overdue rent. Plainly, something must be contrived,
and that with expedition.
O'Rourke swore, yawned, stretched widely. He re-
moved his feet from the window sill, and arose.
“I’ll do it,” he said aloud. “Faith, ’tis like pulling teeth
— but I’ll do it. I despise the necessity. Conspuez the
necessity! A bas the necessity!”
At the foot of the bed stood his sole personal property – a
small, iron-bound trunk, aged and disreputable to the eye,
[4]


He is Roweled of the Spur of Necessity
sown broadcast with the labels of hotels, railways and steam-
ships.
O'Rourke went to it with a deep and heartfelt sigh, un-
locked it, and for a space delved into its tumbled contents,
eventually emerging flushed and triumphant from his search,
with a watch in his hand — a watch of fine gold, richly
chased, and studded with gems.
He shook his head, gazing upon it, and sighed deeply.
Long since the timepiece had been presented to O'Rourke
by the grateful president of a South American republic, in
recognition of the Irish adventurer's services as a captain-
general under that republic's flag. It was so stated in an
inscription within the case.
O'Rourke treasured it lovingly, as he treasured the por-
trait of his mother, his love for the land of his nativity, the
parting smile of his last sweetheart. He treasured it as he
valued his honorable discharge from the Foreign Legion, the
sword he had won in Cuba, and the captain's commission he
had once held under the Grecian flag.
But — the rent!
He slammed his hat upon his head, the watch into his
pocket, and the door behind him; he was going to call upon
his “aunt in Montmartre.”
When he returned he was minus the timepiece, but able to
reinstate himself in the concierge's graces. Indeed, as she
signed the receipt, the lady declared that she had always
known in her soul that monsieur was an honorable gentleman.
O'Rourke accepted the honeyed words sourly, disgruntled
to the extreme. He had a residue of a very few francs:
actual hardship was but staved off for several days. Never-
theless, he had indulged himself in the luxury of a complete
file of the day's papers.
[5]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Back in his little room again he read them all, thoroughly,
even with eagerness; read the foreign news first, then the
native, the scandal, the advertisements — even the editorials.
He found that England had completed her subjugation of
the hill tribes, and incidentally the education of her rawest
troops. On the horizon no war cloud threatened — unless
in one spot.
From a meager paragraph, eked out by his knowledge of
Central American politics, O'Rourke gleaned a ray of hope:
trouble boded on the Isthmus of Panama. But that was
indeed far from Paris.
He put aside his pipe and the last sheet, and glowered
longingly across the roofs to the western sky line.
What his eyes rested upon, he saw not; mentally he was
imaging to himself, scenting, even feeling the heat haze that
lowers above that narrow ribbon of swamp, rock-spined,
which lies obdurate between two oceans.
On his businesses of the moment he had crossed the isth-
mus several times. He had warred in its vicinity. He knew
it very well indeed, and were there to be ructions there he
desired greatly to be in and a part of them — to grip the hilt
of a sword, to hold a horse between his thighs, to sweat and
swelter, to toil and to suffer, to fight — above all, to fight –!
Clearly the obvious course of action was to go — to stand
not on the order of his going, but to go at once.
O'Rourke started from his chair, with some half-formu-
lated notion of proceeding directly to the Gare du Nord, and
taking train for Havre; thence, he would engage passage via
the French line to New York, thence, by coasting steamer to
Aspinwall.
The route mapped itself plain to his imagination; the way
was simple, very; there was but one complication. Realizing
[6]


He is Roweled of the Spur of Necessity
which O’Rourke sat down again, and cursed bitterly, if
fluently.
“The divvle!” he murmured in disgust. “Now, if I
hadn’t been so enthusiastic for paying me rent —”
He produced his fortune and contemplated it with a dis-
gusted glare: five silver francs and a centime or two, glittering
bright in the rays of the declining sun.
“Why, sure,” he mused, “’tis not enough to buy the dinner
for a little bird – and ’tis meself that’s no small bird!”
Now, how may a man by taking thought increase five
francs one or two or three hundred fold? -
At nightfall he concluded to give it up, the problem looming
unsolvable. There seemed to be no answer to it, and
O'Rourke was considering himself a much abused person
with no friend to call his own the wide world 'round, bar-
ring —
“Paz!” he cried suddenly. “And why did I not think of
Paz before, will ye be telling me?”
He sat silent for some time, wrapped in thought, as in a
mantle.
“Likely am I to go hungry, the night,” he admitted at
length, ruefully; “but I’ll dine in style or not at all.”
Incontinently, he began to bustle about the narrow room
— how he had grown to hate its mean confines of late! —
preparing to go out.
He started by shaving his lean cheeks, indelibly sun-
burned, very closely; then he wriggled into the one immacu-
late shirt his wardrobe boasted, brushed with care and
donned his evening clothes and an inverness; and completed
his adornment with gloves and shoes of the sleekest – both
of which he had been hoarding all the winter against just such
an emergency.
[7]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
When through he indulged in a moment's approving in-
spection in his mirror, and nodded with satisfaction because
of the transformation he had brought about in his personal
appearance.
“I’ll say this for ye, Terence, me lad,” he volunteered:
“that when ye are of the mind to take trouble with yourself,
'tis the bould, dashing creature ye are!”
And he chuckled light-heartedly at his own conceit, ex-
tinguishing the lamp and locking his door.
Yet he had no more than hinted at the irrefutable truth,
for he was by no means ill-favored by nature: a man tall and
broad beyond the average, with square shoulders and a full
chest, with lean yet muscular flanks and long and sinewy
limbs, well-knit and well set-up. His countenance was dark,
— as has been indicated, the hall mark of a veteran cam-
paigner — but nevertheless of a versatile mobility, and
illuminated with eyes of warm gray, steadfast yet alert, swift
to mirror the play of his emotional and passionate nature,
bespeaking good-humor, an easy temper and — ordinarily
at least — a habit of optimism.
For the rest he carried himself with confidence and assur-
ance, as fits well upon an Irish gentleman — was he not “the
O'Rourke”? — but without any aggressiveness. He was
ready of wit, quick of tongue, tolerant of disposition: a citizen
of the wide world, seasoned, sure of himself, young.
He descended the stairs with spirit, passed out before the
conciergerie with an air. Madame Thérèse, the vigilant, ob-
served and admired, regretting the harsh terms she had
applied to her lodger, earlier in the day. “He gives the
hôtel distinction,” she murmured; and resolved mentally that
in the future she would accord this splendid young person
more consideration.
[8]


He is Roweled of the Spur of Necessity
Now, it so came about that Madame Thérèse was not
afforded the opportunity of putting in effect that good resolu-
tion for many and many a long day; the turn of affairs
presently precluded Colonel O'Rourke's return to his little
room. Which, however, was not greatly to his dissatisfac-
tion.
But at the moment, O'Rourke himself had no more appre-
hension of this than had she. He was, in point of fact, antici-
pating an early return and a penniless to-morrow. The
prospect did not tend to lighten his mood.
In the street he turned and a cocked a — momentarily —
jaundiced eye up at the towering, smudged, gloomy façade
of the lodging house.
“”Tis no palace ye are,” he apostrophized it, hating it
consumedly; “’tis no gilded cage ye are, for a bird of me
brilliant plumage. But ’tis needs must whin the divvle
drives, I’ve heard — and if wishes were motors, this beggar
would ride!” And then, “Faith, ’tis damnable — no less!”
he declared with a short laugh. “To think of me, the
O’Rourke, in all me fine feathers, that can’t so much as
afford the price of a fiacre!”
[9]


CHAPTER II
HE IS “CHEZ PAz”
THE house of Paz fronts upon the Boulevard Roche-
chouart — which is not the worst street in Paris, morally,
though near it — and wears the dismayed, ingenuous expres-
sion of a perfectly innocent house which suddenly finds itself
rooted in a neighborhood which is — well, not perfectly inno-
cent. In other words, the house managed by Monsieur
Paz is something of a hypocrite among houses; in sober
reality it is no better than it ought to be, or even not so good.
A high, pale yellow façade is broken by orderly rows of
windows that are always blank and sleepy-looking; never is
a light visible from within, and for a very good reason: they
are fitted with an ingenious device which allows for ventila-
tion, but does not permit a single ray of light to escape to the
Street.
It was somewhat after eight o'clock in the evening that
O'Rourke approached, having traversed the width of Paris
in order to reach the place.
In previous, more prosperous days he had known the house
of Paz rather intimately — too well, at times, for the good of
his own interests. But of late, in his lowly estate, he had
neither cared nor dared to pass its portals; which are not for
the impecunious.
At present, however, he had a use for it, and was relying
both upon his former acquaintance therein and his generally
affluent appearance to procure for him admittance to its
[10]


He is “Chez Paz.”
charmed precincts—something none too easy to a stranger
without credentials.
He neared it, I say, and with some trepidation, becoming
to a man of emotions who is going to stake his all on a single
throw, – which was what O'Rourke proposed to do, —
eying the exterior aspect of the place with a wonder as to what
changes might have occurred within, in the few years that he
had been a stranger to its walls.
While yet some distance away he observed the door opening
with circumspection. For a single second the figure of a
departing patron was outlined in the light; then the doors
swung to, swiftly and noiselessly.
O'Rourke remarked, without great interest, that it was a
young man who was leaving so early in the night; a man who
stood hesitant at the foot of the steps, glancing up and down
the street irresolutely, as one who knows not whither to go.
In a moment, however, he seemed to have made up his
mind, and started off toward O’Rourke, walking briskly, but
without any spring in his step, holding his head high, his
shoulders back. There was a suggestion of the military in
his bearing.
As he passed, O’Rourke noted the tightly compressed lips,
the hopeless, lack-luster eyes of the man.
“Cleaned out — poor chap!” he sympathized.
Simultaneously the doors open again, briefly; a second
man emerged, ran hastily down the steps, and started up the
street as though in pursuit of the first.
This man was of an uncommon and distinguished appear-
ance; large and heavily built, yet lithe and active; with a fat-
cheeked face, bearded sparsely; thick lips showing red through
the dark hair; a thin, chiseled nose set between eyes pouched,
yet bright and kindly, the whole surmounted by a forehead
[11]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
high and well modeled – a type of Gallic intellectuality, in
short.
He swung past the Irishman hurriedly, intent upon his
chase, but favored him with a searching scrutiny — which
O'Rourke returned with composure, if not with impudent
interest.
But the evening was yet young, and there was nothing in
the encounter to particularly engage his fancy; he dismissed
it from his mind, and turned into the house of Paz.
He knocked peculiarly: the familiar signal of old. A min-
ute passed, and then a panel in the door slid back, exposing a
small grating, behind which was the withered face of the con-
cierge, with a background of dim, religious light.
“O’Rourke,” announced the Irishman, languidly, turning
his face to the window for identification.
That was scarcely needed. His name was a magic one;
the concierge knew, and had a welcome for one who had been
so liberal in the matter of gratuities in days gone by. The
doors swung wide.
“M'sieur le Colonel O'Rourke!” murmured the concierge,
bowing respectfully.
O'Rourke returned the greeting and passed in, with the
guilty feeling of a trespasser. He disposed of his inverness
and hat, and ascended the stairway directly to the second
floor.
Here was one huge room, in floor space the width and
depth of the building, infinitely gorgeous in decoration, shim-
mering with light reflected from gold leaf, from polished wood
and marble.
Around the walls were chairs and small refreshment tables;
the floor was covered with rugs of heavy pile, well-nigh in-
valuable, the walls with paintings of note and distinction.
[12]


He is “Chez Paz”
Beyond reasonable doubt Monsieur Paz was prosperous,
who could provide such a salle for the entertainment of his
patrons.
But in the center of the room was the main attraction —
that lodestone which drew the interest of the initiated with
a fascination as irresistible as the magnetic pole holds for the
needle: an enormous table topped with green cloth whereon
was limned a diagram of many numbered spaces and
colors.
And in the center of the table, under the electric chandelier,
was a sunken basin of ebony, at whose bottom was a wheel of
thirty-seven sections, alternately red and black, each num-
bered from o to 36: the roulette wheel.
O'Rourke slid unostentatiously into a vacant seat at the
extreme end of the table. A man at his elbow looked up
with passing curiosity, but immediately averted his gaze;
otherwise the Irishman attracted no attention. For a few
minutes he sat idle, watching the play, the players, the crou-
pier presiding over the wheel — a figure that fascinated his
imagination: a man vulture-like with his frigid impassivity,
mathematically marvelous in the swiftness, the unerring
accuracy of his mental computations as he paid out the win-
nings or raked in the losings.
He stood, imperturbable, watching the board with vigilant,
tired eyes, his bald head shining like glass under the sagging
electric sunburst. From time to time he opened his wicked
old mouth, and croaked dismally the winning number and
color, whether odd or even. Followed the ring of coin and
the monotonous injunction:
“Messieurs, faites vos jeux!”
The salle was very still, save for the sound of the spinning
ivory ball, the click of the wheel, the cries of the croupier.
13]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
To O'Rourke, new from the freshness of the spring air, the
atmosphere was stifling and depressing — hot, fetid, lifeless
though charged with the hopes and fears of those absorbed
men who clustered around the board, sowing its painted face
with coin and bills, hanging breathlessly on the words of the
croupier, as he relentlessly garnered the harvest of lost illu-
sions.
The Irishman was not yet ready to bet, having counted on
the room being more crowded, forgetful of the early hour.
He had but one play to make, the lowest the house permitted
— five francs, – and it was so insignificant a sum that the
man felt some embarrassment about offering it, fearing that
it might attract sneering comment. In a crowd it might have
passed, especially if he lost — as, in all likelihood, he would.
He summoned an attendant and ordered a cigar — “on
the house” — to make time; and while he was waiting, eyed
the man opposite him, at the farther end of the table.
The latter was young, weary and worried, if his facial ex-
pression went for aught; he played feverishly, scattering gold
pieces over the cloth — as often as not, probably, betting
against himself. His face was flushed, for he had been
drinking more than could have been good for his judgment;
and O’Rourke fancied he recognized in him the youthful
lieutenant of a cavalry troop then quartered near Paris.
Abruptly a man flung into the room, as if in anger; at
the door he paused to collect himself, scanning each player
narrowly, and finally chose a seat near the lieutenant.
“Hello!” thought O'Rourke. “So you're back so soon!
I wonder – well, none of me business, I suppose.”
It was the man with the beard whom he had noticed leav-
ing the gambling house in such apparent haste, and not so
very long since.
[14]


He is “Chez Paz”
The attendant returning with the cigar, the Irishman lit it
leisurely, and sat puffing with an enjoyment heightened by
the fact that he had been deprived of the luxury of cigars for
some weeks.
Presently he turned his attention to the board, and acted a
little farce for his own self-satisfaction.
With the air of a man of means, who merely desires to while
away an idle hour — win or lose – O'Rourke thrust his
hand into his breast pocket and produced a small wallet,
tolerably plump and opulent-looking – a result due to in-
genious stuffing with paper of no value.
He weighed it in his palm, seeming to debate with himself,
then deliberately returned it to the pocket. His manner
spoke plainly to the observer — were there one: “No, I'll
risk but a trifle of change.”
Abstractedly he thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket
and brought out the said change; to his utter surprise it
turned out to be no more than five silver francs!
But finally he made up his mind to play that utterly insig-
nificant sum.
At that moment the ball rattled, was silent. There was an
instant's strained silence. The wheel stopped.
“Vingt-quatre,” remarked the dispassionate croupier;
“noir, pair et passe!”
He poised his rake, overlooking the great board.
The young lieutenant arose suddenly, knocking over his
chair; he stood swaying for a moment, his fingers beating a
nervous tattoo upon the edge of the board; he was pale, his
face hollow-seeming and hopeless in the strong illumination.
Others looked at him incuriously. He put his hand to his
lips, almost apologetically, essayed what might have been
intended for a defiant smile, turned, and moved uncertainly
[15]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
toward the staircase as one who gropes his way in darkness
— a ruined man.
“Messieurs, jaites vos jeux!”
O'Rourke hardly heard the words; he was wondering at
the bearded man, who was prompt in following the defeated
gamester.
“’Like to know what's your game,” muttered O'Rourke.
Simultaneously, without actually thinking what he was
doing, he placed his five francs on the cloth. When he
looked he saw that they stood upon the nearest space, the
36. He puckered his lips together, thinking what a pitiful
little pile they made.
“”Tis the fool I am!” he admitted, wishing that he might
withdraw. But the ball merely mocked him, as the wheel
slackened speed, with its “whrr-rup-tup-tup!”
“A fool —” he began again.
But it seemed that he had won!
“”Tis not true!” he cried exultantly, yet almost incredu-
lous. But he accepted the one hundred and eighty francs
without a murmur, cast them recklessly upon the black, and
multiplied the sum by two, and by blind luck.
Then, with his heart in his mouth – it was all or nothing
with him now — he allowed his winnings to remain upon
the black; which again came up, making seven hundred
and twenty francs to his credit.
“”Tis outrageous,” he insisted gaily. “Will I be making
it, now?”
Fifteen hundred francs was the mark he had set himself to
attain; that much he needed to carry him to Panama; it was
to be that or nothing at all. He divided his winnings, re-
serving half, scattering the remainder about the numbers,
hope high in his heart.
[16]


He is “Chez Paz.”
He lost. He played and won again. And again. He
reached the mark, passed it, asked himself if he should not
stop, now, when the gods were favoring him. . . .
He need not have asked; by no means could he have
stopped; for the gambling fever was as fire in his veins. He
played on, and on, and on. He won fabulously, with few re-
verses; lived for a time in a heaven of wealth, upborne by the
fluttering, golden wings of chance – and, at length, awoke as
from a dream, to find himself staring at an empty spot on the
board before him — the place where temporarily his riches
had rested ere they took unto themselves wings and vanished.
Not a single franc remained to him. He had lost.
“Gone?” he muttered blankly. “Faith, I didn’t think—”
He became aware that he was being watched, though indiffer-
ently; in particular the man with the beard was observing
him with interest, having now for a third time returned.
O'Rourke yawned nonchalantly, suddenly on his mettle;
he was not willing to let them see that he cared.
“Five francs,” he thought, arising; “small price for a
night's entertainment. Sure, I got the worth of me money,
in excitement.”
He looked at the clock; to his amazement the hands in-
indicated two in the morning. Now the room was half de-
serted, the attendants gaping discreetly behind their hands.
A few earnest devotees still clustered about the table, winning
or losing in a blaze of febrile haste.
The ball clattered hollowly; the tones of the croupier only
were the same:
“Onzel Noir, impair et manque!” and “Messieurs, jaites
vos jeux!”—as though it were an epitaph, – as it too often is.
And when he left the room, O'Rourke marked that the
bearded man was pushing back his chair and arising.
[17]


CHAPTER III
HE DECIDES THAT BEGGARS SHOULD RIDE
O'RourkE found the night air soft and balmy, humid but
refreshing. He walked with great, limb-stretching strides,
throwing back his shoulders and expanding his chest —
bathing his lungs, so to speak, with the cleansing atmosphere.
His way led him straight across the city, a walk of no
slight distance to his lodgings; but he made a détour to pro-
long it, to give the exercise an opportunity to clear his brain
and steady his nerves – unstrung as they were, from his
recent excitement, as from the action of an opiate.
It was later than he began to think; for he could not im-
mediately believe that time had flown so rapidly in the house
of Paz. Only the almost deserted streets in which his foot-
steps echoed loud and lonely, the quietness that lay upon the
city, the repose of the gendarmes on the corners, brought
home to him the wee smallness of the hour.
He was not sleepy — anything but that; he was very much
awake — and yet he was dreaming, holding a “post-mortem”
(as he termed it) on his luck and misfortunes of the night,
and planning toward his future; or rather, he was striving to
solve the riddle of his future, drear and uncompromisingly
blank as it then loomed, to his imagination.
For the present — it came to him as a distinct shock — he
was exceedingly hungry, and, through his own folly, found
himself without the wherewithal to satisfy that young and
healthy appetite.
[18]


He Decides that Beggars Should Ride
But he told himself that he, an old campaigner who had
known keen privation in his time, could stave off starvation
by reefing in his belt. “A light stomach makes a light con-
science,” was the aphorism from which he was seeking conso-
lation when he noticed that he was being followed.
Quick, determined footsteps were sounding in the street
behind him.
“Is it possible,” he inquired aloud, “that me friend with
the Vandyke beard is after me, with his nefarious designs,
now? I’ve half a mind to stop and let him interview me.”
He glanced over his shoulder; the man behind was passing
under a light about a block distant; O'Rourke judged that he
was a heavy, bulky man, with a beard.
“The same!” he cried, pleased as a child with a toy, with
the strangeness of the affair. “Faith, now, I’ll be giving him
a run for his money.”
He mended his pace, lengthening his stride; but the other
proved obstinate, and was not to be shaken off. For some
time O'Rourke could tell by the sound that the distance be-
tween them was neither increasing nor decreasing; and then
he began to puzzle his head about the pursuer's motive.
The man had dogged two men, at least, besides O’Rourke
himself, from the gambling house; and each had been, or
had seemed to be, broken in fortune, and therefore likely to
be more or less desperate, and ready to seize upon any chance
to recoup. -
What then had this fellow to offer ruined gamesters?
O'Rourke wondered. His inquisitiveness made his feet to
lag, for he was now determined to find out; and he cast about
for an excuse to halt altogether, finding it in the half of a cold
cigar upon which he had unconsciously been chewing.
He felt in his pocket for a match, and stopped to strike
[19]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
it under one of the gloomy arches of the Rue de Rivoli. His
man came up rapidly. O'Rourke dallied with the match,
pretending an interest in the odd aspect of the almost deso-
late street, so generally populous. *
“Monsieur —”
He jumped, by premeditation, and looked around. The
man with the beard stood by his side, breathing heavily.
O'Rourke eyed him gravely.
“The top of the morning to ye, sir,” he said courteously;
“and what can I have the pleasure of doing for ye, may I
ask?”
The other recovered his breath in gasps, begging for time
with an uplifted, expressive hand. He bowed ponderously;
and O’Rourke made him a graceful leg, his eyes twinkling
with amusement; after all the Irishman was no more than a
boy at heart, fun-loving, and just then resolved to extract
what entertainment he might from the Frenchman.
“Monsieur, I have a favor to ask —”
“A thousand, if ye will!”
The man was quick-witted; he saw that he was being
trifled with, and expressed his resentment by the gathering
of his heavy brows and a significant pause. At length, how-
ever, “Monsieur has been unfortunate,” he suggested coldly.
“In what way?” demanded O'Rourke, on his dignity in
an instant.
“At roulette,” returned the other. “I presume that mon-
Sieur is not —” He hesitated.
“Not what, if ye please?”
“Rich, let us say; monsieur feels his losses of to-night —”
“He does? And may I ask how monsieur knows so much
about me private affairs?”
“I was watching —”
[20]


He Decides that Beggars Should Ride
“Ye Were!”
The other flushed, yet persisted: “Not precisely. One
moment — I will explain —”
“Very well,” O’Rourke consented ominously.
“Perhaps you are in need of money? Now, I am —”
He got no further; that was a bald impertinence to an
O'Rourke, even if to a penniless one; and the destitute ad-
venturer, made thus to realize how desperately he was in
reality in need of money, was not pleased.
“That,” he broke in placidly, “is none of your damned
business!”
“What!”
A deeper shade of red mantled the face of the Frenchman.
He stepped back, but, when the Irishman would have passed
on, barred the way.
“Will monsieur please to repeat those words?” he re-
quested, with ceremony.
“I will,” returned O'Rourke hotly; and obliged. “Now,”
he concluded, “ye are at liberty to — get — out — of — me
— way, sir!”
“But – you have insulted me!”
“Eh?” O’Rourke laughed shortly. “Impossible,” he
sneered.
“Monsieur! I insist! My card!” He flourished a bit
of pasteboard in O’Rourke's face. “For this you shall
afford me satisfaction!”
“Angry little one!” jeered O’Rourke. Now thoroughly
aroused, he seized the card and tore it into a dozen scraps,
without even looking at it.
“I’ll afford ye no satisfaction,” he drawled exasperatingly,
“but — if ye don’t remove yourself from me path, faith, I’ll
step on ye!”
[21]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Quivering with rage, the Frenchman began to draw off his
gloves. O'Rourke divined what he purposed. He paled
slightly, and his mouth became a hard, straight line as he
warned the aggressor.
“Be careful, ye whelp! If ye strike me, I'll —”
The gloves were flicked smartly across his lips, instantly
demolishing whatever barriers of self-restraint he had for a
check upon his temper. He swore, his eyes blazing, and his
arm shot out. The Frenchman received the full impact of -
the blow upon his cheek, and — subsided.
Standing over the prostrate body, O'Rourke glanced up
and down the street; it seemed very still, quite dark, almost
deserted. Only upon a distant corner he made out the
figure of a man leaning negligently against a lamp-post; he
might prove to be a gendarme, but, so far, apparently, his
attention had not been attracted to the affair.
O'Rourke's primal impulse was to pass on, and leave his
adversary to his fate; but the retaliating blow had cooled his
anger by several degrees. On second thought, the Irishman
decided to play the good Samaritan – which was egregious
folly. His man was sitting up, by then, rubbing ruefully his
cheek; O'Rourke gave him a generous hand and assisted him
to his feet.
“I trust,” he said, “that ye are not severely injured —”
“Canaille!” rasped the Frenchman, sullenly, dusting his
coat; and he drove home the epithet with a venomous threat.
O'Rourke laughed at him.
“Aha,” he cried, “then ye’ve not had enough? Do I
understand that ye want another dose of the same?”
Silently the man picked up his hat from the gutter, knocked
it into shape, and rubbed it against his sleeve in fatuous effort
to restore some of its pristine brilliancy.
[22]


He Decides that Beggars Should Ride
“If ye are quite through with me,” continued the Irishman,
“I’ll go to the devil in me own way, without your interfer-
ence. And, monsieur, a word in your earl Attend to your
own affairs in the future, if ye would avoid —” -
The man with the beard cursed audibly, gritted his teeth and
clinched his hands; but when he spoke it was coolly enough.
“I have not done with you, canaille,” he said. “You will
do well, indeed, to go on, for I intend to hand you over to a
gendarme.”
“The divvle ye say!”
O'Rourke found that he was addressing the back of the
man, who was making hastily toward the figure under the
distant lamp-post. “That looks,” he debated, “as if he
meant business! Faith, ’tis meself that will take his advice
— this once!”
Accordingly he started off in the opposite direction, in
leisurely fashion; he was not inclined to believe that the
Frenchman would really carry out his threat of arrest. Never-
theless, he kept his ears open, nor was he greatly surprised
when presently, as he debouched into the Place de la Con-
corde, he heard mingled with shouts the sound of two pairs of
running feet in the street behind him.
“Why, the pup!” he exclaimed, deeply disgusted, and
stopped, more than half inclined to face and thrash both the
representative of the law and the impertinent civilian. But
he quickly abandoned that alluring prospect; it was entirely
too fraught with the risk of spending a night in custody –
something that he desired not in the least.
By then, the sounds of pursuit were nearing rapidly. Al-
ready the gendarme had caught sight of his figure, and was
yelling frantically at him to halt and surrender.
“This won’t do, at all, at all,” reflected O'Rourke, and
[23]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
himself began to run, cursing his hotheadedness for the pre-
dicament into which it had led him.
A sleepy cabby woke up, startled by the unusual disturb-
ance, and added his yelps to those of the policeman and the
much-abused Frenchman. Others joined in the chorus.
A belated street gamin shrieked with joy, and attached him-
self to the chase. His example was followed by others.
O'Rourke began to be very, very regretful for his precipi-
tancy.
He doubled and turned into the Champs Élysées, hounded
by a growing, howling mob. It seemed to him that men
sprang from the earth itself to help run him down; and the
sensation was most unpleasant. He began to sprint madly,
his inverness flapping behind him like the wings of some
huge, misshapen bird of night. He dug elbows in ribs,
clenched his teeth, and threw back his head, careful to keep
as much as possible in the shadows.
And the mob grew, whooping joyously with interest; from
their cries it seemed that they considered O'Rourke an escap-
ing criminal of note.
The Irishman kept himself ever on the alert for some
chance of escape—any subterfuge to throw the pursuit off his
track; but none appeared. He realized that he was gaining
by sheer fleetness of foot, but not for a moment did he imagine
that by swiftness he might distance the mob. For a rabble
is always fresh, never tiring; the places of those who drop out,
exhausted and breathless, are instantly filled by fresh and
willing recruits. And in the end the mob gets at the throat
of its quarry — if the running be in the open.
O'Rourke knew this entirely too well for the peace of his
own mind; therefore, he grasped avidly at the first chance
that presented itself, heedless of its consequences.
[24]


He Decides that Beggars Should Ride
Drawn up at the curb, a fiacre stood with open door. He
could see the driver turning on the box to discover the cause
of the uproar. That was good, O’Rourke considered; the
man, then, was wide awake.
He reached the vehicle and jumped upon the step, shouting
to the driver the first address which entered his head:
“To the Gare du Nord! At once! With haste!”
Immediately the fiacre was in motion; O'Rourke expe-
rienced some difficulty in drawing himself in and closing the
door because of the rapidity of the pace. In another mo-
ment the horse was leaping forward furiously, under the
sting of a merciless lash.
“Bless the intilligent man!” muttered O'Rourke fervently.
He felt that he could have kissed the driver for his instant
obedience. But at once he was crushed by a paralyzing
thought; how, in Heaven's name, was he to pay the hire of
the vehicle?
He cursed his luck, and attempted to seat himself — gasped
with astonishment, and incontinently stood up again, bump-
ing his head against the roof.
“Madame!” he cried astounded, into the obscurity. “I
beg —” -
The reply was instant and encouraging.
“My pardon is granted, monsieur. Will monsieur be
pleased to resume his seat?”
For the other occupant of the fiacre was – a woman.
[25]


CHAPTER IV
HE DOES RIDE; AND WITH HIS FATE
“THE Saints,” prayed Terence devoutly, “preserve us all!”
Immediately he felt himself stricken as with a dumbness
— fairly stunned. The woman upon whose privacy he had
so unceremoniously intruded, composedly and with a pretty
grace made a place for him by her side; and he, obedient, but
speechless, collapsed into the seat.
It came to him that this must be an exceptionally wonderful
manner of woman, who could accept his rude invasion with
such unruffled calmness; and he had noted that her voice was
not only absolutely unmoved, but most marvelously sweet to
hear.
The fiacre whirled on as though the devil himself were at
the whip (thought O'Rourke). It rocked from side to side,
perilously upon one or two or three wheels – never safely
upon four; it sheered about corners, scraping the curbs
barely.
Conversation became obviously impossible under such
circumstances; O'Rourke recognized the necessity of ex-
planations, but found that he must perforce be silent; and,
for that matter, he was rather grateful for the chance to get
his breath and collect his scattered wits.
So he abandoned as hopeless the task of framing up some
plausible excuse for his conduct, as well as that of accounting
to himself for the extreme placidity with which his fair neigh-
bor had welcomed him; and, consistently with his character,
[26 J


He Does Ride; and with his Fate
he at once became the more intensely occupied with an at-
tempt to discover the identity of the woman.
But he was baffled in that. The street lamps, reeling like
telegraph poles past the windows of a moving train, illumi-
nated but fitfully the interior of the fiacre, and he could see
but little, strain his eyes as he might.
His companion, the woman — or girl, rather; for the youth-
fulness of her seemed impressed upon the impetuous and
impressionable Irishman by his mere propinquity with her
– made no effort, for the time being, to break the silence.
O'Rourke was moved to marvel much thereat. Was she
accustomed to such nocturnal escapades that she could take
them as a matter of course? Or was she strangely lacking
that birthright of her sex — the curiosity of the eternal fem-
inine?
She nestled closely in her corner, with her head slightly
averted, gazing out through the window. Evidently she was
in evening dress, and that of the richest; a light opera cloak
of some shimmering fabric wrapped soft folds about her.
Her arms, gloved in white, were extended languidly before
her, while her hands – very bewitchingly small, O'Rourke
considered them — lay clasped in her lap. Beneath the edge
of the cloak a silken slipper showed, pressing firmly upon the
floor as a brace against the sudden lurchings of the fiacre —
and surely the foot therein was preposterously tiny!
By now the cries of the rabble had died in the distance, and
the speed of the vehicle slackened; presently it was bowling
over a broad, brightly lighted boulevard at quite a respectable
pace; and within the vehicle the darkness became less opaque.
The Irishman boldly followed up his inspection; but the
woman was not aware of it — or, if she were, disregarded it,
or — again – was not ill-pleased. And truly that admira-
[27]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
tion which glowed within O’Rourke's eyes was not unpro-
voked.
Against the dark background her profile stood in clear,
ivory-like relief, clean cut and distinguished as a cameo —
and perilously beautiful; her full lips were parted in the
slightest of smiles, her eyes were deep, warm shadows, the
massed waves of her hair uncovered, exquisitely coiffured . . .
“Faith!” sighed the Irishman. “”Tis a great lady she is,
and I . . .” He was, notwithstanding his self-depreciation,
conscious of considerable satisfaction in the knowledge that
he was attired properly, as a gentleman; but, “Oh, Lord!”
he groaned in spirit. “What will she be doing with me when
she finds me out?”
For it was appealing to him as very delightful — this ad-
venture upon which he had stumbled – even though he had
not a single sou to give the driver. That O'Rourke was
young has been mentioned; he was also ardent and gallant;
and it was to his blandishments of tongue that he was trusting
to extricate him gracefully from his predicament.
But — did he honestly desire to be extricated? Not — he
answered himself with suspicious instantaneousness – if it
was to deprive him of the charming companionship which
was his, for the moment; not if it left him still hungry for a
peep within the cloak of mystery that shrouded the affair.
He made a closer inventory of the fiacre; it was rather
elegant in appointment — no mere public conveyance, that
is to be picked up on any corner; all of which confirmed
his suspicions that this was a woman of rank and pedigree.
And when he ventured a more timid glance, sideways, it
was to find her eying him with an inscrutable amusement.
“Mademoiselle,” he faltered clumsily, “I – I — faith!
if ye’ll but pardon me again —”
[28]


He Does Ride; and with his Fate
She looked away at once – perhaps to ignore his eyes,
which were pleading his cause far more eloquently than were
his lips.
“Monsieur,” she pronounced graciously, “is impetuous;
but possibly that is no great fault.”
“But — but, indeed, I must apologize —”
“Surely that is not necessary, monsieur; it is understood.”
She paused. “You were long in coming, indeed; I had
grown quite weary with waiting. But since you did arrive,
eventually, and in time, all is well — let us hope. As for the
delay, that was the fault of Monsieur Chambret — not
yours.”
O'Rourke stared almost rudely, transfixed with amazement,
incapable of understanding a single word. What did she
mean, anyway?
“Me soul!” he whispered to himself. “Am I in Paris of
to-day – of me day — or is this the Paris of Dumas and of
Balzac?” -
But he received no direct answer; the girl waited a moment,
then, since he did not reply, proceeded, laughing lightly.
“At first, I’ll confess, the sudden burst of noise in the street
alarmed me, monsieur. And when you appeared at the door,
I half fancied you the wrong person – perhaps a criminal
fleeing from the gendarmes.”
“And what reassured ye, mademoiselle?” he stammered
blankly.
“The password, of course; that set all right.”
“The password!” he echoed stupidly.
“Naturally; yes, monsieur!” She elevated her brows in
delicate inquiry. “To the Gare du Nord, you cried; and
by that I knew at once that you were sent by Monsieur
Chambret.”
35
[29]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Beauty and mystery combined were befuddling the Irish-
man sadly; when she ceased, looking to him for an answer,
he strove to recall her words.
“Monsieur Chambret?” he iterated vaguely. Then, to
himself, in a flash of comprehension: “The password, “To
the Gare du Nord’!”
“Mais oui!” she cried, impatiently tapping the floor with
the little slipper. “Chambret — who else? Oh!” She
sat forward abruptly, her eyes wide with dismay. “You
must be from Monsieur Chambret? There cannot have been
any mistake?”
For a second O’Rourke was tempted to try to brazen it
out; to lie, to invent, to make her believe him indeed from
this “Monsieur Chambret.” But to his credit be it, the
thought was no sooner conceived than abandoned. Some-
how, he felt that he might not lie to this woman and retain
his self-respect. -
Not that alone, but now that he could see more clearly her
eyes, he fancied that he perceived evidences of mental an-
guish in their sweet depths; she seemed to have been counting
dearly on his being the man she had expected. No - he
must be frank with her.
“I fear,” he admitted sadly, “that there is a mistake,
mademoiselle. In truth, I’m not from your friend; ye were
right when ye fancied me a fugitive. I was running away -
to avoid arrest for an offense that was not wholly mine: I
had been strongly provoked. I saw the fiacre, supposed it
empty, of course, jumped in . . . Ye understand? Believe
me, I sincerely regret deceiving ye, mademoiselle, even un-
intentionally.”
He waited, but she made no answer; she had drawn away
from him as far as the fiacre would permit, and now sat
[30]


He Does Ride; and with his Fate
watching his face with an expression which he failed to
fathom. It was not of anger, he knew instinctively; it was
no fear of him, nor yet acute disappointment; if anything, he
could have fancied her look one informed with a subtle
speculation, a mental calculation. But as to what?
That was the stumbling-block. He gave it up.
“If I can be of any service in return –?” he floundered
in his desperation. “But I must again humbly sue for par-
don, mademoiselle. I will no longer —” -
The man’s accustomed glibness of tongue seemed to have
forsaken him most inopportunely; he saw that it was a thank-
less task to try to set himself right. What cared she for his
protestations, his apologies?
And in such case he could do no more than act – get out
of her sight, leave her to her disappointment. He reached
toward the trap in the roof, intending to attract the driver's
attention and alight.
But it appeared that this was not a night upon which even
a headstrong O'Rourke could carry to a successful conclusion
any particular one of his determinations. For, as he started
up, the girl stirred, and put a hand upon his arm, with a ges-
ture that was almost an appeal. -
He halted, looking down.
“One moment, monsieur,” she begged. “I – I — per-
haps you might be willing to —” She hesitated, torn with
doubts of the man, total stranger that he was to her.
“To make amends?” he broke in eagerly. “To be of
service to ye, mademoiselle? If I can, command me — to
the uttermost —” -
“Then . . .” She sat back again, but half satisfied that she
was acting wisely; her eyes narrowed as she pondered him;
O'Rourke felt that her gaze pierced him through and through.
[31]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
She frowned in her perplexity — and was thereby the more
enchanting.
“Thank you,” she concluded, at length. “Possibly —
who can tell? — you may serve me as well as he whom I had
expected.”
“Only too gladly, mademoiselle!” he cried with unfeigned
enthusiasm.
She nodded affirmatively, patting her lips with her fan—
lost upon the instant in meditation, doubting, yet half con-
vinced of the wiseness of her course.
O'Rourke waited uneasily, afire with impatience, fearful
lest she should change her mind. Eventually, she mused
aloud — more to herself than to the stranger.
“You are honest, I believe, monsieur,” said she softly;
“you would not lie to me. Who knows? You might prove
the very man we need, and — and, oh, monsieur, our need
is great!”
“But try me!” he pleaded abjectly.
“Thank you, monsieur — I will,” she told him, a smile
lightening the gravity of her mood.
And the fiacre came to a halt.
[32]


CHAPTER V
HE ENGAGES BOTH HIS WORD AND SWORD
“OUR destination, monsieur,” the girl indicated briefly,
with a dainty little nod of her head.
Half stupefied, the Irishman managed to get himself —
somehow — out of the vehicle. Wholly fascinated, he made
haste to turn and assist the woman to alight; for a moment
her gloved hand rested in his broad palm — her hand, warm,
soft, fragile . . . . But, almost immediately, it was gone;
O’Rourke found himself bowing reverently, and, he felt,
idiotically, over space. He recovered himself, and followed
the girl, his eyes aglow with a new, clear light.
Their fiacre had halted before a certain impressive man-
sion on a broad boulevard — a hôtel familiar to the Irishman
in a way, and yet nameless to him. Rather than mansion,
the building might be termed a palace, so huge, so impressive
it bulked in the night. Seemingly a fête of some sort was in
progress within; the windows shone with soft radiance, faint
strains of music filtered through the open entrance, at either
side of which stood stolid servants in gorgeous livery after
the English fashion.
From the doors, down the steps to the curb, ran a carpet
under an awning. The girl tripped nonchalantly up the
steps, as one knowing well the place, and gave a whispered
word or two coldly to a footman who bowed with a respect
which struck the Irishman as exaggerated.
They passed through an elaborate vestibule banked with
[33]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
plants, its atmosphere heady with the fragrance of flowers,
and so into a great hallway where other servants relieved the
newcomers of their wraps.
Before them a doorway arched, giving upon a ballroom,
whence a flood of sound leaped out to greet them: laughter of
women and the heavier voices of men; scraping of fiddles and
of feet in time to the music; the swish of skirts, the blare of a
French horn.
Mademoiselle had accepted the arm of the Irishman; they
moved toward the ballroom, but before entering she turned
toward him, speaking confidentially, yet with an assumption
of lightness.
“You are to converse with me, monsieur, lightly, if you
please, as though we were lifelong friends. I shall chatter —
oh, positively! — and you must answer me in kind. It — it
is essential, monsieur.”
He bowed, attempting an easy smile, which failed utterly;
for a regally attired personage at the doorway demanded the
honor of announcing the late guests. And O’Rourke had
not the least clew to his mademoiselle's identity! He colored,
stammered, hating the servant rabidly for what he considered
his cold, suspicious eye.
Yet he need not have shown confusion, had he but guessed.
He managed to mouthe his name – “Colonel O'Rourke” —
and the servant turned to the ballroom, raising a stentorian
voice:
“Madame la Princess de Grandlieu! Monsieur —”
His own name followed, but was lost to O’Rourke in the
thunder of his companion’s title. And the châteaux of
romance which he had been busy erecting en Espagne fell,
crashing about his astounded ears.
A princess! And, if that did not place “mademoiselle”
[34]


He Engages both his Word and Sword
far beyond his reach — he, a mere Irish adventurer! — she
was also “madame” — married!
“Monsieur!” the voice of the woman came to his ears
through the daze of his reverie; and it was a-thrill with dis-
may. “Monsieur, for the love of Heaven do not look so
wrathful! You — why, you are ruining our play; you must,
must pay attention to me —”
With an effort he contrived to gain some control of his
emotions; he schooled himself to bend an attentive ear to-
wards the woman, and to smile lightly the while they chatted
of inconsequential matters, slowly threading a way down the
length of the salon, through a whirling maze of dancing
couples: all of which floated vaguely before O'Rourke's eyes,
a blur of women’s gleaming, rounded shoulders, of coruscant
jewels and fugitive flashes of color, all spotted with the severe
black-and-white costumes of men. They ran the gantlet of a
thousand pairs of curious eyes, whose searching and imper-
tinent scrutiny O’Rourke keenly felt, and as keenly longed to
return.
They were making, he found, for the far end of the room —
towards a wall of glass through which peeped green, growing
plants. And there, in the conservatory, the princess pres-
ently left the adventurer.
“You will await me here,” she instructed him, “that I may
know where to find you when the time comes. In ten min-
utes, then, Colonel O'Rourke!”
She smiled graciously. He was gripping himself strongly,
in order that he might answer her with some semblance of
coherency; and he blushed in his embarrassment, finding
himself slow to recover - very boyish looking, young and
handsome.
Madame la Princesse turned away, smiling inscrutably,
[35]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
and left him. He strolled about for a few moments, then
seated himself upon a bench in full view of the room he had
just quitted. For ten long minutes he waited, as tranquilly
as he might; which is as much as to say that he was restless to
the extreme and vibrant with curiosity.
For fifteen minutes or so longer he wriggled on the seat of
uncertainty, wondering if he was being played with, – made
a fool of. A thought struck him like a shot: was she detaining
him while sending for the police?
The essential idiocy of that conjecture became evident
within a few minutes. The princess was but proving her
inborn, feminine method of measuring time; she returned
at last — flushed and breathless, more bewitching than he
had imagined her, who had not ere this seen her in a good
light.
“Come, Colonel O’Rourke, if you please.”
He was instantly at her side, offering his arm. She seemed
to hesitate the merest fraction of a second, then lightly placed
her fingers upon his sleeve, where they rested, flower-like.
The man gazed upon them with all his soul in his eyes. His
hand trembled to seize them — oh, already he was far gone!
But the manner of Madame la Princesse kept him within
bounds; its temperature was perceptibly lower than formerly.
For her part, she was choosing to ignore what he could not
conceal – the devotion which her personality had so sud-
denly inspired in the breast of the young Irishman.
They re-entered the ballroom; now it was half deserted,
and a facile way lay open to them on the floor that had
been so crowded.
By an almost imperceptible pressure upon his arm the
princess guided him across the room, and into a salon that
was quite deserted.
[36]


He Engages both his Word and Sword
“It is late,” she said, half in explanation, half to keep the
man’s mind on matters other than herself; “in a quarter of an
hour the fête will be a thing of the past, monsieur.”
“And the guests all departed on their various ways,” he
said — merely to make talk.
She favored him with a sidelong glance. “Not all,” she
returned, with a meaning which he failed to grasp, and
stopped before a closed door, of which she handed him the
key. He opened in silence, and they passed into a large
room and gloomy, furnished rather elaborately as a library
and study, its walls lined with shelves of books.
In the center of the room stood a great desk of mahogany,
upon which rested a drop-light with a green shade that
flooded the desk itself with yellow radiance, leaving the rest
of the apartment in shadow.
The princess marched with determination to the farther,
side of the desk and there seated herself.
“The door, monsieur,” she said imperiously: “you will
lock it.”
Wondering, he did her bidding; then stood with his back to
it, instinctively in the pose of an orderly awaiting the com-
mand of a superior officer—shoulders back, head up, eyes
level, feet together, hands at sides.
She noted the attitude, and relented a trifle from her frigid
mood. “That Colonel O’Rourke is a soldier is self-evident,”
she said. “Be seated, monsieur,” — motioning to a chair
on the opposite side of the desk.
Again he obeyed in silence; for, in truth, he feared to trust
his tongue.
The woman lowered her lashes, drawing off her gloves
slowly, as though lost in deepest meditation. As a matter of
fact she was planning her campaign for the subjugating of
[37]


Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
this adventurer; at present, he was impossible — too earnest,
too willing to serve, too fervent for comfort.
For a time she did not speak, and the room was very
quiet. If she watched him, O'Rourke was unable to make
certain of it; for the upper half of her face was in deep
shadow. Only her arms, bared, showed very white and
rounded; O'Rourke might not keep his gaze from
them. -
But she found a way to bring him to his senses. Suddenly
she leaned forward, and turned the shade of the lamp so that
its glare fell full upon the Irishman's face; her gaze then be-
came direct; and, resting her elbows upon the table, lacing
her fingers and cradling her chin upon the backs of her hands,
the girl boldly challenged him.
“Colonel O’Rourke,” she said deliberately – at once to
the point; “you are to consider that this is a matter of busi-
ness, purely.”
He flushed, drew himself bolt upright.
“Pardon!” he murmured stiffly.
“Granted, monsieur,” she replied briskly. “And now,
before we implicate ourselves, let us become acquainted.
You, I already know, I believe.”
“Yes, madame?”
“There was a man of whom I have heard, of the name of
O'Rourke, who served as a colonel in the Foreign Legion in
the Soudan, for a number of years.”
“The same, madame,” he said — not without a touch of
pride in his tones.
“He received the decoration of the Legion of Honor, I
believe? For gallantry?”
“They called it such, madame.”
He turned aside the lapel of his coal; she nodded, her eyes
[38]


He Engages both his Word and Sword
brightening as she glimpsed the scrap of ribbon and the pen-
dent silver star.
“I begin to think that chance has been very kind to me,
Colonel O’Rourke,” she said, less coolly.
“Possibly, madame.”
“You have seen other service, monsieur?”
44 Yes —”
“For ‘Cuba Libre, I believe?”
“But the list is a long one,” he expostulated laughingly.
“For so young a man — so gallant a soldier!”
“Oh, madame!” he deprecated.
“You are,” she changed the subject, “pledged to no cause,
monsieur?”
“To yours alone, madame.”
She thanked him with a glance. He was amply rewarded.
After an instant of hesitation, she proceeded bluntly:
“You, I presume, know who I am?”
“Madame la Princesse —” he began.
“I do not mean that,” she interrupted; “but before my
marriage —?”
“No —” he dubitated.
This seemed to gratify her.
“That is good, then — you do not know me, really,” she
concluded. “You do not even know where you are?”
“No more than in Paris,” he laughed.
“Oh, that is good, indeed! Then I may talk freely —
although I must ask that you consider every word confiden-
tial. I rely upon your honor —”
“Believe me, ye may.”
“Then — to business.”
Heretofore she had been studying his features intently;
what character she had read therein must have been reassur-
[39]


He Engages both his Word and Sword
smiled – “my brother gives this rout to cover a conference
with the instigators of the scheme. It — it must certainly be
of an unlawful nature, monsieur, else they would not meet so
secretly, with such caution. Even now certain of the guests
are assembled in another room of this, my brother's house,
conspiring with him. To-morrow, possibly — in a few days
at the latest – my brother will start upon this-— this expedi-
tion, let us call it. For my part I cannot believe that he will
return alive. I fear for him — fear greatly. But I have ob-
tained his consent to something for which I have fought ever
since I found that he would not give up his project; he has
agreed to take with him one man, whom I am to select, to
give him high place in his councils, and — what is more im-
portant — to keep his identity as my agent a secret from the
other parties interested.
“I had but twelve hours to find the man I needed. He
must be a soldier, courageous, loyal, capable of leading men.
I knew no such man. I consulted with the one being in the
world whom I can trust – a family friend of long standing,
one Monsieur Chambret. I — I — monsieur, I cannot
trust my husband; he is allied with these false friends of my
brother!”
O'Rourke started, afire with generous indignation; she
cautioned him to silence with a gesture.
“One moment. I am not through, if you please. . . . Mon-
sieur Chambret was equally at a loss for a suitable man. He
did what he could. This evening he came to me, offering a
last hope, saying that he knew of a place where men of spirit
who were not overly prosperous might be expected to con-
gregate. I was to take my carriage, and wait at a certain
spot in the Champs Élysées. He was to bring or send the
man, should he find him. If the gentleman came alone he
[41]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
would make himself known to me by the password — which
you know.
“So — apparently Monsieur Chambret failed in his mis-
sion. The rest you know. You came — and now that I
know you, Colonel O'Rourke, I thank —”
“Madame!” cried the Irishman arising.
She, too, stood up; her glance met his, and seemed deeply
to penetrate his mind. As if satisfied, impulsively she flung
out a hand towards him. O'Rourke clasped it in both his
own. He felt himself unable to speak; for the moment mere
words were valueless.
But beneath his glance the woman colored; her regard of
him did not waver; the earnestness of her purpose blinded
her to the danger of encouraging that grand amoreux,
Terence O’Rourke. Her eyes shone softly and it may have
been that her breathing was a trifle hurried.
“Monsieur,” she cried, “I — I love my brother. I would
save him from — from himself. Will you, then, enter my
service — go with him and guard him, stand at his side and
by his back, shielding him against assassination or - or
worse? Will you, can you bring yourself to do this thing
for me, whom you do not know, and for my brother, whom
you will dislike?”
“For ye, madame!” he declared. “To the ends of the
earth, if need be!”
He felt the pressure of her fingers on his own, significant of
her gratitude. O'Rourke bent over the little hand, raising it
to his lips. . . .
There was a knock on the door. The woman released her
hand, swiftly, with an air of alarm.
“Quick!” she cried. “The key, monsieur! This will be
Monsieur Chambret!”
[42]


CHAPTER VI
HE DRAWS ONE CARD
O'Rourke fumbled in his pocket desperately, his fingers
on that key all the time; but he did not want to give it up,
he did not care to see Monsieur Chambret — not just yet.
A dozen pretexts to escape the meeting, to prolong the inter-
view, flashed through his brain in a brief moment; but none
that he dared use.
Meanwhile, the rosy palm of his princess was outstretched
to receive the key, and she was eying him with no great favor,
biting her lip with impatience, because of his dalliance. In
the end O’Rourke had to surrender both the key and all
hope of delaying the introduction.
Madame la Princesse, with an audible sigh of relief, swept
over to the door. O'Rourke remained, standing, at the side
of the desk. Perhaps it was entirely by accident that his
elbow touched the edge of the lamp shade, and replaced it in
its former position; perhaps he made the adjustment in his
preoccupation; perhaps — not.
At all events, that was what immediately happened, before
the princess had time to get that door open; and then the line
of the light cut sharply across the lower part of O’Rourke's
shirt bosom, as he stood there, leaving the upper portion of
his body – his face, in particular – deeply shadowed.
He turned toward the door in uneasy expectancy. -
Now it was at last open; the princess stood to one side, her
hand on the knob, bowing mockingly and with a laugh.
[43]


He Draws one Card
counter with a loafer of the streets, who attempted to assault
me.”
“And — and – ?” she suggested.
“It was nothing — nothing, madame,” he returned with
ease. “I was forced to call a gendarme, and give the fellow
in charge, to be rid of him. He will spend the night in prison,
which may improve his manners,” he added.
His veiled meaning was quite unintelligible to O'Rourke,
who drew his breath sharply, otherwise exhibiting no emo-
tion at the Frenchman’s remarkable account of the affair.
“Me faith!” he chuckled to himself. “So I’ve been ar-
rested, have I? Good! That lets me out. He neither
recognizes nor suspects me!”
A clock in the library chimed softly, twice. Upon the
sound the princess turned, and looked at the dial.
“Half-past three!” she cried. “So late! Indeed, we are
just in time, messieurs. I have no time to waste explaining
to you, Monsieur Chambret, how remarkably Colonel
O'Rourke was sent to me in my need,” she continued. “I
go at once to my brother and his — council / I will return
for you in — say, ten minutes at the most.”
She courtesied gaily to the two men, and left the room.
To O'Rourke it seemed as though the study, bereft of her
presence, acquired an entirely new and uncomfortable at-
mosphere. He inspired harshly again — half a sigh, half in
expectation of what might follow.
Chambret, bowing reverently at the door as the princess
passed out, straightened himself, almost with a jerk, and shut
it sharply. He stood for a moment as if lost in thought, then
wheeled about, and came down the room deliberately, slowly
removing his gloves, his gaze again full upon the face of the
Irishman.
[45]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
As for the latter, he appreciated the fact that it was a tick-
lish moment for him, an encounter fraught with peril. His
only course was to face the man down, to defy him, to rely
upon his effrontery—if it so happened that Chambret had
indeed recognized him.
He was not long to be left in doubt, — if he did honestly
doubt.
Deliberately, Chambret approached the table, halting by
its edge, not a yard distant from the Irishman, his brow black
with rage, his eyes scintillating with hate. Abruptly he
brought his gloves down, with a sharp slap, upon the polished
wood.
“So, canaille!” he said sharply.
“What?” demanded O'Rourke audaciously. His man-
ner said plainly enough, “Is it possible? Can I believe me
ears? What does he mean?”
Chambret quickly swung up the shade of the lamp, nod-
ding in satisfaction as the glare disclosed the lineaments of
the Irishman.
“I thought so,” he said. “I was not mistaken.”
O'Rourke dropped languidly, easily, into the chair, swing-
ing a careless leg over one of its arms.
“Upon me word!” he mused aloud. “What is he driving
at now, d'ye think? Is the man mad?”
Chambret's attitude was a puzzle to him. If the man had
immediately identified him, why had he not been denounced
to the princess at once? Why this delay, this playing to the
gallery for melodramatic effect?
“Of course,” he admitted, “the man’s a Frenchman; 'tis
not in the likes of him to miss a chance of showing off. But
nobody's watching him now, save me. What for is he
waiting?”
[46]


He Draws one Card
However, he was yet to become acquainted with Monsieur
Adolph Chambret. That gentleman took his full time, care-
fully mapping out his plan of action behind that high, think-
ing forehead of his, as carefully subduing his anger – or,
rather, keeping his finger upon the gage of it, that it might
not get beyond his control.
“You are wondering what I propose to do with you, mon-
sieur?” he queried at length, in a temperate, even tone.
“Faith, I was wondering what I’d have to do to ye, to make
ye keep quiet,” amended O'Rourke, abandoning all pretense.
The Frenchman moved impatiently. “You are presump-
tuous, monsieur,” he said.
“I’m the very divvle of a fellow,” admitted O'Rourke
with engaging candor. “We’ll take all the personalities for
granted, if ye please, Monsieur Chambret. But as to busi-
ness —”
“I am debating whether or not to hand you over to the
gendarmes.”
“Ye harbored that identical delusion a while ago, I believe.
Don’t bother with it; ’tis not so, really.”
“And what is to prevent me, may I ask?”
“The answer, monsieur,” returned O’Rourke, unruffled,
“is — meself. Do ye connect with that?”
Chambret's eyes blazed; but still he held his temper in
leash.
“May I inquire how you elbowed your way in here?”
“”Tis easy enough; I’ve no objection to telling ye. Ye
called your policeman — I ran. Ye pursued – I saw the
open door of madame's fiacre, thought it empty, jumped in,
telling the driver to go to the Gare du Nord. He went —
bless him!— as though every gendarme in Paris was after
him.”
[47]


Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
& 4 And –??
“And so I became acquainted with madame; she knew
me, it seems, – knew me record, – and asked me to join her
in this affair. I agreed.”
“You know – everything, then, monsieur?”
“Sure I do, me boy. And now, what are ye going to do
about it?”
“Nothing,” announced Chambret coolly, seating himself in
the chair which the princess had vacated. “Nothing at all.”
He directed a level stare at O'Rourke, who sat up and
faced him suddenly. *
“I’ll be damned!” the Irishman prophesied admiringly.
“D'ye mean it?”
“I do, most certainly.”
“Why?” gasped O'Rourke, astonished.
“Because we need you, monsieur. More particularly,
because madame needs you. My personal feelings must –
wait, I presume.”
“Upon me word, I’m disposed to apologize to ye!”
“You forget that there is no apology for a blow. I shall
expect my satisfaction upon your return.”
“Faith, ye can have it then – or now,” O’Rourke fired up.
“I’ll say this to ye, for your own good: The next time ye see
that a man’s broke, don’t throw it in his face. "Tis worse
than a red rag to a bull.”
“An error of judgment, perhaps,” agreed Chambret,
thoughtfully.
“But as for your satisfaction—I’ll permit no man to outdo
me in generosity, sir; I’m at your service when ye please.”
Chambret put his hand to his face; upon his cheek the red
weal blazed. His brows darkened ominously; and he glanced
from O’Rourke to the clock. -
[48]


He Draws one Card
“We have time,” he debated, “to settle our little affair
before the return of madame.”
“What d'ye mean, monsieur?” asked O’Rourke, wide-
eyed.
“I’ll take you at your word,” concluded Chambret, arising
suddenly. “You shall give me satisfaction now.”
“The divvle ye say!”
O'Rourke, too, got upon his feet.
“Precisely. We can fight here as comfortably as anywhere.
The room was designed for absolute quiet; the walls are
sound proof.”
“Faith !” cried the Irishman. “D'ye mean we're to duel
with pistols — here?”
“Just so, monsieur.”
“But – the weapons?”
Chambret pulled open a drawer of the desk, peered within
and removed from it a revolver.
“This,” he indicated.
“But that's only one!”
“All that will be necessary, monsieur. We will let the
cards decide.” He took from another drawer a deck of play-
ing cards — new.
“We will deal, monsieur,” he continued, “one to me, one
to you, card by card. He who receives the ace of spades–
You comprehend?”
“Suicide, d'ye mean?”
“No. The unlucky one of us to stand at the farther end
of the room; the other to remain here with the revolver, to
count three, aim and fire instantly. Are you agreeable?”
O’Rourke whistled his admiration — an emotion not, how-
ever, untinged with perturbation.
“Ye have your nerve with ye, if ye are in earnest,” he
[49]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
protested. “Let's see, this is your proposition: First, we
play an innocent game of cards; then one of us commits
a murder? Is that it? Well — since ye are the one to
propose it, I'm your man. Deal on, monsieur!”
Chambret nodded coldly, stripped the deck and shuffled
with care, O’Rourke watching him narrowly. Finally
Chambret was satisfied, took up the deck and drew off the
top card.
“One moment, monsieur!” interposed O’Rourke. “There's
a man of me race that has said, “Trust every man, but cut the
cards. Faith, I’m thinking that's good advice.”
The Frenchman ground an imprecation between his teeth,
and slammed the deck upon the desk. O'Rourke cut them
with care.
“Proceed,” he consented calmly.
Trembling with anger, Chambret dealt: a card to himself
first – the nine of hearts; a card to O'Rourke –
The Irishman felt the room swimming about him; he
clutched the arms of his chair with a grip of agony, his gaze
transfixed upon the card before him: the ace of spades.
He heard Chambret laughing lightly, saw the gleam of his
white teeth in the lamplight, and staggered to his feet.
“Very well,” he heard himself saying, as with another's
voice, distantly. “”Tis the fortune of war. Proceed, mon-
Sieur.”
He was aware that he walked, but as one dreaming, to the
farther end of the apartment; he remembers turning and
facing Chambret; he recalls folding his arms and reminding
himself to hold his head high; but the heart of him was like
water. He waited there what seemed an interminable time,
while Chambret, grinning malevolently, tested the revolver,
assuring himself that it was properly loaded.
[50]


He Draws one Card
And then his grimace faded; O'Rourke saw the weapon
slowly swinging at the man’s side; and he head a voice ring-
ing through the room, reverberating upon his tympanums
like the thunders of the Day of Judgment.
“One — two —”
The arm ceased to sway; in a moment it would arise,
Chambret would fire; O’Rourke even fancied that he heard
the beginning of the fatal monosyllable:
Q & Th – ??
He closed his eyes – only to open them again immediately,
as the voice of madame the princess sounded, following upon
the sudden opening of the door:
“Messieurs!”
Chambret’s half-raised arm fell. O’Rourke steadied him-
self with a hand against the wall; a dim mist swam before his
eyes, seemingly almost palpable. Through it the voices of
madame and Chambret came to him with odd and unfamiliar
intonations.
“Monsieur Chambret! What is this?”
“A test of marksmanship, merely, madame. I am exhibit-
ing my skill to Monsieur le Colonel O'Rourke; you will ob-
serve he holds a card in his hand.”
O'Rourke clenched his teeth and so forced himself to a
state of thought wherein he was capable of intelligent action.
Chambret's concluding words were ringing in his ears; he
glanced at his hand, saw that indeed he was holding the fatal
ace of spades — which he must have picked up and retained
unconsciously. He glanced at the woman, at Chambret; the
latter stood stern and implacable; in his eyes O'Rourke read
murder.
He divined the man’s purpose to turn the farcical situation
into a tragedy; but within him the instinct of self-preserva-
[51]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
tion seemed dormant — or bound and helpless, enchained by
the tenets of that thing called “honor.”
Mechanically O’Rourke raised his arm, holding the card
in his hand, a little to one side.
Chambret again took deliberate aim. The princess
started forward with a cry of protest.
She was too late; Monsieur Chambret had fired.
[52]


CHAPTER VII
HE CONSIDERS THE GREAT SCHEME
BANDIED back and forth by the four walls of the study the
report crashed and echoed, reverberating, like a peal of thun-
der. When it died out, there was absolute silence for a
space, during which all three actors of the litte drama stood
almost as though stricken motionless.
O’Rourke saw Chambret slowly lower the revolver, the
whites of his eyes gleaming in the lamplight; while from the
muzzle of the weapon a thin, grayish spiral of smoke trickled
up to join the heavier, pungent cloud that hovered near the
ceiling. He saw Madame la Princesse standing, swaying ever
so slightly, her hands clasped before her, her lips a-quiver
with mute inquiry, her eyes, horror filled, fixed upon his face.
Chambret stepped back and cast the revolver upon the
desk, whereon it fell with a heavy thud, shattering the silence
and quickening the tableau simultaneously.
Madame started toward O’Rourke with a low cry.
“A good shot!” said the latter composedly. “A very
good shot, Monsieur Chambret; for which pray accept me
congratulations.”
He held out the card in a hand that was steadiness itself.
“Observe, madame,” he said unperturbed, “the bullet
penetrated the precise center of the ace – and in this half
light!” -
She was near enough to him now to snatch the card from
his fingers, not rudely but in an agony of suspense. Holding
[53]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
it up to the light she verified his statement; and he saw that
her own hand was shaking.
A vague sense of triumph caused him to look toward Cham-
bret; who bowed ironically.
“But – but you are not injured, monsieur?”
It was the princess who addressed him; O'Rourke dared
to smile at her — a smile that was at once bright with his
consciousness of his triumph, and itself a triumph of dissimu-
lation.
“Not in the least,” he hastened to reassure her; “Monsieur
Chambret is too skilful a shot to have chanced a mistake.”
“You are satisfied as to my skill, then, monsieur?” in-
quired Chambret.
“Quite – and shall be so for a long time to come.” He
remembered his rôle in the deception which they were united
in practising upon madame, and laughed again. “I yield
the point, monsieur,” he added, “and likewise the palm.
Ye are a finer shot than I, be long odds.”
But it is a question as to whether or not they were successful
in deceiving the princess; the glance that she shifted from the
one to the other was filled with dubiety.
She felt instinctively, perhaps, that here was something
deeper than appeared upon the surface; but she might not
probe it courteously nor with any propriety, since both seemed
to desire her to believe that the affair had been nothing more
than a test of Monsieur Chambret's mastery of the weapon.
“In the future, messieurs,” she announced frowning, “I
trust that you will confine your exhibitions to more appro-
priate hours and localities. Moreover, I do not like it. At
best it is dangerous and proves little. Colonel O'Rourke,
your arm.”
She gathered up the train of her evening gown, and moved
[54]


He Considers the Great Scheme
away with the Irishman; who by now was so far recovered
that he could not repress his elation. This, he felt, was in
some way a distinct triumph over his saturnine rival; for as
such he already chose to consider Chambret. And he ven-
tured to turn and wink roguishly at the Frenchman as they
left the room.
As for Chambret, it seemed that he was not bidden to the
conference with the brother of Madame la Princesse; they
left him staring glumly at the floor and twisting his mustache,
in a mood that seemed far from one of self-satisfaction.
“Now, ’tis strange to me,” volunteered O'Rourke, “that
the shot startled no one — the servants, or your brother and
his guests.”
“The servants,” explained madame, “are trained to ignore
the unusual in this house; besides, their presence is not de-
sired above stairs at this hour. As for my brother, he is
closeted with his friends in another wing of the building.”
Thereafter she lapsed into a meditation, from which he
made no attempt to rouse her; he kept the corner of his eye
upon her fair, finely modeled head that was bowed so near
to his shoulder; and he recalled jubilantly the look of keen
anxiety that had been hers when she had fancied him
wounded. To be able to think of that, and to be in her com-
pany, O’Rourke felt, were happiness enough for him —
enough and far beyond his deserts.
Thus quietly they traversed a series of broad, dimly lighted
corridors, meeting no one; but, after some time, his princess
stopped with O’Rourke outside a certain door.
“Monsieur,” she said softly, nor raised her eyes, “it is
here that I leave you to return to my home. Within this door
you will meet my brother, Monsieur Lemercier; my husband,
Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu, and — and others. You
[ 55].


Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
may—I fancy you will— find them uncongenial; I could al-
most hope that you would. I can only trust that you will be
able to endure them, monsieur. You know what I–I expect
of you; and will presently learn what other duties will be yours
to perform. I think I may rely upon you to play your part.”
“Madame,” he returned lightly, yet with earnestness un-
derlying his tone, “I realize that I am, in a way, a forlorn
hope. But ye may trust me.”
“I believe so,” she said soberly. “I shall not — may not
see you again for some time. You — you will –?”
“I will do all that ye wish me to, madame, so far as lies in
me power — and a trifle further, perhaps.”
She smiled, amused by the gallant boast, and gave him
her hand.
“Then,” she breathed, – “then, good-night, my friend.”
“Madame!” Cried O’Rourke.
For the tenth part of a second her fingers rested in his, then
were withdrawn. He sighed; but she merely turned and
knocked gently upon the panels.
Almost immediately the door was opened; a man peered
out, and, recognizing the princess, emerged, closing the door
behind him.
“Oh, it's you, Beatrix,” he greeted her languidly.
“Yes, Leopold. I have brought you the gentleman of
whom I spoke: Colonel O’Rourke, Chevalier of the Legion
of Honor, once of the Foreign Legion in the Soudan – my
brother, Monsieur Leopold Lemercier.”
The young man turned to O'Rourke, offering his hand with
a ready, feebly good-humored smile.
“Colonel O'Rourke!” he cried, with a vapid laugh. “The
very man! I'm glad to meet you, monsieur; I have heard of
you before.”
[56]


He Considers the Great Scheme
“The divvle!” thought O'Rourke. “And, by that token,
I’ve heard of ye – ye little scamp!” But aloud he returned
the greeting blandly.
“Thank you, Beatrix,” continued Lemercier. “And —”
“I am going home,” she replied. “Good-night, messieurs.
Monsieur le Colonel O’Rourke, au revoir.”
Lemercier, rather than at once returning with O’Rourke
to his companions, lingered until his sister was out of ear-
shot, with the manner of one who has something on his
mind.
He was very youthful in appearance,—a mere slip of a boy,
attired a trifle too exquisitely in the positive extreme of the
fashion. No force of character was to be seen charted upon
his smooth, lineless countenance — just then somewhat
flushed; though whether from alcohol or excitement, O'Rourke
could not determine.
His eyes, which were small, were of a vague and indefinite
gray, his hair light, of a neutral tint, and inclined to fall
across his forehead in a stringy bang. His mouth was weak,
lacking character, his nose a smooth arch, conveying no im-
pression of mental strength. As a rule, he kept his hands
uneasily in his pockets; at other times they were constantly
busy with some object — his watch chain, or the heavy, gem-
encrusted rings with which his slight fingers were laden.
O'Rourke was inclined to take his measure thoroughly,
not only because of the strange and interesting manner in
which they had been thrown together, but also because “le
petit Lemercier” was a national character of France—or the
national laughing stock.
For some years this weakling, the enormously wealthy son
of a rich chocolate manufacturer recently deceased, had kept
Paris agape with his harebrained pranks, his sybaritic enter-
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
tainments, his lavish disbursement of the money which he
had inherited.
Rumor had it that already, in the four years that had
elapsed since he had come into his fortune, he had not only
expended all of his income, huge as that was known to be,
but had made serious inroads upon his capital.
This was undoubtedly due to his incapacity and dissipa-
tion; “the little Lemercier” maintained constantly a circle of
scheming flatterers and panderers, who had always some
fresh scheme ready to assist in the separation of the young
fool from his money.
And now that he knew whom he was to protect,
O'Rourke felt as if a blindfolding bandage had suddenly
dropped from his eyes; not only did he realize that the fears
of Madame la Princesse for the welfare of le petit Lemercier
were well grounded, but he had no difficulty in identifying
that lady with the young girl, who, fresh from the seclusion
of a convent, had been persuaded by this same brother, Leo-
pold, to contract a marriage with Prince Felix, the debauched
head of the insignificant and impoverished principality of
Grandlieu.
He recalled quite distinctly the sensation that marriage had
created, a year or so back; as well as the public indignation
and sympathy for the ignorant and unsophisticated girl who
had given her hand and her immense fortune into the keeping
of the most notorious roué in Europe.
A sudden rage welled in O’Rourke's heart, as he thought
of this, and a faint disgust stirred him as he gazed upon this
enfeebled, weak-eyed, self-complacent stripling who was
negatively responsible for the degradation of his sister.
But le petit Lemercier put an end to the meditations of the
Irishman.
[58]


He Considers the Great Scheme
“One moment, monsieur, before we enter,” he stipulated.
“You understand what circumstances have induced me to
accede to Beatrix's absurd notion? Well,” he went on, with-
out waiting for a reply, “it is absurd, anyway; and, just to
keep my word with her, I’ve had to tell them inside that I’ve
known you for a long time, and sent for you on purpose for
the work in hand. I couldn’t insult my friends by telling
them the real reason why I'm employing you.”
“Very well,” assented O'Rourke, between his teeth, his
blood seeming to boil in resentment of the assumption of
superiority with which le petit Lemercier was treating him.
“Yes, monsieur; since that's understood, and you won’t
be making any blunders, we'll go inside, if you please.”
He turned the handle of the door, and his back insolently
to O'Rourke, and stalked stiffly into the room; the Irishman
swallowed his rage at the other's impertinence, and followed.
The room which he entered was almost a duplicate of the
one wherein he had conferred with his princess, save that it
was somewhat smaller, and, instead of the desk, a huge table
occupied the center of the floor.
Round it were ranged armchairs, wherein lounged four
men, who rose at the entrance of the stranger.
Lemercier marched to the head of the table, and sat down.
“Messieurs,” he said, with a negligent flirt of his white,
pudgy hand, “you will permit me to introduce Monsieur le
Colonel O'Rourke, of the Foreign Legion – the gentleman
of whom I have spoken, as the future commander-in-chief of
the imperial army. Colonel O’Rourke, I have the honor to
make you known to Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu, and
Messieurs Valliant, Mouchon, and D’Ervy.”
The messieurs bowed ceremoniously — and most coldly,
apparently resenting this intrusion upon their charmed circle;
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
on the principle, possibly, of the more birds of prey, the less
gorging of each individual crop.
As for O'Rourke, he returned their greetings with scarcely
less frigidity of manner. He constrained himself to bare
civility, but was unable to feign any considerable pleasure
because of the association in which he found himself.
Lemercier indicated a chair, into which the Irishman
dropped unwillingly; had he followed his own inclinations he
would have delayed not one moment ere leaving before he
knew more, before pledging himself and his sword to the
service of this gathering of blackguards.
But he recognized that he was, as he put it, “in for it”; he
had given his word to his princess, and the desire to serve her
outweighed his personal tastes in the matter.
Le petit Lemercier invited the Irishman to help himself to
the wine and cigars which were set out upon a convenient
buffet, then concerned himself no more for the comfort of his
guest. He got upon his feet unsteadily — it became mo-
mentarily more apparent that he was drinking too deeply for
the clearness of his brain — and began to talk in a halting
fashion, leaving the half of his sentences unfinished and in-
conclusive.
But the attention he received was flattering; with the pos-
sible exception of the prince, his sycophants hung upon his
words with breathless interest. Only O'Rourke permitted
his eyes to stray from the face of his host to the countenances
of the others, mentally inventorying their characters, cata-
loguing them for future reference.
Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu he had not expected to
like; what he saw of him did not tend to remove the prejudice
— a slim, tall figure of a man, ridiculously padded at every
possible point, and corseted so that his figure resembled a
[60 |


He Considers the Great Scheme
woman’s more nearly than a man’s; he was hatchet-faced
and dark, with evasive eyes of a saturnine, sneering cast; im-
peccable as to dress, an elegant; ostentatiously rakish.
Apparently returning O'Rourke's disdain with interest,
he sat slouched in an armchair, airily twirling an end of his
black mustache, occasionally eying the intruder with no
friendly glance.
As for the others, they were ordinary types of Parisians:
Valliant, a heavy, swaggering growth of the boulevards, red-
faced and loud-voiced; Mouchon, pasty of complexion, nerv-
ous, slinking, and apologetic in manner; D’Ervy, a vice-
marked nonenity of Lemercier's grade, pimply, heavy-eyed,
ungracious, and vacuous. -
Meanwhile, le petit Lemercier was talking — rambling on
in an aimless, inconsequential fashion, chiefly in praise of
his own wonderful sagacities and abilities in planning an
enterprise which he as yet had not named. Suddenly, how-
ever, he broke off, flushed his throat with a glass of cham-
pagne; and the conversation took on a complexion which
commanded O'Rourke's undivided interest.
“Messieurs,” said Lemercier, puffing with importance,
“we are assembled on the eve of a movement which will
astonish and compel the admiration not only of all Europe,
but of the civilized world as well.”
He paused, and turned to the Irishman.
“O’Rourke, mon ami,” he continued, with abrupt famil-
iarity, “these, my comrades, are already intimate with my
project. Formonths we have been planning and perfecting it;
latterly we have waited only for you, mon brave, a soldier tried
sand proven, to work with us for glory and for — empire!”
“The divvle ye say!” interjected the disgusted O'Rourke
to himself.
| 61 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“In a week, monsieur, we start upon our expedition. In
two weeks or less the Empire of the Sahara will be inaugu-
rated — in a month it will be a fact accomplished.”
He gestured toward the wall, and D'Ervy sprang from his
chair, to unrol an immense map of Northern Africa which
hung thereon. Lepetit Lemercier, swelling with pride,
went to it and indicated his points as he talked.
“Here,” he said, drawing O’Rourke's attention to a spot
on the west coast of the continent, “is Cape Bojador. Here,
again,” moving his finger a foot north upon the coast line,
“is Cape Juby. To the north lies Morocco; to the south lie
the Spanish Rio de Oro possessions. But between the two
capes is unclaimed land. There, messieurs, lies the land
that shall be our Empire of the Sahara. There shall we
establish and build up a country greater even than our
France!”
Valliant rapped his applause upon the table; Mouchon
cheered weakly. O'Rourke looked dubious.
“Pardon,” he said, “but is not that the coast of the Sahara?
Is it not desert land, – waste, arid?”
“Ah, yes, monsieur; that is the general impression. But
you shall see what we shall do in this No-man's Land which
the grasping English have overlooked, which France dis-
dains, which Spain forgets! In the first place, the land is not
arid; to my personal knowledge there is a large and fertile
oasis a short distance inland from the coast, in one spot; and
beyond doubt there be others.”
“Undoubtedly!” affirmed the prince.
“Here, monsieur,” Lemercier continued enthusiastically,
pointing to an indefinite, ragged line winding inland a little
distance below Cape Juby, “is the Wadi Saglat el Hamra –
the dry bed of an ancient stream —”
[62 |


He Considers the Great Scheme
“Dry?” queried O'Rourke, beginning to be interested in
spite of himself.
“Now dry, mon ami; but wait – wait until we have dis-
covered its former sources, wait until Science has reopened
and made them to flow again. Then shall the Wadi Saglat
make its majestic way to the ocean — a mighty stream, fer-
tilizing and irrigating the surrounding territory. Moreover,
artesian wells shall be sunk wherever practicable; around
them oases shall spring to life, rejuvenating the desert. We
— we, messieurs! — shall be the vanguards of empire, the
reclaimers of the waste lands of the world, making the desert
to blossom as a garden!
“Cities shall be built, colonists shall flock to us, homes.
shall be established for thousands of families. The sands
of the desert will yield up their gold to us. A port will
be established as a terminus for the thousands of desert cara-
vans who now take their goods to the Senegal. Messieurs,
the Empire of the Sahara, within two years, shall obtain
recognition from the Powers of the world. Within five it
shall be a Power itself. And I — I, messieurs! — shall be
Emperor!”
The ardor of le petit Lemercier was pitiable, yet infectious;
the Irishman found himself listening eagerly.
“There's something in it!” he whispered. “Me faith, I
do believe it might be done!” His adventurous spirit kin-
dled, flashing from his eyes. “There'll be fighting,” he con-
sidered shrewdly.
Lemercier turned to him, breathing quickly with excite-
ment, carried away by his own schoolboy eloquence.
“Colonel O’Rourke,” he announced pompously, “you
are to be Commander-in-chief of my forces, with the pay of a
corps commander of the French Army. Do you accept?”
[63 ]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Faith,” said O'Rourke rising, “I do that. 'Tis a great
scheme ye have, monsieur.” -
He filled him a glass of champagne, turning to the others.
“Messieurs,” he said, “I give ye the health of Monsieur
Lemercier!”
“No!” interposed the prince, also rising with his glass.
“You forget, Colonel O'Rourke. The health we drink is the
health of Leopold le Premier, l’Empereur du Sahara!”
He flashed a hinting glance to the others; they, too, rose,
with bravos, and drank standing.
O'Rourke's gaze fell upon the stripling, wine-flushed and
staggering, complacent and conceited – a mere vain child,
dreaming of empire as a plaything for his vanity.
And then the eyes of the Irishman turned to the others —
the motley, self-centered crew of leeches, who, to this vapid
youth of a multi-millionaire, bent “the pregnant hinges of
the knee, that thrift might follow fawning.”
It nauseated him; he put down his glass, and for a moment
watched the cold, calculating, sardonic Prince de Grandlieu,
who was, with meaning glances, showing the way to his asso-
ciates to half madden le petit Lemercier with flattery. And
the warning of that man’s wife, of the princess, recurred to
the Irishman. Again disgust stirred him.
“The divvle!” he muttered. “I’m in for it. Sure, there
will be fighting, or I’m no O'Rourke!”
But his thoughts were concerning themselves with Cham-
bret and Felix of Grandlieu. The more that he had occasion
to consider them, at that time, the more thoroughly he be-
came convinced that there would be much fighting ere he was
done with them.
[64]


CHAPTER VIII
HE COMES UPON THE RED-HEADED ONE
THUS it was plotted; and in such wise Colonel Terence
O’Rourke came to cast his fortunes with those of that man
concerning whom the Parisian boulevards were soon again to
be gossiping — the youth who called himself Leopold the
First, Emperor of the Sahara.
Their conference lasted into a late hour of the next morn-
ing; the conspirators breakfasted together, gathering up the
loose ends of their scheme and giving and receiving final
suggestions and instructions.
It had been settled that O’Rourke was to be Commander-
in-chief, with the title of Lieutenant-General, of the forces
presently to be assembled on the west coast of the Sahara
Desert.
Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu was to be chief adviser to
his majesty-to-be; when the government was finally organized
he was to be Premier.
Monsieur Walliant, who, it appeared, was a member of the
French bar, received the appointment of chief justice of the
Empire — when it should exist and the administration of
justice should become necessary. In the meantime, he was
to remain in Paris, and, with the help of associates (whose
salaries, be sure, were to come out of the pocket of le petit
Lemercier), formulate a Code Leopoldan; a judicial system
which was expected to combine all the good points of existing
legal codes and to contain none of their defects.
[65]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Messieurs Mouchon and D'Ervy were to rejoice respect-
ively in the portfolios of commerce and agriculture — their
absolute unfitness for the holding of any office whatsoever
being to all appearances their greatest recommendation in the
eyes of Lemercier. -
It was understood that the two latter gentlemen were to
collaborate, at first, in the work of enticing colonists to the
promised land; and they also had charge of the purchase of
all supplies for the new empire — a sinecure in which
O'Rourke shrewdly scented large and gratifying “commis-
sions” for the purses of the two secretaries.
But the Irishman had little time in which to criticise or
to pass judgment upon his associates. He was ordered im-
mediately to the south of France for the purpose of recruiting
troops. -
He had one week for his task; it was the sense of the con-
clave that forty picked men would be required for the work
of annexing the sands of the Sahara, and in the judgment of
O'Rourke this number was none too large, if the expedition
was to lack that element of opéra bouffe which he feared
would prove one of its integral parts.
It was characteristic of the adventurer that, little faith as
he had, on calm reflection, in the imperial scheme of Mon-
sieur le petit Lemercier, he threw himself into his work heart
and soul, determined that, should failure come to his em-
ployer, it would be through no fault of his.
He sent to his lodgings for a change of clothes, which was
brought him while breakfasting. When through he took the
first express to Marseilles, having been provided with funds
and authorized to draw upon Lemercier should that become
necessary. -
Once in Marseilles, he set about his work with the sys-
[66]


He Comes upon the Red-headed One
tematic energy of a born organizer and old campaigner; he
knew his ground thoroughly, had full powers to work as a
free agent and to offer liberal inducements, the better to
enlist the finest body of men that could be found either within
or without the borders of the French Republic.
In such case he felt that success was assured from the
start, so far as he personally was concerned; in five days he
had his force complete – chiefly composed of seasoned
VeteranS.
Ex-Spahis from the Soudan were there, and swart Turcos
—lean, brown, lithe, and wiry little fellows, all of them ready
to fight at the drop of a handkerchief; discharged artillery-
men and marines of the republic; and, for leaven, a sprink-
ling of his own countrymen, together with a few adventurous
spirits – mercenaries — of other lands: a villainous-looking
gang, taken as a whole, fearing God norman nor devil, fight-
ers born, every mother's son, ready to fight for the highest
bidder or for the pure love of battle; but, for the most part of
them, brave and loyal to their masters for the time being, to
be depended upon in any emergency.
Thirty-nine were they of the rank and file; over whom, as
his lieutenant, with the rank of captain, he placed one Daniel
Mahone — familiarly known as “Danny”: a red-headed
chunk of an Irish lad, according to O'Rourke's description,
who had been the adventurer's body-servant in days gone by,
when O’Rourke had been more prosperous.
Of late, they had been separated by stress of circumstance,
which had forced Danny to strike out for the wherewithal to
stay his own stomach, since he might no longer depend upon
the bounty of the O'Rourke of Castle O'Rourke (under the
very shadow of whose walls Danny had been born and
brought up).
[67]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Red-headed he certainly was, this Danny, according to all
accounts, and hot-headed, too; but cool and temperate in his
element, which was time of danger, and no man ever served
a master more loyally and devotedly than Danny had served
and was destined to serve O’Rourke.
The adventurer had come upon him wandering disconso-
lately about on the docks of Marseilles, looking – and, it
appeared, with ill success — for a berth on a Mediterranean
coaster. And the lure of gold had been no more potent than
the lure of devotion which brought him back into O'Rourke's
service. The master took occasion quietly to congratulate
himself upon the acquisition of this invaluable man; nor was
his joy premature.
In small batches, the better to excite no comment, the mer-
cenaries of the proposed “standing army” were shipped to
Las Palmas, with instructions to await their commander in
that town. O’Rourke trusted to the moral influence of
Danny's temper and ready fists to keep the rabble in order
and moderately sober until the time when he himself should
go to Las Palmas to take charge, or until the coming of the
Eirene, le petit Lemercier's colossal private steam yacht.
Upon this vessel, whereon were expected Lemercier, Grand-
lieu, Mouchon, and D'Ervy, O’Rourke's mercenaries were to
embark for Cape Juby and the Wadi Saglat el Hamra, in the
neighborhood of which was the rumored oasis that was to
form the site of the future capital of the Saharan Empire.
About the first of June the last of his men were despatched
to Las Palmas; a day or so later O’Rourke followed them,
per packet.
He arrived at the Puerto de la Luz on a simmering night,
and at once had himself conveyed to the city of Las Palmas
itself.
[68]


CHAPTER IX
HE DEMONSTRATES THE USES OF DISCIPLINE
BY night Las Palmas much resembles almost any other
Spanish colonial city in a semi-tropical land; select at random
a city of equal size from any of the Spanish-American coun-
tries, transplant it bodily to an island of volcanic origin and
with sparse vegetation, and you have Las Palmas of the Gran
Canaria.
There is the inevitable plaza, with its despondent garden
and its iron railings; there is the inevitable palatial residence
of the governor; there are the cafés and restaurants, the munic-
ipal band that executes by night, the señoritas with their
immense, fanlike tortoise-shell combs and their mantillas,
the señors adorned in white ducks and cigarettes, the heat,
the languor, the spirit of mafiana and dolce jar niente.
The nights are long, warm and sticky, and sickly sweet; the
darkness is so soft and so thick as to seem well-nigh palpable;
the sky hangs low, and velvety, sewn thick with huge stars.
It was on such a night that O'Rourke arrived. On the
way to his hotel he kept his eyes open for members of his
corps, but saw none of them.
He was disturbed; Las Palmas is not a metropolis so great
that forty fighting men can be set down within its boundaries
without creating comment.
Nor is it so puritanical in atmosphere that forty fighting
men with graduated thirsts and eruptive dispositions are like
to become childlike once under its influence — to content
[69 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
them with a diet of cow's milk and crackers, to sleep and
spend their days in the ordinary processes of tourist sight-
seeing.
O'Rourke knew his men well — that was why he had
chosen them; with him at their head he had little fear of
trouble, for he was wont to command with a firm hand, and
they were accustomed to be commanded by him or by men of
his resolute stamp.
But, with Danny alone to keep them in order – Danny
himself of a nature none too pacific, and, as they would be
bound to consider, merely by chance of favoritism their su-
perior officer – O'Rourke was by no means satisfied that his
lambs were being safely shepherded.
Nor was he uneasy without reason.
His carriage rolled through the winding, darksome streets
— strangely quiet, thought the perturbed Irishman — swiftly
from the boat landing to the Grand Hotel. O'Rourke leaned
back in the seat, alertly on the lookout, chewing a cold cigar.
But not a sound nor a sight of his command could he dis-
cover; he swore softly, bit the cigar in two in his agitation,
threw it away, and set his lips in a firm line.
He realized that his work now lay to his hand; and he was
promising himself that, should Danny have failed dismally,
there would be a new second in command before another sun
had time to rise.
The Eirene was due to make port about the following noon,
if the schedule of le petit Lemercier went through without
change; by that hour, if O’Rourke was to demonstrate his
fitness for his position, peace must obtain among the mer-
cenaries, a united, complete and lamblike corps must be ready
to salute its employer.
He alighted from the carriage, in front of the hotel, paid
[7o]


He Demonstrates the Uses of Discipline
the driver, surrendered his light luggage to the attendants,
and turned to look out over the plaza. Now, the plaza itself
was lively enough; the band was playing an explosive Spanish
national air; the lights were blazing in the cafés and before
the residence of the governor; the crowds were parading,
Smoking, laughing, chattering, flirting – the walks thronged
with the volatile, light-hearted inhabitants taking their con-
stitutionals in the only cool hours of the day.
From the middle of the plaza two men emerged, arm and
arm, strolling toward the hotel; two men in the ragged uni-
forms of Turcos, respectably amusing themselves and —
O'Rourke thanked high Heaven – sober!
He waited for them; they approached slowly, suddenly
became aware of the military figure of their commander,
dropped their arms, stood at attention and saluted.
O'Rourke returned the salute.
“Bon jour, mes braves!” he greeted them, endeavoring to
show no trace of his worriment. “Where are ye quartered?”
They indicated a side street.
“Your captain?” he inquired.
There was silence for an answer; the two Turcos glanced
uneasily from their commander to one another, and hung
their heads.
O'Rourke briefly repeated his question. One of the Tur-
cos stepped forward, saluted again, and reported with a mili-
tary brevity which won O’Rourke's approval, if the tidings
he heard were ill.
The two, they asserted, were of the last party to arrive at
Las Palmas; they therefore spoke on hearsay knowledge, for
the most part. Among the first ten men, whom Danny had
accompanied, peace and good feeling had obtained until the
arrival of the second detachment of fifteen. The twenty-five
[71]


He Demonstrates the Uses of Discipline
ing a fight in times of peace. They licked their lips remi-
niscently, as men who remember a favorite dish.
Fortunately, the day had been for the lawful; one by one at
first, later by twos and threes, finally by squads, the legion-
aries had been overcome, even to the thirty-fifth man, and
kicked into the carcel.
“But Mahone?” demanded O’Rourke.
It was terrible, the Turcos admitted, but by grave misfor-
tune the attire of the Captain Mahone had become disordered
in the mêlée, the police had been unwilling to discriminate
between him and his soldiers, saying that one so disreputable
in appearance deserved imprisonment at the least, on general
principles. For two days the captain had been disciplining
his troops in the carcel.
O'Rourke laughed, his heart suddenly lightened. They
were by now sober, in such case; and Danny had undoubtedly
succeeded in reducing them to submissiveness. On the mor-
row O'Rourke would go to the governor, pay their fines and
procure their releases.
He tipped the Turcos liberally, ordered them to report to
him in the morning, and went to bed with a lightened heart,
to sleep soundly the night through, and wake with his cam-
paign planned to his satisfaction.
During his breakfast a man entered the dining-room of
the hotel, walked directly to his table and tapped O'Rourke
on the shoulder. The Irishman looked up in surprise, then
jumped to his feet. It was Chambret.
“You here, monsieur?” cried O'Rourke.
“Precisely, monsieur — as a colonist.”
“Sit down and join me,” the Irishman invited him.
“Thank you, but I have just breakfasted on the yacht.”
“The yacht?”
[73]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“The Eirene, monsieur.”
Chambret took a chair and seated himself, smiling pleas-
antly because of O’Rourke's bewilderment.
“I do not understand,” admitted the latter. “The Eirene?
A colonist? But I thought ye –”
“That I was at odds with the little emperor, monsieur?
That I disapproved of his enterprise?” Chambret's mood
was of the most friendly, judging from his expression — and
that notwithstanding the peculiar circumstances attendant
upon the last encounter of the two.
“There you are right, monsieur,” he went on. “It’s folly
— madness. The scheme will never succeed; it spells “Ruin’
for Monsieur Lemercier. Nevertheless—”. He hesitated.
“Proceed, if ye please,” begged the Irishman, striving to
conceal his astonishment, and entirely unable to understand
this move of Chambret's.
“Nevertheless, upon reflection I have been led to change
my mind. You behold in me, Monsieur O’Rourke, the first
colonist of l'Empire du Sahara!”
O'Rourke put down his knife and fork, tipped back in his
chair, and accepted the cigar which the Frenchman offered
him.
“Chambret,” he said slowly, “I’m playing a lone hand in
this game. I hardly know what is trumps. Ye know the
sole consideration that induced me to draw cards? No?
I'll tell ye candidly. 'Tis just what I believe is keeping ye
in the affair: the desire to serve Madame la Princesse. So
far as meself can judge from the backs of your cards and
the way ye play them, that is your motive, also.”
He fixed his gaze upon the eyes of the other, which met his
regard unflinchingly. “Listen, mine enemy. We have had
our differences, ye and I. Let them pass, for the time being;
[74]


He Demonstrates the Uses of Discipline
at the end of this affair we’ll balance accounts; I’m thinking
that 'tis me own turn now to demand satisfaction, and I'll
claim it when the time comes.” -
“Monsieur will find me ready,” interjected Chambret,
with composure.
“Very good; but — let it pass, as I’ve said. At present we
two have a mutual object in view, a common quarrel. Let
us combine forces. Let us play partners against the pack of
'em. Show me your cards, and I’ll show ye mine.”
Chambret's answer was instantaneous: a hand proffered
O’Rourke.
“The proposition,” he said warmly, “would have come
from me had it not come from you, monsieur. It was de-
cided upon between madame and myself en voyage.”
“What!” O’Rourke colored. “Madame –?”
Chambret laughed lightly. “One moment, monsieur –
I begin at the beginning of my account. In the first place,
Madame la Princesse has full confidence in you, monsieur,
as, you will permit me to add, have I. Nevertheless, it has
seemed advisable to us both that you should have reinforce-
ments – backing, I think you term it.”
“”Tis that I need,” assented O’Rourke.
“For this consideration I went to madame's brother, Leo-
pold, feigned interest in his plans, and offered myself as his
first colonist. He was overjoyed — received me with open
arms. At the same time, madame decided to accompany
Monsieur le Prince, her husband, upon his journey — and
insisted, despite his pronounced opposition. This morning,
the Eirene, bearing us all, made this port. The situation,
monsieur, is this: Prince Felix conspires for the death — I
speak bluntly – of his brother-in-law. The reason is
simple: madame is her brother's heir; Felix already has run
[75]


He Demonstrates the Uses of Discipline
ment house. Chambret, troubled by his companion's reti-
cence in this time of confidences, put a hand upon his arm.
“But, monsieur,” he objected, “this is not reciprocation
of my frankness?”
“In half an hour,” promised O'Rourke, “then ye shall un-
derstand me.”
He begged an audience with the governor, stating his busi-
ness; under the circumstances that harassed official delayed
not a moment in according the honor, despite the unholy
earliness of the hour for the transaction of business — ac-
cording to Spanish notions. It was soon settled; upon
O'Rourke giving his word of honor that he would imme-
diately take the thirty-five mercenaries out of the island, he
was permitted to pay their fines and received an order on the
jailer of the carcel for their immediate delivery.
Still, accompanied by Chambret and followed by the Tur-
cos and Spahis, he proceeded to the carcel itself — a gloomy,
shedlike structure, more resembling a pig-pen than a munic-
ipal prison in a civilized age.
Their arrival was timed at a critical moment — for the
jailer; breakfast, or what passed for it, was being distributed
to the prisoners; when still blocks away the ears of O’Rourke
and his party were assailed with an indescribable chorus of
shrieks, oaths, growlings, and grunts that proclaimed the
supreme joy of the incarcerated at the sight of food — or,
possibly, other emotions that had been roused by the quality
of the meal.
“Me angels,” indicated O’Rourke, with a smile.
“Certainly their singing is heavenly,” agreed Chambret.
Admitted by the jailer — a surly, low-browed Spaniard,
who gave sincere thanks to the entire body celestial for this
opportune blessing - they passed into the building. Its
[77]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
center — for it was but an enclosure, open to the sky save
around the walls, where a partial roofing served as protection
from the elements — they found occupied by a swirling,
seething mass of men, from whose throats proceeded the
unearthly concert. It was surrounded by a dense cloud of
dust; and from its midst there proceeded a veritable eruption
of fists, fragments of torn clothing, hats and bones.
Slightly in advance of his companions, O'Rourke halted,
his presence for the time being unremarked of the combat-
ants. He watched them in silence for a little while, his lips
curving into a grim smile.
Finally, however, raising his walking-stick — a slim wand
– he opened his mouth, and let out a stentorian command:
“Fall in /”
In the excitement it went unheeded. Again he called,
and again:
“Fall in 1 Fall in 1”
Gradually his voice carried meaning to the intelligence of
the rabble. One turned, saw the motionless, commanding
figure of the newcomer; he shrieked the news to his com-
rades. Others observed. By degrees the tumult died.
At the third command they were quiet, with one accord
turning to gape at this rash intruder. Suddenly he was recog-
nized; at the fourth command the trained soldiers sprang to
their places as if electrified — one long line of thirty-nine
figures stretching across the patio.
“Attention!” roared O'Rourke angrily. “Silence in the
ranks!”
There was not a whisper to be heard, where had been the
uproar of a chaos.
“Captain Mahone?” he demanded.
From around the end of the line appeared the shape of a
[78]


He Demonstrates the Uses of Discipline
man whom O'Rourke entirely failed to recognize at first
glance. Presently he placed him. Danny, but Danny well-
nigh disintegrated — a Danny clothed in rags and tatters,
with two black eyes and a face swollen and misshapen from
cuts and bruises. One of his arms hung in a sling; the other
he raised to salute.
“Yer honor!” he responded, out of one side of his mouth.
“Be silent!” cried O’Rourke. He walked down the line,
sternly examining each man as he passed. They remained
stiffly at attention, eyes to the front — soldiers all in the
presence of their commander.
O'Rourke returned to the center of the line.
“Danny,” he inquired, “how did this come about?”
“Yer honor — faith! Gineral O’Rourke, I mane – ’tis
the forchunes av war-r, sor. Wan av the prisoners had a
wad av money, sor, an’ wid this an’ wid that trick ’twas him-
self that conthrived to get liquor smuggled into th’ place ivery
noight. As f’r meself, sor, I’ve been thryin’ to lick thim into
shape for yez. Some av them. I’ve licked twice over, but it
does no good, sor.”
“That will do. Who is this wealthy volunteer?”
There was a moment's silence, a hesitation; then slowly a
man slouched forward, saluting carelessly. O'Rourke
watched him like a cat, his brows contracting.
“Your name?” he asked sharply.
“Soly,” responded the fellow insolently.
O'Rourke took thought.
“If I mistake not,” he said, “ye came to me in Marseilles
with a letter of recommendation from Monsieur le Prince
de Grandlieu.”
“Monsieur is correct in his surmise.”
“Where did ye serve last?”
[79 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“In Algiers.”
“In the camel corps?”
4 & Yes.”
“A sans souci?” thundered O'Rourke, naming that branch
of the French service to which criminals and deserters are
condemned.
“What Of that?”
O'Rourke made no verbal reply. He approached the
man, dropping his cane; the fellow must have anticipated
what was coming, for he sprang suddenly at O'Rourke,
flourishing a knife.
Before he realized what had happened, he was on his back,
his wrist held as though in a vise; the knife was wrested
from him, and pocketed by O'Rourke.
“Get up!” commanded the Irishman.
The malcontent arose, mumbling guttural threats, brush-
ing the filth of the prison from his clothes. When erect a
clenched fist caught him in the mouth, knocking him flat;
he arose again, was bowled over again. Finally:
“Are ye satisfied, canaille” snarled O'Rourke.
The man drew himself up, saluted.
“Oui, mon commandant l” he said clearly.
O'Rourke turned to the motionless line; not one man had
moved to the aid of his comrade.
“Are there any more of ye, mes enjants,” he inquired,
sweetly, “who desire to taste of me discipline?”
The answer was an unanimous shout.
“Non, monsieur le commandant l”
“Ye are ready to follow me, at me command?”
The shout swelled to a roar.
“To the death, monsieur!”
“Very well. Captain Mahone, form your men in fours,
[80]


He Demonstrates the Uses of Discipline
and march them to the landing. Let no man dare to fall out
on the way!”
Danny wheeled about, raised his hand and issued the
command. In ten ranks of four men each, the lines tramped
out of the prison. O'Rourke watched in grim quiet, his
eyes testifying to his satisfaction as to the qualities of his
“Children.”
“Spirited, ye see,” he told Chambret, as they left. “Those,
monsieur, are me cards!” he added. -
The Frenchman nodded. “You play with a full hand,
monsieur,” he said; “thirty-nine cards — all trumps!”
[81 |


CHAPTER X
- HE TAKES COMMAND
IN the northwest a drift of inky smoke trailed just above
the horizon; otherwise there was no sign of man nor of life on
the sea, save for the Eirene, fighting forward on her way
thrilling with the vibration of the screws, panting hoarsely,
ramming her keen nose into the sullen, strong swells.
On her decks men clustered like flies wherever a bit of
shade was to be had; but men motionless, staring ahead with
straining eyes, reluctant to lift a finger – crushed by the
oppression of the heat.
Where the sun struck the pitch bubbled in the planks; iron
stays and brass fittings were so hot that they blistered the
hand that incautiously touched them. The man at the wheel
dripped, bathed in perspiration, his thin shirt and light duck
trousers sodden with moisture, his face a dull, reddish purple
in color. By his side an officer languished, opening his
mouth regretfully to deliver low-voiced orders. Everyone,
man and master, was sunk deep in a daze of suffering caused
by the heat. -
Madame la Princesse kept to her stateroom; Mouchon,
D'Ervy, the prince, and Chambret lounged listless in the
main saloon, hugging the windows for a breath of air; in the
chartroom le petit Lemercier hung over the table, his eyes
glued in fascination upon a map of the adjacent littoral. The
captain leaned over his shoulder, poising a pair of compasses
to indicate a particular spot on the map.
[82 |


He Takes Command
“If your information is correct, monsieur,” he said, “here
is the oasis. Here should be the mouth of the Wadi Saglat
— and here is the Eirene.” •
“So near?” breathed the visionary. “So near?”
“In two hours, monsieur, we make the coast.”
“Yes —yes,” responded Lemercier, devouring the map
— his future empire! — with his gaze.
Some minutes passed, the captain waiting with his head to
one side, his eyes narrowed, as a man that harkens for an
expected sound. Presently he was rewarded; the ship
seemed to spring to sudden life. There was a commotion
upon the decks, the sounds of excited voices crying, “There!
there!” to one another; and then the voice of the lookout:
“Land ho!”
Le petit Lemercier wheeled about with a strangled cry of
expectation, and rushed from the chartroom, the captain
following.
In the saloon, Chambret arose, startled for the moment.
“Cape Juby at last, messieurs!” he cried.
Monsieur le Prince turned upon him a cold, malicious eye.
“Monsieur is excitable,” he observed, sneering offensively.
Chambret fought down his resentment of the personality;
he had agreed with O’Rourke not to permit the prince to
quarrel with him, as yet.
“Possibly,” he admitted at last, placidly. “I go on deck
to observe the fringe of the new empire,” he added.
Prince Felix yawned and stretched himself.
“Monsieur is at liberty to go whither he lists,” he remarked,
with the same air of insolence.
“Without obtaining permission from Monsieur le Prince?”
inquired Chambret respectfully. “For that, many thanks.”
He met Prince Felix's gaze with one so steadfast that the
[83]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
roué-duelist drooped his lashes; whereupon Chambret, with a
short laugh, went on deck.
As he emerged from the companionway he met O’Rourke,
walking forward.
The Irishman was dressed for his coming part; there would
be an immediate landing, as all guessed from a knowledge of
the impatient nature of le petit Lemercier, and O’Rourke
would be expected to head the army of occupation. He was,
therefore, attired in khaki, with a pith helmet and puttees
of the same dust-colored material; on his shoulders were the
straps bearing the insignia of his rank, and by his side a light
sword; a leathern holster hung at his belt, holding a revolver
of respectable size.
Thus attired he looked uncommonly comfortable and even
at peace with the heat; the light green lining of his helmet
threw over his brow a pale, cool tint that added to the general
effect, and aroused Chambret's humorously expressed jeal-
Ousy.
“If monsieur will consent to become an officer of the army,”
retorted the Irishman, “he may wear one of these beautiful
uniforms.”
“It is gay and tempting,” admitted Chambret. “Does
your offer include the accouterments?” he added, glancing at
the revolver.
“All,” returned the Irishman imperturbably.
“I’ve a great mind to accept,” said Chambret. “I desire to
wear one of those pretty popguns that you affect, monsieur.”
“It would adorn ye.”
“And add immeasurably to my peace of mind.”
O'Rourke raised his brows in inquiry. “Monsieur le
Prince?” he asked, in a low tone, nodding significantly
toward the companionway.
[84]


He Takes Command
“More offensive than ever,” said Chambret. “How you
manage to endure his insinuative insults is more that I can
comprehend in you, monsieur, whom I know for a man of
spirit.”
“Thank you; ’tis meself that's all of that,” agreed O’Rourke
readily. “But for the present I’m cold-bloodedly biding me
time. 'Tis sure to come.”
4 & And —”
“And from the moment Monsieur le Prince attempts any
funny business ashore, Chambret, he will begin to lose pres-
tige. In fact,” he drawled, “I think I may state that he will
be the most astonished princeling that ever journeyed to
Africa.”
“I do not comprehend —”
“Wait – wait, mon ami.”
Laughing confidently, O'Rourke went forward, accom-
panied by Chambret.
Lemercier was hanging over the bows, the captain by his
side; O’Rourke drew Chambret's attention to him.
“Drunk with imperial glory,” he commented; “a sad sight!”
He entered the wheel house familiarly, and returned at
once with a pair of binoculars. Chambret had already
climbed to the bridge; O'Rourke joined him, adjusted the
glasses, and began to sweep the nearing coast line with a
painstaking attention.
Time and again he scanned its visible configuration with
the glasses; at length, sighing as though with relief, he turned
them over to Chambret. The latter, who had marked
O'Rourke's intent scrutiny with wonder, focussed the binocu-
lars to his own eyes eagerly, and imitated his companion’s
use of them. When he put them down, “There is nothing?”
he said inquiringly.
[85]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Nothing,” affirmed O’Rourke, “save sand and heat and
silence, so far as one can tell. Praises be to the saints if it
is so in truth!” he added piously.
“What do you mean, monsieur? What did you fear to
encounter in this uninhabitable desert?”
“Tawareks,” answered O'Rourke briefly.
“Tawareks? What be they, monsieur — bird or beast,
or — ?”
“Devils,” the Irishman indicated sententiously; “devils
in human guise, me dear Chambret.”
The Frenchman frowned, perplexed.
“I do not comprehend.”
“Ye’ve never heard of the Tawareks, monsieur? ‘The
masked pirates of the desert, as your press terms them? The
natives that made ye more trouble in the Soudan – around
about Timbuctu — than any others?”
Chambret shook his head doubtfully. “I remember hear-
ing of the fighting thereabouts,” he admitted; “but, believe
me, monsieur, to me the name of one tribe of blacks means
no more than that of another.”
“Tawareks,” O’Rourke objected, “are no niggers. They
are the lords of the desert — inhabitants of the Sahara proper
— a branch of the Berbers: perhaps the root-stock of the
Berber family tree–for they’re almost white. They infest the
caravan routes; in a word, they’re pirates, and rule the country
with a rod of iron. Not a caravan gets safely through their
territory without paying tribute in the shape of toll money
to the Tawareks. They are — divvles incarnate, no less!”
“And you fear them here, monsieur?”
“Much. Why else should I have insisted on a force of
forty fighting men, rather than the original ten which Mon-
sieur le Prince suggested?”
[86]


He Takes Command
Chambret pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders.
“I will join your army, monsieur,” he volunteered pres-
ently, “and wear one of your pretty uniforms – and the
revolver.”
“Ye will be welcome,” said O'Rourke simply, again as-
suming the glasses. After a second reassuring inspection he
nevertheless called Danny and issued to him orders concern-
ing the arms and ammunition of the troopers.
The Eirene plowed on toward the coast; gradually it
loomed before her bows until its outlines were easily to be
discerned with the unaided eye – a long, low border of shelv-
ing beach that was tossed back from the sea in yellow sand
hills, irregular, studded with clumps of stunted grass: hills
that stretched away inland to the eastern horizon in a broken
perspective of rounded forms, sweltering beneath the sky of
brass and its unblinking sun, lonely, desolate and barren — a
monstrous bald place upon the poll of the earth. Not a sign
of life was there; naught but sand and silence and the sun.
Its effect of solitude seemed overpowering. Not even a bird
of prey hung poised in the saffron sky; for here was nought
to prey upon.
Those of the ship's company who were to land — that is,
all save the complement of the yacht — watched the scene
unceasingly, and with increasing perturbation. Surely, they
said one to another, it was inconceivable that man could win
him a foothold in this place of barrenness. They turned
their eyes to le petit Lemercier, some of the more outspoken
grumbling, fomenting mutiny among their fellows. Was he
to take them there, to pen them in the solitude of that land
without shade or water? Did he dream of this?
Even Lemercier himself was disturbed; the rosy visions that
had been his, faded. For an instant he was perilously near
[87]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
to disillusionment, near to turning back and abandoning his
project.
This land loomed so different from what he had been led to
expect, from the empire in embryo his wishful imagination
had pictured to him. Had he been deceived — or had he
been merely self-deceived? Should he persist? Would his
plans bear fruit?
Thus he vacillated; and would probably have acknowledged
defeat ere giving battle with this wilderness but for Monsieur
le Prince de Grandlieu.
Instinctively, the latter had dreaded the effect of Lemer-
cier's first sight of the land he had come to conquer. Now
he was ever at his dupe's elbow, an evil genius whispering
encouragement in his ear.
“Irrigation! Ah, but wait, mon ami, and observe what
irrigation shall accomplish here! The oasis? We have been
misled; our information was erroneous. Beyond doubt it
exists, either here or hereabouts. The makers of maps are
prone to mistakes. Let us go on, down the coast —” and
so forth.
Lemercier's mood changed under the stimulus of his men-
tor's encouraging words. His brow cleared; he straightened
his slight form, throwing back his shoulders proudly, frown-
ing at the desert.
He had come to fight it. So – he would fight it! And
he would conquer it, — conquer or die in the attempt.
By his order, for hours the Eirene shaped her course south-
wards, down the coast. By degrees almost imperceptible,
the latter changed in aspect; the dunes became higher, more
solid appearing to the eye, the lay of the country more rough
and rugged.
At about four o’clock in the afternoon the yacht rounded a
[88]


He Takes Command
point, to come suddenly upon what seemed to be, at first
glance, a broad bay and a natural harbor.
The captain of the vessel was the first to discover its true
nature; after a hasty inspection of the chart, he announced:
“The mouth of the Wadi Saglat.”
“A river!” cried Lemercier triumphantly.
“A dead river,” amended the captain; “its mouth forms
an estuary of a kind. There should be anchorage here.”
“But the Oasis?”
At this moment Prince Felix entered the chartroom.
“The lookout,” he said, “reports a large clump of trees a
considerable distance inland.”
Lemercier danced with excitement, shrilling out orders;
Monsieur le Prince watched him with an amusement tem-
pered with disdain — which, however, he took care to hide.
When the ship was brought to a stop within the mouth of
the Wadi, the anchor was dropped and the surmise of the
captain proved correct; a good holding was there.
Boats were lowered, and the troops piled into them,
Monsieur le petit Lemercier in the foremost, standing at the
prow with the pose of the heroic leader of an invading army,
a pith helmet in his hand, his hair, the color of tow, tossed
back in strings from his narrow forehead, his head high, eyes
fixed, lips mechanically smiling — an object, in short, of deri-
sion to the more light-minded members of his expedition, of
pity to all.
O'Rourke followed, in the second boat, with a portion of
his command. He was the second to step ashore, and at that
opportunely to catch the arm of the impetuous Lemercier
and save him a fall in the sands.
For this Frenchman who would be emperor, in his over-
whelming desire to set foot upon the lands he designed for
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
empire, was over-hasty in jumping ashore. He slipped,
stumbled, plunged forward with wildly grasping hands.
“An omen!” he whimpered, turning toward O’Rourke,
when by his aid he had regained balance. His coun-
tenance had lost its proud smile; he seemed a very child
to O'Rourke – a child frightened by the darkness or by an
old woman's tale. His lip trembled, his eyes were filled with
dread as with tears; he quivered with a sort of terror.
“An omen!” he repeated piteously. “An inauspicious
Omen l”
“Nonsense!” derided O’Rourke, moved by sudden com-
passion for the child. “Monsieur stumbled, it is true: the
way to empire is not smooth. But he did not fall; he stands
firmly on his feet. . . . I would ask monsieur not to forget by
whose hand,” he added, with meaning, yet laughing.
Lemercier brightened.
“I shall not forget, mon ami,” he promised.
“The memory of monarchs is short,” O’Rourke reminded
himself, lest the promise should make him over-sanguine of
the future.
Other boats followed, discharging their occupants, and
returned to the Eirene for more; within a short time the
toiling sailors at the oars had landed the expedition in its
entirety.
So far there had been no demonstration.
Now Lemercier stood surrounded by his associates and
friends – by no means to be confused. On the one hand,
were Madame la Princesse — charming, beautiful, and dis-
tinguished, and utterly out of place in her Parisian summer
gown – with O'Rourke and Chambret; on the other, Prince
Felix, D'Ervy, Mouchon; and behind them all, in double
rank, the forty troops commanded by Danny – all now neat
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He Takes Command
and soldierly of appearance in khaki uniforms, all armed with
Mausers, bayonets, revolvers.
Mouchon, bearing the jacketed standard of the new em-
pire, offered it to Lemercier, judging that the time was ripe.
Le petit Lemercier, however, was of a different mind.
“Not here,” he decided: “not upon the seashore; I am not
inclined to imitate King Canute. Let us go inland — to the
oasis.”
And the procession moved off, plodding desperately in the
hollows of the dunes, guided by men who climbed the hills to
report the way.
But it seemed that it was farther than their leader had
calculated; he himself grew weary of the tiresome journey,
and when O’Rourke moved up to his side, and suggested
that it would be impossible to reach the oasis before dark, he
halted immediately.
“Mouchon!” he called. “Give me the flag. At least it
shall be unfurled in the sun’s rays.”
They stood in the center of a natural depression, something
like a square half mile in area, almost level, bounded by silent
and forbidding hills of sand.
Again the little company arranged itself in anticipation of
the ceremony. Lemercier took the standard and unwrapped
its waterproof covering. He stepped to the fore of the as-
semblage, raising his shrill, nasal voice.
“In the name of the progress of God’s civilization,” he
announced, “I, Leopold, do declare this country mine by
the right of discovery; and I name it the Empire of the
Sahara!”
There was a moment's silence; Leopold had been schooled
to his part. He sank upon one knee and bowed his head,
appearing to invite the blessing of the Deity upon his empire.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Then, abruptly, as though moved by springs, he leapt to his
feet and unfurled the standard.
It fluttered, in the breeze created by his own rapid motions,
from side to side – a purple flag, fringed with gold, with three
golden bees embroidered upon it in a triangular arrangement,
in the center of which was the Emperor's initial – “L.”
The last crimson rays of the dying sun lit it up brightly.
From the group about the emperor a feeble cheer arose;
then Danny rose to the occasion.
“Cheer, ye tarriers!” he growled in an undertone, raising
his sword aloft and waving it. “Yelp, ye scuts, as though ye
believed in him yerselves! Prisint ar-rms!” he roared.
“Now, byes, wan, two, three —”
The soldiery, grinning, filled the little valley with their
shouts.
“Vive l'Empereur !”
“Again!”
“Vive l'Empereur !”
“Wance again, la-ads! Now —”
For a third time they gave le petit Lemercier a crashing
cheer; it thundered from their throats and — was lost. That
silence which lay upon the hills, lifeless, dull, empty even of
echoes, fell upon and crushed the uproar to nothingness.
But, for all that, the noise, the spirit of the words cried in
his name, was meat and drink to le petit Lemercier, and a joy
to the soul of him. He raised his head, regally, smiling,
and began a speech.
“Messieurs!” he cried pompously. “I —” His voice
died to a whisper in his throat; his flush paled; he collapsed
suddenly from the statue of an emperor to that of a frightened
child. “General O’Rourke –” he faltered, with a fright-
ened gesture.
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He Takes Command
The eyes of the company followed the direction of his gaze.
Abruptly, noiselessly, the summits of the surrounding hills
had become peopled; out of the wilderness its men had
sprung to look upon this man who dared declare himself
their ruler.
O'Rourke cast his eyes about the whole circumference of
the little valley; on every hilltop he saw men, seated silently
upon the back of camels, watching, it seemed, sardonically
the trumpery show beneath them: men of giant figures and of
lordly bearing, clothed for the most part in flowing white
burnooses, with headdresses of white. Each bore upon his
hip, as a cavalryman carries his carbine, a long rifle; and each
was masked with black below his eyes.
For a full minute the tableau held: the forlorn little com-
pany in the valley, motionless with astonishment, transfixed
with a chill of fear; the spectators upon the dunes, gazing
grimly down – quiet and sinister, bulking against the dark-
ling sky like some portentous army of ghosts.
O’Rourke was the first to recover; he realized that the time
was brief for that which must be accomplished. Already the
sun was down; there would be a few fleeting moments of twi-
light, then the sudden, swooping desert night.
“Tawareks!” he shouted. “The masked Tawareks!
Men, form a square! Danny, run back and see if the way to
the boats be clear; if not, we'll have to fight through them!”
He turned to his princess. “Madame,” he said gently,
“there will be but one place for ye – the center of the square.
We fight for our lives now, and against odds!”
And he drew his breath sharply, mindful of the two long
miles that lay between them and the boats.
[93]


CHAPTER XI
HE SAVES THAT WHICH HE LOVES THE BEST
IN an instant the little valley was the scene of confusion;
for a frantic moment men were running hither and thither,
apparently aimlessly, weaving in and out amongst their com-
rades — shouting, screaming, cursing aloud.
Danny, obedient to the order of O’Rourke, shouted to his
men, commanding them to form a square similar to that used
by British infantry when repelling attacks.
In the center of the square would be placed all those who
might be counted upon to act as non-combatants in event of
a possible mêlée between the landing party and the rightful
lords of the desert — the Tawareks. These would be, prob-
ably, Madame la Princesse de Grandlieu, her husband, Prince
Felix, together with Mouchon and D'Ervy and Monsieur
Lemercier himself – Leopold the First, Emperor of the
Sahara.
O'Rourke seized the arm of the princess, near to whom he
had been standing, in a grasp whose roughness might only
be condoned in view of his anxiety to get her quickly to the
place of most safety. She did not resist; she did not even
seem to resent his action. In her eyes, upturned to his,
O'Rourke caught a look — even in that moment of terror
and confusion — which he never forgot, which he was to
treasure jealously for the rest of his days — a look of con-
fidence, commingled (he dared hope) with an emotion deeper,
stronger. In the deepening twilight they shone like clear,
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
getting the command in a state of defense against the ex-
pected attack; now he turned his eyes to the enemy. Among
them there was noticeable no confusion, no trace of excite-
ment; still they sat motionless atop their camels, gazing stead-
fastly down into the gathering shadows of the valley, where
the intruders were running frantically to and fro, making
much unseemly noise.
Still the lords of the desert sat stolid and imperturbable,
ranged about the summits of the surrounding dunes, un-
awed by the hostile preparations, awe-inspiring in their im-
passivity, their light-hued burnooses looming against the cool
violet sky line, themselves as imperturbable as so many car-
rion birds waiting for their prey to die ere descending upon
the tempting carcasses.
In the valley the little company was watching them breath-
lessly. O’Rourke grasped at a flying hope that their intent
might be, after all, pacific; it brought a sigh of anticipated
relief to his throat.
Hurriedly he unswung his field glasses and turned them
toward the rear — in the direction from which the landing
party had come. They covered the figure of Danny, who
was still bravely running back to see if the way to the boats
were clear.
Already the man had covered more than a quarter of a
mile from the square and was pushing on, regardless of the
danger he neared at every step; for, although it seemed that
the bulk of the Tawareks had massed themselves to the north
and east of the square, with a few to the south, yet two were
waiting upon their camels at no great distance from the de-
pression between two western sandhills by which the party
had entered this valley.
For a moment or two, O’Rourke watched Danny flounder
[96]


He Saves that which he Loves the Best
and struggle forward through the cumbering, loose sand that
clogged his feet.
“I was rattled — a fool to send him!” muttered the Irish-
man remorsefully. “’Wish I might call him back before ’tis
too late! He can tell little in this darkness, and he's running
into almost certain — Ah!”
A rifle's crack rang sharp in the hush; the Tawarek nearest
Danny had fired. His long weapon spat a yard of flame that
showed crimson and gold against the dusk. Danny plunged
forward, falling upon his knees.
From the square rose a cry of horror that changed abruptly
to a yelp of rage from the stricken man’s comrades. They
fingered the triggers of their Mausers nervously, looking to
O’Rourke for an order to fire.
He shook his head, then again put the glasses to his eyes.
“Not yet,” he cried. “There's a chance that we may get
through without bloodshed if we hold our fire!”
“Without bloodshed!” echoed Chambret. “When they’ve
murdered him —”
“He’s not murdered!” declared O’Rourke. “I don’t be-
lieve he's hit, even. See, he's up again!”
This was true. It seemed possible that Danny had stum-
bled and fallen, rather than that he had been shot. He was
even then rising, slowly and with evident effort; and he
turned, looking back irresolutely, as though undecided
whether or not to push on.
O'Rourke raised his voice, shouting with all the strength
of his lungs.
“Come back, Danny!” he roared. “Back!”
Reluctant to retreat in the face of his foes, possibly, the
man continued to hesitate. O'Rourke, in an undertone,
cursed him for his stupidity. He observed that Danny had
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
drawn a revolver and was looking from one to another of the
Tawareks. “The infernal daredivvle!” murmured O'Rourke,
conscious of a slight constriction in his throat. For he loved
the boy as only an Irishman can love a loyal servant.
But he was right; Danny's action, which he had been
prompted to take by the instinct of self-preservation alone,
was folly, being open to misinterpretation by the Tawareks.
One – he who had fired – called aloud to his companion:
an odd, thin, wailing cry, the first that had come from the
impassive natives. It shrilled uncannily in the ears of the
foreigners.
And it produced an immediate effect, sealing the fate of
Danny. The second Tawarek swung his rifle to his shoul-
der, and fired.
Danny staggered and cursed the fellow — the syllables
indistinguishable because of the distance. He seemed to try
to raise his weapon and return the fire, but his arm would not
move from his side. He took a step or two forward, falter-
ing, and then, amid a breathless silence, reeled and fell prone.
O'Rourke was swept off his feet in a gust of rage.
“Fire!” he thundered. “Fire!”
A lean ex-Spahi was the first to respond — a sharpshooter
he had been in the French Army. Hardly had the command
passed O’Rourke's lips than, with his Mauser still at his hip,
this fellow fired.
The rifle snapped venomously, like the crack of a black-
snake whip. The Tawarek who had been the last to fire
lurched in the saddle, dropping his rifle, and slid listlessly for-
ward upon the neck of his camel.
Then night came as a dark mantle cast upon the face of the
earth — night, deep and softly black, the invading party's
worst enemy, since it left them lost in the midst of deso-
[98]


He Saves that which he Loves the Best
late sandhills, without guide or notion as to their where-
abouts.
Bright stars leaped suddenly from the vault of heaven, cast-
ing a pale bluish illumination upon the desert; a cold wind
sprang from nowhere and chilled the foreigners to the bone.
One volley was fired, almost unanimously, upon the heels
of the Spahi's wonderful shot. Had it been as effective as it
seemed to be, things would have been well indeed with the
little party; for when the vapor had cleared the dunes were
bare and lifeless again – the Tawareks had disappeared.
“Forward!” Shouted O’Rourke. “To the boats!”
Upon the word, the command began to move toward the
seashore and the Eirene — or as nearly in that direction as it
might guess. The square formation was preserved, as was
the silence, the men alertly awaiting the expected attack and
with keen eyes searching the dunes for sign or sound of the
enemy.
None appeared, save now and then the red tongue of flame
from the top of a sandhill and the dull report of a rifle; for the
most part the shots were poorly aimed, flying high above the
heads of the foreigners. Nevertheless, they were irritating,
galling to the ready fighters who asked nothing better than a
chance to stand up and shoot and be shot at by an enemy who
dared fight in the open.
“Aim at the flashes!” O’Rourke told them, and this ad-
vice they followed, but with what result they knew not.
For the Tawareks did not cry aloud their hurts, sustained
they any; they fought with deadly purpose and in utter silence,
these men born to and bred in the eternal silence of the desert.
And continually they maintained a fire that seemed to come
from every point of the compass, and minute by minute grew
more acute and galling.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Those primal shots which had whistled harmlessly over the
invaders’ heads were followed by others less inaccurate, as
the Tawareks improved their range of their enemies. Bullets
began to plow up the sand at the toes of the retreating sol-
diers; and one was hit hard and dropped his rifle to stanch
the flow of blood from his chest.
Another screamed shrilly and reeled about, to fall with his
face to the sea – stone dead: a Turco that. A third groaned
at the loss of a finger nipped off by a flying bullet.
By now they were come up with the prostrate figure of
Danny. O'Rourke dropped the command for a moment to
lean over this countryman of his and to feel of his heart; it
was still beating, and the man moaned and stirred beneath
O’Rourke's touch. He called two of the soldiers and bade
them carry their wounded captain to the rear as gently and as
expeditiously as they might; then turned his mind to the prob-
lem at hand.
Rapidly the situation was becoming desperate; two more
men were out of the fighting – one with a bullet through his
brain, another with a shattered forearm. Massed as they
were, they formed a conspicuous mark, a dark blur upon the
starlit sands, a bold target for the Tawareks; while the latter
kept themselves carefully in concealment.
With each second a spurt of fire would belch from a black
clump of sand grass on a hilltop; and never twice from the
same tuft. The foreigners fired valiantly at the flashes; but it
is doubtful if their bullets did more than to disturb the sands.
O'Rourke thought quickly, as quickly came to his deci-
sion. It appeared that their present mode of retreat was
untenable, their pace slow, their eventual escape to the boats
problematical. Meanwhile, Madame la Princesse was in the
gravest danger; the men who shielded her were falling right
[ Iool


He Saves that which he Loves the Best
and left; it was but a question of minutes ere she would no
longer have protection even from their bodies.
“Chambret!” O’Rourke shouted; and the answer of the
Frenchman came clear above the din of the firing:
“Here and safe, monsieur!”
O'Rourke made his way to the Frenchman’s side.
“Take madame and ten men — the nearest ten — and
make for the boats. If ye reach the yacht, send up rockets to
guide us to the coast. We'll stay and hold these devils off to
cover your retreat.”
He turned to find le petit Lemercier at his elbow — a pale,
fear-stricken thing, shaken with tremblings.
“Monsieur,” advised O'Rourke, “it is your duty to us all
to go with madame and Monsieur Chambret.”
“Non, monsieur!” he cried shrilly. “I stay and fight —
here with my men! There is a weapon for me? I fight!”
“Bully for ye!” O’Rourke found time to mutter as he
moved away. “Ye’ve more sand in ye than I thought, me
lad!” The next moment he had mounted a convenient dune
and was directing the retreat. “Scatter!” he told the men
at the top of his voice. “Scatter — ten yards between each
man. Lie down and fire from the hilltops, behind the clumps
of grass. In open order — deploy!”
A cheerful yelp greeted his words; the men obeyed, bur-
rowing into the sands like rabbits. Chambret's contingent
had already started for the rear, swelled in numbers to some
twenty strong, including the wounded, Mouchon, D’Ervy,
and Prince Felix; they made way rapidly, and were unmo-
lested. For the tactics adopted by O’Rourke – quick-
witted soldier that he was, who had been instant to learn his
lesson from the Tawareks and to copy their mode of guerrilla
warfare — had stopped the advance of the natives.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
The foreigners spread out, fanwise, completely covering
the way to the coast. They fired, and now with more effect,
for the Tawareks, recklessly brave, were forced to expose
themselves more or less in order to determine the movements
of their antagonists.
Between shots the invaders would drop back a few yards,
then again seek the convenient shelter of a dune and wait for
the silhouette of a Tawarek turban above the sky line as a
mark for their bullets. The Mausers kept up a continual
chatter, fast and furious as the drum of a machine gun, and
now and then neighbor would call to neighbor a jeering com-
ment that was a delight to the soul of O’Rourke, for it showed
him that he had chosen his men wisely — men who could
laugh in the heat of battle.
He cheered them on himself, with the rifle of one of the
fallen hugged close to his cheek; but now he found he had a
double duty to perform — not alone to command but also to
watch over the new-fledged emperor, by whose side the Irish-
man hung tenaciously.
As for le petit Lemercier, he was proving himself more of a
man than any would have credited him with being; he laughed
hysterically for the most part, it is true; but he kept his Mau-
ser hot and the sands spraying up from the Tawarek’s shelter-
ing dunes. And to him, also, the heart of the Irishman
warmed, as it always did to a ready fighter.
Thus they fought on steadily, as steadily falling back; to
O'Rourke it seemed as though the way were endless, and
more than once he feared that they were going rather inland
than toward the coast; but in the end the hiss and detonation
of a rocket behind him proved that he had not erred in trust-
ing to instinct.
He turned to watch the sputtering arc of sparks that lin-
[102 |


He Saves that which he Loves the Best
gered in the rocket's trail, and saw it flare and spread almost
directly above his head. He cheered aloud, shouting to his
comrades the glad news that they were within appreciable
yards of the shore.
In their turn, they cheered breathlessly; and simultane-
ously the fire of the Tawareks dwindled to a perceptible
extent. A second rocket screamed its way to the skies
and burst aloft with a deafening roar — a wrecking rocket,
that. -
From the Tawareks came their first human utterances —
a chorus of fearful shrieks; they fired no longer. A third
rocket swept inland, exploding in their neighborhood; they
shrieked again, and their fire died out completely.
The battle of the Sandhills was over.
O’Rourke, breathing a blessing upon the saints who had
preserved him, checked the now almost automatic firing of
the fledgling emperor and hurried him back to the beach;
they burst from among the dunes and into sight of the yacht
in company with others of the fighters.
Their fellows arrived momentarily, to throw themselves
down on the wet sands and pant out their exhaustion.
O'Rourke counted them as they came on and estimated a
full roster — that is to say, none had fallen since his adoption
of Tawarek strategy.
Between the yacht and the shore, boats were plying. The
captain of the vessel had waked to his duty, and now rapid-
fire guns coughed, and Gatlings jabbered, sending a storm of
missiles over the heads of those on the beach, to fall far in-
land about the ears of the fleeing natives.
O'Rourke sat him down upon the sands and produced a
cigar, which he trimmed with careful nicety and lit.
“Your majesty,” he told le petit Lemercier, “the Empire
| 103 ]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
of the Sahara has been baptized indeed, this night — and
with blood.”
But his majesty the Emperor Leopold only stared vacantly
at his general. His majesty's eyes looked dull, as though
he were dazed by a swift blow, and his teeth chattered — but
whether from fear or from the biting night wind of the desert,
O'Rourke could not say.
[104]


CHAPTER XII
HE RESPECTS A FLAG OF TRUCE
WITHIN fifteen minutes after the return of O’Rourke to
the beach, all were aboard the Eirene, and over the sandhills
reigned a silence as profound as though they had not been
the scene of a furious skirmish half an hour before.
The commander of the yacht deemed it advisable to keep
up a peppering of the desert with the machine guns at inter-
vals throughout the night, but O'Rourke decided against
this measure.
“Ye'll hear no more of the Tawareks,” he told Lemercier
confidently — “for a while, at least. I rather fancy we’ve
taught them a lesson that they will not be quick to forget.
But the morning will decide that; then we can go ashore and
look over the battle-ground.” He laughed, as a tried sol-
dier might, at his dignifying of the conflict with the name of
battle.
“For the rest of the night,” he continued, “’twill be suffi-
cient to arm the watch and keep them on the lookout. Also,
'twould be advisable to continue the use of the searchlight;
'twill do no manner of harm, and may do good. The rockets
frightened them; the searchlight may keep up the good work.”
“Convey my orders to that effect to the captain,” responded
le petit Lemercier, who had by now recovered from his fright.
“In half an hour, monsieur, I shall expect you to attend a
council of war in the saloon.”
“I’ll be wid yez, your majesty,” promised O’Rourke,
[Io5]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
himself still gay — laughing as a man will, half-intoxicated
with the wine of war. “Faith,” he told himself, “’tis
O'Rourke who is not sorry that he's here!”
But perhaps the light he had seen in the eyes of Madame
la Princesse had somewhat to do with his self-satisfaction.
He saw the captain, and later hurried off to the sick ward
to see primarily what could be done for Danny; afterwards
he was concerned for the other wounded.
Two dead and eight wounded were the casualties which
had been sustained by the little army of occupation. Four
men had been wounded but slightly, among them the man
Soly, whom O’Rourke had disciplined at Las Palmas; a bul-
let had plowed a furrow across his shoulder, which proved
painful, but not serious.
Of the four others, however, one was expected to die — an
ex-Spahi, whose chest had been torn open; one other must
wear his arm in splints, for a time, perforce of a shattered
forearm, and another would have to lie upon his back for
weeks pending the healing of a hole in his lungs.
As for Danny, the poor fellow was unconscious; the shot
of the Tawarek had taken effect in the back of his head, near
the base of his brain — perilously near.
O'Rourke cursed himself for his stupidity, not only in
ordering the man into certain danger, but for another more
serious oversight; he, upon whom had devolved the bulk of
the military preparations, had neglected securing the services
of a surgeon. - -
But, like most veterans, he had some slight knowledge,
himself, of the treatment of wounds and the care of the
wounded; and with the assistance of Chambret — always
willing to do what he termed “his possible” – and of the
yacht's medicine chest, which happened by good chance to
[ 106]


He Respects a Flag of Truce
be well stocked, the Irishman was able to accomplish much
toward alleviating the sufferings of the stricken.
Two of them he relieved of lodged bullets; and concerning
the remainder his mind was at rest with the double exception
of Danny and the man with the torn chest. For them he
knew not what to do; Danny's wound was so close upon the
delicate regions of the brain that he dared not probe for the
bullet; and the other was beyond help.
He told Chambret this, turning a face to the Frenchman
that was lined deep with his mental trouble and with sorrow
for the plight of his countryman.
“In sober truth,” he declared, “I don’t know what the
divvle to do for them. 'Tis meself that's no angel to soothe
their agonies.”
Chambret, who had watched with growing admiration the
Irishman as he moved about attending to the sufferers with a
sympathy that seemed almost womanly and with hands as
soft and gentle as a child’s, smiled sadly, and shook his head.
“You have my sympathy, mon ami,” he assured him; “but
the fatal mistake lay in not bringing a surgeon.”
“Faith, then,” cried O'Rourke, “we'll just have to go for
One!”
“Comment?” demanded Chambret, wondering if O’Rourke
was out of his senses to suggest obtaining a surgeon’s services
in that howling wilderness.
“I say,” repeated O'Rourke, “that these men shall have
proper attention. If Monsieur l'Empereur” – he sneered
slightly — “is to found his empire in the hearts of his ser-
vants he'll be obliged to turn the Eirene back to Las Palmas.”
Chambret whistled.
“I prophesy trouble, monsieur, if that is the advice you will
give his majesty.”
[Io7]


Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Me soul! Trouble? If he denies me, ’tis himself who'll
have all the trouble he desires!”
Again the Frenchman made a sign of dissent.
“It will not be his majesty who will deny you, but —” he
shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“Monsieur le Prince?”
“You have said it, monsieur.”
The Irishman snapped his fingers angrily.
“That for the whelp!” he declared.
“You do not fear him?”
“Fear — him 2 Mon ami, ye do not know me.”
“You are a bold man, monsieur, to think of defying his
highness.”
“I suppose he will think so,” said O'Rourke shortly, pre-
paring to leave the sick bay. “But, come, Monsieur Cham-
bret. Ye attend the conference?”
“If you seriously purpose to advance your proposition,
monsieur, wild horses would not serve to keep me away.”
The Frenchman joined arms with O’Rourke, laughing.
“A bold man!” he repeated. “Bold, indeed, to brave the
displeasure of Monsieur le Prince, Felix de Grandlieu! I
have told you that he is a noted duelist?”
“A noted coward, Chambret!” O’Rourke muttered an
impolite Anglo-Saxon epithet that appealed to him as highly
applicable to the character of Prince Felix. “If he does me
the honor,” he growled, “of calling me out, I'll take all the
pleasure in life in blowing his ugly head off his shoulders.”
Again Chambret laughed.
“Decidedly, monsieur,” he said lightly, “when we come
to settle our affair I must be on my guard!”
“Our affair! I thought ye had forgotten that.”
“Non, monsieur; the blow I can forgive you, now that I
[108]


He Respects a Flag of Truce
know you. But there are other things.” He paused mean-
ingly.
O'Rourke disengaged his arm.
“As to what?” he demanded sharply.
“As to — madame.”
It was O’Rourke's turn to whistle. “Lies the wind that
way, d'ye tell me? There, indeed, have we cause for dis-
agreement, mon ami!”
“All in good time,” returned Chambret patiently; “wait
until this chimera of empire is dissipated. Then, by the
grace of God, I shall balance accounts with monsieur. For
the present, we are — what you say? — partners.”
“Faith, ’tis yourself has a queer way of showing it!”
They were now on deck, walking aft toward the main
saloon. The yacht was as silent as a dream ship, with but
the faintest of lapping under her quarters as she rose and
fell upon the tide. They ceased their conversation, sud-
denly, under the spell of the night's beauty; and that was
supreme, resplendent with the multitude of high, clear, won-
derful stars that cluster above the desert; a black night and
cold — nipping cold as are all nights upon the Sahara.
Upon the shore the long, deliberate surge of the Atlantic
broke monotonously, beating prolonged rolls that merged
with and became a part of the stillness; only the occasional
hiss and splutter of the searchlight in the bows actually dis-
turbed the quiet as its fierce, white, glaring lance wheeled and
veered out over the desert or darted skywards, clearly defined
in the dust-laden air, like a sword of wrath trembling over
the heads of the Tawareks.
Here and there one of the watch leaned idly upon the rail,
his carbine ready to his hand, his eyes fixed undeviatingly
upon the shore line; and presently the two, the Gaul and the
[109]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Celt, united in war and divided in love, came upon le petit
Lemercier himself, standing by the rail, and talking in low
tones with his familiar daemon, Monsieur le Prince.
He looked around and nodded as they approached, con-
tinuing his conversation in a somewhat higher pitch, as a man
will when improvising talk to cover some awkward contre-
temps.
O'Rourke remarked this, and nodded significantly to
Chambret, whose eyes likewise showed his comprehension of
the situation – that Monsieur le Prince had been caught in
the act of poisoning the mind of the emperor against one or
both of the allies.
“Here,” invented the Lemercier, “will be our harbor —
widened and deepened by dredging. Here, also, we will
build long quays of stone and iron out into the ocean, making
it an ideal port for the desert caravans, who shall here bring
their gums, their ivory, their gold and rich stuffs, and here
obtain their supplies, sold them at cost by a paternal govern-
ment.”
“Here, by all means,” echoed the intriguing prince.
“And now, messieurs,” continued the emperor, turning,
“to our conference, since you are ready.”
He looked toward O'Rourke, or rather toward the place
where O'Rourke had been; but his lieutenant-general was
gone, running up the deck as though fear itself were treading
close upon his heels.
Chambret stood staring after him with mouth agape; in
his surprise the emperor took a couple of steps after the hurry-
ing man, then halted, amazed.
He saw the Irishman leap suddenly and fall upon the shoul-
ders of one of the watch, whose carbine promptly slipped
from his grasp, and splashed in the waters of the harbor.
IIIo]


He Respects a Flag of Truce
“Not that, ye damn fool!” he cried. “D'ye want to ruin
us all?”
The man squirmed, spluttering with surprise, choking with
explanations. Lemercier arrived just in time to place a stay-
ing hand upon the infuriated Irishman’s arm, and to secure
the release of the hapless sentry.
“What are you about, monsieur?” he demanded angrily.
“About?” roared the Irishman. “Look ye there! And
this fool would have killed him had I not happened to see him
raise his gun!”
His majesty glanced in the direction the Irishman had in-
dicated; he noticed that the searchlight was holding steady,
unswerving; and there, upon the beach, in the center of the
disk of illumination, was the figure of a Tawarek, standing
alone, erect, motionless, wrapped about with a burnoose of
crimson and gold, masked in black to his eyes, disdainful and
dignified despite the nature of his errand.
In one hand, outstretched, he bore a long lance; a cloth of
white dangled from its tip.
“A flag of truce!” cried O'Rourke. “He has come as an
envoy to make peace with ye, Monsieur l’Empereur! And
this — this blockhead would have spoiled it all!”
“I will have no dealings with him,” announced le petit
Lemercier, haughtily turning his shoulder to O'Rourke.
“Let the man fire.”
“Your majesty,” protested O’Rourke, “that is madness—”
“They attacked us,” persisted the emperor coldly.
“They rule the desert,” expostulated the Irishman. “Ye
were speaking of opening a port for the caravan trade. With-
out the cooperation of these desert pirates ye will gain noth-
ing; if they oppose ye they will never permit one caravan to
pass into your territories!”
[111 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“That is so,” counseled Monsieur le Prince. “The ad-
vice of Monsieur le Colonel is good, your majesty.”
“Very well,” le petit Lemercier gave in, regretfully; “have
him aboard, then, and see what he wants.”
He swung upon his heel, and went into the saloon, ap-
parently highly offended by this disputation of his wishes.
But the Irishman was too elated by the victory to care aught
for le petit Lemercier's humor. He turned to the sentry,
and caught him by the shoulders.
“When ye’ve served under me another minute, me boy,”
he told the man, “ye'll know better than to fire without orders.
What's that ye say?”
“Monsieur,” declared the man, “I have served long with
the camel corps in Algeria. Our orders were to shoot a
Tawarek on sight.”
“Well, then, there's some excuse for ye. But in the future
be careful. Now, go and find me a man who speaks the lan-
guage of these devils.”
The soldier saluted, and went off hurriedly, glad to escape
further reprimand. As he did so, the man Soly slipped for-
ward, out of the obscurity of the night, and saluted.
“Monsieur,” he said humbly, avoiding O’Rourke's eye,
“I was passing and heard what you desired.”
“Well?”
“I speak Tamahak — the language of the Tawareks, mon
général.”
“Very well. Hail that fellow and find out what he wants.”
The former member of the sans souci went to the rail and
cupped his hands about his mouth; the next moment a thin,
wailing cry, nearly the counterpart of that which had been
the signal for the shooting of Danny, trembled upon the still-
IlCSS,
[II2]


He Respects a Flag of Truce
The Tawarek moved slightly — for the first time since he
had appeared upon the beach; he waved his lance, making
the flag of truce flutter, and answered the call. Again Soly
hailed him, and again he replied.
“Well? Well?” demanded O'Rourke impatiently.
“He says that he is come to arrange peace,” interpreted
the man; “that you are to send a boat to bring him aboard.”
“The nerve of him!” muttered O’Rourke.
Nervetheless, he gave orders to have the boat lowered and
manned by a heavily armed crew; at the same time he directed
that the deck guns should be trained upon the shore.
“Tell him,” he ordered Soly, “that we will send for him,
but that at the first sign of treachery we'll blow him into
eternity!”
Soly complied readily, but the Tawarek preserved a digni-
fied silence.
While the boat was making for the shore the Irishman
ordered that the searchlight should sweep the surrounding
desert, following its path with his binoculars; they showed
to him no further sign of the enemy — naught, in fact, save
that solitary, gorgeous figure, waiting patiently upon the
beach.
[113]


CHAPTER XIII
HE PROVES HIMSELF MASTER OF MEN
PRESENTLY, the boat scraped and bumped against the side;
the first to ascend was Soly, the second the Tawarek.
O'Rourke was awaiting him at the head of the gangway,
respectfully, as befitted the welcomer of a man of rank and
place in his country – as the Irishman suspected the visitor
to be. To none else than a head man, he considered, would
such an errand be intrusted — a matter which affected the
interests of a whole tribe.
Nor was he wrong, as he realized when the Tawarek stalked
past him without deigning him a glance or a word. The man
Soly himself had jumped at once to the threshold of the sa-
loon door, where he stood at attention, his keen eyes furtively
alternating between the faces of the Irishman, the native
envoy and those in the interior of the cabin.
To him, evidently content to recognize in the man who
spoke his native Tamahak his only friend, the Tawarek went
direct, and when the soldier stepped to one side, accepted
the implied invitation and entered the saloon.
O'Rourke followed, – himself a large man, but dwarfed
for the moment by the huge stature of the enormous
Tawarek.
Fully six feet six inches in height (a tallness not unusual
among his kin, however), and broad and heavy in propor-
tion, he stood with his shoulders well back and proudly, as
became a free lord of the Sahara, one who neither bows the
[14]


He Proves Himself Master of Men
knee nor pays tribute to any man – as are the Tawareks all,
even the most beggarly of them.
His burnoose was richly embroidered with gold, and of the
finest silken mesh, heavily lined for a protection against the
cold of the desert nights. This he presently threw aside,
disclosing a costume of yellow silk over a shirt and baggy
trousers ending somewhat below the knee, both of white;
across his shoulders and about his waist ran a sash belt, into
which were stuck handily heavy cavalry revolvers, of a now
obsolete type, but for all that deadly weapons in competent
hands.
For a headdress he wore a turban of white, with a flap of
black silk hanging down across his forehead to his brows;
and sharply across the middle of his face was a second cloth;
the two leaving but his eyes and a portion of the bridge of his
nose visible. But those eyes were keen, straightforward,
quick; deeply set and wrinkled about with that network of
fine lines which comes from steady gazing over plains glaring
in the full of the noonday sun.
O'Rourke stepped to his side; for a moment the two men
stood, eying one another with respect, — men, both of them,
of giant build and free carriage, in contrast striking to
the others in the saloon: to the weaklings, Mouchon and
D'Ervy; to Monsieur le Prince, padded, emaciated: to the
weary-eyed Lemercier, posing himself with an assumption
of the dignity that should become an emperor, — perhaps
really believing in his heart that he wore the majesty of men
born to rule. Only Chambret approached either O’Rourke
or the Tawarek in size or dignity of address; and Chambret
was discreetly effacing himself, as far as possible from the
center of the group.
After a brief interchange of glances, the Tawarek bowed
[II5]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
his head slightly, in lordly salutation of O’Rourke, acknowl-
edging the one man whom he had failed to look down. The
Irishman smiled, and motioned towards a chair, which the
Tawarek accepted with suspicions that were evidenced by
the excess of precautions he took in seating himself.
So far, no words had passed. Soly had entered upon a
gesture from O'Rourke, and stood at one side, leering, ready
when called upon to play his rôle of interpreter.
A blaze of electric light was in the cabin; the Tawarek
blinked in its glare, then set himself to study the faces of
these men who were invading his land — the land sacred to
him by the rights of occupation dating back into the fogs of
antiquity. -
His sharp, bold eyes flitted from face to face, challenging,
reading, rejecting with disdain all save O’Rourke and Cham-
bret. In the end it was to O'Rourke that he turned and
addressed himself in a few words of Tamahak, his voice low
and pleasantly modulated, his words deferentially spoken.
To Lemercier O'Rourke looked. “Your majesty,” he
said, keeping straight and serious the mouth that always
was tempted to twitch at the corners when he used the title
which Leopold had arrogated unto himself: “your majesty,
'tis meself that's had some experience with these men in the
Soudan, as ye know. Have I your permission to treat with
him?”
“Yes,” granted Lemercier graciously.
“What does he say, Soly?” inquired the Irishman, turning
to the guest.
The soldier interpreted: “He says that he is Ibeni, chief-
tain of all the Tawareks hereabouts. He says, monsieur,
that if harm comes to him his people will rally in force and
sweep your dead bodies into the sea.”
[116 |


He Proves Himself Master of Men
“The hell he does!” commented the Irishman, without
moving a muscle of his face for the Tawarek to read. “Tell
him that he is as safe here as in his own camp.”
Soly interpreted again; the Tawarek replied at length.
“He says, mon général, that he desires to know who you
may be, what your purpose here, how long you intend to stay;
and by what right you invade the lands of the Tawareks with-
out arranging to pay tribute to the tribe.”
“Tell him,” replied O'Rourke, “that we are Frenchmen
by birth, for the most part, subjects by inclination of Leopold
Premier, l’Empereur du Sahara.”
“Tell him that we come to make oases in the desert by
digging wells, that we purpose to build up here a land as
fertile as the Soudan or Senegal, and to establish a port for
the trade of caravans and ships. Tell him that we shall stay
as long as the sun hangs in the sky; and as for tribute, tell
him to go to — No,” he interrupted himself laughingly;
“don’t tell him that. Your majesty” — turning to le petit
Lemercier – “for the sake of peace, let me advise that ye
pay the tribute demanded be this man. I promise ye that
it will not be large.”
Lemercier coughed, hesitated, glanced at his mentor,
Monsieur le Prince. The latter's expression negatived the
proposition decidedly.
“No tribute,” announced the emperor.
“If Monsieur the Prince will permit me to disagree,” dis-
puted O'Rourke suavely; “he is in the wrong. The United
States Government, your majesty, pays the Indians for the
lands it takes from them. We have to consider that these
Tawareks regard the Sahara as their land as jealously as the
American Indians held theirs. What tribute he exacts will
amount to little in Monsieur l'Empereur's estimation, but
III.7]


Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
it will insure peace, and it will insure the unmolested passage
of caravans through the territory of the Empire of the Sahara.
I presume your majesty does not contemplate a chicken-
hearted withdrawing of his hand at this late day?”
“Most certainly not,” declared Lemercier, flushing under
the sting in the Irishman’s irony.
“And I am sure that Monsieur le Prince does not wish a
repetition of this evening's excitement. Let me promise ye,
messieurs, that if tribute be not paid to these men, pirates
though they be, each day will see a duplicate of the skirmish
of to-day. Ye will need regiments, messieurs, rather than
tens, of men, if this is to be your method of conquering —”
“Enough,” interrupted le petit Lemercier — avoiding the
eyes of Monsieur le Prince, however, “tell him that we will
pay in reason.”
“Ask him how much,” O’Rourke instructed Soly, who
had meanwhile been steadily translating to the Tawarek.
“One thousand francs in gold yearly,” was the reply; “for
that he assures you safety and freedom from molestation
from his or other tribes.”
“We will pay it,” said Lemercier, smiling at the insignifi-
cance of the sum.
O'Rourke could not repress a triumphant glance at
Monsieur le Prince.
“Your majesty has the gold handy, I have no doubt?” he
suggested. -
“Get it, D'Ervy,” commanded his majesty.
That individual went upon his errand, returning with the
money in a canvas bag; it was handed the Tawarek, who
accepted as his by right, and placed it in a fold of his
burnoose.
With a few more words he rose as if to go.
[118 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
She moved slowly toward the group about the native.
“Messieurs,” she said, a bit unsteadily, looking from face
to face, “is – is there anything amiss?”
“Only me folly, madame,” replied the Irishman bowing
gallantly, “’tis meself that should have remembered the shots
would alarm ye. I crave madame's pardon. I was but
demonstrating the beauties of this revolver to monsieur the
Tawarek; I fired it for that purpose and for another — to
prevent his using it if perchance he were inclined to be treach-
erous ere leaving us. Soly, find a box of cartridges for this
gentleman.”
He broke the weapon at the cylinder, ejecting the still
vaporing cartridges, whipped a silk handkerchief through
the barrel, and handed the revolver to the Tawarek.
Soly returned with the cartridges; the chieftain accepting
both with words of gratitude. His mask concealed whatever
facial expression he may have had, and it was only from his
eyes that they might guess something of his emotions; for his
gaze had not left madame since she had appeared in the
saloon. Even as he took his leave, which he did with a scant
bow to O'Rourke and a total ignoring of the remainder of
the party, he continued to watch Madame la Princesse until
he had reached the foot of the companionway, when he
turned, made her a low obeisance, and vanished, accom-
panied by O'Rourke.
The commander-in-chief was occupied on deck for several
minutes, seeing the Tawarek over the side, and watching
the boat on its journey to and from the beach. He then
had the men dismissed from their places at the guns,
and before returning to the saloon he sent away the man,
Soly, to his quarters, and said a low word to three grave
Turcos. These nodded comprehension, and placed them-
[12ol


He Proves Himself Master of Men
selves at no great distance from the saloon companion-
way.
When he rejoined the council, his princess had left the
saloon for her stateroom; chairs were drawn up around the
central table, champagne was being served by the steward
and partaken of by Monsieur l’Empereur, Monsieur le Prince,
D'Ervy, and Mouchon. Chambret sat some distance apart,
thoughtfully consuming a cigarette.
Lemercier looked up and indicated a chair; his attitude
was not one of great welcome for the commander-in-chief
of his forces, however; it was momentarily becoming more
evident to the Irishman that in his own case Prince Felix had
been successful in his attempt to turn le petit Lemercier's
favor to displeasure.
For the present, however, he was disposed to pass this over.
He had planned his battle; in his mind he had already won
it. It remained but for matters to come to an issue between
himself and Prince Felix.
“We were saying, monsieur,” said Monsieur le Prince
languidly to O'Rourke, “that, since our little affair with
your friends, the Tawareks, is settled, our next move
should be to address a note to the Powers, proclaiming
the sovereignty of Leopold as the first Emperor of the
Sahara.”
“To the contrary,” objected O'Rourke; “your first move
is to establish your base, to found your capital city; then to
encourage or in some way to procure a respectable coloniza-
tion. An empire of some forty population is an absurdity
on the face of it. Do ye seriously expect the Powers to
recognize such a comic opera affair?”
There fell a moment's silence; Monsieur le Prince was any-
thing but pleased; the look he gave the Irishman was evidence
[121 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
enough of the esteem in which he held him. But O'Rourke
only smiled benignly upon the prime minister.
As for his majesty, Leopold, his face had lengthened with
disappointment; shallow though he was, yet he had occa-
sional glimmerings of common sense, even as he exhibited
occasional flashes of spirit. He could but recognize the jus-
tice of O’Rourke's pronouncement; and he was not alone fain
to bow to superior wisdom, but also generous enough to
acknowledge it. Therefore he ignored the black looks of
Monsieur le Prince and agreed with the Irishman.
“Another thing,” propounded the latter: “Your first
duty, your majesty, is not to your empire. 'Tis to hu-
manity. Two of those who fought for ye this day lie wounded
unto death in the sick bay; they need immediate attention
from a skilled surgeon if their lives are to be saved. Las
Palmas is not so distant that ye cannot spare time to go
there,” he concluded. “I make so bold as to advise an early
start — this very night, in fact.”
This was the opening that Monsieur le Prince had been
awaiting. He interrupted Lemercier's reply.
“They were paid to take the risk,” he said coldly; “let
them die. We cannot permit ourselves to be put back for
a matter so slight.”
“Your majesty,” broke in Chambret, “I have been in the
sick bay; I can bear witness to the urgency —”
“One moment.” Prince Felix fixed his gaze, sardonic and
cruel, upon Chambret. “May I inquire, your majesty, when
this conceited upstart became a member of your council,
entitled to a voice therein?”
O’Rourke motioned the furious Chambret to silence.
“I will save his majesty the trouble of answering ye, Mon-
sieur le Prince,” he said calmly. “Monsieur Chambret
[122]


He Proves Himself Master of Men
to-day was appointed me aide, me second in command, and
me successor in event of any misfortune of mine. As such,
he is entitled to all rights as a member of the council.”
“Appointments are not valid unless ratified by the council,”
objected Prince Felix, choking down his rage.
“It is not legal under your code, perhaps, monsieur,” ad-
mitted O'Rourke fairly. “Ye will recall, however, that the
Empire of the Sahara has no code as yet. The appointment
is made by me, by me authority, and will stand, I warn ye,
monsieur, whatever your objections!”
Monsieur le Prince rose slowly from his chair, toying with
his wineglass.
“Monsieur,” he drawled, his eyes narrowing, his white
teeth showing through his snarl, “your words verge perilously
upon insolence.”
“If that be insolence,” retorted O'Rourke sweetly, “ye
can make the most of it! . . . Be careful, monsieur! If ye
throw that glass at me, I’ll have ye put in irons!”
“Canaille !”
O'Rourke moved to one side, quickly; the wineglass shat-
tered to a thousand fragments upon the wall behind him.
“Ye fool!” he cried, almost laughing. Now he had his
man where he wanted him; he turned towards the companion-
way and whistled.
Upon that signal the three Turcos entered, and dashed
down the steps, to halt at the bottom and salute O’Rourke.
“Arrest that man!” he told them, indicating Monsieur le
Prince.
Lemercier, who had seemed stunned by the sudden turn
of affairs, jumped to his feet with a cry of protest; but before
it had passed his lips Prince Felix was helpless between two
Turcos, a third at his back pinioning his arms.
[123]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“O’Rourke —” began le petit Lemercier, his face white
with wrath.
“Leave me alone, your majesty. Men, hold him. If he
struggles overmuch — ye know how to discourage him.”
Prince Felix leaped forward furiously; and the yell, com-
pounded of rage and pain, that burst from his lips as the
Turcos hauled him back, attested to the truth in O’Rourke's
suggestion.
“You will suffer for this!” Monsieur le Prince shrieked.
“Oh, I hear ye.”
Lemercier sprang before O'Rourke, gesticulating wildly,
trembling with his anger and excitement.
“Monsieur,” he spluttered, “I demand an explanation.
I insist that Prince Felix be released at once.”
“Tell them so, then,” said O'Rourke calmly.
Lemercier turned to the Turcos reluctantly. “I command
you to release him!” he quavered.
The Turcos remained motionless, watching O'Rourke;
his majesty repeated his demand, with no more result. He
wheeled again upon O’Rourke.
“What do you mean?” he cried. “This is rebellion —
this is —”
“I mean this,” said O'Rourke slowly, his eyes shining:
“I mean that I am master here, and that I brook no inter-
ference. I mean that 'tis the O’Rourke who holds the bal-
ance of power, for the men are serving me first, yourself next,
monsieur. They take me commands while I live; for they
know me, and that I stand by them. One moment more —
let me finish. I mean that I amin your pay, your majesty, for
the express purpose of making ye an emperor; ’tis meself that
believes it can be done, with square, honest dealing; I believe
that your scheme is practicable-though Monsieur le Prince
[124]


He Proves Himself Master of Men
w
does not in the black heart of him. And I mean, further,
that I am going to do my damnedest, monsieur, to put ye on
a throne, in spite of the hostility of Monsieur le Prince, who
would make of ye the laughing-stock of Europe, and who
eventually would kill ye to enjoy your fortune be inheritance.
I’ll do it, furthermore, in spite of the conspiracies of Mes-
sieurs Mouchon and D'Ervy, his tools.” He paused for
breath, then raised his voice again:
“We’re south of Gibraltar, messieurs, and in this land
every man is his own law! Here, for the time being, I am
the law, your majesty. And, if ye show a disposition to turn
back from your enterprise, monsieur-for now me own honor
and reputation are at stake — by God! I'll make ye an
emperor in spite of yourself!”
He paused, breathless with his own vehemence, looking
in triumph at the group before him; at Monsieur le Prince,
who, while well-nigh frothing at the mouth with rage, was yet
unable to free himself; at Mouchon and D'Ervy, who had
drawn back, panic-stricken; at Chambret, his face glowing
with delight; at the impassive Turcos; finally, at his majesty.
Leopold was staring blankly at him, like one dreaming;
he passed his hand over his eyes, dazedly, as one who
wakens suddenly, when O’Rourke had made an end to his
speech.
With the shadow of disillusionment fading, with the light
of hope and faith again dawning upon his face, he watched
the Irishman intently, as though striving to read his inmost
thoughts. And by some intuitive power he must have been
convinced of the honest purpose of O’Rourke; or else what
common sense he had must have told him that there was but
one course now open — to trust the adventurer.
Abruptly he stepped forward, and seized the hand of
I 125]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
O'Rourke. “Monsieur,” he said simply, “I take you at
your word — and shall hold you to it.”
O'Rourke smiled his thanks. “You’ll not regret it,” said
he; then, to the Turcos: “Release monsieur.”
For he felt that he was safe now — that he had broken the
sway of the favorite, Monsieur le Prince, Felix de Grandlieu.
[1261


CHAPTER XIV
HE ACTS BY THE CODE
AN irregular oval in form, in extent about three acres, the
oasis, El Kebr, flourished around three wells.
Probably these had been sunk in ancient times, before the
records of man, when this desert of the Sahara had been a
fertile land, well-watered and luxuriant of vegetation, sup-
porting an immense population. The age-old masonry
about their curbs attested to the truth of this surmise, and
might have afforded interesting material for the antiquarian.
From the wells it radiated — the oasis — a wilderness of
green growing things, interspersed with the slim, towering
boles of a grove of date palms; but the sands were ever in-
sidiously creeping, creeping in toward the water; year by
year the acreage of verdure was diminishing, and, left to
nature, it was only a question of time ere the desert would
hold full sway, even to the lips of the life-giving wells, which,
too, were doomed to be choked and lost.
But for the present it sufficed for the purposes of Monsieur
l'Empereur, Leopold le Premier. It was settled upon by
him to be the site of his capital city of the future – Troya, as
he already called it in the fervor of his magnificent imagina-
tion.
O'Rourke came to El Kebr, early in the following dawn,
at the head of a party of reconnaissance. It was apparent
that the Tawarek, Ibeni, had kept faith in regard to his de-
parture with his men; satisfied he undoubtedly had been to
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
have extorted tribute money from the invaders, after sustain-
ing at their hands a putative defeat; and there was nought to
be gained by lingering in the vicinity — unless it were a grati-
fication of his curiosity.
On the route to the oasis, however, no sign of a Tawarek
had been seen by O'Rourke's command; and it was there
only that the natives had left traces of their camp about the
wells.
O'Rourke returned to the Eirene, and reported, advising
his majesty that there was in his judgment no cause to fear
another attack. Preparations were accordingly put forward
with all haste toward the landing of provisions, the tents, and
varied paraphernalia with which the yacht had been laden
with a view to making existence in the desert endurable.
For it had been decided at a protracted session of the coun-
cil (which was suddenly subservient to the will of O’Rourke)
that Lemercier and his party would not return to Las Palmas
with the yacht; they were to land and make a settlement —
in a way as proof of their good intentions: a first definite move
toward the establishment of the Empire of the Sahara.
Even Madame la Princesse was determined to stay by the
side of her brother, and positively refused to put herself out
of possible danger by returning to Europe, as she had been
urged to do by the party.
Chambret alone was to go with the wounded, intrusted
also with other commissions than that of seeing Danny and
his fellows safely in hospital.
Portable houses had been bought in large numbers by
Lemercier before starting upon his expedition; they should
by that time have arrived at Las Palmas, if the contractors
had kept their words about shipment.
These Chambret was to see stowed aboard the Eirene, .
I 128]


He Acts by the Code
and he was furthermore to enlist a force of workingmen, as
many as he might be able to engage, to come to the oasis –
masons, builders, carpenters, plasterers, and others of kin-
dred crafts.
These were, primarily of course, needed for the building
of the city of Troya; later, Monsieur l’Empereur hoped he
might be able to induce them to stay and become colonists.
Since early dawn the men had been busy lightening the
yacht of its stores; it was slow business, for the vessel could
not get near inshore, and all transportation had to be ac-
complished by means of boats and a couple of portable cata-
maran rafts.
It was eleven in the evening, or later, as O'Rourke sat in
his tent in the oasis, having one final talk with the French-
man, Chambret; the Eirene was to sail as soon as the last of
the cargo was ashore, but her captain estimated that that
would not be until two in the morning at the earliest.
Chambret, therefore, had plenty of time at his disposal.
“And Danny?” O’Rourke was asking him, for the French-
man had just returned from the vessel.
“In the same condition – comatose,” replied Chambret;
“but his temperature is lower; I don’t think you need fear
for him. If he holds as he is until we reach Las Palmas,
he’ll pull through all right.”
“”Tis the delay that worries me,” put in O’Rourke. “I
had to consent to it, ye know; I couldn’t make me newly
asserted rule too dictatorial to start with.”
“No,” laughed Chambret.
He rose and walked to the front of the tent, drawing back
the flap and looking out; and the Irishman joined him.
“”Tis a thriving settlement we have, monsieur,” he sug-
gested.
[I29 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Near at hand was the elaborate marquee of Monsieur l'Em-
pereur, glowing with light. By its side stood another, almost
as imposing a tent, which had been erected for the use of
Madame la Princesse alone. Farther removed were others
— tents for Monsieur le Prince, for Mouchon and D'Ervy
(whom O'Rourke could hit upon no plausible excuse for
banishing), as well as for the soldiery and the servants.
As the two stood watching, a corporal's guard of soldiers
marched past under one whom O'Rourke had appointed a
petty officer, until such time as he should get his organization
perfected.
“Going to change the sentries,” remarked O'Rourke.
“”Tis near midnight. Faith,” he yawned wearily, “a long
day it has been for me!”
“You’ve posted a guard, then?” -
“All around the edge of the oasis. I don’t trust monsieur,
the Tawarek, any farther than I can see him. From as much
as I observed of Ibeni, or whatever his name is, he's a chap
that is likely to keep his word; but we'll take care to hold him
at his distance, anyway.”
“And Monsieur le Prince?”
“Oh – fudge!” cried O'Rourke good-humoredly. “Does
the man still worry ye? Why, monsieur, he's down and out
— a wind bag perforated.”
“Don’t be too sure. He is —”
As Chambret spoke he let the tent flap fall, and turned
back to his chair. O'Rourke remained standing, his hands
clasped behind him, laughing at Chambret's fears. Abruptly
he chopped the laugh off short.
A shot rang through the camp.
O’Rourke wheeled about.
“Tawareks — so soon!” he cried.
[13ol


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
had known the desert since childhood; an Algerian of Euro-
pean parentage. O'Rourke called to him.
“Find the man Soly,” he said softly, in the Spahi’s ear,
“and bring him to me at once. Don’t make any fuss – but
shoot him like a dog if he resists. Also, bring me his arms.”
His Spahi saluted, and walked carelessly away, with the
air of one on no pressing errand. O'Rourke watched him
out of sight, into the shadows of the palms, with an approving
nod. “A good man, that; I’ll remember him.”
He returned to his tent, entered and relit the lamp. Cham-
bret protested against this heedless courting of danger, but
the Irishman remained obdurate. “No more trouble to-
night,” he insisted.
Within ten minutes the Spahi had returned, Soly in his
charge; he scratched upon the canvas wall, and upon receiv-
ing permission entered. His prisoner preceded him, with
an alacrity that might have been accounted for by a revolver,
half concealed, in the Spahi’s hand.
O'Rourke placed himself behind his table; his own revolver
lay upon it, and he fingered it nervously, looking Soly over
with a placid brow. But when he spoke, he first addressed
the Spahi.
“Can ye keep a quiet tongue in your head, me man?” he
asked.
The Spahi saluted. “Yes, mon général.”
“See that you do — lieutenant.”
The Spahi flushed with pleasure; O'Rourke silenced his
thanks with a gesture.
“Where did ye find this man?” he asked briskly.
“In his tent, monsieur.”
“What was he doing?”
“Cleaning a rifle, monsieur.”
[132]


He Acts by the Code
“His Own P”
“Non, monsieur — one belonging to his tentmate.”
“So!” O’Rourke paused; his eyes, resting upon the ex-
member of the “condemned corps,” grew flintlike — hard
and cold. “So,” he repeated thoughtfully; then, sharply:
“Ye try to assassinate me with your comrade's rifle, do
ye?”
“Non, monsieur le général —”
The words died on Soly’s lips; he was gazing with deep
interest into the muzzle of O’Rourke's revolver.
“Tell the truth, ye whelp,” thundered the Irishman, “or
I’ll brain ye! Now — ye shot at me just now?”
Soly hesitated.
“Oui,” he admitted at last, sullenly.
“Good. Why?”
Soly was silent.
“I give ye two minutes to tell the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth. At whose instance did ye
attempt to assassinate me?”
Soly threw back his head defiantly; but the muzzle of the
revolver still held his attention. It was inflexible. More-
over, the watch of Chambret lay ticking under the Irishman’s
eye.
“One minute!” O’Rourke announced. Later: “And a
half.”
“Monsieur le Prince,” Soly blurted desperately.
“Ah! Thank ye. Lieutenant, take this man, and guard
him for the night.”
The Spahi saluted, wheeled about, and deftly pinioned the
wrists of Soly. They left O'Rourke's presence in the closest
intimacy.
O'Rourke put his elbows upon the table, and bowed his
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
head in his hands, thinking deeply. Thus he remained for
some monotonous minutes, considering the case of Monsieur
le Prince. At length he stood up.
“He must leave on the yacht to-night, Chambret,” he de-
cided aloud.
There came no reply. Chambret was gone. O'Rourke
looked about the tent stupidly. “What the divvle –!” he
muttered. A flash of comprehension illuminated his intelli-
gence. He cursed to himself softly, caught up his revolver
and sword belt, and ran out. It was but a step to the tent
of Monsieur le Prince. He had reached it in an instant, and
was scratching on the canvas. Receiving no reply he drew
aside the flap, and peered within, to discover it empty.
O'Rourke swore again irritably.
“Divvle take the hot-headed Frenchman!” he cried.
“For why does he want to treat me so?”
He dashed up the line of tents to one which had been al-
lotted to Mouchon and D'Ervy; he had a very distinct notion
as to what Chambret was about, and it pleased him not at all.
Arriving, he did not stand upon ceremony, but burst in upon
a scene that at once confirmed his fears.
Three men were in the tent: Mouchon, Chambret, and
Monsieur le Prince. The latter was standing, facing and
addressing Chambret. Mouchon had backed against the
wall of the tent; his eyes were wide with fright.
As the Irishman entered, Prince Felix said a word or
two, low-toned and tense—worried them between his teeth,
like an ill-dispositioned cur, and flung them at Chambret
insultingly.
Chambret laughed softly. “Thank you, monsieur. That
precisely is what I sought.”
His hand moved more swiftly than thought; the slap rang
[134]


He Acts by the Code
like a pistol shot. One cheek of Monsieur le Prince sud-
denly paled, then flushed scarlet with the imprint of Cham-
bret's fingers. He gasped, thrust his hand swiftly into his
breast pocket, and sprang for Chambret's throat, flourishing
a blade that glittered in the lamplight. But he brought up
abruptly, and recovered his senses, with his nose to the muzzle
of O’Rourke's revolver.
Monsieur le Prince's eyes ranged furiously from the Irish-
man to his own compatriot. He put up the knife with a
swagger. “Ah,” said he, “a conspiracy, I see, messieurs.”
“Exactly,” drawled O'Rourke. “Just as much so as
yours with Soly.”
Prince Felix stepped back, with a little cry of rage.
“The man lies!” he gasped.
“Of what is monsieur accused, that he should defend him-
self?” inquired O'Rourke politely.
Monsieur le Prince was caught. He darted a furious
glance at O'Rourke, biting his lip.
“Well,” he said doggedly, “what do you purpose doing
about it?”
“This is my affair,” interposed Chambret. “Monsieur
has insulted me? Will you fight — dog?”
“A duel?” The eyes of Monsieur le Prince expressed
unbounded amazement.
“Yes.”
“Ah!” cried the prince. “You afford me that chance, eh?”
“No,” Chambret coldly negatived.
“But, as the challenged party, I shall choose swords.”
“Very well; I am agreeable.”
O’Rourke turned to the terrified Mouchon.
“Ye there!” he cried sternly. “Go to the tent of your
master, and fetch his case of rapiers.”
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
The prince's eyes sought Mouchon's; they exchanged a
glance of understanding, which O'Rourke was at no trouble
to interpret.
“And,” he added, as Mouchon prepared to leave the tent,
“mind ye, monsieur, if ye breathe one word of this to any
soul ere I give ye leave, I’ll shoot ye on sight!”
Mouchon bowed, and sidled through the flap; no further
communication passed between him and his master. Indeed,
so potent was the Irishman's threat that the little Frenchman
was back almost before they considered he had had time to
accomplish the half of his journey.
Chambret looked at his watch. “Twelve-thirty,” he an-
nounced calmly. “I have just enough leeway to attend to
Monsieur le Prince.”
“Monsieur Mouchon will no doubt be glad to act as his
second,” said the Irishman; “I, of course, act for ye, me
friend. To avoid a possible mistake, however, about our
place of meeting, it would be well for Monsieur Mouchon to
accompany ye, Chambret; I will give Monsieur le Prince the
pleasure of me own company. Now, go, gentlemen. We
will follow at a discreet interval.”
When they were alone, Monsieur le Prince threw himself
into a chair with a grim laugh — indeed, it was more like a
snarl. “It is already decided, this duel,” he told O'Rourke
familiarly; “your principal walks in a dead man’s shoes.
Now, had it been you, monsieur, I would be less easy in my
mind. But Chambret! He knows naught of the sword.”
“Do ye believe it?” queried O'Rourke incredulously.
“And yet, d'ye know, I’ve a premonition that ye die to-night,
monsieur.”
[136]


CHAPTER XV
HE IS ASTONISHED
A FAINT moon, late rising, lighted them on their way as
they left the borders of the oasis and made in the direction of
the Eirene. As they progressed, it rose and gained in
power. By the time they had arrived at the agreed place of
meeting with Chambret and Mouchon, it was flooding the
desert with a clear, cold radiance that served for the purpose
at hand as well as would have served the light of day — bet-
ter, indeed, since now there was no suffocating heat, but rather
such tingling cold as rouses a man to activity.
Such preparations as they made were simple; Chambret
and Monsieur le Prince removed their coats. O'Rourke
tested the foils, and allowed Mouchon the choice. A level
place was discovered, some twenty yards or so from the line
of travel between the oasis and the yacht, and screened by
dunes from observation; the sand was not so soft as to clog
seriously the feet of the combatants.
They took their places — Chambret, cold, pale, and silent;
Monsieur le Prince, blustering and confident. O'Rourke
stepped aside.
“Are ye ready, messieurs? Proceed!” he said.
The prince brought his heels together and the hilt of his
rapier to his chin in a superb salute. “Au revoir, Monsieur
Chambret,” he said mockingly. “I shall find you in hell,
when my time comes.”
“Au revoir,” responded Chambret, saluting with an
[I37 |


He is Astonished
that this would be the end, from the first, despite my inex-
perience. I'm told that a novice is the most dangerous of
opponents, as a rule.”
“Faith,” cried the Irishman, “I owe ye a debt of gratitude
that grows like a rolling snowball. And, mon ami,” he
added thoughtfully, “I’m thinking that when we fight 'twill
be with snowballs. I know nothing else that ye cannot best
me with.”
It was three o'clock in the morning when O'Rourke re-
turned to the oasis, side by side with the Frenchman, Mou-
chon. At the door of the latter's tent he stopped and looked
around.
There was none within hearing distance. O'Rourke lifted
the flap of the tent and glanced in; on a cot he made out the
dim form of D’Ervy, snoring in a stupor begotten of the
champagne he had swilled with Monsieur l’Empereur an
hour gone.
“Mouchon,” said the Irishman, “one moment. If ye let
slip one word of what has passed this night, to D'Ervy or to
Monsieur l’Empereur, until I give ye permission – I fancy
I need not warn ye what will happen. As for Monsieur le
Prince, he decided suddenly last night to return to Las Palmas
with Chambret. There was little time for adieux. We ac-
companied him to the yacht. That is all ye are to know.”
Mouchon nodded with compressed lips, staring at him with
frightened eyes; he was very much in awe of this Irishman,
whose word to him was now as law.
“Very well, monsieur,” he acceded plaintively.
The Irishman sought his cot; he lay down fully dressed,
too weary to compose himself properly for his slumbers.
What he needed, must have, was rest — no matter how, nor
[I39 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
when, nor where. Sleep, oblivion — he desired it as he
hoped for salvation.
But it appeared that he could not sleep. The night was
old, the moon in her glory; a pale, intense light filtered
down through the overhanging date palms, and lit up the
interior of the tent, sharply defining its every object with
black shadow.
O'Rourke closed his eyes obstinately. It seemed as
though his mental vision insisted upon repeating with mad-
dening exactness the look that had been upon the face of
Monsieur le Prince—that was: who was Monsieur le Prince
no longer.
They had buried him in a shallow ditch in a grave dug in
the sands of the desert by Mouchon, with a spade which the
Irishman had succeeded in obtaining from the yacht without
exciting comment. They had placed him on his side, with
his face to the sea, looking away from the woman whom he
had wronged, away from the man he had deluded and en-
ticed into this futile scheme for empire. And yet the Irish-
man felt that he himself lay under the gaze of those dead eyes,
miles distant though they were.
It appeared that he had nerves; the eyes haunted him.
He cursed the habit of dueling, cursed himself for having
permitted the fight to take place, for being an accessory be-
fore a fact of murder — justifiable murder in the eyes of men;
but, nevertheless, plain murder.
And yet he was glad — that he might not honestly deny;
he was glad that Monsieur le Prince was gone to his final
accounting; glad that it was not by his hand; glad that the
affair had freed from bonds that were worse than galling the
woman upon whom O'Rourke's every thought was now cen-
tered; glad that he was now free to think of her without
[14ol


He is Astonished
dishonoring her by the thought of loving her — another
man’s wife.
He tossed upon his cot, that creaked and added to his
sleeplessness. He imagined something pregnant in the air
--something foreboding trouble and disaster. He could not
sleep. Once he thought a cry fell upon his ears— a slender,
wailing moan; and he rose, and went to the door to look out.
But then the tramping of feet as the guards made their
rounds reassured him, and again he lay down.
In time — but it was very long indeed — he slept; un-
easily, it is true, but sleep of a sort, temporary unconscious-
ness that robbed him of his carking thoughts, and thus proved
grateful.
And yet it was little more than a mockery of rest; he was
permitted no more than a brief hour's nap. A hand shaking
him by the shoulder roused him.
He found himself sitting up on the edge of the cot, rubbing
his eyes, striving vainly to collect wits that seemed reluctant
to return from their wool-gathering. His head ached with
the weariness that possessed him, and he felt that his eyes
were sore and red-rimmed — though that might be partly
due to gazing over the desert glare.
His shoulder ached from the grip of the man who had
wakened him; he looked up, saw that it was a Turco, and
grinned drowsily. “Me soul, Mahmud!” he muttered
stupidly. “Ye have the divvle of a strong hand. What are
ye waking me for, at this ungodly hour, can ye tell me?” he
added wrathfully, beginning to come to his senses.
“Pardon, mon général,” replied the man respectfully.
“We judged it best to let you know at once.”
“What?” He was on his feet now, staring at the Turco
with clear understanding that something had gone desperately
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
amiss while he had slept. “What? What's wrong, man?
Speak up!”
Mahmud had hesitated, fearful of his general's just anger.
Now he stiffened himself against the coming storm.
“There has been evil work this night, mon général,” he
reported. “Three men have been slain, and one is missing.”
“Three slain? One gone? Who? Speak out, man;
Or I’ll —”
“Monsieur recalls that a Spahi came to his tent with the
Frenchman, Soly, last night? That Spahi was one Abdullah;
he is dead — his throat has been slit. Also the Frenchman
is gone. Also two pickets, Ali, of the Turcos, and a French-
man, Rayet, have been slain, with daggers, on their posts.”
O'Rourke was buckling on his sword and looking to the
loading of his revolver.
“Which posts?” he demanded sternly. -
“Those two at the southernmost end of this oasis, mon
général —”
“And what the divvle, can ye tell me, were the rest of ye
doing while this was going on?”
The storm had broken; Mahmud endured in piteous si-
lence; when occasion afforded he fled as from the wrath of
the Judgment Day.
As for O'Rourke, he went out, and calling a guard of sol-
diers made a round of the posts. It proved true, as Mah-
mud had said; not only was the Spahi, Abdullah, foully mur-
dered, but also the two outposts on that edge of the oasis
which was most distant from the camp.
And Solygone! Here was food for consideration. Whither
had he escaped? Not upon the yacht, O'Rourke was cer-
tain; for he himself had been the last to leave that vessel be-
fore she had sailed. Moreover, he felt assured that the mur-
[142 |


He is Astonished
der of Abdullah would have been discovered quickly had it
occurred before his return to the camp; he remembered dis-
tinctly having seen the men moving about Abdullah's tent
while he was bidding good-night to Mouchon.
No; it had taken place since he had lain down to sleep.
He recalled with a start that cry which he had heard while
half asleep, and, hearing, had attributed to his imagination.
So – where was Soly?
Not in the oasis, for that had been beaten thoroughly; not
a hiding-place therein had been overlooked – not a hole
large enough to conceal a rabbit. The search had gone on
by his orders while he was making the rounds of the pickets;
he was satisfied as to its thoroughness.
It was about five o’clock, at the hour of the windy dusk
that foretells dawn upon the desert. O'Rourke lingered
near the dead body of one of the unfortunate sentries, looking
out to the eastern horizon where a pale and opalescent light
was growing steadily.
Was Soly out there? And if so, where? What did he
purpose, how might he hope to exist, without food or water
or camels?
His eye was caught by the flutter of a white thing, far out
on the sands. He walked slowly out to see, without actually
attaching much importance to the matter. It was idle
curiosity that led him—that alone. And yet when he at last
came to it and stopped, it was with an exclamation of direst
dismay.
He stooped suddenly, trembling with an uncontrollable
agitation, and put forth his fingers. They closed about the
white object; he brought it close to his eyes, as if doubting
much its reality; for surely he must be dreaming!
It was a handkerchief – a mere bit of sheer linen, for
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
the most part lacework and embroidery. It was real; he
could feel and see it, he dared no longer doubt the evidence
of his senses, and yet the initial in the corner struck terror to
his heart.
Suddenly, he found himself running back to the oasis,
his heart in his throat. He dashed past his escort, thrust-
ing them from his path with frantic strength; and they
looked first at his face, drawn and haggard with straining
eyes – the face of a madman – and then to one another,
shaking their heads gravely.
It was not until he had reached the door of Monsieur l'Em-
pereur's tent that he paused – not then, in fact, for he rushed
on in, regardless of the etiquette that hedges about the sancti-
fied persons of monarchs, and caught the sleeping Lemercier
roughly, dragging him from his bed.
“Monsieur,” he commanded rudely, “get up and dress
yourself.”
“What — what's trouble, O’Rourke? Eh-yah Br-r-r,
but it’s cold.”
“Monsieur,” cried the exasperated O'Rourke, “I give ye
two minutes to dress yourself and to go to the tent of
Madame la Princesse, to see if she is there. Ye are her
brother, and alone dare enter.”
The Lemercier opened his eyes.
“What?” he stammered.
Briefly — curtly, in truth — O'Rourke related the events
of the morning hours. He had scarce need to finish, to tell
what he feared. At the sight of the handkerchief and upon
his telling where he had found it, le petit Lemercier was strug-
gling into his clothes.
Together they ran to the marquee of madame. Lemercier,
standing outside, raised his voice and yelped for his sister;
[144]


He is Astonished
then, that unavailing, went within and found — precisely
what they had feared.
Madame was gone.
Soly was gone.
Whither?
There was but one answer: The desert.
Somewhere out there in the fastnesses of that great, silent,
sterile waste, whereon the sun was just beginning to cast a
crimson flush, were madame and her abductor, Soly.
There was no time for arguing over the mystery of the
affair, for trying to fit a reason to the whys and wherefores
of the former sans souci's mad conduct. The conclusion was
irrefutable that he had kidnaped madame, for some occult
reason of his own.
O'Rourke did not stop to analyze the case. Upon le petit
Lemercier's frightened report he whirled about and snatched
a Mauser from one of his troopers. Then, calling to the
others to follow, he made off at the top of his speed for the
spot where he had found the linen handkerchief.
Once there he knelt, and scrutinized the ground pains-
takingly; and it seemed to him that he could discern faint
traces of the footsteps of three people. But why three? Had
Soly a confederate in the camp, as yet undetected?
He rose and walked on as rapidly as he might and still
maintain his scrutiny of the trail. Here the surface was
rather hard packed than merely soft, shifting sands; in some
places the wind had covered the traces of footsteps thoroughly
with a thin film of sand; but still he would come upon them
a little farther on, trending always to the southward.
And he pressed ever on, the troopers at his heels exchang-
ing muttered speculations as to the sanity of their commander.
Something like a half a mile to the south of the oasis, El
[145}


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Kebr, lay the dry river bed called the Wadi Saglat; this
O'Rourke had forgotten completely; the rolling face of the
desert had deceived him, leading him to the very brink of the
gully before he saw it. He stumbled, slipped and rolled to
the bottom – some twenty feet — in a smother of sand and
pebbles.
He got up, shook himself, and set his jaw with commingled
determination and despair. Here it was absolutely an im-
possibility to trace footprints.
He turned half-heartedly to the east, towards the interior,
and passed along the bed of the gully for a matter of about
twenty feet. And then he stopped suddenly – brought to a
halt by a shot.
A puff of gas ascended above a rock a little ways
ahead, and he saw the helmet of one of his own troopers
dodge down behind it. Instantaneously a bullet shaved his
cheek closely, and buried itself deep in the wall of the gully.
With a cry of relief, O’Rourke sprang forward, hope high
in his heart. He swung around the corner of the rock and
covered with the Mauser the figure of Soly – Soly recum-
bent upon one elbow, clutching his rifle with feeble fingers,
lying in a welter of his own blood.
The man looked up sullenly, and growled faintly.
“Go on!” he said. “Shoot me; I haven’t long to live,
anyway, monsieur.”
O'Rourke wrenched the Mauser from the man's grip and
knelt beside him; the rest of the searching party came up and
stood about, wondering aloud.
“Ye are right!” exclaimed the Irishman, rising after a
diagnosis of the fellow's wound. “Ye have about an hour
to live. Ye have been bleeding for some time?”
“About two hours, monsieur.” The man shuddered.
[I46]


He is Astonished
“I’m faint, or I would have potted you, sure. But I wasn’t
shooting at monsieur; I thought you were that damned
Tawarek.”
“Who? Speak up, man; or I'll throttle ye.”
“Will you?” said the fellow, leering hideously. “And
what will monsieur be learning then about madame? Let
me tell the story my own way, or I'll not tell it at all. First
– brandy.”
A Spahi produced a flask and gave it to the wounded man,
who drank greedily, with great gulps, and seemed revived
somewhat. Life, however, was but flickering; he was mor-
tally injured, with three gaping bullet holes through his body.
He sighed with satisfaction: “Ah-h!” smacking his lips
over the liquor, and began to talk jeeringly, vaingloriously:
a fearful and sickening spectacle, with the death pallor on
his face, and the intense, pitiless sun beating full upon him.
“Ah-h, messieurs! I wish that Monsieur le Prince were
here to listen. It would do him good — that devil! It was
such a pretty scheme, messieurs, and we took you all in –
only it miscarried at the finish. Listen. Monsieur le Prince
sent for me in Paris. He knew me of old; many’s the dirty
little trick I’ve turned for him. I’ll say this for him, though,
he always paid handsomely. Well, he sent for me, and told
me he wanted me to enlist with you. You recall that he gave
me a letter of recommendation to you, describing me as an
honorable old soldier of the republic? He told me what he
wanted, and we cooked up the plot. It was very simple. . . .
“Among you all I was the only one, monsieur, who under-
stood Tamahak. That I discovered while we were in that
pig-sty of a prison at Las Palmas. It was first planned that I
should escape from the encampment here and go to the Ta-
wareks with our offer. But they saved us the trouble. That
[I47 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
night — last night — when was it? — that Ibeni came
aboard we played the farce to perfection, messieurs, right
under your very noses. I was interpreting to you just what
you wanted to hear, and you were gobbling it down greedily.
More brandy!”
He got it, slobbering over the flask greedily, leering with-
out shame or fear of a just God. O’Rourke was patient
perforce, forbearing to press the wretch for fear he would turn
stubborn and refuse to talk; the fellow knew it, and taunted
them – in the face of death.
“Let’s see – where was I? Oh, the Tawarek. I was
telling him what Monsieur le Prince desired of him, and he
was setting his price, bargaining over it while you thought he
was treating for peace. Monsieur le Prince wanted your
sou-centime fool of an emperor kidnaped, put out of the
way, and was willing to pay for it. As things stood, Mon-
sieur Lemercier paid for it himself. Eh — a good joke,
messieurs? . . . We arranged it all — under your very noses
— you, so wise and righteous! When Ibeni left it was all
arranged that he was to come to the camp on the following
night, and that I was to meet him and help him overpower
Monsieur l’Empereur. Or, if not that night, the first that
the simpleton slept ashore.”
He paused, drank deep, and proceeded with some diffi-
culty.
“Madame spoiled it — she with her beauty. Monsieur
le Prince well-nigh spoiled it, paying me to shoot at your
shadow. How I missed I never could tell; you should be
dead now, Irish pig that you are! But I missed, and you
were sharp enough to catch me; and so I had to cut the throat
of your Spahi, What's-his-name. A difficult job, let me tell
you, to do noiselessly. However – I did it. Me, I am
[148]


He is Astonished
clever! . . . Then I went out to meet Monsieur Ibeni. He
was waiting here in the gully with three camels: one for Mon-
sieur l’Empereur, one for himself, one for me. I whistled
the signal, low, but he heard and came and helped finish your
pickets.
“But then there was trouble. He was going back on his
bargain, the treacherous dog! He had seen madame, and
preferred to abduct her. I did not understand until he made
me, with the revolver which you so kindly gave him, Mon-
sieur O’Rourke. He threatened, and – I gave in, and
helped him. But when we got her out here in the gully,
messieurs, and madame wept, then my heart turned, and I
would have none of the business. I am a fore-damned
scoundrel, beyond doubt, and hell will be my portion. But
I love the ladies, the pretty dears! Me, I am a Frenchman,
and gallant where the sex is concerned. . . . So we quarreled,
the Tawarek and I — and he did this to me, you remark.
However, I evened up matters with the gentleman, somewhat.
I shot one of his camels, and kept him away from the other,
so that he had to go away finally afoot, with madame perched
atop the other beast – and weeping. I tried to shoot him,
too, but he kept away. The other camel is around the bend
of the gully up there, messieurs; when the sun came up I had
to crawl to this rock for shelter, and leave the brute.
“I trust that you will catch Monsieur Ibeni, and serve
him as he served me. Otherwise . . . It has been a great
farce, has it not, messieurs? We have all been fooled -
myself and Monsieur le Prince and Monsieur Lemercier and
madame. All — except the Tawarek, with whom God at
least will deal. Ah-h-h!”
Thus blaspheming, he shuddered and died.
By rights, wounded as he was, he should have been dead
[149]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
before they found him; a magnificent hardihood had sus-
tained him, aided by a desire to be revenged upon the Ta-
warek, and to laugh at those whom he had hoodwinked.
They buried him without ceremony beneath a pile of rocks
— as fitting a grave, possibly, as he deserved.
As for O’Rourke, he had not waited for the end of the nar-
rative. The man's gestures had told them which direction
the Tawarek had taken with his captive; to the east, up the
gully called the Wadi Saglat. Without an instant's delay
O'Rourke rounded the farther bend in the gully's walls, and
there discovered the camel, hobbled, of which the man Soly
had spoken — a magnificent animal, a racing dromedary,
beyond doubt the flower of the Tawarek’s stable. This
O'Rourke knew from former experience with camels in the
Soudan; and than this he had never seen a finer beast, he
told himself.
He tightened its surcingle, unhobbled the beast, blessing
it and keeping out of the way of its curling lips and sharp,
white teeth. When ready, he mounted, and gave the word
to proceed. The dun-colored beast arose by sections —
first the one hind quarter, then the other, then the fore quar-
ters with one sudden, tremendous lurch; O’Rourke shouted
at it a native word of command. It started forward swiftly,
long neck outstretched, up the gully of the Wadi Saglat,
bearing the Irishman into the unknown wilds of the desert.
O'Rourke was without food or water, without protection
from the sun; he had nothing to depend upon but this camel,
his Mauser, and the high, bold heart of him.
But that was light; for he knew that he was going to rescue
madame.
[15ol


CHAPTER XVI
HE RACES WITH DEATH
THE desert is no level plain; it rolls in vast steppes, with
long, wavelike undulations, much like a wind-swept sea
miraculously petrified.
Ibeni, the Tawarek, unable to compete with the range of
Soly’s Mauser, at length gave it up; dawn approached too
nearly; he had a long journey to make up the Wadi ere he
should dare to show himself upon the surface of the desert.
Swearing copiously with childish rage he emptied at Soly
the last cartridges of the revolver which O'Rourke had pre-
sented him; and had the vain pleasure of seeing the bullets
plow up the sand and ricochet from the sun-baked, rocklike
walls of the gully.
Soly replied with a shot that sent up a spurt of dust too
near the feet of the Tawarek for comfort; he took up his long
rifle and aimed carefully for the head of the dun racer; at
least, if he might not have it, the Frenchman should not.
Again his shot fell short; and Soly sent a bullet whose wind
nipped the cheek of Ibeni.
Seizing the swaying lanyard of the pack camel the Ta-
warek retreated hastily another fifty yards; he was out of the
range there, and also out of sight of the Frenchman. More-
over, he had but two loads for his rifle, and these he dared
not waste. With them gone he would be at the mercy of
chance, dependent wholly upon his long knife.
It was cruel to leave his precious racer there, but it seemed
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He Races with Death
The sun rose, gathering power, and glared down terribly
upon the domain over which it held sway, undisputed and
indomitable. The hoofs of the camel raised a yellow mist
of dust; on its back madame swayed, half-unconscious, cut
cruelly by the ropes, in a daze of suffering. The Tawarek
drew up his mask until nothing remained but the very nar-
rowest of slits to see through.
Slowly the morning wore on; the pack camel trotted spirit-
lessly, its master plodding, mute, desperate. The heat grew
well-nigh unbearable, beating down fiercely from directly
above. The desert shimmered in a saffron sheen of torridity;
the sands had become as hot to the touch as clinkers fresh
from the pit. Overhead the sky lowered, white hot to the
eye, infernally dazzling.
Thus they proceeded for hours that seemed as eons to the
suffering woman; she had long ceased to have coherent
thought. She had abandoned hope. There was naught
for her but endurance and – death by her own hand so soon
as she might be able to make an opportunity.
At noon the camel lifted its head and sniffed, then length-
ened its stride. Ibeni cried out hoarsely with his parched
and dusty lips and throat; for the oasis of Zamara could not
be far, now that the camel had scented the water.
Madame heard, but without care or comprehension.
There was now only one thing that could rouse her from her
lethargy. And that was to come.
Zamara was still afar when the report of a rifle caused the
Tawarek to turn his head; at the same moment a spoonful
of sand rose from the face of the desert, on the off side of the
camel; it sailed almost a yard in the air, feathered and dis-
appeared.
Ibeni blasphemed by all the gods in the Mohammedan
[I53]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
calendar; he reached up to the long rifle which swung at the
side of the pack camel.
They were in the middle of a saucer-like depression in the
desert. Ahead of them was a league-long grade, behind
them a similar one, which they had just covered. And down
this latter slope was coming the heat-distorted shape of the
dun racer, with a man upon his back — grotesque as a
chimera, a full mile behind, yet looming so huge through
the haze that it seemed as though Ibeni would be overtaken
in another moment.
He loaded the rifle, calling to the camel to halt, waiting
patiently for the pursuer to get within range. He was not
greatly afraid; for behind, in Zamara, his warriors would
soon be hearing the fusillade and sallying out to his rescue.
The pack camel sheered off to one side; the dun racer came
on steadily. Ibeni dropped to his knee, and took aim, resting
the long rifle firmly to insure accuracy. Still he waited; still
the dun racer neared, growing in size, a huge, splendid target.
A minute passed; now he felt that he might not miss. He
fired.
Fruitlessly? For the dun racer continued to approach
relentlessly at top speed. He heard the report of a Mauser,
and a scream; a quick glance aside showed him that the pack
camel had fallen upon its knees, and was threatening to roll
upon and crush the woman in its death agony.
That was the last thing his eyes rested upon on earth;
O'Rourke fired again, almost at random, risking everything,
even the woman he loved, in the necessity of saving her from
what was, if not death itself, worse than death.
The Tawarek shrieked piercingly. He sprang suddenly
to his feet, throwing out his arms to the brazen sky, as though
invoking the aid of Allah. His eyes were glassy; blood
[I54]


He Races with Death
trickled from the corners of his mouth. He recognized that
he was done for, at last. With one final supreme effort he
reeled, faced about and fell with his head to the east, toward
Mecca.
O'Rourke did not stop; the dun racer passed the fallen
Tawarek with giant, league-consuming strides, and as it did
so, to make all things sure, the Irishman sent another bullet
into the prone body.
Simultaneously he gave the cry for halt, dropped the rifle
and leaped from the back of the racer, while yet at full speed,
landing on his feet by the head of the wounded camel.
It was kneeling, swaying from side to side, its long-lashed
eyes wide with pain, fast glazing. O'Rourke was by the
saddle in one spring; he drew his knife and cut the ropes that
bound madame, wrenched her from the back of the pack
animal just as it slumped over upon its side, kicking spas-
modically in its death struggle.
For a moment he held the woman he loved in his arms —
there, with nothing above them but the wide, blazing sky,
with nothing about but the seething sands, with none to ob-
serve but the well-trained dun racer, that had halted a few
feet distant.
She was conscious; by a magnificent demand upon her
courage she had staved off the faintness which was clutching
at her sentience.
There was a breathless pause, while he collected his facul-
ties for action; hitherto every atom of him had seemed con-
centrated on the purpose of overtaking madame; now it was
with an effort that he remembered the equal necessity of
encompassing a return to El Kebr.
Perhaps it was an outside influence that finally brought
him to active knowledge of what he must do. Faint, far-
[I55]


He Races with Death
it began to move briskly, gathered impetus, and was going
at racing speed, the Irishman running by its side, half
pulled along by the loop from the surcingle.
In the beginning he managed fairly well. But the long
slope to the rim of the saucer made fearful demands upon the
reserve of air that he held in his great chest. He reached
the rim, crossed it half fainting, getting his breath hardly.
Beyond it was not so bad; there was a grateful down-
ward grade, along which he sprang, carried partly by his own
momentum; the speed of the dromedary became terrific.
It was excited by the commotion in the rear; evidently the
Tawareks had come upon the body of their dead leader,
Ibeni. Long, wailing howls conquered the silence itself,
overpowering as that was, filling the void between heaven
and earth with nerve-racking, long-drawn wails of lamenta-
tion and grief and rage, punctuated with ominous rifle shots.
These acted upon the dun racer as a stimulant; it lowered
its long, scrawny neck until it seemed that its head almost
touched the sands, and stretched out its slim, knobby legs,
rocking from right to left like a ship in a heavy sea, devouring
fathoms of the desert at a stride.
Its motion robbed madame of strength; she shut her eyes,
struggling with the nausea induced upon the novice by camel
riding. Thus she could not see O’Rourke; it was as well.
Two miles they covered, ere his breath began to give out.
The hot sands burnt through the soles of his shoes, the sun
above seemed to strike into his body piercingly, to the very
core of the man. He struggled on: better to die thus than
to become a goal for Tawarek bullets. His arm through the
loop aided him wonderfully; the dun racer sped fleetly, as
though it were not dragging a weary load of man in addition
to the burden of the woman.
[157]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Somehow, that strange thing termed the second wind came
to O'Rourke, at a time when he felt himself in his last ex-
tremity, when his lungs ached and burned, when his legs were
moving only automatically in obedience to his iron will. This
happened when they had put a distance of something like
four miles between them and the scene of the tragedy.
He revived a trifle; his head that had been hanging erected
itself, he stared out toward El Kebr that he could not have
seen had it been within sight, his eyeballs starting from their
sockets. For a brief space the strain grew lighter.
He mended his stride, hanging less like a dead weight
upon the loop; for a little while it swung loosely upon his
arm.
After them came the chase, marked by a pillar of yellow
dust raised by the flying hoofs of the camels; it seemed that
they gained — the pursuers — for the cloud grew nearer and
nearer, larger and larger, and the yells sounded more loudly.
But of these the fugitives were unaware; they had neither
thought nor desire to look back. It was nothing to them
whether the chase were near or far; there was naught thought
of, save to maintain the going, no matter how.
Again the Irishman’s head sank; his chin fell and waggled
loosely upon his chest; the sun was claiming him for its prey.
His mouth gaped open, his tongue protruded, dry as a bone,
white-caked with the sand and dust that flew about him in
minute particles. His nostrils were distended to their ut-
most, straining in the dry and superheated air.
He lost the sense of motion in his legs, – nearly lost con-
sciousness. For some time the desert had been rising and
falling; now it reeled dizzily about him, swirling like a
maelstrom in a blood-red flood. His heart labored mightily,
beating with trip-hammer blows upon the walls of his chest;
[158]


He Races with Death,
and his lungs were like twin crucibles brimming with molten
metal. -
An inquisition could have devised no torture more sublime;
practically the man was already dead; only that something
which was death-defying in his make-up, that determination
almost superhuman, held him upon his feet, and kept those
digging into the sand and spurning it to the rear, in time to
the rocking of the dun racer.
Before them, after many ages had crashed on into infinity,
loomed the green walls of El Kebr. Behind, the Tawareks
had drawn so nigh that they were encouraged to take pot-
shots that flew wide and far because of the staggering pace
of their own camels; the which made aiming impossible, a
hit a miracle. -
But of all this neither of the fugitives comprehended aught;
the woman had passed into a merciful unconsciousness and
had slipped forward in her fastenings upon the saddle of the
dromedary, jerking back and forth and from side to side,
mechanically, with a flaccid and puppet-like motion horribly
suggestive of a lifeless thing.
O'Rourke plunged still on, as automatically, knowing noth-
ing, more than anything else imaginable resembling a dead
man mocking the action of the living. His eyes stood wide
open and seemed to glare downwards at the streaking desert
sands—that were not sands but fire solidified, even as the air
was not atmosphere, but fire pure and immaculate; but the
staring eyeballs were fixed and sightless, spheres of exquisite
pain in their sockets, caked like his tongue with the impalpable
sand drift of the desert. His ears were filled with a thunder-
ing that rolled ever louder and stronger and more maddening.
The color of his face had gone from ruddy bronze to scarlet,
from scarlet to purple, and from purple had merged into the
[I59]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
dense black hue of congestion; on his temples the great,
swollen veins stood out like black cords, distended and throb-
bing almost to the bursting point; and presently from his
nostrils there trickled slowly a sluggish, dark hemorrhage.
Yet they racked on, pursuers and pursued, the hunters and
the hunted, the quick and the dead — a nightmare-like vision
of a dead man fleeing with his beloved from a ruthless and
vengeful mob of fiends; all in that day of brass and fire.
•k >k k >k k >k >k sk
Alarmed by the crackling of the Tawarek rifles, the im-
perial guard of Leopold le Premier, l’Empereur du Sahara,
suddenly emerged in force and checked the pursuit.
But when they picked up the corpse-like body of O’Rourke
and bore him back into the cool recesses of the oasis, they
quite failed to recognize their leader; nor, possibly, would
they ever have done so, save by processes of deduction —
for he was quite unrecognizable – had not Madame la
Princesse revived sufficiently to breathe to her brother a
fragmentary account of the manner of her rescue.
[160]


CHAPTER XVII
HE HAS WON THE RACE
THROUGHOUT the afternoon the Tawareks hung about El
Kebr, keeping well out in the desert, beyond the farthest
range of the invaders' firearms. They circled the oasis,
warily, on the alert, from time to time giving tongue to
fierce cries — signals, apparently, from one to another.
The little garrison of the oasis was left without an actual
leader; le petit Lemercier, of course, was nominally the head
of his empire, but without some more resolute nature to fall
back upon in times of stress, lacking at his elbow some man
of decided character, whether for good or for evil — such as
O’Rourke, or Chambret, or even Monsieur le Prince — Leo-
pold was invertebrate, vacillating, fearful alike of stepping
forward or back.
Mouchon and his co-loiterer, D'Ervy, were naturally
neither soldiers nor such men as O'Rourke's tried troopers
could take orders from and retain their own self-respect. In
such case the conduct of the soldiers devolved upon their own
heads; and to their credit be it said that they behaved as true
fighting men — went about their business as coolly and com-
posedly as though O'Rourke himself were directing their
mOWementS.
By mutual consent they selected one man to act as their
captain until O'Rourke should recover. This fellow, the
Turco, Mahmud — he who had awakened the Irishman
with news of murder — had served for years on the Alge-
[ 161 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
rian frontier, part of the time with the camel corps. He
was cool-headed and clear-sighted — a man skilled in the
ways of the desert, and acquainted with Tawarek methods
of warfare.
Mahmud ordered affairs precisely as though he had been
discharging the wishes of O’Rourke. He posted the pickets,
charging them to increased vigilance throughout the day as
well as during the night — though that were scarcely neces-
sary, with the fate of their comrades ever in the minds of the
men.
Drowsily the afternoon wore out its long, hot hours —
hours punctuated by the cries of the far-swooping natives,
by the calls of the pickets, and by an occasional bitter snap!
as a Mauser cracked warning to some too ambitious or too
daring Tawarek.
Madame had recovered; after a short interview with the
nerveless and indifferent emperor—who stuck to his tent and
to his champagne that was cooled by lowering the bottles
to the bottom of the wells — Princess Beatrix had the un-
conscious Irishman conveyed to her own marquee, where,
with the solitary assistance of a Spahi, she tended O’Rourke
faithfully, doing what she might to restore his life to the man
who had so nearly given it up to save her own.
But it seemed that there was not much she could do; and
the fear that what she contrived for his comfort was all too
inadequate struck into the heart of madame terribly – as
nothing, not even the unhappiness of her married life, not
even the almost maternal love she bore her scapegrace
brother, had ever stirred her.
O'Rourke lay motionless as a log, scarce breathing for a
time; he had passed into a coma of utter exhaustion. The
sluggish blood seemed hardly to stir in his arteries; his pulse
[162 |


He has Won the Race
that for a time had boomed fiercely now crawled haltingly—
as slow, as imperceptible as the shifting of the desert sands.
His breath was so casual, his respiration so slight as to be
almost inaudible; he had run himself dry, and not an atom
of moisture stood out upon his fevered body. His face re-
mained the color of that imperial purple which Leopold saw
in his dreams.
They — the dainty and refined princess, and the swart,
rough soldier, together — labored over the Irishman inces-
santly, bathing him with the cool water from the wells, forcing
swallows of water down his throat — his throat that had so
swollen that he had almost died of strangulation.
But still his temperature continued so high that to touch
his flesh was like putting a finger upon a heated stove; still he
breathed so faintly as merely to dim the mirror which the
princess held to his lips; still his blood seemed to stagnate
in his veins.
In the end, indeed, it was to the Spahi that the credit for
saving him must be given. The man, inured to the desert
suns, remembered somewhat of the proper treatment for heat
exhaustion, according to desert tradition. He left madame
suddenly, without a word, and returned with Mahmud.
Mahmud eyed the Irishman narrowly, then turned and went
to the tent of Mouchon.
He stalked in without ceremony. Mouchon, lying listless
upon his cot, jumped up, angry at the intrusion.
“What does this mean?” he demanded furiously.
“Monsieur,” responded the Turco roughly, and to the
point, “indulges in opium. I have seen it.” -
“You lie –”
“Monsieur le General lies at the point of death. Opium
may save him. Give it me, monsieur.”
[ 163 ]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“I have none —”
“Monsieur!”
Mahmud caught the little Frenchman by the back of the
neck and shook him as a terrier does a rat.
“The opium!” he demanded, releasing Mouchon.
A third appeal was not necessary. The frightened fellow
produced his little phial of white tablets. Mahmud saluted
ceremoniously and left, returning to the tent of the princess.
Respectfully he requested her to withdraw, and to allow
him and the Spahi time to operate on O’Rourke. She re-
fused calmly, and he acquiesced as calmly and accepted her
assistance in the dosing of O’Rourke with morphine and in
something that was a worse trial to the nerves of the delicate
woman — blood letting. A vein was opened in O’Rourke's
arm; it saved his life.
Evening brought with it a breeze — the cold breeze that
springs up, unaccountably, out of the sands. It helped. By
nine in the evening O'Rourke was breathing more freely; he
was perspiring slightly; his temperature was lower, his face
of a color more nearly normal.
At midnight the woman was shivering with the cold;
O'Rourke, at whose side she sat, was aflame with fever —
but perspiring. He was saved.
Towards morning he moved for the first time since he had
fallen at the end of his terrific run; he stirred, moaned, shut
his mouth, opened his eyes – they were staring horribly —
and began to babble.
The ripple of the words, born of his febrile hallucinations
and of the action of the opium upon his overstrained brain,
was as music to the soul of madame. For a little while she
bowed her head upon her arms and wept for happiness.
[164]


He has Won the Race
As for the Spahi, he rose and left the tent. His work was
done; thereafter madame was competent. And, moreover,
with instinctive delicacy, this son of the desert did not wish
to be present when O’Rourke should come to his right senses.
He was not of a strongly intuitive nature, that Spahi; but he
could hazard a shrewd guess how matters stood with the
heart of Madame la Princesse.
Presently, however, the tears of madame ceased. She be-
gan to listen to the words that fluttered between the clenched
teeth of O’Rourke. For an hour she harkened — breathless
— sometimes with her hand gripping hard above her heart
as if to still its tumult in her bosom, at times more calmly,
yet always with a great joy shining in her eyes.
Towards dawn there came a lull; the Irishman seemed
again deep in stupor. But this was not a dangerous con-
dition; it has become more rest than coma; he was recu-
perating.
“I dare leave him for a moment,” considered Princess
Beatrix.
She rose slowly and went to the door of the tent, looking
over her shoulder at each step, reluctant to leave him even
for a second. And yet – she must know. And the man
lay quiescent as a child, breathing evenly as an infant by its
mother's side.
She drew aside the flap of the tent, and stepped out.
It was barely the verge of that breathing twilight that pre-
cedes the dawn. The oasis was silent and dark; not a sound
came to her ears to indicate that a soul moved within its
borders. Only in her brother's tent a faint light glimmered,
only at the edge of the date grove a dim palpitation of dusk
seemed to be trembling, as if hesitant to intrude upon the
immense sanctity of the night.
[165]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
She paused, looked back again, listening, then hurriedly
fled to the marquee of Monsieur l’Empereur. By the door a
form stepped to her side and saluted — a sentry.
She gasped with surprise — so suddenly had he come upon
her.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“A guard for Monsieur l’Empereur, madame.”
“By whose order?”
“His own.”
“And there was no sentry ordered for me?” she asked
bitterly.
The sentry was silent for a moment; then:
“Monsieur l’Empereur gave no order, madame. Possibly
he knew that there was no need — that each man of us would
lay down his life for madame — or for Monsieur le General
O’Rourke.”
“Possibly,” she responded sharply, aware of the implied
criticism of her brother's selfishness that had been in her
question as much as in the sentry's reply. “Awake mon-
sieur,” she commanded. “Tell him I must speak to him.
Then – go to the tent of Monsieur Mouchon and inform
him that his presence is desired here.”
Two minutes later Mouchon, staggering, rubbing his eyes,
entered the marquee of le petit Lemercier. He was at once
confronted by madame.
Lemercier, himself blinking with sleep, was sitting on the
edge of his cot, striving to appear at ease.
“Monsieur,” demanded the woman in a tone that instantly
wakened both of the drowsy men, “I insist upon the truth.”
“What truth, madame?” asked Mouchon, opening wide
his eyes.
“The truth, monsieur! I warn you not to trifle with me!
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He has Won the Race
I understand that you accompanied Monsieur le Prince” –
Mouchon started – “to the Eirene, last night?”
“That is so, madame.”
“Who accompanied you?”
“Monsieur Chambret and the Irish adventurer —”
“You mean Monsieur O’Rourke? Then name him so.
He is more of a man than either of you, messieurs, who
sneer at him—‘adventurer’! What happened? Tell me!”
she insisted imperiously.
“Nothing, madame. Monsieur le Prince decided to go
to Las Palmas —”
“And went — where? Come, the truth!”
Mouchon read determination in her attitude; he dared not
resist her. He could not evade the answer, and yet . . .
“Monsieur O'Rourke told me not to tell on peril of my
life,” he murmured abjectly.
“Nevertheless, you had best tell me all. What hap-
pened?”
She stamped her foot. Le petit Lemercier, suddenly com-
prehending the drift of her inquiries, nodded approvingly.
“Speak up, Mouchon!” he encouraged his courtier.
Mouchon might not delay; he was a man of no stability, as
has been indicated; he capitulated gracefully. In a few
vivid words he outlined the tragedy that had made madame
a widow — strong words they were, picturing the duel
sharply, for the soul of the little Frenchman, or what served
him for a soul, had been deeply moved by the horror of the
thing. -
He paused at the end. Lemercier, on his feet, staring
blankly, dazed by the unexpectedness of the news, stupefied
by the loss of the man who had been his constant mentor –
Lemercier seemed to see the body on the sands, with Mou-
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
chon digging a narrow trench beside it, with Chambret
and O'Rourke conversing amiably aside — for it was as
hardened murderers that Mouchon had imaged them in his
narrative.
“The assassins!” cried Lemercier, first to find his tongue.
But madame had slipped to the floor; again she was sob-
bing, her face covered with her hands – weeping such tears
as the condemned criminal weeps when unexpectedly par-
doned.
Mouchon did not comprehend. He looked from madame,
the reality of whose emotion he might not question, to Le-
mercier. Mouchon knew that there had been little affection
between madame and Prince Felix; and he fancied that the
time was ripe for a move to ingratiate himself into the place
the dead blackguard had left vacant in the graces of Leopold.
He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, in humor-
ous deprecation of madame's attitude.
“This is truly touching —” he began.
Then le petit Lemercier was guilty of the manliest act of
his life. His hand fell smartly across Mouchon’s mouth.
“You puppy!” he cried. “Get out!”
Mouchon, his face flaming with resentment, hastily left the
marquee. Lemercier sank into a chair, gazing at nothing,
strangely conscious of a sensation as of relief – as though
shackles had been struck from his wrists.
There followed a long silence, broken only at first by
madame's subdued sigh—then suddenly shattered by the
report of a rifle.
Another followed — and another — barking Mausers all;
but in between the shots there rang faint echoes from afar.
“The Tawareks — attacking!” cried Lemercier, his face
the hue of ashes.
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He has Won the Race
Madame was already beyond the reach of his voice, hasten-
ing toward her marquee. Something had told her what to
fear.
And her fears were justified. The marquee was empty;
the cot whereon O’Rourke had reposed stood unoccupied.
[169]


CHAPTER XVIII
HE FINDS HIMSELF IN DEEP WATERS
HE had been lying motionless, deep down in the silent
depths of an ocean of recuperative unconsciousness; complete
inertia had been numbing his every faculty; he had slept
the sleep that follows a prolonged struggle with death –
slumbers which should have lasted for hours.
Yet to him the crack of that first Mauser had been like
the crack of a whiplash to a drowsy horse. The second
report had not sounded ere he was on his feet — reeling, it is
true, but nevertheless standing. Automatically the man’s
hand went across his eyes, to brush away the cobwebs of
slumber. Mechanically he looked about him, but saw
nothing; he was not thinking: a single idea possessed him to
the exclusion of all else. His exhausted vitality rallied to
his support in the work he had to do; but his weary brain
had strength to comprehend but one thing. He did not
understand that he was in Madame la Princesse's marquee,
so he did not wonder at the manner of his coming there.
He did not know that he was too weak to move about alone,
so he did not hesitate to exert himself.
Simply that he was called upon to help repulse an attack
by the Tawareks — that was his whole and only thought.
It naturally followed that there was naught to be done but
to obey the duty call; and he responded, if mechanically.
In an instant he was outside the marquee, staggering to-
ward the nearest edge of the oasis. Somewhere he blundered
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He Finds Himself in Deep Waters
into the figure of a man who clapped his arms about
O'Rourke. This was Mahmud, but O’Rourke did not know
it. He was being hindered — that was all. And he threw
the Turco from him as though he had been a mere child.
The Turco glimpsed the outlines of his face in the dark-
ness, and gasped with astonishment. Again he caught the
Irishman by the arm.
“But, my general –!” he expostulated.
He was brushed aside like a feather. O’Rourke took a
step forward, then instinctively understood that he was un-
armed. He returned to Mahmud.
“Bring me a gun,” he said dully.
“But, my general—”
“Bring me a gun!”
His tone was lifeless, yet charged with something terribly
menacing, to the Turco's imagination. Mahmud gasped
and trembled; this being whom he had thought man must
be either god or devil; otherwise he could not have moved
from his cot.
Mahmud called upon Allah. O’Rourke raised his hand
slowly.
“Bring me a gun!” he reiterated, in the same dead mono-
tone. -
A soldier passed on the run, carrying his Mauser at the
trail. Mahmud leaped after and wrested the weapon from
him. The man was naturally angry; he disputed at the top
of his voice.
Mahmud pointed simply at the waiting figure of O'Rourke,
whose eyes were fixed upon them with a stony, threatening
expression. The soldier almost collapsed.
“Allah!” he cried.
“Find another rifle,” whispered the awed Mahmud, “and
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
follow him. He is more than man. There will be fighting
now.”
Mahmud's eyes glittered strangely; he scented the super-
natural, and divined that there would be battle and blood-
shed, indeed, where this god — or demon unchained —
would fight.
He left the gaping soldier and stuck close to the heels of
O'Rourke. Presently he broke into a dog trot, the better to
keep up with his general. In a moment an idea presented
itself, seeming good to Mahmud. It would be well to pro-
pitiate this being. “Here, master,” he muttered reverently,
pressing his revolver into the hand of the Irishman.
O'Rourke accepted without a word and hastened on.
They were nearing the edge of the oasis. In front of them
a French ex-artilleryman lay prone upon the ground, behind
a little hill of sand he had heaped up for himself, and fired
out into the vibrating dusk. The flashes of his shots were
keen crimson and gold in the half light.
At his shoulder O'Rourke stopped, peering out over the
face of the desert. Afar he saw a tongue of flame leap out;
the report followed, with the whine of a bullet clipping along
very near to them.
O'Rourke swung the Mauser to his cheek and pulled the
trigger, aiming for the spot where the flash had been. Per-
haps the Tawarek took the hint and moved on; but for some
time there were no more shots from behind that sandhill.
O'Rourke turned to the ex-artilleryman.
“Ye are overbold, mon ami,” he said, with a flicker of
smile. “I advise that ye retreat to the shelter of the trees.”
The Frenchman recognized the leader, swore with amaze-
ment, and obeyed hastily. Mahmud followed O'Rourke.
Together the two made a circuit of the picket line, warning
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He Finds Himself in Deep Waters
the men to fall back and screen themselves with the trunks of
date palms. In every case the trooper obeyed with a celer-
ity that was heightened by his supreme surprise that a man
who should he dead by rights was contrarily walking, talking
and commanding.
Mahmud once ventured an explanation.
“I posted these men out here, master,” he murmured
deferentially, “that they might the better watch the desert.”
“Ye did right, under the circumstances; but now the situa-
tion is altered. We must protect every man — we shall need
them all.”
“Truly,” muttered Mahmud to himself, “this is prophecy!
Truly we shall see great fighting before nightfall.”
Inspired or not, O'Rourke was speaking simple truth; they
were to need every man ere long. Their little force had been
sadly decimated of late; there remained in and about the
oasis scarcely thirty fighting men. And as to the number of
Tawareks — who could tell? They might easily outnumber
the invaders ten to one, each inspired by rabid ferocity and
the desire to avenge the death of the leader whom O'Rourke
had slain.
Why they had held off so long, was the question. To
Mahmud's mind there was only one answer; they had been
awaiting reinforcements from an oasis more distant than
Zamara, with whose aid they expected to exterminate the
French party to the last man.
Under cover of the night, too, they had improved their
position; as was evidenced by the nearer line of fire, they
had pushed daringly in toward the oasis, taking up sheltered
posts on dunes that brought them within easy range of the
invaders.
In event of a combined attack from any one quarter, the
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
foreigners were doomed; O'Rourke dared not draw off a
single man from a single picket to help repel the Tawareks.
And had he been able to do so, as he justly considered, what
were thirty men against three hundred or more? They
would be mowed down like grain before a scythe, were they
not crushed by sheer superior force of numbers.
Indeed, he recognized the situation as sufficiently desperate
to call for heroic measures; what such measures were to be
he could not determine.
He ordered Mahmud, peremptorily, to pick out the tallest
palm tree in the grove, and to climb it to the top, whence he
would be able to command a wide view of the surrounding
desert; the better to survey which O'Rourke told the man to
fetch the fieldglasses from his tent.
Mahmud complied with all haste; while he was away,
O'Rourke again made the rounds of the pickets, finding two
dead.
And the fire of the Tawareks was being kept up with
fiendish persistency. Once or twice he fancied that they
were steadily drawing closer in upon the oasis, undaunted
by the equally persistent and probably more effective rifle
practice of his own men. -
By now, the brain of the Irishman was clearing; some store
of reserve force within the man had been tapped; an unsus-
pected supply of nervous energy was urging him on. He
stood erect, without tremor; he thought quickly and to the
point, finding no difficulty in commanding his mental powers;
he spoke steadily and sharply, issuing his orders with his
accustomed élan.
Small wonder, then, that Mahmud reverenced and feared
him as a war deity — whether celestially or infernally in-
spired. Small wonder that the men sprang with alacrity to
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He Finds Himself in Deep Waters
execute his commands; and small wonder that Madame la
Princesse, when at last she found him standing absorbed
and intent by the side of a sharpshooter, forbore to interfere.
She could not understand, but she knew that now expostu-
lation would prove as vain as it would have been on the pre-
vious day when he had prepared to start upon his marvelous
TalCe.
Almost timidly she crept to his side, and tentatively she
touched his sleeve; and abstracted as the man was, he knew
the featherweight of her fingers on his arm and found time
to revel in the thrill of it. Nevertheless, it was with a coun-
tenance informed with concern that he turned to greet her.
For they stood directly exposed to the fire of the Tawareks.
“Madame!” he cried. “Why, this is madness! Ye
should be — back there”—indicating the center of the camp.
“As well one place as another, monsieur,” she said, as
brightly as she might. “There is no security here. Only
a moment ago” – her expression saddened – “Monsieur
d'Ervy was struck down in his tent by a stray bullet.”
“Struck?” he demanded. “Where? Killed?”
She nodded affirmatively.
Mahmud approached to report, saluting.
“Well?” inquired O'Rourke impatiently.
“The desert is alive with Tawareks, master.”
“Yes, yes; I knew that. Where are they concentrating?”
“To the north and the east, monsieur. To the west —
along the way to the coast — they are very few.”
O'Rourke nodded. “So I thought. Listen —”
Madame could hear, above the din of firing, an endless
series of the peculiar wailing calls which she had come to
know so well as essentially characteristic of the Tawareks.
“They have been signaling to one another for half an
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
hour,” explained O'Rourke. “I inferred that they were
massing for a direct attack at some one point. It is to come
from the west then, d'ye think, Mahmud P”
“Yes, master.”
“Very well; we will disappoint them for a little while,
madame.”
g & HOW P”
“By leaving the oasis.”
“But that is certain death.”
“Not so certain as though we concluded to stay here and
die like rats in a trap, one by one picked off by their fire or
crushed out by an overwhelming charge. No, madame;
their object is to force us to the coast,- to sweep us into the
sea. And we had best precede them. Out there,” he went
on, “we can stand them off better than here, as we did once
before. And there is always the hope that the Eirene may
have returned.”
“At least, that is our only hope, monsieur,” she corrected,
smiling bravely.
“Yes, madame,” he conceded with gravity. “Mahmud,”
—his tone changed to one of command, – “concentrate
all the men at a point opposite the way to the sea — all, that
is, except a dozen or less who shall scatter here, on the east,
and keep up a fire till the last moment, for appearances' sake.
Be quick!”
But already the Turco was gone.
“Madame,” asserted O'Rourke, turning to the woman,
“ye are brave?”
“I do not fear death, monsieur.”
“And – and ye will obey?”
She looked steadfastly and deep into the eyes of him.
“In all things, monsieur,” she said softly, “and forever.”
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He Finds Himself in Deep Waters
“Madame!” He was dazed by her manner; he could not
credit the evidence of his senses as to the tenderness of her
tone, as to the light that glowed in her eyes.
No; he told himself his wish had been father to his thought.
He had misunderstood. He looked away.
“Listen,” he said rapidly; “this is me plan: At the mouth
of the Wadi Saglat, madame, there lies beached one of the
catamaran rafts which the Eirene left behind her when she
sailed. It will accommodate six at the most. We shall make
for that; if we gain it, ye will go aboard with Monsieur l'Em-
pereur and Mouchon. There is a sail, – maybe a breeze.”
“But as for you, monsieur?” she demanded.
“I remain with me men to cover your retreat. No-don’t
dispute. 'Tis the only way.”
She bowed her head, apparently yielding; but in her heart
she was determined implacably that she would not desert this
man who offered so debonnairely to lay down his life for her.
O'Rourke stepped to the western edge of the oasis; from
the indications of the Tawarek fire he made little doubt but
that practically all of the enemy's forces were massing in the
east, as Mahmud had reported. Already his own men were
gathering and making ready for the dash to the sea.
The adventurer found himself worried with a vague un-
easiness unconnected with the desperate situation that
menaced his comrades and the woman he loved. It was not
that he was himself frightened, or that he feared death: death
was his ultimate portion, a soldier's inevitable fate; he was
prepared to accept it uncomplainingly, when it should come.
But there seemed to be something awry with the day; its very
atmosphere hung motionless, lifeless, indefinitely depressing.
It struck him that the heat seemed more sultry even than
usual.
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He Finds Himself in Deep Waters
the borders of the oasis the troopers lay at length, hugging
the stocks of their Mausers to their lean cheeks, firing dog-
gedly, waiting. They had their instructions as to action in
the apprehended event, and were impatient.
Presently, and with startling abruptness, the fire of the
Tawareks ceased entirely; beyond the nearest rises of the
desert a dead and ominous silence reigned, unbroken.
The jaundiced light of day became more intense, seeming
to grow imperceptibly more opaque. In the east a white
feather of cloud hung trembling on the horizon.
“Cease firing!”
At O'Rourke's command the troopers obeyed. “Re-
load!” he told them, and: “Fall back to the guns!” They
did so in silence, casting sullen glances over their shoulders
at the vast, vacant, terrible desert.
O'Rourke himself reloaded his Mauser, looking to his
revolvers, and followed them to the gatlings.
A single shot rang out in the stillness, with the effect of a
tocsin heralding a massacre.
In another instant the enemy was in sight, advancing upon
the oasis in battle array, afoot and on camelback, at a quick
trot, their white burnooses flapping out behind them, wing-
like, glistening in the sun. They seemed well-generaled;
not a cry rang out, not a man paused to kneel and fire; they
came on steadily and silently, implacably determined, as if
assured of their absolute irresistibility—a gorgeous array in
their many-hued garments, with the sunlight glinting off their
arms and the trappings of their camels: a sight to strike
terror into hearts less veteran than those of O’Rourke and
his men.
Turning, the Irishman sent his voice booming across the
oasis, to the other party.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Forward!” he cried.
In reply, Mahmud's echo told him that his word was
heard.
And now the Tawareks were very near, coming on swiftly.
They were not dreaming of the rapid-fire guns, which as yet
had not been made use of for lack of a target sufficiently
important.
O'Rourke waited; his heart hot within him, determined to
even somewhat his long score with the men of the desert.
He waited — while the men tugged impatiently at his leash.
Then —
“Fire / ?”
With one accord the gatlings began to chatter shrilly; they
had been accurately trained upon the advancing host; the
pelting rain of leaden death swept along their line, mowing
it down mercilessly. The Tawareks shrieked rage and dis-
may, calling upon Allah; they tried to return the fire pro-
miscuously from their rifles.
And the gatlings jabbered on. But the Tawareks were
in overwhelming force and invincible. Their enormous
losses were disregarded; the huge, terrible swaths in their
line were refilled eagerly by others, keen for death and the
heavenly houris who attend upon the souls of those of the
true faith who fall in battle.
When they were too near, and then only, O’Rourke gave
up the fight. He issued the order to abandon the gat-
lings, which were simultaneously effectually dismantled; the
dozen men gathered up their Mausers and swung in at his
heels.
For a moment or two there had been firing to the west.
This now was silenced. O’Rourke and his command emerged
from the shade of the date palms to see the last man of the
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He Finds Himself in Deep Waters
leading party slinking over the top of a sandhill, his rifle at
trail. It was Mahmud, who turned, waved a hand and
waited.
A short, quick dash under the broiling sun brought
O’Rourke to his side.
“Here there were only six or eight, master,” reported Mah-
mud. “We put to flight such as we did not slay.”
“Good,” breathed O’Rourke. “And now for it!”
He tightened his belt and gave the command for the double-
quick; the forward party heard and mended their pace. In
the rear the Tawareks were just bursting through the oasis,
howling.
Despite the fact that the foreigners had the start, the
Tawareks gained. Halfway to the sea O’Rourke was forced
to pause and deploy his men to the right and left, to check
the advance; it succeeded momentarily, but as he stood upon
a dune top and surveyed the thin fringe of prone figures that
were firing, rising, retreating swiftly, and dropping to fire
again, his heart sank within him; not twenty men remained
of them all.
And fully two miles were yet to be put behind them ere
they gained the sea.
Very soberly they fought the distance out, selling each yard
dearly, getting their pound of Tawarek flesh for each foot of
the ground they yielded; but it was the fighting of men fore-
damned, viciously determined to sell their lives to the highest
bidder only.
They got their price – but also they paid it. While still
a mile from the shore, but ten men remained to O'Rourke;
and as he counted them two dropped out — one slain out-
right with a bullet through his head, another, knowing him-
self mortally wounded, slipping a shoe from one foot, and
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
with his toe upon the trigger of his rifle forestalling a linger-
ing death by Tawarek torture.
It was useless; O'Rourke glanced behind him, to the coast.
Madame, Lemercier, Mouchon were vanished. They might
now make a dash for the Sea, he considered, and his voice
rang with the command.
The men obeyed hastily, but the Tawareks were now so
near, their fire so deadly, that four were slain as they rose to
join their commander; and now another went down; three
only closed with O’Rourke for the run to the sea.
They hugged their rifles jealously, setting their jaws with
fixed determination to make the coast. The sun’s heat
beat upon their defenseless heads with sardonic intensity;
below their feet the sands broiled and reeled. They ran on,
staggering, for many minutes that seemed like hours.
Presently, and to the astonishment of all, they gained the
coast; presently they stood upon the highest sandhill, pausing
to look back ere throwing themselves down to the sea.
O'Rourke saw the little catamaran raft lying half afloat;
madame sat upon it, a revolver in her hand; on the beach
Lemercier and the craven Mouchon sulked, eying the woman
doggedly.
He guessed the situation – that the two had tried to push
off and leave him and his men to their fate, but that madame
had nullified their selfish purpose with her weapon and her
own dauntless loyalty.
But there was no space for consideration of that; it was
enough that Lemercier and Mouchon had failed in their
design. Another thing interested O’Rourke far more: the
Tawareks had given up the pursuit.
Why?
His three remaining troopers had flung down the shelving
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He Finds Himself in Deep Waters
hillside to the beach, but O'Rourke lingered, shading his
eyes and gazing inland.
In the east and south the horizon had vanished. To the
zenith the firmament was discolored, shading from a dense
and impenetrable black near the horizon to a thin and trans-
lucent copper hue overhead, where the sun hung like a pallid
disk; and abruptly that was blotted out.
Out of the heart of the desert there came a long, shrill
wail of fear from the Tawareks; and close upon that
sound a sighing moan swept shuddering through all the world.
A puff of foul, hot wind, like the breath of a smelting fur-
nace, smote the cheek of the Irishman; it was as if he had
been touched by flame.
A swirl of air formed afar on the desert; and another, and
another — brown wraiths of dust, whirling like mad der-
vishes, sweeping seawards with the speed of locomotives.
Behind them loomed what seemed a wall of night, solid,
invincible, annihilating all that stood in its path. It swept
westwards, wrapped in thunderings, devouring the earth.
El Kebr, that oasis which was sometime the site of Troya,
the Magnificent-to-be, vanished, was blotted out as by the
hand of God.
The sandstorm advanced with incredible rapidity;
O'Rourke, suddenly conscious that he was delaying escape,
imperiling the lives of his comrades, by thus lingering, with-
drew his fascinated gaze and prepared to descend to the wait-
ing catamaran. And at once he became aware that he stood
not alone; a man's figure loomed beside his own. He stared,
and, despite the gathering gloom, discovered the features of
le petit Lemercier, — the face of Leopold le Premier, l'Em-
pereur du Sahara.
The little man was quivering with fright, yet shaken with a
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
more overpowering emotion. Despair was furrowed deep
in his flabby, pallid cheeks; and tears traced tiny rivulets
through the dust and grime with which his countenance was
soiled. He stood with drooping head, his arms slack at his
sides, staring with lifeless and lack-luster eyes at the demoli-
tion of his empire of illusion.
Suddenly he fell upon his knees, stretching forth suppliant
arms towards the lost oasis.
O'Rourke stooped and bent an ear to the man’s lips. He
caught the echo of an exceeding bitter cry:
“My empire!”
And the heart of O'Rourke was moved to pity, for he now
knew that this little Frenchman had actually believed in him-
self and his mad scheme.
O'Rourke caught the man by the arm and lifted him to his
feet without ceremony. And yet solemnly, almost sadly, he
said:
“An end to empire, Monsieur l'Empereur!”
A vedette of wind from the storm that was now perilously
near struck them both, hurling them from the head of the
dune. They floundered a moment on the beach, then man-
aged to creep aboard the raft.
A soldier shoved them off, and himself clambered aboard.
A shred of Sail was set, the gale caught upon it and the cata-
maran was hurled seawards.
Immediately O'Rourke crumpled into unconsciousness;
the moment the strain of responsibility was lifted from his
shoulders, the moment they were in the care of Providence,
the Irishman yielded to the demands of an overstrained con-
stitution.
Hours passed blankly. When he awakened, it was to find
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He Finds Himself in Deep Waters
the face of the woman that he loved bending over him —
bent maddeningly near to his own countenance, so that he
might feel the caress of her breath upon his cheek, might
catch the elusive perfume of her hair.
“Where are we?” he asked.
A splash of saline spray wetted his face, by way of an an-
swer; he turned his head away for an instant and glanced
about them: the catamaran tossed wildly on the bosom of a
wind-scourged sea. But at once his gaze went back to the
woman. After a while she bent her head more near, smiling
with divine tenderness, and kissed him upon the lips – there
before her brother, in the sight of Mouchon and the three
troopers.
“The Eirene is sighted,” she murmured. “We are saved
— dear heart.”
He sighed, resting his head in the hollow of her arm — her
arm that had served as its pillow for weary hours.
“”Tis a dream,” he told her. “A dream, and I’ll believe
no word of it, sweetheart. . . . But, my faith, ’tis a heavenly
sweet dream!”
[185]





->|<-
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PART SECOND
The Long Trail
CHAPTER I
THE CAF# DE LA PAIx
T ten in the evening of a certain day in the early spring
the stout m'sieur was sitting and sedately sipping his
bock, at a sidewalk table on the Boulevard Capucines side
of the Café de la Paix.
So he had been sitting — a gentleman of medium height,
heavily built, with active, Searching eyes, a rounded breadth
of forehead and a closely clipped beard of the Van Dyck per-
suasion — for seven consecutive nights.
At one minute past ten of the clock, the stout m'sieur was
on his feet, showing evidences of mental excitement, as he
peered out into the boulevard parade, apparently endeavor-
ing to satisfy himself as to the identity of a certain passing
individual.
And François, the waiter who had attended the stout
m’sieur for a full week, put his hand discreetly to his mouth,
and observed to Jean, who stood near by:
“At last, m'sieur has discovered his friend!” Adding, to
himself alone: “Now I shall have word for Monsieur le
Prince!”
A second later, the stout m'sieur's voice was to be heard.
“O’Rourke!” he cried, and again: “O’Rourke, mon ami!”
Curious glances were turned upon him, not only by the
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
moving throng upon the sidewalk, but also by the other pat-
rons of the café. The stout m'sieur heeded them not. Rather,
he gesticulated violently with his cane, and called again.
To his infinite satisfaction, his hail carried to the ears for
which it was pitched. Out of the mob a man came shoul-
dering his way and looking about him with uncertainty. A
tall man he was, noticeable for a length of limb which seemed
great yet was strictly proportioned to the remainder of his
huge bulk, moving with the unstudied grace that appertains
unto great strength and bodily vigor.
He caught sight of the stout m'sieur and a broad, glad grin
overspread his countenance — a face clean-shaven and
burned darkly by tropic suns, with a nose and a slightly
lengthened upper lip that betokened Celtic parentage; a face
in all attractive, broadly modeled, mobile, and made luminous
by eyes of gray, steadfast yet alert.
“Chambret, be all that's lucky!” he cried joyously. “Faith,
'twas no more than the minute gone that I was wishing I
might see ye!”
He came up to Chambret's table, and the two shook hands,
gravely, after the English fashion, eying each the other to see
what changes the years might have wrought in his personal
appearance.
“I, too,” said Chambret, “was wishing that I might see
you. My friend, I give you my word that I have waited here,
watching for one O'Rourke for a solid week.
“Is it so, indeed?” O’Rourke sat down, favoring the
Frenchman with a sharply inquiring glance. “And for why
did ye not come to me lodgings? Such as they are,” he
deprecated, with a transient thought of how little he should
care to have another intrude upon the bare, mean room he
called his home.
[ 188]


The Café de la Paix
“Where was I to find you, mon ami? I knew not, and so
waited here.”
“A sure gamble,” approved O’Rourke, looking out upon
the ever-changing, kaleidoscopic pageant upon the sidewalks,
where, it seemed, all Paris was promenading itself. “If one
sits here long enough,” explained the Irishman, “sure he'll
see every one in the wide world that’s worth the seeing — as
a better man than I said long ago.”
“It is so,” agreed Chambret.
He summoned a waiter for O'Rourke's order; and that
important duty attended to, turned to find the Irishman’s
eyes fixed upon him soberly, the while he caressed his clean,
firm chin.
Chambret returned the other's regard, with interest; smil-
ingly they considered one another. Knowing each other
well, these two had little need for evasiveness of word or deed;
there will be slight constraint between men who have, as had
Chambret and O’Rourke, fought back to back, shoulder to
shoulder, and — for the matter of that — face to face.
The Frenchman voiced the common conclusion. “Un-
changed, I see,” said he, with a light laugh.
“Unchanged — even as yourself, Chambret.”
“The same wild Irishman?”
“Faith, yes!” returned O'Rourke. He continued to
smile, but there was in his tone a note of bitterness — an
echo of his thoughts, which were darksome enough.
“The same!” he told himself. “Ay—there's truth for ye,
O'Rourke! – the same wild Irishman, the same improvident
ne'er-do-well, good for naught in all the world but a fight-
and growing rusty, like an old sword, for want of exercise!”
“And ye, mon ami?” he asked aloud. “How wags the
world with ye?”
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“As ever — indifferently well. I am fortunate in a way.”
“Ye may well say that!”
Was there envy in the man’s tone, or discontent? Cham-
bret remarked the undernote, and was quick to divine what
had evoked it. He had a comprehending eye that had not
been slow to note the contrast between them. For it was
great: Chambret, the sleek, faultlessly groomed gentleman
of Paris, contented in his knowledge of an assured income
from the rentes; O'Rourke, light of heart, but lean from a
precarious living, at ease and courteous, but shabby, with a
threadbare collar to his carefully brushed coat, and a roughly
trimmed fringe, Sawlike, edging his spotless cuff.
“You are — what do you say? — hard up?” queried
Chambret bluntly.
O'Rourke caught his eye, with a glimmer of humorous
deprecation. What need to ask? he seemed to say. Gravely
he inspected the end of the commendable panetela, which
he was enjoying by the grace of Chambret; and he puffed
upon it furiously, twinkling upon his friend through a pillar
of smoke.
“”Tis nothing new, at all, at all,” he sighed.
Chambret frowned. “How long?” he demanded. “Why
have you not called upon me, mon ami, if you were in need?”
“Sure, ’twas nothing as bad as that. I — I am worrying
along. There'll be a war soon, I'm hoping, and then the
world will remember O’Rourke.”
“Who will give the world additional cause to remember
him,” said Chambret, in the accents of firm conviction. “But
why?” he cried abruptly, changing to puzzled protest. “Mon
ami, you are an incomprehensible. If you would, you might
be living the life of ease, husband to one of the richest and
most charming women in France; Beatrix, Princesse —”
<
[190]


The Café de la Paia:
“Sssh. /* O’Rourke Warned him.
“Ah, monsieur, but I am desolated to have hurt you!”
said Chambret contritely; for he had at once recognized the
pain that sprang to new life in the Irishman’s eyes.
“No matter at all, Chambret. Sure, ’tis always with
me.” O’Rourke laughed, but hollowly. “”Tis not in the
O'Rourke to be forgetting her highness — nor do I wish to,
to be frank wid ye. Faith . . .” He forgot to finish his
thought and lapsed into a dreamy silence, staring into the
smoke rings. His face was turned away for the moment,
but one fancied that he saw again the eyes of Madame la
Princesse.
“But why, then —” persisted Chambret.
“Have ye not stated it, yourself — the reason why the
thing's impossible, me friend? The wealthiest woman in
all France, since the death of that poor fool, her brother! Is
she to be mating with a penniless Irish adventurer, a – a
fortune-hunter? Faith, then, 'twill not be with the O’Rourke
that she does it!”
“But I thought —” Chambret persisted.
“That I loved her? Faith, ye were right, there, old friend!
'Tis me life I’d be giving for her sweet sake, any time at all
'tis necessary — or convenient.” He chuckled shortly, then
shook his head with decision. “No more,” he said: “’tis
over and done with — me dream vanished. Please God,
'tis the O’Rourke here who will be going back to her some
one of these fine mornings, with a pocketful of money and a
heart that . . . If she'll wait so long, which I misdoubt. 'Tis
not in woman’s nature to live loveless, though Heaven for-
fend that I should breathe a whisper against her faith and
constancy!”
He glared at Chambret wrathfully, as though he suspected
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
that gentleman of having subtly aspersed those qualities in
the woman he loved; then softened. “Have ye news of her?”
“No word,” replied Chambret. “You know that she re-
tired to the Principality of Grandlieu, after little Leopold's
death? She was reported to have left for a tour of Europe,
shortly afterwards, but I am certain that she did not come to
Paris. Indeed, it is uncertain where she may be.”
“She is her own mistress,” said O'Rourke doggedly
thoughtful.
“She is adorable, mon ami,” sighed Chambret. “I have
good cause to remember how charming she is.” He grim-
aced and tapped O’Rourke on the shoulder nearest him.
“Eh, monsieur?” he asked meaningly.
O’Rourke Smiled. “Faith!” he declared. “I had almost
forgotten that hole ye put in me, when we settled our little
differences, ye fire-eater!”
“I have not forgotten, my friend,” returned Chambret
seriously. “Nor shall I ever forget your gallantry. To
have fired in the air, as you did, after having been wounded
by your antagonist –!”
“Hush! Not another word will I listen to Would ye
have me shoot down a man I love as a brother? What d'ye
think —?”
“Ah, monsieur, but it was a gallant deed! . . . I’ll say no
more, if you insist, mon Colonel. But Madame la Princesse?
You have heard from her yourself?”
“Not a line,” said O’Rourke gloomily. “Not that I had
any right to expect so much,” he defended his beloved, in-
stantly. “But ’twas in our agreement that, if she needed
me, she was to send for me. I mind . . .”
He broke off abruptly and sat staring moodily into the up-
curling spirals of cigar Smoke. Chambret forbore to dis-
[192]


The Café de la Paic
turb him. Presently O'Rourke took up the thread of his
thoughts aloud.
“I mind the night I left ye all,” he said. “’Twas while
the Eirene still lay at Marseilles, – the day afther ye had
drilled this hole in me. . . . We were standing in the bows,
madame and I, looking at the moonlight painting a path
across the sea to Algiers. . . . Faith! she was that lovely I
clean forgot meself. Before I knew what I was about, I had
been speaking the matter of ten minutes, and she knew it
all. . . . And there was no one at all to see, so she was in me
arms. . . . Faith! I dunno why I am telling ye all this.”
“Continue, my friend. If you had told her of your love,
why, then, did you go – as I remember you went — that
very night?”
“’Twas me pride — not alone for meself, but for her!
Who was I to be making love to the sweetest woman in the
wide world? . . . Anyway, 'twas then it was decided upon
betwixt herself and me.”
“What was —?”
“That I was to go forth and seek me fortune and come
back to claim her when I could do so without hurting her in
the eyes of the world. I had a gold sovereign in me pocket,
and I took it out and broke it with me two hands and gave
her the half of it. . . . She kissed the other half and I put it
away to remember her by. . . . She was to sind it me when she
needed me. . . . And then I was making so bold as to kiss her
hand, but she would not let me. . . . And I left her there and
dropped down over the side, with all the world reeling and
no thought at all in me but of her white, sweet face in the
moonlight, and the touch of her lips upon me own!... Two
months later I was in India, seeking me fortune. And I’m
still doing that.”
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
He dismissed the subject abruptly, with a gesture of finality.
“Ye were saying,” he asked, “that ye had been seeking me?
For why? Can the O’Rourke be serving a friend in any
way?”
“You are unemployed?”
“True for ye, Chambret. Ye have said it.”
“Will you accept —”
“Mon ami,” O’Rourke stated explicitly, “I’ll do anything
— anything in the whole world that's clean and honorable,
saving it's handling a pen. That I will not do for any living
man; upon me worrd, sor, niver!”
Chambret chuckled his appreciation of this declaration.
“I suspected as much,” he said. “But—this is no clerical
work, I promise you.”
“Then, I'm your man. Proceed.”
“Let us presume a hypothetical case.”
O'Rourke bent forward, the better to lose no word of the
Frenchman’s.
“Be all means,” he encouraged him.
“But,” Chambret paused to stipulate, “it is a thing under-
stood between us, as friends, that should I make use of the
actual name of a person or place, it will be considered as
purely part of the hypothesis?”
“Most assuredly!”
“Good, monsieur. I proceed. Let us suppose, then, that
there is, within one thousand miles of our Paris, a grand
duchy called Lützelburg —”
“The name sounds familiar,” interrupted O'Rourke, with
suspicion.
“Purely a supposititious duchy,” corrected Chambret
gravely.
“Sure, yes,” – as solemnly.
[194]


The Café de la Paix
“That being understood, let us imagine that the late Duke
Henri, of Lützelburg, is survived by a widow, the dowager
duchess, and a son, heir to the ducal throne – petit Duke
Jehan, a child of seven years. You follow me? Also, by
his younger brother, Prince Georges of Lützelburg, a - a
most damnably conscienceless scoundrel!” Chambret ex-
ploded, bringing his fist down upon the table with force suffi-
cient to cause the glasses to dance.
“Softly, mon ami!” cautioned O'Rourke. “I gather ye
are not be way of liking Monsieur le Prince?”
“I — I do not like him, as you say. But, to get on: Lützel-
burg lies — you know where.” Abandoning all pretense of
imagining the duchy, Chambret waved his hand definitely
to the northwest. O'Rourke nodded assent.
“The capital city, of course, centers about the Castle of
Lützelburg. The duchy is an independent State maintain-
ing its own army — one regiment — its customs house, send-
ing its representatives to the Powers. You know all that?
It is a rich little State; a comfortable berth for its ruler. Duke
Henri preserved its integrity, added to its resources, leaving
it a fat legacy to his little son. Had he died without issue,
Georges would have succeeded to the ducal throne — and to
the control of the treasury. Naturally the scoundrel covets
what is not his, now. He goes further. He has gone — far,
very far, mon ami.”
O'Rourke moved his chair nearer, becoming interested.
“Gone far, ye say? And what has the black-hearted divvle
been up to, bad cess to him?” he asked with a chuckle.
“He has kidnaped little Duke Jehan, mon ami.”
“Kidnaped!” The Irishman sat back gasping. “Faith,
what does he think he is, now — a robber baron?” he de-
manded indignantly — this man of strong emotions, easily
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
inflamed in the cause of a friend. “Tell me how he has gone
about it, and what ye want me to do.”
“There is but little to tell, O’Rourke. This is the most
that we know for a certainty: that Duke Jehan has disap-
peared. Georges — the blackguard! — even dares offer
a reward to the man who can furnish a clew to the child’s
whereabouts. In the nature of things, the reward will
never be claimed by a Lützelburger; for Georges, now,
is the head and forefront of the government, holding, prac-
tically, power of life and death over every soul in the
duchy. It is this that we fear: that he will do a hurt to the
Child.”
“Why,” interposed O'Rourke, “has he not already done
it — put him out of his way?”
“Because, my friend, he values him too highly, as an asset
toward his purposes. Prince Georges wishes to marry
Madame la Duchesse, the child’s mother—a woman wealthy
in her own right. He has suggested to her that, should she
consent to marry him, his own interests would then be more
involved, that he would perhaps take a greater interest in the
pursuit of the malefactors. You see?”
“Faith, and I do.” O’Rourke tipped back in his chair,
grinning impartially at Chambret. “And he would marry
the duchess? And ye hate the bold blackguard, is it?” he
jeered softly.
Chambret flushed under his challenging gaze. He hesi-
tated. “To be plain,” he faltered, “to be frank with you,
I — I love madame.”
“And she?” persisted O'Rourke.
Chambret shrugged his shoulders. “Who can say?” he
deprecated. “Madame will not. Yet would I serve her.
Already have I made myself so obnoxious to the powers that
[196]


The Café de la Paic
be in Lützelburg that I have been requested to absent my-
self from the duchy. Wherefore I turn to you.”
But O'Rourke pursued his fancy. “I’ve heard she is
beautiful?” he insinuated.
Again Chambret hesitated; but the eyes of the man glowed
warm at the mental picture O'Rourke's suggestion conjured
within his brain. “She is — indeed beautiful!” he declared
at length; and simultaneously took from his pocket a leather
wallet, which, opening, he put upon the table between them.
O'Rourke bent over it curiously. A woman's photograph
stared up at him: the portrait of a most wonderful woman,
looking out from the picture fearlessly, even regally, under
level brows; a woman young, full-lipped, with heavy-lidded
eyes that were dark and large, brimming with the wine of life.
Which is Love.
O'Rourke had seen that portrait frequently before, as pub-
lished in the prints, but now he began to appreciate this great
beauty with a more intimate interest.
“Faith!” he sighed, looking up. “I’m more than a little
minded to envy ye, Chambret. She is beautiful, me word!”
He paused; then, “Ye would have me go to get back the boy,
if I can?” he asked.
“That is what little I ask,” assented Chambret. “You
will be amply rewarded —”
“I’ll go, mon ami. Rest easy, there; I’ll do what ye would
call me “possible, monsieur, and a little more, and the divvle
of a lot more atop of that. If a man can scale the insur-
mountable — I’ll be himself!”
He offered his hand, and, Chambret accepting, put his
five fingers around the Frenchman’s with a grip that made
the other wince.
“As to the reward —” Chambret ventured again.
[197]


Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Faith, man, can I do naught for a friend without having
gold showered over me? Damn the reward! Tell me your
plans, give me the lay of the land, and I’m off be sunrise.
But as for reward —”
He rose, taking Chambret’s arm in his.
“Come,” he suggested, “let us go and sup – at your ex-
pense. And then, maybe, I’ll be asking ye for the loan av a
franc or two to refurbish me wardrobe. 'Tis the divvle av a
winter it has been, I’ll niver deny. Come. 'Tis meself
knows a quiet place.”
[198]


CHAPTER II
THE INN OF THE WINGED GOD
IT was drawing toward the evening of the third day follow-
ing, when Colonel O'Rourke rounded an elbow in the road
and came, simultaneously, into view of the Inn of the Winged
God, and to a stop.
He was weary and footsore. He was, moreover, thirsty.
Behind him the road stretched long, and white, and hot, and
straight as any string across the Department of the Meurthe-
et-Moselle, back to Longwy, whence he had come afoot.
For, in consideration of the temper of Prince Georges de
Lützelburg, Chambret and O’Rourke had agreed that it
would be the part of prudence for the Irishman to enter the
duchy as unobtrusively as possible; and in his light tweeds,
with the dust of the road white upon his shoes and like a film
upon his clothes, O’Rourke might well have passed for an
English milord upon a walking tour.
To the seeing eye, perhaps, there was about the Irishman a
devil-may-care swing, a free carelessness in the way he put
his best foot forward, a fine spirit in the twirl of his walking
stick, that was hardly to be considered characteristic of that
solemn person, the Englishman, plugging stolidly forward
upon his walking tour as upon a penance self-imposed. But
the similitude was sufficient to impose upon the peasantry of
Lützelburg; and should suffice, barring accidents.
O'Rourke paused, I say, looking forward to the inn, and
then about him, considering the lay of the land. To the
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
north, he knew, ran the French-Belgian frontier — how far
away he might not exactly state; to the west, also, was the
line that divides Lützelburg from French territory — again
at an indeterminate distance, according to the Irishman’s
knowledge.
“But it will not be far, now, I’m thinking,” he said aloud;
“come sundown, ’tis meself that will be out av France —
and thin, I’m advising ye, may the devil stand vigil for the
soul of his familiar, Monsieur le Prince!”
But for all his boastfulness, the Irishman was by no means
easy in his mind as to how he was to accomplish that to
which he had set his hand. The plan of action agreed upon
between O’Rourke and his friend was distinguished by a
considerable latitude as to detail.
O'Rourke was, in short, to do what he could. If he suc-
ceeded in freeing the young duke, well and good. If not —
and at this consideration Chambret had elevated expressive
shoulders. “One does one's possible,” he had deprecated;
“one can do no more, mon ami.”
Now, the Irishman was thinking that it behooved him to
be on his way without delay, if he cared to reach the city of
Lützelburg before nightfall. And yet, this inn before him
was one of possibilities interesting to a thirsty man. He
stood still, jingling in his pockets the scant store of francs
that remained to him of the modest loan which he had
consented to accept of the larger sum which Chambret had
tried to press upon him.
It stood unobtrusively back from the road, this inn: a
gabled building, weather-beaten and ancient-seeming, draped
lavishly with green growing vines. Above the lintel of its
wide, hospitably yawning doorway swung, creaking in the
perfumed airs of the spring afternoon, a battered signboard,
[ 200 |


The Inn of the Winged God
whereon a long-dead artist had limned the figure of a little
laughing, naked boy, with a bow and a quiver full of arrows,
and two downy wings sprouting somewhere near his chubby
shoulder-blades.
O'Rourke grinned at the childish god, deciphering the
stilted French inscription beneath its feet.
“The Inn of the Winged God,” he read aloud. “Sure,
'tis meself that's the superstitious one — a rank believer in
signs. I’m taking ye, ye shameless urchin,” he apostrophized
the god of love, “for a sign that there's – drink within!”
He chuckled, thinking: “”Tishere that I’m to meet Chambret,
if need be, for consultation. I mind me he said the inn was
but a step this side the frontier. Be that token, ’tis him-
self that should be coming down the road, ere long, galumph-
ing in that red devil-wagon av his.”
But the question remained: Was he to pause for refresh-
ment, or to push on despite his great thirst? For it seemed
as though all the dust in the road that had not found lodg-
ment upon his body had settled in his throat.
The fluttering of a woman’s skirts put a period to his hesi-
tancy; a girl appeared and stood for a moment in the doorway
of the Inn of the Winged God, gazing upon the newcomer
with steady eyes that were bright beneath level brows. A tall
girl, seemingly the taller since slight and supple, she was, and
astonishingly good to look upon: slender and darkly beautiful.
Even at a distance O’Rourke could see as much and
imagine the rest; and, more, he saw that she wore the peasant
dress peculiar to that Department — wore it with an en-
trancing grace, adorning it herself rather than relying upon
it to enhance her charms. A crimson head-dress of some
fashion confined her hair; and that same was dark — nay,
black. And there was a kerchief about her throat, like snow
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
above the black of a velvet bodice, which, together with her
spreading skirt of crimson cloth, was half hidden by a bright
expanse of apron. Moreover, that skirt — in keeping with
the custom of the neighborhood — was sensibly short; where-
by it was made evident that mademoiselle might, if so she
willed, boast a foot of quality, an ankle . . .
Promptly O'Rourke's thirst became unbearable, and he
advanced a step or two with a purposeful air.
Mademoiselle as promptly disappeared into the gloom of
the inner room.
O'Rourke followed her example, finding it cool within and
clean, inviting, and tempting to dalliance. There was a great,
cold fireplace; and broad, spotless tables, and chairs were
ranged about upon a floor of earth hard-packed and neatly
sanded. Also, from a farther room came odors of cookery,
enchanting first his nose and then all the hungry man that
was O'Rourke.
He stalked to the center of the room, half blinded by his
sudden transition from the sun glare to this comfortable
gloom, and discovered the girl standing with a foot on the
threshold of the adjoining apartment, watching him over
her shoulder.
O'Rourke cleared his throat harshly; and “What would
m’sieur?” she desired to know.
“That, me dear,” said O’Rourke. With his walking stick
he indicated one of the row of steins that decorated the chim-
neypiece. “And, mind ye, full to the brim,” he stipulated.
The girl murmured a reply, and went about his bidding.
Slowly, with a suggestion of weariness in his manner,
O'Rourke went to the back of the room, where he found a
little compartment, partitioned off, containing benches and
a small table.
[202 |


The Inn of the Winged God
On the table he seated himself, sighing with content. A
window, open, faced him, giving upon the garden of the inn.
Without there was a vista of nodding scarlet hollyhocks, of
sunflowers, of hyacinths, and of many homely, old-fashioned
blooms growing in orderly luxuriance. A light breeze swept
across them, bearing their fragrance in through the casement.
O'Rourke bared his head to it gratefully, and fumbled in
his pocket for pipe and tobacco.
“Upon me word,” he sighed, “’twill be hard to tear me-
self away, now!” Nor was he thinking of the girl just then,
nor of aught save the homely comfort of the Inn of the Winged
God.
He began to smoke, and, smoking, his thoughts wandered
into a reverie; so that he sat lost to his surroundings, staring
at the hollyhocks and hyacinths — and seeing naught but
the eyes of Beatrix, Princesse de Grandlieu.
The girl's step failed to rouse him; he stared on, out of the
window, giving her no heed as she waited by his side with
the foaming stein.
For her part, she seemed patient enough. He made a
gallant figure — this O'Rourke — sitting at ease upon the
table. And some such thought may have been in her mind
— that his was a figure to fill the eyes of a woman. Her
own never left him for many minutes.
She remarked the signs of travel: the dust that lay thick
upon his shoulders, and whitened his shoes; the drawn look
about the man’s eyes; the firm lines about his mouth that
told of steadfastness and determination. And she sighed,
but very softly.
But an inn maid may not be eying a stranger for hours to-
gether; she has her duties to perform. Presently the girl
put the stein down with a little crash.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“M'sieur is served,” she announced loudly.
O'Rourke came to with a little start. “Thank you, me
dear,” he said, and buried his nose in the froth. “Faith,”
he added, lowering the vessel, “’tis like wine — or your eyes,
darlint.” To prove this, he smiled engagingly into those eyes.
She did not appear to resent the compliment, nor his man-
ner. “M'sieur has traveled far?” she would know, standing
with lowered lashes, her slender fingers playing diffidently
with a fold of her apron.
“Not so far that I'm blinded to your sweet face,” he
averred. “But ’tis truth for ye that I’ve covered many a
mile since sunrise.”
“M'sieur does not come from these parts?”
“From Paris.” -
Although she stood with her back to the light, and though
O'Rourke could distinguish her features but dimly, yet he
saw that her eyes widened; and he smiled secretly at her
simplicity.
“From Paris, m'sieur? But that is far?”
“Quite far, darlint. But faith, I’ve no cause for com-
plaint.”
“M'sieur means —”? she queried, with naive bewilder-
Iment.
“M'sieur,” he assured her gallantly, “means that no
journey is long that has mam'selle at the end av it.”
“Oh, m'sieur!”—protesting.
“Truth — me word for it.” And the magnificent
O'Rourke put a franc into her hand. “The change,” he
proclaimed largely, “ye may keep for yourself, little one.
And this — ye may keep for me, if ye will.”
“M”Sieur/”
And though they were deeply shadowed, he could see her
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The Inn of the Winged God
cheeks flaming as she backed away, rubbing the caressed
spot with the corner of her apron.
O'Rourke laughed softly, without moving. “Don’t be
angry with me,” he pleaded, but with no evident contrition.
“What's in a kiss, me dear? Sure, ’tis no harm at all, at all!
And how was I to hold meself back, now, with ye before me,
pretty as a picture?”
It pleased her – his ready tongue. That became ap-
parent, though she sought to hide it with a pretense of in-
dignation.
“One would think —” she tried to storm.
“What, now, darlint?”
“One would almost believe m'sieur the Irishman!”
“An Irishman I am, praises be!” cried O’Rourke, forget-
ting his rôle. “But” – he remembered again – “the Irish-
man; now, who might that be?”
“M’sieur le Colonel O’Rourke!”
“What!” And M'sieur le Colonel O'Rourke got down
from the table hastily. “Ye know me?” he demanded.
The girl's astonishment was too plain to be ignored. “It
is not that m'sieur is himself M'sieur le Colonel?” she cried,
putting a discreet distance between them.
“”Tis just that. And how would ye be knowing me name,
if ye please?”
“Why, surely, all know that m'sieur is coming to Lützel-
burg!” cried the ingenuous mam'selle. “Else why should
a guard be stationed at every road crossing the frontier?”
“For what, will ye tell me?”
“For what but to keep m'sieur from entering?”
“As ye say, for what else?” O’Rourke stroked his chin,
puzzled, staring at this girl who had such an astonishing
fund of information.
| 205]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
black against the sunny window; and it was most marvel-
ously perfect. O'Rourke's breath came fast as he looked;
for she was surprisingly fair and good to look upon. It was
the first time he had seen her clearly enough to fully compre-
hend her perfection, and he stood for a moment, without
stirring, or, indeed, coherently thinking. It was not the
nature of this man to neglect a beautiful woman at any time;
he grudged this girl no meed of the admiration that was her
due.
In a moment he felt her fingers soft and warm about his
own; his heart leaped — an Irishman’s heart, not fickle, but
inflammable; and then he repressed an exclamation as his
fingers were crushed in a grip so strong and commanding
that it fairly amazed him.
And, “Silence, ah, silence, m'sieur!” the girl begged him,
in a whisper. -
Were they observed, then? He turned toward the outer
door, but saw no one. But from the highway there came a
clatter of hoofs.
“Soldiers!” the girl breathed. “Soldiers, m'sieur, from
the frontier post. Let me go. I —”
Almost violently she wrested her hand from his, darting
toward the door with a gesture that warned him back to his
partitioned corner if he valued his incognito.
Halfway across the floor she shrank back with a little cry
of dismay, as the entrance to the Inn of the Winged God was
darkened by two new arrivals.
They swung into the room, laughing together: tall men
both, long and strong of limb, with the bearing of men con-
fident of their place and prowess. O'Rourke, peering
guardedly out from his corner, saw that they were both in
uniform: green and gold tunics above closely fitting breeches
[208]


The Inn of the Winged God
of white, with riding boots of patent leather — the officers’
uniform of the ducal army of Lützelburg.
Now, since his coming, the taproom of the Winged God
had been gradually darkening as evening drew nigh. Al-
ready — O'Rourke was surprised to observe — it was twi-
light without; now, suddenly, the sun sank behind the
purple ridge of the distant mountains, and at once gloom
shrouded the room. In it the figures of the two soldiers
loomed large and vaguely.
One raised his voice, calling: “Lights!”
The girl murmured something, moving away.
“Lights, girl; lights!”
“I will send some one, messieurs,” O’Rourke heard her say.
“Unnecessary, my dear,” returned the first speaker.
“Come hither, little one. Here is the lamp, and here a
match.”
Unwillingly, it seemed to the Irishman, the inn maid
obeyed, stepping upon a bench and raising her arm to light
the single lamp that depended from the ceiling. A match
flared in her fingers, illuminating the upturned, intent face.
And O’Rourke caught at his breath again. “Faith!” he
said softly, “she is that wonderful!”
Some such thought seemed to cross the minds of both the
others, at the same moment. One swore delicately – pre-
sumably in admiration; his fellow shifted to a killing pose,
twirling his mustache – the elder of the pair, evidently, and
a man with a striking distinction of carriage.
The girl jumped lightly from the bench and turned away;
but she was not yet to be permitted to retire, it seemed.
“Here, girl!” called he who had mouthed the oath.
She turned reluctantly; the glow of the brightening lamp
fell about her like a golden aureole.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Messieurs?” she asked with a certain dignity.
“So,” drawled the elder officer, “you are a new maid, I
presume?”
“Yes, messieurs,” she replied, courtesying low — to hide
her confusion, perhaps; for she was crimson under their bold
appraisal of her charms.
“Ah! Name, little one?”
“Delphine, messieurs.”
“Delphine, eh? A most charming name, for a most
charming girl!”
“Merci, messieurs!”
She dropped a second humble courtesy. And O'Rourke
caught himself fancying that she did so in mockery—though,
indeed, such spirit would have assorted strangely with her
lowly station.
But as she rose and confronted the men again, the elder
took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, roughly
twisting her face to the light.
“Strange —” he started to say; but the girl jerked away
angrily.
“Pardon, messieurs,” she said, “but I would —”
Nor did she finish what was on the tip of her tongue for
utterance. For she was turning away, making as though to
escape, when this younger man clasped her suddenly about
the waist; and before she realized what was toward, he had
kissed her squarely.
O'Rourke slid from his table seat, with a little low-toned
oath. But for the moment he held himself back. It seemed
as though Mademoiselle Delphine was demonstrating her
ability to take care of herself.
Her white and rounded arm shot out impetuously, and her
five fingers impinged upon the cheek of the younger man with
y
[21ol


The Inn of the Winged God
a crack like a pistol shot. He jumped away, with a laughing
cry of protest.
“A shrew!” he cried. “A termagant, Prince Georges!”
In another moment she would have been gone, but the
elder officer was not to be denied.
“No, just a woman!” he corrected. “A tempestuous
maid, to be tamed, Charles! Not so fast, little one!” And
he caught her by the arm.
She wheeled upon him furiously, with a threatening hand;
but his own closed about her wrist, holding her helpless the
while he drew her steadily toward him.
“But one!” he pretended to beg. “But one little kiss,
Mistress Delphine!”
“This has gone about far enough, messieurs,” O’Rourke
interposed, judging it time.
For it is one thing to kiss a pretty girl yourself, and quite
another to stand by and watch a stranger kiss her regardless
of her will. -
So he came down toward the group slowly, with a protest-
ing palm upraised.
But the prince gave him hardly a glance; he was intent
upon the business of the moment. “Kick this fellow out,
Charles,” he cried contemptuously, relaxing nothing of his
hold upon the girl. And then, to her: “Come, Marn'selle
Delphine, but a single kiss —”
“No!” she cried. “No, messieurs!”
There was a terror in her tone that set O’Rourke's blood to
boiling. He forgot himself, forgot the danger of his position
—that danger of which he had been so lately apprised by the
girl herself. He laid a hand upon the fellow’s collar, with no
attempt at gentleness, and another upon his wrist. A second
later the prince was sprawling in the sand upon the floor.
[211 |


The Inn of the Winged God
where the sword of the unconscious man had fallen. “Come,
Prince Georges of Lützelburg — princely coward!” he
taunted the elder man. “Come – ’tis one to one, now —
sword to sword, monsieur! Are ye afraid, or will ye fight —
ye scum of the earth?”
He need hardly have asked. Already the prince was upon
his feet, and had drawn. O'Rourke's fingers closed upon
the hilt of the saber. A thrill ran through him; this was his
life to him, to face odds, to have a sword in his hand.
“Good!” he cried joyfully. “Now, Monsieur le Prince!”
He met the onslaught with a hasty parry. A cluster of
sparks flew from the blades. O'Rourke boldly stepped in
to close quarters, his right arm swinging the heavy saber like
a feather, his left ending in a clenched hand held tightly to
the small of his back.
The room filled with the ringing clangor of the clashing
steel. Prince Georges at least was not afraid of personal
hurt; he engaged the Irishman closely, cutting and parrying
with splendid skill — a wonderful swordsman, a beau sa-
breur, master of his weapon and—master of O’Rourke. The
Irishman was quick to realize this. He had met more than
his match; the man who opposed him was his equal in weight
and length of arm, his equal in defense, his superior in attack.
He fought at close quarters, giving not an inch, but rather
ever pressing in upon him, hammering down upon his guard
a veritable tornado of crashing blows.
O'Rourke reeled and gave ground under the furious on-
slaught. He leaped away time and again, only to find the
prince again upon him, abating no whit of his determined
attack. In his eyes O’Rourke read nothing of mercy, naught
but a perhaps long dormant blood-lust suddenly roused.
He came to an understanding that he was fighting for his life,
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
that this was no mere fencing bout, — no child's play, but
deadly earnest. And with his mind's eye he foresaw the
OutCOme.
Well — one can but die. At least Prince Georges should
have his fill of fighting; and an Irishman who fights hopelessly
fights with all the reckless rage of a rat in a corner.
So O'Rourke fought, there in the taproom of the Inn of the
Winged God. He took no risks, ventured nothing of doubt-
ful outcome. If a chance for an attack was to come, he was
ready for it, his eye like a cat's alert for an opening for thrust
or slashing cut. But if that was to be denied him, he had an
impregnable defense, seemingly. He might retreat — and
he did, thrice circling the room — but he retreated fighting.
And so, fighting, he would fall when his time came.
In one thing only he surpassed the aggressor — in endur-
ance. His outdoor life of the past few days had put him in
splendid trim. He battled on, with hardly a hair displaced;
whereas Monsieur le Prince pressed his advantage by main
will-power, advancing with some difficulty because of the
heaving of his broad chest, gasping for air, at times, like a
fish out of its element — but ever advancing, ever pressing
the Irishman to the utmost.
Thrice they made the circuit of the room, O’Rourke escap-
ing a fall or collision with the tables and chairs seemingly by
a sixth sense — an eye in the back of his head that warned
him of obstacles that might easily have encompassed his
downfall.
He was outgeneraled, too; twice he endeavored to back
himself through the outer doorway, and both times the prince
got between the Irishman and his sole remaining hope of
escape.
And then it narrowed down to a mere contest of endurance
[214]


The Inn of the Winged God
—Monsieur le Prince already tired, and O'Rourke, fast fail-
ing, beginning to feel the effects of his day's long tramp.
The room began to whirl dizzily about them both — like a
changing, hazy panorama, wherein O’Rourke was dimly
conscious of pink, gaping faces filling the doorways, and the
round, staring eyes of frightened and awed peasants at the
windows.
And so, possibly, it was as a relief to both when, eventually,
the Irishman managed to get the breadth of a table between
them, and when each was free to pause and gasp for breath
the while they glared one at the other, measuring each his
opponent's staying powers — for to a test of sheer lasting
ability it was now come. The man who should be able to
keep upon his feet the longest—he was to win. And neither
read “quarter” in his enemy's eyes.
As they stood thus, watching one another jealously, out of
the tail of his eye O’Rourke saw the fallen officer—Charles
—stir, and sit upright. He dared not take his attention from
the prince, and yet he was able to note that the younger man
at first stared confusedly, then staggered to his feet, and so
doing, put his hand to his pistol holster.
Opportunely a curious thing occurred. A voice rang
through the room loudly, cheerfully:
“The O'Rourke!” it stated explicitly. “Or Satan him-
Self!”
All three turned, by a common impulse, toward the outer
door. It framed a man entirely at his ease, dressed in the
grotesque arrangement that constitutes an automobiling cos-
tume in these days, holding in his left hand the goggle mask
which the driver affects. But in the other hand, level with
his eye, he poised a revolver, the muzzle of which was directly
trained upon him whom Prince Georges had called Charles.
[215]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Chambret!” cried O'Rourke. “Upon me soul, ye're
welcome!”
“I thought as much, my friend,” replied Chambret. “And
I am glad to be in time to — to see fair play, Colonel Charles!
May I suggest, monsieur, that you take your hand from the
butt of that weapon and stand aside until my friend has set-
tled his little affair with Monsieur le Prince?”
The face of the young officer flushed darkly red; he bit his
lip with rage, darting toward Chambret a venomous glance.
Yet he stood aside, very obediently, as a wiser man than he
might well have done.
“O’Rourke!” then cried Chambret. “Guard, my friend
— guard yourself!”
It was time. Monsieur le Prince, sticking at nothing, had
edged stealthily around the table. O'Rourke, startled, put
himself in a defensive position in the very nick of time.
Another moment and Chambret's warning had been vain.
Again they fought, but now less spiritedly; to O'Rourke
it seemed as though the contest had degenerated into a mere
endeavor to kill time, rather than to dispose of one another.
And yet he was acutely conscious that a single misstep would
seal his death warrant.
He found time, too, to wonder even a trifle bitterly what
had become of Mademoiselle Delphine. It seemed passing
strange that he saw naught of her — had missed her ever
since he had come to her aid. Surely she had been very well
content to leave him to his fate, once he had championed her
cause! It was strange, he thought, according to his lights
very odd . . .
And so thinking, he became aware that the brief interval
seemed to have refreshed Monsieur le Prince more than it
had himself,
[216]


The Inn of the Winged God
Georges now seemed possessed of seven devils, all a-thirst
for the soul of O’Rourke. He flew at him, abruptly, without
the least warning, like a whirlwind. O'Rourke was beaten
back a dozen yards in as many seconds. There was no
killing time about the present combat – O'Rourke well
knew.
And he felt himself steadily failing. Once he slipped and
all but went to his knees, and when he recovered was
trembling in every limb like an aspen leaf. And, again, he
blundered into a chair and sent it crashing to the floor; when
it seemed ages ere he managed to disentangle his feet from
its rounds – seemed the longer since the sword of Prince
Georges quivered over him like the wrath of a just God,
relentless and terrible.
He had one last hope — to get himself in a corner, with
his back to the wall, and stand Monsieur le Prince off to
the bitter end. At least, he prayed he might get in one good
blow before — that end. And so he made for the corner
nearest him.
In the end he gained it against odds — for Prince Georges
divined his purpose and did his utmost to thwart it. But
when at last the Irishman had gained this slight advantage,
his heart sank within him; Georges closed fearlessly, not keep-
ing at sword's length, as O'Rourke had trusted he might.
O'Rourke was flattened, fairly, against that wall. He
fought with desperate cunning, but ever more feebly. “God!”
he cried once, between clinched teeth. “Could I but touch
him!”
Georges heard, grinning maliciously.
“Never, fortune hunter!” he returned, redoubling his
efforts. “You may well pray —”
What else he said O'Rourke never knew, for at that instant
[217 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
he felt the wall give to the pressure of his shoulders, and a
breath of cool air swept past him.
“A door!” he thought, and, leaping backwards, fell sprawl-
ing in utter darkness.
It was indeed a door. As he lay there the Irishman caught
a transient glimpse of a woman’s head and shoulders outlined
against the light, and then the door was closed, and he heard
her throw herself bodily against it, with the dull click of a
bolt shot home; also a maddened oath, and a terrific blow
delivered upon the panels by the sword of Monsieur le Prince.
[218]


CHAPTER III
THE NIGHT OF MADNESS
O'RourkE was prompt to scramble to his feet. He found
himself surrounded by a profound blackness. The place
wherein he stood was like the very heart of night itself. But
for the quick flutter of the breath of the woman who was near
him, he was without an inkling as to where he might be.
But for the moment he was content to know that he was
with her. He groped in the darkness with a tentative hand,
which presently encountered the girl's, and closed upon it;
and he started to speak, but she gave him pause.
“Hush, m'sieur!” she breathed. “Hush – and come
with me quickly. You have not an instant to —”
Her concluding word was drowned in the report of a pistol.
The girl started, with a frightened cry. A roar of cursing
filled the room which the O'Rourke, providentially, had just
quitted. It subsided suddenly; and then the two heard the
cool, incisive accents of Chambret.
“Not so fast, Monsieur le Prince,” they heard him say,
warningly. “Take it with more aplomb, I advise you. Upon
my word of honor, you die if you move a finger within ten
minutes!”
“And then –?” came the wrathful voice of Georges.
“Then,” returned Chambret, delicately ironical, “I shall
be pleased to leave you to your — devices — shall we call
them? For my part, I shall go on my way in my automo-
bile.”
[219 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
They heard no more. The girl was already dragging
O'Rourke away.
“Ten minutes!” she whispered gratefully.
“”Tis every bit as good as a vear, just now,” O’Rourke
assured her, lightly — more lightly than his emotions war-
ranted, indeed.
“Ah, m'sieur!” she said fearfully.
“Whisht, darlint,” he cried. “Don’t ye be worrying
about me now. 'Tis the O’Rourke that can care for his
head, Mam'selle Delphine – now that ye’ve given me a
fighting chance.”
But she only answered, “Come!” tugging impatiently at
his hand; and he was very willing to follow her, even unto
the ends of the known world, as long as he might be so led
by those warm, soft fingers.
But he grew quite bewildered in the following few minutes.
It seemed that they threaded a most curious maze of vacant
rooms and sounding galleries, all in total eclipse. And once,
for some time, they were passing through what seemed a tun-
nel, dark and musty, wherein the Irishman, by putting forth his
freehand, was able to touch a rough, damp wall of hewn stone.
But at the end of that they came to a doorway, where they
halted. The girl evidently produced a key, for she released
O'Rourke's hand, and a second later he heard the grating
of a rusty lock and then the protests of reluctant hinges.
“And where will this be taking us?” he asked at length.
“To safety, for you, I pray, m'sieur.”
“Thank ye, Mam'selle Delphine.”
“Quick!” she interrupted impatiently.
A rush of cool air and fresh enveloped them. O'Rourke
stepped out after the girl, who turned and swung to the door,
relocking it.
[220 J


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Ah, yes. But, for all that, I’m not going to leave him —”
“Too late, m'sieur. See!”
Again she indicated the inn. O'Rourke looked, swearing
in his excitement — but under his breath, that she — an inn-
maid! — might not be offended.
He saw Chambret, momentarily as he had been — steady
and solid as a rock in the doorway. An instant later, he was
gone; and from the taproom came a volley of shouts and
curses, tempered to faint echoes by the distance.
Promptly the automobile began to move. And as it did
the doorway was filled with struggling men. Chambret ap-
peared to stand up in the machine; his revolver spat fire
thrice.
The shots were answered without delay, but the machine
gathered speed, and swept snorting westwards. Prince
Georges and Colonel Charles of the army of Lützelburg
were to be seen pursuing it down the road, afoot, pepper-
ing the night with futile bullets and filling it with foul vitu-
peration. -
Presently they must have realized what feeble figures they
were cutting in the eyes of the peasants; for they halted. By
then they were near enough for their high and angry tones to
be distinguishable to O'Rourke and the girl.
“Back!” they heard Georges cry. “To the horses!”
“But we cannot overtake him, your highness —”
“Fool! The patrol will halt him, and we shall arrive in
good time.”
As though in answer to Georges' statement, a volley of
carbine shots rang sharply from the direction of the frontier,
continuing for a full minute, to be followed by a rapid, dying
clatter of horses’ hoofs.
The Frenchman's automobile had reached the outpost,
[2.2.2]


The Night of Madness
had dashed through its surprised resistance, and was gone,
on to Lützelburg.
So much Georges surmised — and truly. “The fools!”
he cried. “They were not alert without us, Charles. Come
— let us get back to the inn. At least we have left to us that
cursed Irishman and —”
“If so be it they have not already escaped through the
fields,” interrupted Charles.
Their voices faded into murmurs as they retreated. The
girl tugged at O'Rourke's hand.
“Hurry, m'sieur,” she implored.
But O'Rourke was thinking of his comrade and the gantlet
he had just run. The reports of the carbines still filled his
ears with grim forebodings.
“God send that he was not hit!” he prayed fervently. “A
true man, if ever one lived.”
“Yes, yes, m'sieur. But come, ah, come!” – with an
odd little catch in her voice.
Obediently O'Rourke followed her. They trod for a time
upon a little path, worn through the open fields, making
toward a stretch of forest that loomed dimly vast and mys-
terious to the southwards.
“I’m wondering, Mam'selle Delphine,” said the Irishman,
“how we got out there on the hillside.”
“By an underground passage,” she explained impatiently.
“The inn,” she added, “is old; it bore not always as good a
reputation as it does now.”
“Thank ye,” he said. “And sinceye can tell me that, can
ye not go a bit further and tell me how I am to balance me
account with ye, mam'selle?”
“Yes,” she replied; “I – I will tell you.”
There was a strange hesitation in her speech – as though
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
some emotion choked her. O'Rourke wondered, as, silently
now, since she did not at once make good her words and in-
form him, he followed her across the fields.
Nor, indeed, did mam'selle of the inn speak again until she
had brought the Irishman to the edge of that woodland, and
for a moment or two had skirted its depths. Abruptly, she
paused, turning toward him and laying a tentative hand upon
his arm.
“M'sieur,” she said – and again with the little catch in
her tone, – “here lies the frontier of France.”
“And there – Lützelburg?” he inquired, unawed.
“Yes – beyond the white stone.”
The white stone of the boundary was no more than a yard
away. “Come!” cried O'Rourke; and in two steps was in
Lützelburg.
“Did ye think me the man to hesitate?” he asked wonder-
ingly. “Did ye think I'd draw back me hand — especially
after what's passed between meself and that dog, Monsieur
le Prince?”
“I did not know,” she confessed, looking up into his
face. “M'sieur is very bold; for M'sieur le Prince sticks at
nothing.”
“Faith, the time is nigh when he'll stick at the O’Rourke,
I promise ye!” he boasted, with his heart hot within him
as he recalled how cowardly had been the attempt upon
him.
She smiled a little at his assurance. There spoke the Irish-
man, she may have been thinking. But her smile was one
heavenly to the man.
Allowances may be made for him. He was aged neither
in years nor in heart; and the society of a beautiful woman
was something for which he had starved during the winter
[224 |


The Night of Madness
just past. And surely mam'selle's face was very lovely as
she held it toward his — pale, glimmering in the starlight,
with sweet, deep shadows where her eyes glowed, her
lips a bit parted, her breath coming rapidly; and so near
to him she stood that it stirred upon his cheek like a soft
CareSS. -
And he bent toward her quickly. Quickly, but not so
swiftly that she might not escape; which she did with a move-
ment as agile as a squirrel's; thereafter standing a little way
from him, and laughing half-heartedly.
“Ah, m'sieur!” she reproached him for his audacity.
“I don’t care!” he defied her anger. “Why will ye tempt
me, Mam'selle Delphine — ye with your sweet, pretty ways,
and that toss av your head that’s like an invitation—though
I misdoubt ye are meaning the half of it? Am I a man or—
or what? – that I should be cold to ye –?”
“Ah, but you are a man, m'sieur, as you have to-night well
shown!” she told him desperately. “You were asking what
you could do to even our score?”
“Yes, mam'selle.”
“Then, monsieur —” And now she drew nearer to him,
trustingly, almost pleadingly. “Then, monsieur, you have
only to continue what you set out to do — even at the risk
of your life. Ah, monsieur, it is much that I ask, but — am
I not to be pitied? Indeed, I am mad, quite mad with
anxiety. Go, monsieur, if you would serve me — go on and
save to me the little duke! Think, monsieur, what they may
be doing to my son —”
“Your son — Mam'selle Delphine!”
O'Rourke jumped back as though he had been shot, then
stood stock-still, transfixed with amazement. “Your son!”
he cried again.
| 225 |


The Night of Madness
Chambret and Madame la Princesse, Beatrix de Grandlieu.
In the perilous sweetness of that moment friendship was for-
gotten, the love of the man’s life lost, engulfed in the love of
the moment. The world reeled dizzily about him, and the
lips of the grand duchess were sweet as wine to a fainting man.
[227 J


CHAPTER IV
THE RAT TRAP
BUT she first came to her senses, in time, and broke from
his arms.
“Ah, monsieur!” she cried. And the face he saw was
beautiful, even though stained by tears, though wrung by
distress. “But this is madness, madness!” she cried again.
“Sure,” he said confusedly, for indeed the world was
upside down with him then, “’tis the sweetest madness that
ever mortal did know! Faith, me head’s awhirl with that
same madness, and the heart of me's on fire – ah, madame,
madame!”
“No,” she cried softly. “No, my — my friend — I — I
cannot —” And she put forth a hand to ward off his swift
advances.
Somehow the gesture brought reason to him in his mad-
ness. He stopped, catching her hand, and for a moment
stood with bended head, holding it fast but tenderly.
“Ye are right, madame,” he said at length. “I was the
madman. 'Tis past now – the seizure. Can ye forgive
me — and forget, madame?”
“Monsieur, to forgive is not hard.” She smiled dazzlingly
through a mist of tears. “To forget — is that so easy P”
But now he had a strong hand upon his self-control. “”Tis
not the O’Rourke that will be forgetting, madame,” he told
her. “But Madame la Grande Duchesse de Lützelburg
[228]


The Rat Trap
must forget — and well I know that! Let be! 'Tis past—
past—and there's no time to be wasted, I’m thinking, if we
are to outwit Georges this night.”
“That — that is very true. Thank you, monsieur. You
— you are — generous.”
She came closer to him, her eyes upon his face. But he
looked away from her, sinking his nails deep into his palms
to help him remember his place, his duty. Indeed, the man
was sorely tried to keep his arms from about the woman
again. “Chambret!” he remembered. And that name he
repeated, as though it were a talisman against a recurrence
of that dear madness. “Beatrix!” he murmured, also, and
grew more strong.
“Lead on, madame,” he presently told her, histone dogged.
She may have guessed from that what war waged itself in
the bosom of O’Rourke. Her gaze grew very soft and tender
as she regarded him. And abruptly she wheeled about upon
her heel.
“Come, monsieur,” she requested more calmly. “The
night is young, but, as you say, there is much to be accom-
plished.”
He followed her on into the fastnesses of the forest, where
the night gathered black about them, and he could only guess
his way by the glimmer of her white neckerchief flitting be-
fore him.
“Where now, madame?” he asked, after a great while;
for it began to seem as though they were to walk on thus for-
ever, and O’Rourke was growing weary.
“We are going to the hunting lodge of – of my son, the
Grand Duke,” she said. And her manner showed what con-
straint she put upon herself, told of what humiliation of spirit
she was undergoing.
[229 |


Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“And for why?” he would know.
“It is where I shall change my dress,” she said. “I have
the keys to the place, and to-day, when it seemed that I must
go to warn you of your danger, monsieur —”
“Bless ye for that!” he interjected.
“I bethought me of the lodge. So, with two maids, I went
to it by stealth. They do not know now in Lützelburg what
has become of their duchess. I disguised myself — as I
thought — in the peasant dress, and went alone and on foot
to the inn.
“Ye knew the landlord, madame?” he asked, to take her
mind from more serious matters.
“I knew him, yes,” she told him, “and bribed him to let
me take the place of his servant for the day. Monsieur
Chambret, of course you understand, had advised me by what
road you would enter Lützelburg. Now, it is to bid farewell
to Delphine of the inn, monsieur, and become once more the
Grand Duchess of Lützelburg.”
By then they had come out into a clearing in the woodland.
Before them a small building loomed dark and cheerless; not
a glimmer of light showed in any of its windows. Nor was a
sound to be heard in the clearing, save the soughing of the
wind in the boughs overhead.
“By my orders,” madame paused to explain, “there are no
lights, the better to attract no comment. You will wait for
me here, my friend” – she turned toward him timidly —
“my dear friend, until I am ready?”
“Faith, yes, madame; what else?”
“I shall not be long,” she said. Yet she hesitated at the
door of the hunting lodge, smiling at O'Rourke almost ap-
prehensively.
“You — you will not forget —” she faltered.
[23ol


The Rat Trap
“Madame,” he told her boldly, “I shall never forget Mam’-
selle Delphine of the Inn of the Winged God; as to Madame
la Grand Duchesse, I have yet to meet her.”
“Ah, monsieur, but you are generous. Thank you, thank
you.”
The woman turned, lifted the knocker on the door, and let
it fall thrice: presumably a signal agreed upon between her
and her companions. The thunder of the metal resounded
emptily through the house, but in response there was no
other sound. Again she repeated the alarm, and again was
doomed to disappointment.
“Why, I do not understand,” she cried petulantly. “Surely
they understood me; they were to wait.”
The Irishman stepped to her side and tried the knob; under
his hand it turned, the door opening easily inward upon its
hinges. Madame stepped back with a little cry of alarm.
“I do not understand,” she reiterated.
“Something frightened them, possibly,” O’Rourke re-
assured her. “One moment. Do ye wait while I strike ye
a light.” -
. He crossed the threshold, stepping into blank darkness,
and heard the voice of madame.
“The lodge is lighted by electricity,” she was telling him
from her stand upon the doorsill. “There is a switch on
the right-hand wall, near the window.”
“Where did you say?” he inquired, groping about blindly.
“I will show you, monsieur.”
She came into the room confidently. “Thank goodness!”
exclaimed O'Rourke gratefully, fearful for his shins.
He heard her step beside him, and the swish of her skirt
as she passed. Abruptly she cried out, as though in protest:
“Monsieur, what do you mean?”
[231 |


The Rat Trap
to Prince Georges, glancing around the room for others,
seeking a friendly eye or a way of escepe.
The lodge – or that room of it wherein he stood — held
five persons in addition to O'Rourke himself; respectively,
Madame la Grande Duchesse, pale with rage, defiant of
mien, helpless with the arms of Colonel Charles clipped
tight about her; Chambret—at the sight of whom O'Rourke
caught his breath with dismay — sitting helpless in a chair,
his hands tied to the rungs thereof; Monsieur le Prince,
Georges de Lützelburg, handsome and ironical of demeanor;
and a fifth individual, in semi-uniform, whom O’Rourke
guessed — and guessed rightly, it developed – for a surgeon
of Lützelburg's army.
“Put down the saber,” the Prince told him.
And O’Rourke let it fall from his hand, being in that case
wherein discretion is the better part of valor. But though
he was now unarmed, the revolver continued to menace him.
“Let madame go,” was the next command, directed to
Colonel Charles, who promptly released the duchess.
“Messieurs,” she cried, “I demand an explanation of this
insolence.”
Georges, from his chair, regarded her with lofty contempt.
“It is strange,” he mused aloud, “that a prince of Lützelburg
should be addressed in such wise by a wench of the inns!”
“Ye contemptible scoundrel!” cried O’Rourke.
“Softly, monsieur, softly. I will attend to your case pres-
ently.”
“At least ye will adopt a different tone to madame —”
O'Rourke pursued undaunted.
“I shall order my conduct according unto my whim, mon-
sieur. Another word out of you, and I’ll settle you at
once.”
[233]


The Rat Trap
this enlightened age, even a Georges de Lützelburg will not
undertake a cold-blooded murder — before witnesses.”
He stepped forward, opening the door against which he
stood. Madame looked from his face to Chambret's, from
Monsieur le Prince's back to O'Rourke's again. “I am
afraid —” she faltered; then abruptly was resolved, and,
holding her head high, passed out into the night.
“You will be kind enough to shoot the bolt,” O’Rourke
heard the voice of the prince. Unhesitatingly he complied,
turning with a little sigh of relief to face whatever Fate might
hold in store for him. At least the woman’s eye was not to
be offended by this princeling's brutality. As for himself,
he, O’Rourke, could take what was to be his portion without
complaining.
“And now —?” he suggested pleasantly.
“Monsieur is agreeable,” commented the prince: “a be-
coming change. See here,” he added, altering his manner,
becoming exceedingly businesslike, “it is a plain proposition.
The presence of yourself and of Monsieur Chambret in this
duchy is distasteful to me. You seem, however, to consult
your own inclinations, even at the risk of your necks.
Frankly, you have annoyed me. I would have it ended
once and for all. Legally, I have no right to prohibit your
comings or your goings. Personally, I arrogate unto myself
that right. If I request you to absent yourselves, you will
courteously refuse. In such event, there is to my mind but
one solution of the difficulty.”
“And that is –?” inquired Chambret, suddenly bright-
ening.
“Release monsieur,” the prince commanded, and while
Charles did his bidding, severing the cords which bound
Chambret's hands to the chair, he pursued:
[235]


The Rat Trap
“I believe I can pick their names,” laughed O’Rourke.
Georges glowered at him suspiciously. It may have
crossed his mind that the Irishman was a man extremely con-
fident for one who had, practically, one foot in the grave.
But he made no reply.
Smiling his satisfaction — for indeed this was very much
to his taste — O'Rourke stooped and possessed himself of a
sword. He caused the yard of steel to sing through the
air, bent it, threw it lightly up, and caught it by the hilt,
laughing with pleasure.
Had he himself pulled the strings that were moving the
puppets in this little drama, he was thinking, he could have
devised no situation more thoroughly after his own heart.
Monsieur le Prince, he surmised, thought to administer to
him first of all a speedy and sure coup de grâce. Having dis-
covered that the Irishman was no match for him with the
broadsword, doubtless the prince considered that proof of
his own superiority with the rapier — a weapon naturally
of a greater delicacy, requiring greater subtlety and more
assured finesse in its handling than the saber.
Colonel Charles meanwhile advanced, picked up the two
swords, offering one to Chambret, who accepted with a cour-
teous bow, removing his coat and rolling up his cuffs ere
putting himself on one side of the room, opposite Charles,
leaving the center of the floor bare for the principals.
O'Rourke shed his jacket, bared his wrists, again seized
the rapier. He brought his heels together smartly with a
click, saluted gracefully, and lunged at the empty air.
Monsieur le Prince watched him with appreciation.
“Very pretty,” he conceded. “I am glad you have attended
a fencing school, m'sieur. It is a matter for self-congratula-
tion that I have not to slay an absolute novice.”
[ 237 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
O'Rourke affected an extreme air of surprise.
“Ye have scruples, then?” he gibed.
But already Georges’ face had become masklike, expres-
sionless — the face of a professional gambler about to fleece
a dupe.
“”Twill be hard to rattle him, I’m thinking,” said
O’Rourke to himself. Aloud, “Since we waive code eti-
quette, monsieur,” he announced, “I am ready.”
Monsieur le Prince saluted silently, and put himself on
guard simultaneously with the Irishman’s guard.
Their blades slithered, clashed, striking a clear, bell-like
note in the otherwise deathly silence that obtained within
the lodge.
Chambret and Charles advanced cautiously from their
walls, watching the crossed swords with an eternal vigilance,
their own weapons alert to strike them up at the first suspi-
cion of a foul on either side.
For a moment the two combatants remained almost mo–
tionless, endeavoring each to divine his antagonist's method,
striving each to solve the secret of his opponent's maturing
campaign.
Then, looking straight into the prince's eyes, “Come,
come!” invited O’Rourke. “Have ye lost heart entirely,
man? Don’t keep me waiting all day.”
Georges made no reply save by a lightning-like lunge,
which O’Rourke parried imperturbably.
“Clever,” he admitted cheerfully. “But too sudden,
Monsieur le Prince. More carefully another time, if ye
please.”
Again he parried, riposting smartly; the point of his rapier
rang loudly upon the guard of the prince's.
“Careful, careful,” warned O'Rourke, gaining a step or two.
[238]


The Rat Trap
“Be the way,” he suggested suddenly. “Faith, ’tis me-
self that's growing forgetful, monsieur. Before I put ye out
of your misery, tell me now, where is little Duke Jehan?”
“Be silent, dog!” snarled the prince.
“Be polite, ye scum of the earth!”
And O’Rourke, feinting, put his point within the prince's
guard and ripped his shirt-sleeve to the shoulder.
“Just to show ye I could do it,” he chuckled. “Another
time, I’ll not be so merciful. Tell me, now, where have ye
put the child?”
He lunged thrice with bewildering rapidity. The prince
gave way a half dozen feet of ground under the fury of the
attack.
“Tell me!” thundered O'Rourke, “before I do ye a hurt,
man!” -
But the answer he got was a stubborn silence.
From that point he forced the fighting to the end. It was
even as he had suspected: he was in no way inferior to
Georges. Rather was the contrary the case, for the prince,
marvelous swordsman though he was, fought by the rigid
rules of a single school — the French, while O’Rourke fought
with a composite knowledge, skilled in as many methods as
there were flags under which he had served.
Slowly, carefully, and relentlessly he advanced, obliging
Monsieur le Prince to concede foot after foot of ground. And
the combat, which had begun in the center of the floor —
and the room was both wide and deep – by gradual degrees
was carried down its center to the wall farthest from the door.
And with every skilful thrust, he dinned into the ears of
the other an insistent query:
“Where have ye put the child, monsieur?”
Presently Georges found himself fairly pinned to the wall.
[239]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
He attempted an escape this way and that, to the one side
or the other, but ever vainly; and ever, as he sought to make
him a path with feint or thrust or tricky footwork, he found
his path barred with a threatening point, like a spot of danc-
ing fire engirdling him about.
For the Irishman seemed to wield a dozen swords, and as
many menacing points enmeshed Georges de Lützelburg,
denying him even hope.
O'Rourke's wrist was seemingly of steel, tempered like a
fine spring; his sword gave nothing, took all ungratefully, and
cried aloud for more and more of the prince's failing strength.
The eye of the Irishman was clear and keen – now hard and
ruthless of aspect. And his defense was a wall impregnable.
“Tell me,” he chanted monotonously, “what have ye done
with the little duke?”
Slowly the prince conceded to himself defeat, and yet he
sought about for a desperate expedient toward escape, be that
however shameful, so long as it saved him his worthless
life.
A hunted look crept into the man’s eyes, and his breath
came short and gaspingly, as he struggled to advance one
foot, even, from the wall that so hampered him — and had
his striving for his pains.
With the realization of his fate dancing before his weary
eyes, yet he rallied and fought for a time insanely, sapping
his vitality with useless feints and maddened lunges that came
to naught but O'Rourke's furthered advantage.
And then, “It is over,” he told himself.
O'Rourke's ceaseless inquiry rang in his ears like a clarion
knell:
“Where is the Grand Duke of Lützelburg, dead man?”
Fencing desperately, “Will you give me my life if I tell?”
[240]


The Rat Trap
“That will I, though ye don’t deserve it!”
“Hidden in my personal apartments at the castle,” panted
the man.
O'Rourke incautiously drew off, lowering his point a trifle.
“Is that the truth?” he demanded fiercely.
“Truth, indeed,” returned the duke.
At the moment a slight exclamation from Charles made
the Irishman turn his head. For a passing second he was
off his guard. That second Monsieur le Prince seized upon.
“The truth,” he gasped, “but you'll never live to tell it!”
And on the words he lunged.
Some instinct made O’Rourke jump. It saved his life.
The blade passed through his sword arm cleanly, and was
withdrawn. The pain of it brought a cry to his lips. “Ye
contemptible coward!” he cried, turning upon the prince.
The treachery of it made his blood boil. A flush of rage
colored his brain, so that he seemed to see the world darkly,
through a mist of scarlet wherein only the face of his enemy
was visible.
He turned upon the prince, shifting his rapier to his left
hand. The very surprise of his movements proved the
prince's undoing; O’Rourke's naked hand struck up his
blade. He closed with Georges, his fingers clutching about
the prince's throat — the fingers of the hand belonging to the
wounded arm, at that. With incredible dexterity he short-
ened his grip of the rapier, grasping it half way down the
blade, using it after the fashion of a poniard.
And what was mortal of Monsieur le Prince, Georges de
Lützelburg collapsed upon the floor.
[241 |


The Open Road
Though he felt the blood trickling down within his sleeve, a
hot stream, yet it was too dark for the woman to see.
“Georges is — dead,” he told her, shortly; “and ye’ll find
your son, madame, hidden in his rooms in the castle.”
“Thank God!” She was silent for a moment. “My
little son!” she said softly. “Ah, monsieur, you have saved
him from – who knows what? How can I show my grati-
tude?” -
“By forgetting the O'Rourke, madame,” he said almost
roughly.
“What do you mean?” She caught him by the sleeve as
he turned away. “You are not going, monsieur?”
“Instantly, madame.”
“But why — why?”
“Madame, because me work is done here. Good night,
madame.”
“But, monsieur, monsieur! Ah, stay!”
He shook his arm free, with no effort to ameliorate his
rudeness.
“Good night, madame,” he repeated stiffly, with his heart
in his throat; and was off, swinging down the forest path.
He had not taken a dozen paces, however, before she had
caught up with him; and he felt her arms soft and clinging
about his neck.
“Ah, monsieur, monsieur!” she cried; and her tone thrilled
the ardent man through every fiber of him. “You have not
deceived me as to your motive, O most gallant and loyal
gentleman!”
She drew his head down, though he resisted, and kissed
him once, full upon the lips. Then, wistfully, “Au revoir,
monsieur,” she said, and permitted him to leave her.
For the second time that night he dropped upon his knee
[243 ]


The Open Road
towards the south, his mind busied with thoughts of wars and
rumors of wars, in the many-hued land south and east of the
Mediterranean, where a free sword was respected, where
honor and advancements and, above all, real fighting were to
be had for the trouble of looking them up.
His thoughts reverted to Chambret and what talk had
passed between the two of them, back in the Café de la Paix
in Paris, bearing upon Madame la Princesse, Beatrix de
Grandlieu, his heart’s mistress. And because the events of
the night were fresh in his memory, and because his transient
weakness in the face of the charms of the Grande Duchesse
had stirred the embers of his deep and abiding love for his
princess, his mind dwelt upon her long and tenderly.
For a time it seemed as though she were with him in the
spirit, during that long night walk, and that her lips were
comforting him with words of cheer; bidding him hope and
be of good heart.
And, if so, he reasoned, it must mean that he was to strike
out for the East and the fortune that lay waiting for him to
discover it — at the rainbow’s end. So he came to a logical
determination to follow its biddings, to dally no longer, to
strike with all his strength for honor and fortune and the
right to wed his love.
Danny, he understood, was in Alexandria. “And ’tis
meself that misdoubts but that he's up to some manner of
divvlemint there,” considered O'Rourke. “”Tis me duty to
look him up and attind to his morals. . . . I have neglicted
the la-ad sadly: I have so. And sure and there's no doubt
at all but that he'll be glad to see me! . . . Moreover, Alex-
andria's a great port. 'Twould be possible to take ship
from there for almost anywhere on the face of the earth
— including Egypt.”
[245 |


CHAPTER VI
THE GODDESS OF EGYPTIAN NIGHT
It was Danny who was frowning uneasily over the rather ex-
tensive consignment of wearing apparel which had just been
delivered to Colonel O'Rourke upon that gentleman’s order.
O'Rourke himself was standing with his hands in his pock-
ets, indifferently whistling the while he gazed out of the win-
dow of his room in Shepheard’s — a rather inferior room,
giving upon the hotel's courtyard, wherein the rays of the
Egyptian sun struck down like brickbats, driving all living
things to shelter, with the exception of one solitary and dis-
consolate crane, tame and depressed, whose shadow lay like
a pool of ink upon the flags.
The adventurer turned impatiently from staring at the
bird, to inquire if Danny had not yet bestirred himself to
finish the unpacking of the new clothes, which their owner
desired to try on. The master caught the dubious smile on
the man’s lips, and the whistling stopped short.
Danny's uneasiness was a thing apparent, not to be over-
looked — as the man had intended it should be; it was as
near as he dared to an expression of disapproval of O’Rourke's
judgment. For the rest, whatever his thoughts, Danny was
keeping them to himself, with his tongue between his teeth –
and that very prudently.
But, as for O'Rourke, a difference of opinion, even be-
tween master and man, was a thing to be settled promptly;
and he went for Danny, speaking straight from the shoulder.
[247 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“For what are ye standing there grinning, like the red-
headed gossoon ye are?” he cried. “What's on your mind
– if ye’ve the impudence to boast such a thing, Danny?”
“Sure, now, sor,” protested the red-headed one, “I was
only thinkin’ that there do be a terrible lot of thim clothes.
Wouldn’t they be costing a likely pot av money, now, sor?”
“True for ye, Danny; they would,” complacently made
answer O'Rourke, admiring in his mirror the effect of a new
white pith helmet with several yards of beautiful green mos-
quito netting patriotically draped around and hanging down
the back of it.
“That is,” he amended, putting it aside in order to assume
a fresh suit of immaculate white duck, “they would be ex-
pensive if me tailor's name did not happen to be O'Flaherty
— a friend of me own, and, be that same token, glad of the
chance to extend long credit to any son of the old country.
Besides,” he concluded, “what business is that of yours?”
O'Rourke sat him down on the edge of the bed and rammed
his long legs into the trousers of a new suit of evening clothes;
then he stood up and took joy because of their impeccable
set, and the crease down the center of each leg as sharp as
though it were sewn in place.
“Besides —” he added. “Hand me those suspenders,
ye omadhaun, and don’t stand staring as if ye never before
saw dacint clothes on the back of a handsome man like me-
self! Besides, who’s worrying about money?”
Danny hastened to disclaim any such reprehensible
anxiety; but O'Rourke cut sharply into the man’s excuses.
“Danny,” he asked severely, “now, how much was there in
the treasury when we left Alexandria?”
“Wan hoondred an’ foive pounds,” without hesitation re-
plied Daniel. “An’—an’, askin’ yer honor's pardon, sor—”
[248]


The Goddess of Egyptian Night
“Go on! Out with it, man!”
“How long will that be lastin', what with livin' six wakes
at the foinest hotel in Cairo, yer honor, sor, an’ two such
batches av clothes already, sor?”
“Danny,” said O’Rourke, “ye weary me inexpressibly.
Give me the white trousies yonder, and likewise the old ones.”
O’Rourke took his discarded trousers, ran his hand into
the pockets, and produced, first a handful of gold and baser
coin, which contemptuously he threw upon the bedspread,
in turn exhibiting to Danny's astonished eyes an impressive
roll of Bank of England notes.
“There!” complacently he exclaimed. “And what will
ye find to say to that, now, I wonder?”
With his master's good humor, Danny's confidence re-
turned; he grew emboldened, eying the money wistfully.
“Not much to say,” he conceded, “while ye're lookin', sor.
But if yer honor will turn yer back for the laste parrt av a
momint, ’tis meself that'll endeavor to hold converse wid
th’ roll.”
“Umm,” agreed O'Rourke. “I misdoubt ye’ve told the
truth for the first time in your life, Danny.”
Composedly he arrayed himself in the white duck suit,
choosing and arranging his cravat with exquisite care. Pres-
ently he was satisfied. He turned and took possession of
the scattered money, at the last moment flipping a sovereign
to his servant.
“Take that,” he said. “Be thankful, do not get immod-
erately drunk, and learn to trust your fortunes to the
O’Rourke.”
“But, sor,” gasped the man, bewildered, “an how did ye
come by it all, sor, manin’ no onrespect to yer honor?”
O'Rourke smiled retrospectively. “The Italian gentleman
[249 |


The Goddess of Egyptian Night
me friend Satan will be cooking up some mischief for me idle
hands – that's fair warning for ye, O’Rourke! ... I can’t,”
he went on, “keep hitting the wheel. 'Tis meself that has a
presintiment that me luck’s about to change; and, sure, I’ve
been phenomenally fortunate these last few weeks. I can’t
sit forever waiting for Doone Pasha to find me a place in the
Khedival army. And ’tis against nature that I should be
under the fire of madame's eyes much longer without taking
me fate in me hands and — raising trouble for meself.
“For the matter of that,” he concluded, “’tis time I was
on the wing. Me nest gets uncomfortable if I rest in it over-
long. I’ve been here three weeks be the clock. Can I stand
it much longer?”
A burst of laughter from a party at a neighboring table
changed the current of his meditations.
“There's gaiety for ye!” he commented. “What does all
this mean, can ye tell me? When has Shepheard's been so
crowded in the middle of the hot months, as now? For why
is everybody lingering in Cairo, if 'tis not for to see something
drop? I wonder, now, if there's diplomatic troubles in the
air? Will France and Turkey be making a little rough-
house for England presently? Is that it? I’ve heard no
word to that effect — nor to the contrary, for that matter.
Is there to be a war, and meself not invited?”
He turned to survey the crowd with a speculative eye.
But no, he concluded; it seemed no more than the usual
gathering of Shepheard’s guests — the ordinary aggregation
of tourists, with a sprinkling of residents and native Egyp-
tians, and a fair leavening of red-faced, pompous young sub-
alterns of the Army of Occupation.
It was the fag end of an afternoon, painfully hot. Above
O'Rourke's head a palm was stirring languidly in the least
[251 |


The Goddess of Egyptian Night
was no more than in keeping with her superb grace of car-
riage; and though it all was forgotten when one — especially
such an impressionable one as O'Rourke – looked upon
her face.
She was very pale and very dark. “A goddess of Egyp-
tian night,” the Irishman had lightly termed her, at first
sight. Her hair was of the blackness of jet, and of its high
luster. And as for her eyes, to O'Rourke they were like
nothing in the world but the soft, warm depths of the star-
strewn Mediterranean — infinitely beautiful, infinitely dark,
infinitely tempting. They drew his gaze as with a magnetic
attraction; he looked, looked deep, and for the moment
forgot — forgot Cairo, Shepheard's, Egypt – forgot even
another woman beyond the seas to whom his troth was
plighted, for whom he wandered in strange lands seeking
his fugitive fortunes.
And then, in a moment, she was looking away, with her
chin held a trifle higher, a bit more disdainfully than her
wont, and, as she swept up the steps to the terrace, O’Rourke
told himself that she colored faintly under her wonderful
pallor – though, he admitted fairly, it might have been his
own conceit that made him so fancy.
There followed her a man — a tall, clean-limbed young
Egyptian, wearing the clothes of modern civilization and the
inevitable tarboosh, bearing himself with some distinction
of manner. But him O'Rourke honored with scarcely a
glance. He was thinking only of the marvelous beauty of
the woman, and, “Faith,” he pondered, sighing, “there's the
excuse for me, now!”
But who was she? The problem tormented the man; nor
could all his inquiries about the hotel gain him an answer.
Liberal bakshish distributed among the servants told him
| 253 ]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
no more than already he knew — that she was accustomed
to come to Shepheard's every evening, to dine there in the
company of her Egyptian escort. Who either happened to
be and whence they came, was a mystery apparently unsolv-
able.
For his own part, O'Rourke was now determined that the
mystery should be probed. Hitherto he had hesitated;
though always her eyes had sought his, and though always
in their depth he had read something — an interest, a faint
recognition – never until this day had she so compelled his
gaze to hers, so given him a glimpse of her own soul through
its windows.
“Sure,” swore the Irishman, “’tis more than mortal man
can stand – ’tis beyond endurance, beyond the limits of
dacint flirtation — that look she gave me. I'll know her
before another sun sets!”
To-day's was setting now; presently it would be night.
O'Rourke bowed his head over his meditative cigar, deliber-
ating ways and means to reach his end. The life on Shep-
heard's terrace quickened with the promise of the night’s
coolness; in the street the traffic moved at a more lively pace.
And, presently, out of the gathering gloom, with a skirling of
bagpipes and the clatter of side-arms, came marching a regi-
ment of anomalies — kilted Scotchmen, bare knees moving
to and fro in rhythmic regularity, in Egypt! – the Cameron
Highlanders of the Army of Occupation.
[254]


CHAPTER VII
THE RUSS INCOGNITO
THE shadows lengthened; from the minarets of Cairo's
mosques muezzins’ calls to prayers rang out. O'Rourke,
absorbed in musings, hardly heard them; and, indeed, so
detached from his surroundings was he that a man sat him-
self down in the chair opposite O’Rourke's elbow and
spoke twice before he roused him.
“Pardon,” he said, in French; “Colonel O'Rourke, I
believe?”
The Irishman came out of his abstraction with a start.
“Eh, I beg pardon?” he said. “I am Colonel O’Rourke,”
he admitted, after a careful scrutiny of the other's features,
which were barely distinguishable in the fading light. “But
monsieur has the advantage of me.”
“Then, monsieur, I count myself fortunate,” rejoined the
stranger, with a careless laugh. “It is a brave man who
gains an advantage over Colonel Terence O’Rourke.”
He paused; but O'Rourke, with characteristic caution, was
waiting for him to declare himself. In the meantime he con-
tinued his search of the stranger's lineaments, trying to dis-
cover therein some familiar feature. He saw a man of a
distinguished type, in evening dress; with a high, pale fore-
head, rather narrow; eyes close set to the bridge of an aqui-
line nose; a pointed beard, exactly trimmed, and a mustache
with upcurled tips, beneath which his lips showed rather full
and red, of a cruel and sensual modeling.
[255]


The Russ Incognito
though to himself; “I was sure of it; ’twas in the air, and
I Smelled it!”
“What, may I ask, monsieur?”
“Trouble,” said the Irishman sententiously.
The Russian chuckled more grimly than before. He
tossed his cigarette out into the street ere replying.
“Am I, then, a bird of ill-omen?”
“Ye are a diplomatist,” returned O'Rourke cautiously.
The prince laughed again. He leaned forward, selecting
another cigarette from a jeweled case. “And if so?” he
asked guardedly. “And if, mon ami, it does mean — war?”
He raised a cautioning finger. “Remember,” he warned
O'Rourke, “I speak in confidence.”
“Surely, monsieur.” The Irishman met his gaze directly
until the other was fain to veil his eyes with their heavy lids.
“And if,” he repeated softly, “it does mean – shall we
call it a diplomatic crisis, monsieur?”
“Ye may, for all of me,” permitted O'Rourke graciously.
If he had any great respect for this man personally, he was
not then showing it.
“Well,” continued the Russian impatiently, “if this is so,
what do you think?” -
“Eh-yah!” yawned the Irishman. “I’m thinking that it
all depends upon the outcome, what me opinion is to be.
And now tell me, since ye are inclined to be so confidential,
what is it all about?”
The prince bent his head to light his cigarette; the flame
flared brightly, outlining his finely carven features; in par-
ticular, O'Rourke was impressed by the heavy brows of the
man — a straight, black mark without break from temple
to temple, giving to his face a somewhat sinister expression.
“Suppose,” said the prince, glancing swiftly around to
[257]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
reassure himself that the immediately adjacent tables were
still unoccupied, and no listeners were nigh, “that two of the
Powers are dissatisfied with affairs Egyptian — or, say,
three?”
“Faith, 'twould not be difficult to name them.”
“Yes?”
“France,” said the Irishman, “Russia, Egypt. Have I
guessed rightly?”
“You are very discerning, monsieur.”
“Am I so? Thank ye. Let us proceed with your supposi-
tion.”
“Suppose, then, that the three powers were to unite to drive
the English out of Egypt. Eh? What do you think, monami ?”
“Faith,” laughed O'Rourke, his eyes brightening at the
prospect, “I think there would be a most hell of a row — if
ye desire me candid opinion.”
“Yes, yes,” returned the prince patiently; “but as to the
outcome?”
“That is on the knees of the gods, Monsieur Nicolas Koz-
and-so-forth.”
“But in event of triumph for the three powers, monsieur,
would it not be well with the man who fights with Egypt?
In event of a new Dual Control, monsieur, would not the
head of the Egyptian Army stand high in the favor of two
world powers?”
“In that event – yes, ’tis likely he would. But, come,
mon ami,” – O'Rourke swung around in his chair and faced
the man squarely—“ye’ve not told me all this without your
purpose. And that is—?”
The Russian carefully flicked the ash from the end of his
cigarette. He took his time about replying; and when he did
so, framed his thought in wary phrases.
[258]


The Russ Incognito
“A skilful, efficient soldier is what the Khedive most
needs,” he announced slowly; “a man afraid of nothing —
afraid not even of England — a soldier and a strategist to
lead Egypt's armies to victory. Well, if His Majesty the
Khedive's disinterested and loyal advisers suggest the proper
man, it will be almost equivalent to an appointment.”
“And –? Proceed, monsieur.”
“May I venture to suggest that a certain Colonel Terence
O'Rourke fills all the qualifications?”
“Ye do me great honor, monsieur.”
For some minutes there was silence between the two.
O'Rourke sat quietly smoking, his mind in a turmoil of
thought; he saw a fair and newly prosperous country running
with blood — as once India had run with blood, long years
since. He saw brave men and true knifed, assassinated,
stabbed in the back, that their places might be filled with
others, their equals neither in morals nor in courage.
He saw — a number of things; and abruptly his mind was
made up. He rose and bowed.
“It has been a very pleasant chat, monsieur,” he said
courteously. “Good night.”
The prince got to his feet with a jerk, his eyes narrowing.
“You are staying here?” he said. “Doubtless I shall have
the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow.”
“Unfortunately,” O’Rourke told him, “I am leaving Cairo
at daybreak.”
He turned away, but the Russian's voice gave him pause.
“I am to understand,” said the prince, “that you refuse?”
“I can refuse nothing that has not been offered to me, mon-
sieur.”
“Be pleased, monsieur, to consider an offer made,” sug-
gested the diplomat silkily.
[259 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Then, in that event,” drawled O'Rourke, “and what-
ever it is, consider it refused, sans thanks, monsieur.”
He started toward the hotel again; when a small, delicate
yet heavy hand upon his sleeve constrained him to further
attention.
“Let me suggest that you think twice.”
“I have thought once, and that is sufficient.” O’Rourke
shook the hand from his arm roughly. “Let me tellye, mon-
sieur, me final word on the subject: I fight only for men who
wear their shirts inside their trousers.”
And still the diplomat restrained his rising anger.
“We will forget that – a childish quibble,” he purred.
“Think twice, monsieur, think twice! Remember, you
Irish have no reason to love England.”
“And damned little to fight her! We people of the Em-
pire may have our private differences of opinion, but when
it comes to outside interference, ’tis shoulder to shoulder we
stand. Remember that. Remember also that, while me
sword is for hire — and the more shame to me! — never yet
has it been drawn in an evil cause. At least, it has fought
for the right, Monsieur the Diplomatist. And that is the
final word. I bid ye good evening.”
This time there was no detaining him; the Russian recog-
nized the fact, and had but one parting shot for O'Rourke.
“You will keep silence,” he said.
O'Rourke halted and turned. “It is a matter of honor,”
he replied stiffly.
The prince laughed. “I did not ask, monsieur; I stated
the fact – you will keep silence.”
And O’Rourke went on to his room, pondering the
hidden menace in the man’s tone, and, “Danny,” he told
his man, “lay out me evening clothes; and, whilst I’m
[260]


The Russ Incognito
dining, pack our trunks. We leave for Port Said in the
morning.”
Danny's eyes shone with delight. “Sure, now, ’tis the
good word for ears weary wid listenin’,” he said; and got
him to work immediately.
[261 |


CHAPTER VIII
THE WORDS OF DELILAH
O'ROURKE dined alone. It was his custom, for his few
friends in Cairo were, for the most part, out of town at the
time. And yet, somehow, this evening he was resenting his
loneliness, finding it depressive.
To his extreme disgust, too, he discovered that his interview
with Prince Viazma had been of such length that, by the
time he was suitably dressed for dining, his goddess of the
Egyptian night had taken her departure; he was therefore
deprived of what would have been some consolation to him
in his gloom – the interchange of glances, stealthy and
sweet, that had been theirs on other nights, lending a glamour
to all the evening for O'Rourke.
He grumbled, eating slowly and considering.
“There's one thing certain,” he told himself. “”Tis no
place for the O'Rourke any more – Cairo. 'Tis very likely
to become unhealthy to a person of me excitable disposition.
I know too much, and there are entirely too many thugs in
the city streets — Greeks and Armenians, for instance —
that'd think of sticking a knife in me back as soon as they’d
think of taking pay for the pleasure av doing it.
“Small wonder,” he mused again, later, “that me friend,
Doone Pasha, has been unable to get me a billet in the Khe-
dival army! Oho! sure, ’tis like a searchlight on a dark
night — this little proposal of me prince incognito. I begin
to see various things. And the first and foremost av them
[262 |


The Words of Delilah
is to stay quiet-like here in the hotel, I’m thinking, until
Aurora's rosy fingers paint the dawn, and meself is on the
train to Port Said. Faith, but ’tis meself that despises a
Russian!”
He was, indeed, inclined to caution. If he remained at
Shepheard's, without doubt he would keep himself within
the bounds of safety. But if he chose to wander in the
streets — well, there would undeniably be danger.
“And the worst of it is,” he rebelled, “that 'tis all for a
scruple. For why should I respect the man’s confidence,
when he forces it upon me?”
Honor is a subtle thing, of much seeming inconsistency at
times; now it was keeping the man’s lips sealed when he had
cause to speak — grave cause, in point of fact.
But for his own skin he held such a profound respect that
he found comfort in the weight of the revolver that was sag-
ging his evening coat out of shape. There was little likeli-
hood that he would be called upon to use it, in Shepheard's;
and yet, your Russian is a strange man, with kinks in his
brain that move his feet into devious ways, beyond the
understanding of men who fight in the open. O'Rourke
was taking no chances. .
He spent the best part of the evening miserably enough;
the music of the orchestra tired him; he strolled into the gam-
ing rooms, but the rattle of coin and the whirring and the
click of the roulette wheel had no fascination for the born
gambler, that night; his brain teemed with other thoughts
of a more absorbing interest.
Barring companionship of one of his own kind — which
he craved — the next best thing seemed a solitude absolute.
He paused in a doorway leading to the terrace.
Out there he might find what he desired; it was cool enough
[263]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
— for the night breeze from off the desert held a nipping
quality at times—to keep the tables from being crowded; at
the same time, there were enough loitering guests and a suffi-
ciency of light to insure against a stealthy attack.
O'Rourke ordered a drink and sought a secluded table,
which he discovered in the shadow of a palm. Here he sat
him down to soothe his soul with a smoke. Hardly had he
settled comfortably, however, ere he had cause to regret his
choice.
The night was yet young: as much as to say that it wanted
little of midnight. But Cairo was alive; and momentarily
carriages were driving up in front of the hotel, bearing re-
turning pleasure seekers or taking guests to their homes.
From one presently alighted a man and a woman.
O'Rourke, deep in thought of the Russian plot, gave them a
transient inspection, noted something familiar in their aspect,
and paid them no more attention until they took possession
of the table immediately adjoining his own.
Thereupon, “Oh, the divvle!” exclaimed the Irishman.
“Must I move to escape their infernal chatter? Faith, ’tis
meself that may as well get me to bed.”
He would have done wisely had he acted upon the impulse.
Instead, the man lingered, reluctant to abandon his smoke;
and a ray of light, sifting through the fronds of a waving
palm, fell full upon the face of the woman.
The Irishman gripped the edges of his chair suddenly,
feeling the blood hammering madly through his pulses. “Me
goddess!” he said, under his breath. “Faith, but the beauty
of her, each time, is like a blow in me face!”
For it was his divinity of the Egyptian night; and she was
staring at him, frankly and without reserve, for the moment.
“Can it be that she knows me?” he asked himself. “Sure,
[264]


The Words of Delilah
were she less beautiful her look would be bold, O’Rourke,
me boy! Does she know who she's looking at? Dare I be-
lieve that?”
Abruptly she turned and said a low word or two to her
companion. With a murmured reply, he rose — the tall
Egyptian — and left her, passing on into the hotel.
“Faith,” commented O'Rourke, “’twas a queer move to
make.” And he bent forward, feasting his eyes with her
surpassing loveliness — more entrancing now than ever,
when the soft, warm shadows of the night were a background
to hair and eyes that seemed a part of that same night.
And suddenly it was plain to him that she was again re-
garding him, and again, with what he dared believe was no
disfavor.
“No,” he told himself stubbornly. “”Tis a fool ye are,
O'Rourke, with your self-conceit! For what would she be
lowering herself to speak with ye, penniless vagabond that
ye are?”
And yet it was very true that she had spoken; for, upon the
repetition of her address, the man could not deny the evi-
dence of his hearing.
“Monsieur the Colonel O'Rourke, is it not?” she was
saying – but rather timidly, as though she either feared the
consequences of her act because of the audacity of the man,
or was apprehensive of being overheard.
“Madame!” cried the Irishman rising. “Is it indeed
meself that ye mean?”
He stood hesitant; truly, the man’s awe of her was no
pretense; O'Rourke's life — or a fair part of it - had
been spent on his knees in worship of beauty such as was
hers.
“If you are really Colonel O’Rourke?”
[265]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“I am that,” he declared. “And at your service, ma-
dame.”
She leaned easily back in her chair, but with a swift, fright-
ened look around the terrace. It seemed that they were
unremarked; the others who lingered thereabouts were pre-
occupied with their own affairs. And the fact encouraged
her.
She faced him again, joining her hands before her on the
table; and O’Rourke could see that she was trembling as with
an excess of emotion — with fear, perhaps, or with some
overpowering anxiety, or with a passion which he could not,
in the nature of things, comprehend, but which had power
to shake her like a reed in the wind.
“Monsieur —” she began again.
He approached more nearly, and bore himself with a
deference which he hoped would be reassuring. “Madame,”
he questioned, “is there anything that I can do for ye?”
“Ah, monsieur, there is so much — if you can — if you
only will!”
The hands were unclasped and extended in appeal; and
they were very dainty and white, and moving with the help-
lessness they indicated. O’Rourke dared to catch one of
them gently in his broad palm; with a quick movement he
carried it to his lips, and released it.
“Monsieur!”
He was crushed by the reproach in her eyes. “But, ma-
dame,” he pleaded humbly, “we are too deep in shadow to
have been seen! And, sure, I couldn’t help it—though, faith,
ye must believe ’twas with all the respect in the world —”
She cut him short with an impatient movement. “I for-
give,” she told him. “I — I misunderstood. Pardon me,
monsieur. But — I have so little time —”
[266]


The Words of Delilah
“Then tell me quickly,” he besought her, “in what I may
serve ye.”
“Ah, but do you mean it? I have such need of a friend,
monsieur!”
“”Tis me hope, madame, that I may be made happy by
being termed such.”
“You don’t know me, monsieur?” she doubted, with a
pursing of her lips that nigh maddened the man.
For he had considered them rather in the way of perfec-
tion, as the lips of women go; and the heart of O’Rourke,
though steadfast enough in the long run, was alarmingly
tender towards beauty in distress.
“I have known ye long — in me dreams, madame.”
“Ah!” she cried softly, as though his gallant words meant
much to her — which, her eyes were telling him, was so.
Nor was he loath to believe.
“I — I have noticed you, monsieur,” she said at length,
“many times. You may have guessed —”
“Faith, I laid it to me egotism, madame!”
“And all the time I was wishing that I might have a man
such as you to lean upon in my trouble. Ah, monsieur! if
I only had —”
“I’m here,” he suggested simply.
At that moment she turned, with an apprehensive glance
over her shoulder, and uttered a little cry of alarm. O'Rourke
followed her gaze, and saw, stark and black in the doorway
of Shepheard's, the slim figure of the returning Egyptian.
“Quick!” cried the woman. “Do not let him see —”
He lingered a perilous instant. “What am I to do?”
“Wait here, monsieur — to-night – I will let you know.”
And, suddenly, O’Rourke was back in his chair, calmly
enough watching the uptwisting smoke of his cigar.
35
[267 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
For all that, the man's heart was rioting within him; her
words, with their call upon his chivalric nature, her eyes, with
their enchantment for his senses, the music of her voice —
it was as though these had distilled into the man’s veins some
magic potion, filling them with a sweet madness.
“But ’tis meself that's the fool!” he repented bitterly,
a second later. For madame's escort had approached, and,
with a curt word to her, had offered his arm. She had taken
it without reply; and now their carriage was gone into the
mysterious night, leaving O'Rourke without so much as a
backward glance, or a parting gesture of her free hand—
leaving him half staggered by the unreality of the whole
affair and more than half inclined to believe that he had
dreamed it.
[268]


CHAPTER IX
THE PALACE OF DUST
SHORTLY after midnight a late moon rose behind the slim,
white minarets of the Mehemet Ali Mosque, to sail peace-
fully over the quiet city, flooding Ismailieh's broad avenues
and the tortuous byways of the native quarters with a silvery
splendor that seemed well-nigh unearthly.
It grew more cool and yet more quiet. O'Rourke —
stubbornly remaining in his chair on the terrace the while he
wondered just precisely how many kinds of an ass he was
making of himself – O'Rourke felt the chill of the desert
breeze penetrating his thin evening clothes, and sent a ser-
vant for his inverness.
Danny brought it.
“Beggin'yer honor's pardon, sor,” he said, “but yer honor
will be comin’ in now, will ye not?”
O'Rourke, though aware that the man was in the right,
Snapped at him angrily.
44 Why?”
“Sure, now, sor, ’tis late, and ’tis mesilf that's bought seats
on the first train for Port Said in the marnin', sor. We'll be
startin’ early, and ’tis yersilf that needs rest.”
“Go to the divvle, Danny,” said O’Rourke pleasantly,
“if so be it ye do not want me to kick ye there. I may change
me mind before the morning. Get out now!”
“Aw, wirra!” lamented Danny; but he wisely obeyed.
An hour dragged by with leaden feet; O'Rourke, shivering,
[269]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
cursed his folly, and ordered brandy to keep his heart warm.
Hardly had he swallowed it ere a shadow detached itself from
the dense blackness on the farther side of the street and
shambled uncertainly across to and up the terrace steps.
“Sure, ’tis a giant!” muttered O'Rourke.
It was almost that; a huge Nubian, black as a patent-
leather shoe, his burly form enveloped in a Bedouin cloak.
He made for O'Rourke with no hesitancy, as one who acts
upon instructions to “seek out the man at such-and-such a
table,” and, without a word, handed him a little sealed note.
O'Rourke opened it, shifting his position to bring the sheet
into the brilliant moonlight.
It was of light, flimsy paper, laden with an elusive per-
fume which went to O'Rourke's head — the identical inde-
finable fragrance that had mounted to his brain when he
stooped over the hand of his Egyptian goddess.
With some difficulty, because of the uncertain light, he
deciphered its few words:
“Come to me at once, mon colonel, if your words to me an
hour gone were not mere gallantry.”
It was unsigned. But O'Rourke was beyond doubting.
He rose, wrapping his inverness about him and looking the
Nubian over with a calculating eye.
“If ye are not trustworthy, boy,” he said slowly, “I shall
break your neck. Walk ahead of me—and go quickly, lest
the toe of me boot assists ye.”
The spherical black head seemed to split precisely in half
as the man laughed silently.
“Yaas, sar,” he said; and without another word turned
and stalked away, O’Rourke following at his heels, his keen
eyes searching every shadow that they encountered.
Their journey was long – unconscionably so, O’Rourke
[27o J


The Palace of Dust
complained. They walked swiftly, crossing the middle of the
Place Ezbekieh and making thereafter ever eastward, into
the narrow, crooked streets of the Arabian quarter, where the
reeking roadways, rough and ill-paved, were half white,
a-shimmer with moonlight, and half inky black in the shadow
of the overhanging upper stories of the native dwellings.
O'Rourke insisted they should keep on the lighted side —
insisted, to tell the truth, against the protests of the Nubian,
who seemed to have some strong and compelling reason for
exercising the utmost caution. And, indeed, when he an-
nounced that they were near upon the end of their journey,
the slave stopped stock-still and refused to budge another
inch unless O'Rourke would consent to creep along cau-
tiously and as silently as possible on the shadowed side of
the way. -
Reluctantly, O’Rourke agreed; it was not that he feared
the man himself, nor was he suspicious of the fellow’s destina-
tion; but, if it so happened that a hired assassin from Prince
Viazma was dogging him, a path in the darkness would leave
him utterly defenseless against an attack from behind.
However, he would not have it said of O’Rourke that a
danger had ever daunted him. Too many times had he
taken his life in his hands for little or nothing, to draw back
now, at a time when, very likely, the most fearful of his dan-
gers sprang from his imagination alonè.
Without argument, therefore, but with his fingers close
to the butt of his revolver, and a cautious glance now and
then over his shoulder, he followed the Nubian; in such order
they made silent progress for several minutes, eventually
turning a corner.
The black stopped, lifting a warning hand, and vanished
without a sound. O'Rourke tightened his hold upon his
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
revolver, half drew it from his pocket, and waited. And
while waiting the man looked about him, and knew that
he was, to all intents and purposes, lost; in the illuding
moonlight, at least, the street in which he stood was totally
unknown to him.
For some minutes he waited, with a growing impatience.
The night lay about him beautiful and very quiet; far in the
distance the faint jangle of some native stringed instrument
stirred upon the breeze; and, farther yet, a pariah dog lifted
his nose to heaven and poured out his soul's sorrow to the
sympathetic moon; whereupon all his friends, neighbors, and
relations in Cairo joined their wails of anguish unto his.
O'Rourke stood wrapped in the illusions of his imagina-
tion, fancying that the moon’s rays, falling upon a distant
wall of white, were like the glowing pallor of his goddess of
the night; that the stark, black shadow of a far doorway,
with a dim glimmer of reddish light from a native lamp in its
center, was as the shadowed glory of madame's eyes . . .
A touch upon his arm made him wheel sharply about, alert,
to find the Nubian by his side; he nerved himself against the
slightest alarm and followed.
In a moment he had crossed a threshold, to stand in a room
of Stygian darkness. A door was closed and bolted behind
him. In another, the slave had caught him by the hand and
drawn him forward – while he yielded with a strange re-
luctance. And in a third instant he had stumbled up a short,
steep, narrow flight of stairs, passing through a second door-
way; where the Nubian deserted him, stepping back and
shutting the door softly.
The Irishman stood still, for a passing second somewhat
confused — at a loss to imagine what would come next upon
the program of this adventure that (he was thinking) might
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The Palace of Dust
have been lifted bodily from the pages of the “Arabian
Nights.”
Before him there hung, swaying lightly, a curtain of thin,
fine silk of a faded rose tint, faintly luminous; behind him
was the door, and on either hand blank wooden walls. As
he hesitated, he heard a voice, and his heart stood still —
what power had a pretty woman's voice to stir the heart of
this man!
“Enter, if you please, monsieur!”
He thrust the swinging drapery aside, and entered in one
stride — to halt and stand, blinking, in the diffused, dim
radiance of a single, shaded, hanging light.
His eyes sought the woman, but at first did not find her;
and he mechanically inventoried his surroundings — obe-
dient to the instinct that causes the adventurer to familiarize
himself with the field against whatever emergency the future
may bring to pass.
Apparently the apartment was one of those that had, at
some former time, composed the harem in some wealthy
Mohammedan prince's palace. Evidences of long neglect
were crowded within its walls, however; the flimsy silken
hangings that draped every inch of them were stained and
frayed and torn, showing behind them glimpses of dark
recesses. The mushrabeah lattice that gave upon the inner
courtyard of the dwelling was fallen into decay; in one place
it was quite broken away, revealing a portion of the court
itself, dark, silent, patched with moonlight that fell through
the trembling leaves of a giant acacia that overhung a life-
less fountain.
In the room, again, dust lay thick upon the furnishings; a
tabouret that caught the Irishman’s eye, because of the beauty
of its inlaid design, could have been written upon with the
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
tip of his finger; the coloring in the rug beneath his feet was
half obliterated by a layer of dirt, that rose in little puffs when
the man moved .
Pervading all, indeed, was that penetrating, insistent
atmosphere of an abandoned dwelling, the indefinable,
musty, uninhabited odor that lingers within rooms that
have once known, but, through the lapse of time, have well-
nigh forgotten, the footsteps, the voices, the laughter and the
burdens of men’s lives — and women’s.
And over all, too, brooded the compelling silence of dead
homes — the stillness that abides in those tombs of human
emotion, seeming fairly to shriek aloud its resentment of
alien intrusion. -
In it the sigh of the night wind through a distant window
was loud and arresting; the rustle of the acacia's leaves shrilled
high and clear; and to O'Rourke, upon whose optimistic,
gregarious self the quietness jarred, the regular rise and fall
of human respiration near to him was a distinct comfort.
He stood motionless for full a minute, from the first quite
aware that the woman had secreted herself and was watching
him from her retreat; he bore the scrutiny with the grace that
was ever his — with an attitude of forbearing patience.
And then, as he had told himself it would befall, the dra-
peries rustled and the woman stood before him.
Certain it is that she had never seemed so lovely to the man
— even in his wildest dreams — nor so desirable; a breath-
ing, pulsating incarnation of modern beauty in that rose-
tinted boudoir of dead and forgotten loves.
She was still in her evening gown; her light cloak of black
silk had slipped aside, exposing bare, gleaming arms and
shoulders of a pellucid alabaster in their dark frame.
As for the eloquent face of her, it seemed more than ever
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
He made a gesture expressive of his humorous resignation.
“Tell me,” she continued in another tone, “were you
followed?”
“To me knowledge? No, madame.”
“You are not sure, then?”
“Madame, I am a soldier; a soldier is sure of nothing good
until it is a proven fact. I was careful to watch, but saw not
even a shadow move after us. Still —” He waved his hand
with broad significance.
“Still,” she amended, “one can trust for the best.”
“One — or two, madame?”
She gave him a fleeting smile, then sat in silence for a space,
which she terminated with a faint sigh of relief.
“Then,” she remarked, as if to herself, “we dare hope that
they do not know where you are.”
& 4 They —”
“Your enemies, monsieur.”
“Ah, yes,” said O'Rourke, scanning her face narrowly,
“me enemies.”
“And my friends,” she added.
He opened his eyes very wide indeed. “Faith,” he ex-
claimed, “madame, ye speak in riddles. I fail to compre-
hend. 'Tis meself that's the bad hand at riddles.”
She did not reply directly, but contented herself with watch-
ing closely through her long and upcurled lashes the play of
expression upon the Irishman’s ingenuous and open features.
She could have read therefrom naught in the world but
bewilderment; for that was coming to be O'Rourke's sole
emotion at such times as the strangeness of the affair made
him forget to admire this woman.
Presently, growing restive under her long and silent critical
appraisal, he took up his complaint.
[276]


The Palace of Dust
“I’m fair dazed,” he expostulated, with a halting laugh.
“Ye sent for me to do ye a service – and, sure now, me
heart's at your feet, madame. Say what ye wish of me, and
– ’tis done.” He paused, knitting his brows over her
baffling secretiveness. Then, “I’m ready, madame,” he
concluded.
“You promise largely, monsieur.”
“Faith, ’tis me nature so to do. For how could I be an
Irishman were I of the breed to balk at obstacles?”
At this she laughed outright, and so sincerely that O'Rourke
was fain to join her. But, even in the height of her mirth, he
fancied he detected an undercurrent of anxiety.
Madame, he thought, seemed ever to be listening, to be
constantly upon her guard against the unforeseen, the un-
expected. She seemed oppressed by a fear; and yet not to
know how to voice her apprehension to him upon whom she
had called to act as her protector.
So that her next words surprised him, though they sounded
as though she brought them out with some difficulty.
“It is very simple, monsieur,” she began; and paused, as
one at loss for words.
“Simple?” he echoed.
“What I would have of you.”
“Then, sure, ’tis me heart ye are thinking of,” he protested.
“”Tis the simplest, most affectionate one in the world,
madame.”
But she would not be turned aside from the trend of her
worriment. She cast upon him a look almost appealing in
its intensity; then hastily averted her face, arose, took a step
or two falteringly away, and finally paused with her back to
O'Rourke, her face to the lattice, looking out into the deso-
late court.
[277 |


The Palace of Dust
“You laugh?” she questioned. “You do not believe me?”
“Indeed, and I do so. In fact, it but dovetails with me
own suspicions. What I’ve been trying to figure out, ma-
dame, is how ye come to know so much. Another thing —
ye did not bring me here to warn me of this; I could have
taken such a warning as well at Shepheard's. . . . Well,
madame?”
“No.” She turned away again to the lattice; he divined
that she did not wish him to read her face. “No, not alone
to tell you that. I brought you here, monsieur — to save
you.”
“I — faith, I’m infinitely obliged, madame. But I con-
fess that I fail to follow ye.”
“In all Cairo” — her earnestness carried conviction —
“you could nowhere be safe to-night save here.”
“I’m not so sure of that as ye seem to be,” he said to
himself. “However”—aloud – “’tis very kind of ye; but
why do ye take such trouble for a vagabond that's naught
to ye, madame?”
“Have I said — that ?”
Her answer was quick. But O'Rourke nodded saga-
ciously at her white shoulders. He was beginning to glimpse
an illuminating light.
“Ye did not,” he conceded. “For that matter, madame,
ye have not told me how ’tis ye that are so authoritatively
informed concerning the O’Rourke.”
His tone apprised her of the fact that the blindfold had
been lifted from his eyes. No longer the man was walking
in darkness — as far as concerned herself, at least.
“I,” she told him, “am acquainted with certain parties
who — who —”
“Who are acquainted with me?”
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Yes, monsieur.”
“For instance, if ye’ll permit me, one Monsieur Nicolas
Kozakevitch?” he suggested.
She nodded, almost timidly. O'Rourke caught her eye
and grinned outright.
“That,” he said, with a snap of his fingers, “for Monsieur
le Prince. But, madame, as to yourself, ye are —”
“I am the daughter of Constantine Pasha,” she declared
outright.
“Yes,” agreed O’Rourke musingly; “and the tall, brown,
young man that dances attendance upon ye – he is Prince
Aziz. I might have guessed it.”
His mind worked rapidly. Madame of the wondrous eyes,
then, was, in reality, a mademoiselle — daughter to Constan-
tine Pasha, that wily Turkish diplomat who had been the
power behind Arabi Pasha in the rebellion of ’82.
Dimly he recalled having heard some boulevard rumor in
Paris concering the wonderful, exotic beauty of this girl,
daughter of the Turk by an Italian wife. He had heard,
too, of her devotion to her father's memory, her outspoken
declaration that she would carry on the work that his death
had left unfinished. And he remembered having read in
some newspaper a short paragraph announcing mademoi-
selle's betrothal to young Prince Aziz of the Khedival suc-
cession.
“Two and two,” thought the Irishman, “make four. 'Tis
four years since Arabi Pasha returned from exile in Ceylon.
I’ve been told that he was living quietly here in Egypt; and
'tis surely so. A conspirator is always living quietly, for
obvious reasons. Well, then, ’tis simple enough. Arabi is
back; Viazma is here to represent Russia; mam'selle to honor
her father's memory in oceans of English gore; Aziz playing
[28ol


The Palace of Dust
Abbas Himli's hand in the game; France wishing to see Eng-
land turned out of control; Turkey, Russia, –Egypt her-
self, – quite willing — faith, here we have the ingredients
of a first-class conspiracy, with the trimmings of battle, mur-
der, and sudden death.”
He smiled engagingly upon the woman. He had probed
her secret; he now taxed her with his knowledge straightway.
“Ye are hand-in-glove, mam'selle, with the men who con-
spire against English occupation.”
She mutely bowed assent; O'Rourke found it difficult to
read what lay in her eyes — an art, too, wherein the man was
somewhat skilled.
“Ye are with those,” he went on, even a trifle bitterly,
“who would raise again that old, deluding cry, “Egypt for
the Egyptians!”
“I am!'” she proclaimed passionately.
“I am not,” he stated as quietly. “And ye brought me
here, mam'selle. Faith, I begin to sense your motive. "Twas
not for me neck’s sake ye did this. What is one man’s life
to ye more than another? Sure, if ye accomplish your pur-
pose, the next Nile inundation will be out of all season,
brought about by the oceans of English blood that'll sweep
through the sands to swell the flood! Have ye thought on
that, mam'selle? I see ye have – or believe ye have. What
does a woman reck of war, and what stalks hand-in-hand
with war? Faith, for ye ’tis all glitter and gold and glory —
‘Egypt for the Egyptians!” (which means for the Russians and
the Turkish and the French!), ‘and divvle take the English!”
He paused. The woman's eyes had widened; for the mo-
ment she was spellbound by his rude eloquence. Her breath
came quickly, and she hung upon his words; though, in point
of fact, the next were to sting her like the lash of a whip.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“And ye wanted O'Rourke to be with ye, to lead the mas-
sacre, whether he would or no! Faith, mam'selle, ’tis an
insult to your beauty that ye should make of it a snare for a
poor adventurer!”
She started toward him, blazing with anger; O'Rourke
sat awestruck with the flaming beauty of her. And then —
she stopped; the flush that had colored her cheeks with
shame evoked by his words ebbed, leaving her more pale,
it seemed, than before. She stood irresolute, her lips trem-
bling.
What was she to say to him, who saw so clearly, who had
power to make her see more clearly than ever she had seen,
what the explosion would mean, once the spark touched the
powder?
What could she say? The phrases that she had thought
to use were become vapid, meaningless, since he had spoken
his mind – spoken it freely, boldly, forthright, like the man
he was. Her artillery was spiked, this Irishman trium-
phant.
He was right. She hated him for being right. She hated
him — or, did she? She had never loved; was this — the
dawn? Was this — love? Or fascination? What was
there about the man — the lean, bronzed face, the resolute
swing of his shoulders, the devil-may-care honesty of him —
that had printed his image on her mind, indelibly, it seemed,
since first she had met his look of almost boyish adoration?
But — she must not think of that. There was the Cause.
She was pledged to the Cause, whatever might befall.
And still, there was no heart in her for the alluring of
O'Rourke – the winning of him to the side of the Cause,
which she had pledged to her fellow conspirators.
What had she to say for herself?
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Mam'selle will never regret having won me to her ser-
vice,” O’Rourke said clearly.
He bent and kissed her hands, while she gasped in sheer
amazement.
“I am for mam'selle’s cause!” he said. “The O’Rourke
cannot fight against the side where his heart is, believe me!”
[284 |


CHAPTER X
THE HAND
THE reason for O'Rourke's lightning change of front was
not far to seek; indeed, when mam'selle raised her eyes, it was
to see it and to comprehend.
While the Irishman had been standing before the woman,
holding her hands and bending low his head that he might
not miss one of her hardly uttered words, the stillness of the
great, vacant palace struck sharply upon his sentience.
His ears were trained to a quickness; the creaking and the
rustle in the adjacent rooms might well be those sounds which
are never absent from an abandoned dwelling after nightfall.
But, O’Rourke, after learning that the woman was the
daughter of the Turkish diplomat, Constantine Pasha, had
not been slow to identify the building to which she had caused
him to be led; plainly enough, it must be the former home of
her late father, abandoned to decay and the dry rot of Egypt
after its owner's death.
And he was by no means satisfied that, because the place
was the property of mam'selle, she was alone in it, as ap-
pearances at first had seemed to indicate — that is, alone
save for the Nubian slave.
He remembered having remarked the place in his wander-
ings about Cairo – a huge, rambling hotel of two stories,
covering much ground, with the outward seeming of abso-
lute desolation.
It came to him, then, that no fitter place in all Cairo, no
I 285 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
spot more secure from the surveillance of spies or the prying
of eavesdroppers, could have been hit upon for a rendezvous
for the conspirators than this same palace; and the fact that
the woman was its owner rendered it available and doubly
suitable.
Very likely, then, he deemed the possibility that there
might be others – Aziz, perhaps, or even Viazma – waiting
in a convenient room for the result of mam'selle’s efforts for
“the Cause.”
So, when he caught a sound much resembling a man’s
footsteps in a distant room, O’Rourke did not lay it to ner-
vous imaginings; neither did he connect them with the
slave; in his own mind he felt quite assured that some
one else was moving toward them.
Of one thing he could not be positive, however, and that
was whether or not the sounds he heard were from an ad-
joining apartment or from one more distant. They were so
slight that they might well be near at hand; at the same time,
the contrary was possible.
It behooved him to maintain a lively watchfulness and an
eye alert to see the first loophole for escape. He was very
happy in the knowledge that his revolver lay snug in the
pocket of his evening coat; but he dared not move his hand
to it, under the circumstances. If the listener were, in fact,
near enough to see, such action might prove disastrous; he
might not be sure that an enemy was not at that very moment
surveying him through almost any aperture in the torn and
flimsy wall hangings.
Behind him was a door — a fact of which he had taken
note by reason of the draft causing the portière that hid
it to belly outward. -
Likewise — and this proved O'Rourke's salvation – be-
[286] -


The Hand
hind the woman of the night was a small glass, set into the
wall: an old and tarnished mirror, which, nevertheless, had
sufficient reflecting power to be of service.
Into it, then, from time to time, the man had been casting
furtive glances with a care that mam'selle should not observe
him.
The precaution had proven of great value; at the precise
moment when the woman, herself with head lowered, had
choked with tears, well-nigh, in the fulness of her emotion,
O'Rourke heard a creak not thirty feet away — or so he
could have sworn. -
And then, while she groped in the maze of her thoughts
for the words she desired, he saw the portière cautiously
lifted to one side.
In the dark entry thus exposed stood the figure of a man;
and that man he whom O'Rourke had most of all, just
then, to fear — Prince Vladislaus Viazma.
He stood quietly regarding them, an attentive smile upon
his face showing that he had not overheard what had passed
between the two. There was an element of gratification in
his expression that would not have been there had he dreamed
that mam'selle had failed in subjugating the Irishman.
The prince was plainly prepared for such a failure, how-
ever; his arms were folded, the left above the right, and in
the hollow of the left elbow rested the muzzle of a revolver,
its body and the hand that held it being concealed by the
folds of the sleeve.
From where the Russian stood he could, without moving,
send a bullet into O'Rourke, — a tormenting contingency to
the Irishman.
He — the prince — remained perfectly quiet while the
woman did; but when she had ended her murmured confes-
[287|


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
sion with the honest assertion, “I am glad,” an expression
of unholy joy had passed over the man’s features. There
was, of course, but one way of interpreting the woman’s
words to one who knew her heart and her purpose with
O'Rourke.
So O'Rourke had made quick use of his five wits; they had
stood him in good stead many a time in the past, nor did they
fail him now. His words were prompted by the desire to
stave off extermination until the last moment; delays would
be dangerous — to Prince Viazma.
And, somehow, the man knew that he had touched the
woman’s heart, until then dormant, in this goddess of Egyp-
tian night; he had beaten her fairly in argument; she had
acknowledged the justness of his stand, and had congratu-
lated him on his courage in abiding by it.
He felt, intuitively – and in dealing with woman, man
must needs meet her with her own most effective weapon,
both of offense and defense, intuition — that he might throw
himself upon her generosity. Whether he had weakened
her in her devotion to the Cause or not was a matter aside
from the fact that her heart was softened toward him, that
she would aid him.
So he had declared, “I am for mam'selle's cause!” Which
was pure equivocation.
And the next instant, when he saw her look of supreme
astonishment as she raised her head and glanced over his
shoulder to the open doorway and to Monsieur the Diplomat,
he bent toward her and whispered hurriedly:
“My life is in the hollow of your palm, mam'selle. Do
with it as ye will. A word this way or that will save, or—
destroy me.”
In this Viazma saw nothing but such gallantry as he knew
[288]


The Hand
the man to be prone to; the effect of which was heightened by
the fact that simultaneously the woman's face burned crimson.
“Poor Aziz!” thought Viazma.
And, “Monsieur O'Rourke, you make me very happy,”
said the woman. “I have not lived in vain, monsieur!”
The double entente touched the Irishman. “God bless
ye!” he whispered hoarsely.
But the woman jerked away her hands quickly, as though
confused.
“Monsieur le Prince!” she cried.
Viazma, assured that all was well, stepped into the room,
dexterously dropping the revolver into the pocket of his din-
ner coat — keeping his hand upon it, however, ready to fire
in event of any misunderstanding.
“Pardon,” he purred, grimacing his approval; “I did not
wish to intrude. Mam'selle, you have won our little bet.
Colonel O’Rourke, permit me to congratulate you on your
sound common sense. Believe me, sir, it is well to follow
the example of Providence and fight on the side with the
heaviest ordnance.” -
“But that,” O’Rourke assured him, “is not me reason for
abjuring me views of last evening, monsieur. I am, unfor-
tunately, susceptible to the charms of the fair sex.”
“There,” O’Rourke muttered savagely to himself, “if
that’s not sufficiently crass to hoodwink ye, me diplomatist
— well, I’m as big a fool as I hope ye think me.”
But Viazma was already beyond suspecting. He regarded
the conquest of O’Rourke as complete.
“Let us all,” he suggested, “join the others and announce
to them our good fortune.”
“The divvle!” thought O'Rourke dismayed. “Others!
Faith, I am in for it!”
[289 |


CHAPTER XI
THE CONSPIRATORS
THE palace of Constantine Pasha had been built with a
truly Oriental eye toward the intricate and devious; to
O'Rourke it seemed a maze, vast and well-nigh endless.
Following mam'selle, his goddess incarnate, and with
Viazma close behind him, he passed through what seemed
an interminable succession of empty, echoing rooms and
long, re-sounding corridors—a honeycomb of desolation and
of paled magnificence, dusty and grim; now in dense dark-
ness, now spotted with the light of the moon, which by
this time was riding high in the serene heavens.
There was little opportunity for conversation; indeed, not
a word had been spoken. O'Rourke had ample food for
hard thinking. What was in mam'selle's heart? What in
Viazma's mind? Where were they leading him — or mis-
leading him? What chance would he have to escape through
this uncharted wilderness of rooms, should the coming events
make flight advisable?
Abruptly, without warning, the woman drew aside a heavy
curtain; a glare of light dazzled O'Rourke's eyes; almost
blindly he strode on, into a great room, Viazma following.
As he paused, he heard the woman’s voice.
“Messieurs,” she announced clearly, “I bring you —
victory! Messieurs, permit me to introduce to you Monsieur
le Colonel O'Rourke, future Pasha of Egypt's victorious
armies!”
[291 )


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Is this acting?” dumbly wondered O'Rourke.
He looked around, engagingly smiling his embarrassment.
The center of the room was held by a table, spread as
though for a feast; around it were ranged ten chairs — two
unoccupied. Standing behind the others were eight men.
O'Rourke glanced from face to face, recognizing some,
passing over others as unknown to him — seeing in all the
head and forefront of the great conspiracy.
He saw Prince Aziz, tall and straight as an arrow, survey-
ing him through keen, bead-like, black eyes.
He saw, slouching at the foot, or at the head, of the table
— fat, gray, heavy of eye and heavily jowled, spineless and
plump — a mass of flesh animated by notoriety: the man
who had once brought disaster upon Alexandria, and death
and defeat to thousands of patriotic Egyptians at Tel-el-
Kebir, Ahmed Arabi Pasha. -
He saw men high in the ministerial and executive councils
of the land, and but two Europeans among the lot, barring
himself – Viazma and a French consul-general.
As for the others, they were for the most part Egyptians,
Arabs, men of Bedouin blood, with one great Greek cigarette
manufacturer.
There was a murmur of complimentary applause.
O'Rourke bowed. His gaze instinctively sought that of
Prince Aziz, whose rival he was suddenly become; and he
read therein a temperate hostility.
Arabi’s eyes, too, met those of the Irishman. He nodded
to him carelessly, in a negligent fashion that made O’Rourke's
blood boil.
“We may welcome O'Rourke Pasha, indeed,” said the
intriguer. “Has he taken the oath, Monsieur le Prince?”
“Not yet,” responded the Russian.
[292 |


The Conspirators
“There is yet time,” said the woman. “Monsieur
O'Rourke has pledged me his word. For the present it
is sufficient.”
“It is understood that he does not leave, of course, without
taking the oath,” Aziz insisted surlily.
“Oh, that is very true,” some one agreed. “Let us return
to the point at issue, messieurs.”
“A place for O'Rourke Pasha,” Viazma suggested.
“He is welcome to my chair, messieurs,” said the woman.
“I have important matters to look to, but will rejoin the
council before long.”
She threw O’Rourke a lightning glance; and he gathered,
but with some distrust, that she was plotting an escape for
him.
“But that chair is at the head of the table,” interposed the
Greek manufacturer, with a doubtful glance to Arabi Pasha.
“Precisely,” assented O'Rourke promptly. With two steps,
he advanced and took the chair in question. It was the one
nearest the door. What matter if Arabi Pasha objected?
The rest were seating themselves. O'Rourke put him-
self into the chair weightily, his eye on the Greek merchant's
greasy face.
“Where O'Rourke sits,” he told him with meaning, “is
the head of the table.”
The remark passed unregarded, save by the Greek and
Prince Viazma, who took the vacant place at O'Rourke's
left. A buzz of discussion, in a babel of Arabic, Greek, and
French, had started up; O’Rourke caught the name of Lord
Cromer several times, but paid it little heed. He was occu-
pied in furtively taking in the essential features of the scene.
He must get away without compromising himself by an oath
of allegiance to the conspiracy.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
But that was not to be an easy matter, he plainly saw.
It was the last course of what had seemingly been a ban-
quet. From the table the cloth had been removed. The
majority of the conspirators were smoking. Glasses, brandy
and champagne bottles ornamented the board, together with
bottles of soda. What servants had attended the guests
were withdrawn; at least, but two lingered in the room, and
they at the farther end, behind Arabi Pasha's chair.
And that was all. The conspirators were nine to one, if
O'Rourke should dare a hostile move. And should he suc-
ceed in making an escape from the apartment, he would be
lost in the labyrinth that lay beyond.
Nevertheless, he evolved a scheme – desperate enough
in all conscience, but offering some advantages, since escape
was imperative, and he held no warrant for mam'selle's
fidelity to himself.
“The fool that I was to have permitted meself to be drawn
into this!” he swore inwardly.
The man at his right was absorbed in discussion;
Viazma, on his left, was plying a busy champagne glass —
making up for lost time. O'Rourke, for the moment, was
observed of none.
It was an opportunity that might not again offer itself; it
must be instantly improved, or let pass forever.
“God knows 'tis taking me life in me hands!” thought the
Irishman. “But —”
He tipped back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the face of
Arabi, who was leading the argument that centered about
him, and carelessly crossed his arms; his hand slipped un-
observed into the pocket of his dress coat, his fingers closing
upon the butt of his revolver.
When he sat forward again - and, again, without attract-
[294 |


The Conspirators
Aziz tipped his glass to his lips. As he did so, O’Rourke,
who had arisen with them, took his life in his hands and
fired. The crack of the shot and the simultaneous crash of
the wine-glass as it was shattered in the prince's fingers
wrought an instantaneous silence where a moment before
there had been loud acclamations.
In the momentary stupefaction that seized upon the con-
spirators, numbing them mind and body, for the instant,
O'Rourke leaped to the doorway.
He held a revolver in each hand. Possibly to each of the
nine about the table it seemed as though one muzzle was
trained upon his head alone. They stood helpless for a
space. O'Rourke, chancing to observe Arabi’s face, could
have laughed because of its whitish tinge.
“Ye will please not move, messieurs,” he announced
loudly. “I have the drop on ye all, and the man who
thinks I cannot see him move will find out his mistake.
Messieurs, allow me to give ye a bit of advice: Don’t
drink that health ye’ve left untasted. In the long run
'twill be the most unhealthy drink ye ever put in your
bellies!”
His shoulders touched the jamb of the doorway.
“Messieurs,” he said, “I wish ye the divvle of an uneasy
night's rest!”
The Irishman, his eyes keenly alert, held the threshold.
Once across that, it would be a flight for his life – hide and
seek, he forecast it. “And ’tis the O’Rourke that'll be It,
for once,” he commented.
But he had reckoned without the spirit of one man —
Prince Aziz, who seized upon what he thought was the Irish-
man’s moment of relaxed vigilance.
O'Rourke, however, saw the Egyptian's hand go to his
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
breast pocket; he saw also the shimmer of the nickel-plated
weapon as it flashed into sight.
At once, without hesitation, he shot him through the head.
“Let that warn ye!” he cried. “The man who pursues
me will get the selfsame dose!”
And he was gone, with one backward jump that took him
through the doorway and clear of the portière.
He faced around, dashing on to the spot where an
oblong of grayish-black told him there should be a second
door; he found it, gained through and collided with a man
who had been running as hastily toward the banquet hall
as O'Rourke was endeavoring to get away from it.
That man was the Nubian. He recoiled from O’Rourke;
and the Irishman’s eye, which seemed to have something of
the faculty of a cat's in the dark in time of danger, caught
the gleam of steel as the Nubian drew a dagger.
The inevitable followed. It seemed imperative. He
pistoled the fellow ruthlessly.
The delay, infinitesimal as was the part of a second it had
occupied, was more than serious. The dining hall was in
chaos; the shrill, infuriated howls of the conspirators filled
the building with an indescribably terrifying clamor.
O'Rourke glanced over his shoulder. The doorway was
blocked with a struggling mass of men, fighting to be the first
to get through and after him. He chuckled.
“Faith, so long as they keep that up,” he said, “I’m sat-
isfied!”
And he dashed on. The conspirators disentangled them-
selves and took up the chase. At first well bunched, it was
no trouble at all for the Irishman to locate them, and to
double away.
But, as he blundered headlong through empty suite after
[298]


The Conspirators
suite of rooms, he became naturally confused; door after
door invited him to safety, and he tore through, only to find
that he was apparently no nearer the end than at first. In
no place did he seem able to discover a passage or a door
leading to the outer air.
Once, indeed, he dashed through an arched opening into
the court. But a dark figure crouching in the shadow of the
acacia fired upon him, and incontinently O'Rourke turned
tail and took up the thread of his endless weaving in and out
through the echoing rooms of the palace of Constantine
Pasha.
The conspirators scattered; and then it was more trouble-
some to divine each man’s whereabouts, and to avoid him.
But for the circumstance that they, too, were confused and
led astray by the sound of their own comrades' flying foot-
steps, O'Rourke might easily enough have been run to earth.
He heard, once, a shot and a reply, and smiled grimly to
think that two had mistaken one another for himself. He
hoped their aim had been more accurate than that of the man
beneath the acacia.
But, at last, they began to close in upon him; up to a cer-
tain point he had endeavored to keep to the ground floor,
knowing beyond doubt that all doors leading to the street
would be found there. But gradually they forced him from
one room to another, until at last he was obliged to put the
butt of his weapon into the face of a too-fortunate pursuer —
thereby rendering him speechless with a broken jaw — and
to take a staircase to the upper story in four jumps.
And then, again, began the gradual closing-in process.
Once above the ground floor O'Rourke confined his efforts
to an attempt to regain the room wherein he had been re-
ceived by the goddess of Eygptian night, knowing that from
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
there led a staircase to the lower private entry, where a
door would give him exit to the street.
For all he could determine to the contrary, however, that
room had never existed, save in his fancy; suite after suite he
tried, desperately, only to find one passage after another
closed to him; until, at last, he stood cornered, choking
for breath and disheartened, in an open closet.
On either side he could hear the trampling feet of the con-
spirators, as they searched and prodded each several recess
to poke him forth from hiding. He dared not move a pace
out of his refuge; and if he remained he was foredoomed to
discovery.
And then – well, then there would be trouble, indeed.
“A shindy,” he called it, with a rousing of his blood at the
thought of battle. He was, for a little space, debating the
advisability of sallying out and changing rôles with his
enemies, becoming the hunter instead of the hunted.
It seemed at the time quite feasible, when all else seemed
hopeless. He wetted his dry lips with the tip of his tongue.
“It might be done,” he whispered encouragement to him-
self. “It might be done.”
He had nine bullets left; there were eight pursuers; he dared
not miss one single shot. Beyond doubt, the others were all
well armed — some, doubtless, with two revolvers, even.
No; it would be madness, folly! But, then, everything he
had done that night had been madness and folly; not a single
action that he could recall had been of a nature that could
be characterized as anything but insane.
And the chase was fearfully near at hand. He drew him-
self together. It was now too late to take the initiative;
they were in the next room.
He poised one revolver. The first to pass across the
[3ool


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
Tiptoeing lightly, he gained the farther room that she had
indicated; and she moved as lightly behind him, almost
without a sound. And, then, in silence, she drew him by the
hand to the rear wall, where she pushed aside some rotting
draperies and disclosed the door that he had sought and,
even in this very room, had missed.
In deference to her silent command, he stepped boldly
down into darkness, upon a winding staircase of wrought
iron; as he descended, he heard her shut the door behind
them and shoot home a bolt.
Below, still mutely, she guided him through total darkness
to a second door; it likewise was bolted, and the bolts had
rusted into a firm resistance.
But O’Rourke's strong fingers forced them back; he
found a latch, lifted it, and the door swung open, the
blessed moonlight flooding the little entry.
O'Rourke drank in the good, clean air in great gulps.
For the first time, the woman spoke.
“It is a secret entry,” she said. “The door above is
bolted, and there is no door upon this floor. You are safe
to rest yourself for a moment, O mon colonel; but do not
endanger yourself further by lingering.”
Her tone was cold, her words seemed forced and stilted.
And she stood in shadow, where he might not see her.
“I go,” he responded softly, “in one moment. I have
something to say, mam'selle.”
“Say it,” she said brusquely, “and go, monsieur – go!”
“Very well. I’m returning to Shepheard's. To-morrow
I shall stay in me room, armed, all the day. I shall eat noth-
ing that me body-servant does not himself prepare.”
There was a pause while he hesitated.
“That were wise,” the woman approved listlessly.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
talisman and powerful to make me immune to strange beau-
ties.” And he repeated inwardly the syllables of the name
of her to whom he had sworn loyalty. “Beatrix! . . . Bea-
trix! . . . Beatrix!”
And suddenly he found himself stumbling off down the
rough-cobbled thoroughfare, his brain all a-whirl and the
heart of him like a live coal burning in his breast. After a few
yards he came to the entrance to a tortuous, reeking alleyway,
leading off towards the European quarters; and it seemed
best that he should trust himself to its dark mercies rather
than stick to the beaten ways and run the chance of being
overtaken by the conspirators. “”Tis no use,” he philos-
ophized benevolently, “killing the lot of them outright. 'Tis
no butcher ye are, Terence.”
In a shadow he halted, turned and looked back at the high,
blind yellow walls of the Palace Constantine – unmarred
in all their visible extent by balcony or window or other open-
ing save that little postern door whence he had escaped.
And now even that was closed.
Dawn was breaking when he reached Shepheard's, unde-
terred. He roused Danny and stirred him to action, with
liberal profanity. “”Tis in Alexandria we must be be noon,”
he informed the bewildered red-headed one. “I’ll wire
Doone Pasha of this business from there. 'Tis a sight
easier than 'twould be to keep a whole skin in Cairo! . . . A
prince of Egypt, shot down be me own hand, d’ye under-
stand, me bye? Faith, 'twill be many a long day ere Egypt
is favored with the prisince of the O’Rourke again, let me
tell ye!”
[304]


CHAPTER XII
THE CONSUL–GENERAL
BILLY SENET’s observations were always illuminating and
sometimes very instructive. For instance, shortly after his
installation in the Tangiers consulate, he wrote home to his
sister:
This is a great place. You ought to see it. The city itself is
the most beautiful spot on the footstool, I bet a red apple. It
looks like a week's washing spread out to dry on a green, grassy
bank — white and dazzling, you know; and it smells the worst
ever; and it's as full as it can stick of the very purest, old-vatted
Original Sin. It gets me, both going and coming. Tell the
truth, I’d have trouble morning, noon and night, if it wasn’t for a
queer chap I’ve run across at the Hôtel d'Angleterre.
His name is O’Rourke – Colonel Terence O’Rourke — and
he's the goods for mine. He's six foot or more of lean strength,
straight as an Indian, brown as a berry, minds his own business,
and, if half the yarns they spin about him are true, fears neither
God, man, nor devil. I’ve taken the biggest kind of a shine to
him, and he tolerates me, and helps me along with advice. Inas-
much as he's been all over, he's qualified to dispense the same
to yours truly,
WILLIAM EVERETT SENET, C.-G.
Senet was the very latest specimen of a Consul-General
sent by the United States of America to Morocco, and he was
young — excessively so — for a consul-general: a well-built
man, with steady, brown eyes, an open-air look, and a faith
in his fellow man that had been badly shaken since his
arrival at Tangiers.
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
For Senet was born honest — which, though he himself
had no suspicion of the fact, was the precise reason why he
had been chosen for the post he then filled. His immediate
predecessor had been a man of placid instincts, untroubled
by any manner of scruples whatsoever, and had grown rich
by selling protection papers to any one who came along with
cash-on-the-nail purchase money.
All of which, of course, had been exceedingly detrimental
to the moral tone of the United States Consular Service in
Morocco.
And so a paternal government had selected Mr. William
Everett Senet to adorn the vacant consulship at Tangiers,
and to prove to the honest Moor that there really were
honest Americans, after all.
Senet had accepted with considerable relief; he happened
to be wanting to get away from home for reasons of his very
own, and he fancied that a residence in a strange, semi-
barbaric land like Morocco would fill his life with new in-
terests, and help him to forget certain matters which he
earnestly desired to forget.
Item: One American girl, who had married a German
title. Item: Her eyes, which haunted the young man. Item:
A nasty rumor which he had heard from some gossipy Ameri-
cans returning from a residence in Berlin, and which had
been confirmed by discreetly vague paragraphs in the New
York papers. And there were other items, all disturbing.
But once in Morocco, Senet found work sufficiently en-
grossing to send him to bed at bedtime so tired that he went
promptly and sweetly to sleep and forgot to lie awake and
watch for the coming of the eyes, with their distractingly
beautiful, serious, and troubled expression that so nearlv
maddened the young American.
w
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The Consul-General
But then, too, he found a great many things to bother him
— little reminiscences of his predecessor's reign that just nat-
urally cropped up in the day's work — and sickened Senet.
He voiced his resentment of such a state of affairs one night
on the terrace of the Hôtel d'Angleterre, where he sat enjoying
the coolness, and the view, and a Scotch whiskey-and-soda,
with Colonel Terence O’Rourke.
O'Rourke himself was sojourning in Tangiers under pro-
test, and, by that token, not enjoying his stay to any over-
whelming extent. For which reason, if for no other, he had
interested himself in the fledgling Consul-General, who
seemed to be trying so hard to do the decent thing in a land
where everybody else seemed to be striving equally as hard
with a totally contrary end in view.
And the Irishman was by way of liking young Senet
rather thoroughly, both because the American was distinctly
likable, and because we are always inclined to like those
whom it has cost us some effort to favor.
When Senet had maintained a meditative silence unbroken
for several minutes, O’Rourke turned to him, grinning in
friendly wise.
“What's troubling ye now?” he inquired, with emphasis
on the “now.” “That is,” he stipulated, “if 'tis not poking
the nose of me into your private affairs.”
“Oh, not at all, sir,” replied Senet respectfully, sitting up.
“It’s nothing new — same old story. About a week ago,”
he added with a queer little laugh, “I granted protection
papers to a fellow who had a right to them — a petty leather
merchant over Ceuta-way. To his infinite surprise, I
wouldn’t take a cent, although he assured me that it was
customary, and all that.
“Now, to-day stalks into the consulate this chap's caid –
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
really a very impressive and distinguished-looking old Moor
— and offers me one hundred pounds if I’ll remove the pro-
tection. I explained that I wasn’t doing business on that
basis; and he gradually bid me up to five hundred pounds
— finally flung out in a towering rage because I wouldn’t
do t'other chap dirt. Said that my predecessor would have
jumped at one hundred pounds. As near as I can figure it
out, the caid and the bashaw between them have a grouch
against my leather merchant, and want to chuck him into
prison, bastinado him, and confiscate his property. They
don’t dare touch him while he has my protection, and it’s
worth twenty-five hundred dollars to them to have it removed.
I told the caid that sort of thing was what lost the other con-
sul his job, but he didn’t or couldn’t understand, and was
pleased to take it as a personal affront.”
Again Senet laughed — compassionately and wonderingly.
“Now, what are you going to do with people that behave
that way?” he asked.
O'Rourke chuckled grimly. “Ye’ve a lot to learn, me
boy,” he told him; and sat quiet for a space, looking rather
wistfully out to sea.
From the terrace of the Hôtel d'Angleterre, pretty much
all Tangiers slopes down steeply to the harbor. In the moon-
light the low, white houses shone brightly in a way resembling
a glacier seamed with narrow purple rifts, and crevasses, and
ravines – which are the streets of Tangiers.
Down on the harbor front the electric arcs were blazing
fitfully; by the wharves and at anchor in the roadstead, slant
lateen sails of feluccas gleamed weirdly in the moon’s soft
radiance, and a mail steamer just in from Gibraltar looked
like some monstrous crawling white bug studded with many-
colored eyes.
[308]


The Consul-General
he cried excitedly, “that you’re the man who defeated the
Egyptian conspiracy”?
“The same,” placidly affirmed O'Rourke.
“But England should be grateful —”
“Perhaps England is,” allowed O'Rourke with caution.
“But faith, Egypt is not! In Cairo or Alexandria, sure and
me life would not be worth the ice in me glass here.”
“I’m glad I know you, sir,” said Senet warmly; adding,
after a moment: “But why did you not go east, in the first
place, when you had to fly?”
O'Rourke looked away — out to sea again. He answered
in a tone more sober, from which the raillery was gone.
“There was a woman in the case, Senet,” he explained
softly. “She – well, she took passage on the Eastern-
bound steamer. So, faith, the O'Rourke came west!” -
He shook his head and called to the waiter to replenish
their glasses. “But,” he added, “I’m not the only one.
Far be it from me to say wrong of any woman, Senet; but
there's not one in Tangiers that I care to see ye dancing
attendance upon, as ye did on that handsome Mrs. Challoner
at the hop night before last. Did ye know that she's wanted
in England for blackmail, lad?”
“I did not,” said Senet gravely.
“”Tis true. Steer clear of them all. I mind —” He
paused and ran his hand across his eyes, as though collecting
his thoughts. “Ye were not down to the landing when the
steamer came in, this afternoon?”
“No; I had to go over towards Ceuta, and got back just
in time for dinner.”
“Then ye did not see her. Faith, boy, a woman came
in on that boat whose beauty would pay any man for his
hereafter — as young and fresh and innocent-looking as a
[3II |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
rosebud, Senet, and the fear of God-knows-what so tight
about her heart she could scarcely breathe.”
“How do you know that?” demanded Senet contentiously.
“I’m not questioning your word about these others, Colonel
O'Rourke, but it seems to me you’re going out of your way
to condemn a woman you’ve never laid eyes on before.”
“But I have, sir,” O’Rourke told him, with a tolerant
chuckle. “I saw her year before last, in Berlin. Now, she’s
here under an alias. Does that speak well for her?”
“An assumed name?”
“Just that. She's registered —” O’Rourke broke off
motioning quietly toward the piazza of the hotel, whereon a
woman’s figure stood clearly silhouetted against the lights of
the main entrance. “If I mistake not, there she is now,”
he said.
Senet looked. The woman’s features were indistinguish-
able, because of the obscurity; but there was that about her
form and the carriage of her head, instinct with a supreme
grace, that set the younger man’s heart to going like a trip-
hammer.
He put his hand across the table and clutched O'Rourke's
imperatively. His glass fell over and spilled its contents
unheeded.
“What name?” Senet demanded hoarsely. “Under
what name did she register? And who is she?”
O'Rourke elevated his brows in surprise. “Faith, what's
this?” he wondered. “She's on the register,” he proceeded,
watching Senet's face narrowly, “as Mrs. Ellen Dean and
maid, U. S. A.”
O'Rourke sat without remonstrance while the younger
man's finger nails dug into his hand. “I’ve touched a live
nerve,” he commented to himself.
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The Consul-General
“But — but her title?”
“Did I mention a title, lad? 'Tis true — she owns one.
She is the Countess of Seyn-Altberg.”
His words fell upon unheeding ears, for the woman had
taken a forward step, and now stood in the full glare of the
moonlight; her head was held high, so that every perfect
feature was clearly outlined in the mellow light – and the
youthful consul-general needed no other identification.
He sat very still, almost holding his breath, for a little
while; then, abruptly, as though he had just recollected, he
took his hand from O'Rourke's and sat bolt upright, breath-
ing hard and trembling in every muscle.
The woman turned her profile to those whom she had
not noticed; she seemed to be waiting, listening as if for
some dreaded footstep. Senet got to his feet, somehow,
and stumbled toward her. O'Rourke heard him grind a
word or two between his teeth, chokingly.
“Oh, my God!” cried Senet.
And O’Rourke, listening, nodded his head in sage sym-
pathy. “There,” he muttered to his cigar, “goes a man
whose heart has been broken — and ’tis not be way of being
mended, I’m thinking.”
The adventurer shifted uneasily in his seat, watching the
retreating form of the consul-general as he almost haltingly
progressed across the lawn to the hotel steps whereon stood
the Countess of Seyn-Altberg.
Senet had come up to the steps and put a hand for support
on one of the newel posts ere the woman relaxed from her
expectant attitude and turned toward him; so that his coming
was entirely without warning, so far as she was concerned.
“Nellie!” said Senet pleadingly.
She started and seemed to shrink away from him.
[313]


CHAPTER XIII
THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT
THE tables were fairly well filled; the European element
in Tangiers was amusing itself in the only way it knew. For
there is nothing in particular to do in Tangiers, after the mail
boat has come in and the home newspapers have been hun-
grily devoured — every blessed line of them, even to the ad-
vertisements.
There are, of course, pig-stickings and picnics; but after a
while these pall upon one; and the small talk of the exiles is
not exhilarating after one has learned all the noisome details
that led up to this or that person’s selection of Tangiers as a
permanent residence. -
And when one is tired, the tables are always open in the
big, gilded salon – open and dispensing their opiate of fever-
ish excitement that deadens one's sense of degradation and
one’s heartache.
O'Rourke strolled among the tables, watching the play,
but without any great interest; his mind was filled with specu-
lation about the Consul-General and the Countess of Seyn-
Altberg; he was recalling the little scene out there on the
piazza, and wondering what it all meant.
One thing was very evident to him, –that Senet was des-
perately and hopelessly in love with the Countess. But the
whole affair was something of an enigma, and O’Rourke
found himself vainly racking his brains to recall something
that he had once heard, and forgotten, in reference to the
[316 |


The Voices of the Night
countess – some bit of rumor, not entirely creditable to the
woman's husband.
What was it? Faith, he couldn’t nail it down, at all, at
all; it was right there, on the tip of his tongue, so to speak,
but it wouldn’t form itself into coherency; something —
Impatient with himself for bothering his head over other
people's business, O'Rourke sat him down in a big armchair,
placed comfortably between two of the long French windows
that opened out upon the piazza. He started a fresh cigar,
and tried to put young Senet and his hopeless love affair out
of his mind.
But he was not to be permitted to forget. For a gam-
bling room, this salon was rather quiet; the patrons at the
tables were mostly hardened habitués, who placed their stakes
and accepted losses and gains with silent aplomb. Only the
croaking of the croupier and the chatter of the chips sounded
loudly.
So that it was an easy matter to accustom one's ears to out-
side noises. O'Rourke found himself attentive to the meas-
ured tread of a couple who were promenading the veranda-
listening to their footsteps die out in the distance, and then
gradually come to a crescendo as they approached and passed
his windows.
They were a man and a woman — he knew that from the
rustle of the woman’s skirts and the heavy, steady tread of
the man. And quite suddenly he knew the woman from her
voice, when she spoke in passing.
It was the Countess of Seyn-Altberg.
And the man? O'Rourke grew impatient for their re-
turn, that he might place the fellow by his voice. When they
did come back, however, he was disappointed; he did not
recognize those guttural accents.
1317|


The Voices of the Night
“Countess,” mocked the man, “pardon — a thousand
pardons!” He laughed harshly. “I give you until to-
morrow evening, my countess!” he said.
“Now to interfere,” thought O'Rourke.
As his shadow fell across the light oblong cast by the French
window, the man turned; their eyes met.
O'Rourke knew him instantly. “Ah!” he said, bowing
mockingly. “Good evening, Captain von Wever!”
The German looked him up and down, twirling his mus-
taches.
“Good evening,” he returned curtly, with a slight inclina-
tion of his head; and showed his back to O’Rourke.
The Irishman was no wise disconcerted. He remained
standing in the window, inhaling the night air. For a mo-
ment the tableau held; then the woman took the initiative.
“Then,” she said with a courteous little laugh, – the per-
fection of dramatic art, — extending her hand, “I may drop
you a line to-morrow, Captain von Wever.”
The German bent low as he took his dismissal. “I shall
be desolated if I do not hear from you — by evening, Mrs.
Dean,” he said. “Good night.” And he stalked down the
steps and out to the street.
As for the woman, she hurried into the hotel. O'Rourke
remained where he was, simulating admiration for the beauty
of the night, but, in reality, busily trying to build a working
hypothesis of the case out of the fragments he had overheard.
It was, admittedly, none of his affair. But the hunted
look in the woman’s eyes, as she had confronted her perse-
cutor, had gone straight to O'Rourke's heart. She was a
regally beautiful woman, worthily the bearer of her title; and
she was in sore distress. As to that, there could be no doubt.
That fellow — this cashiered captain of the German army
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The Voices of the Night
her narrowly out of the corner of his eye. She was plainly
no novice at the game; and yet she conducted herself with
that cautiousness which told him that she was unaccustomed
to the atmosphere.
She was, for instance, of a vacillating mind in regard to
which number she first should play. When finally she de-
cided and placed a sovereign boldly on the 25, O'Rourke
hid a smile.
“Twenty-five years of age, eh?” he commented inwardly.
“Faith, madam, ’tis not yourself that looks it!”
For the next few minutes he rather neglected the game,
the countess absorbing his entire regard. For, by hapchance,
the 25 won for her; and, as she took the thirty-five sovereigns,
the woman’s color deepened, her lips parted, her eyes glowed,
and for the moment she looked radiantly happy.
Nevertheless, “No, madam,” the O'Rourke remarked
silently; “’tis not the gambling fever that brings ye here —
that makes ye glad to win. 'Tis the need of money,
madam; and let me advise ye, ’tis to the most unlikely
place in the world ye have come for it.”
The woman had repeated her stake — a sovereign on the
25. It lost. She bit her lip nervously, and glanced guiltily
about her at her fellow-players to find if one observed her.
None did, it seemed; even O’Rourke was at that instant
apparently drunk with the intoxication of chance-worship.
At first her luck held, however; for several turns she won,
until her winnings attracted the attention of the croupier.
He eyed this too fortunate madam with disfavor, and there-
after his keen, hawklike eyes paid her the honor of a constant
regard.
Thereafter, also, the woman lost; luck, the fickle goddess,
had deserted her. She played steadily, without display of
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
emotion other than an occasional deep intake of her breath
– an astonishingly pretty and delicate woman aping the
stolidity of a hardened gambler.
O'Rourke smiled and shook his head sorrowfully. “Ah,
madam!” he whispered, “had I but the right to advise ye!”
But he had not; therefore, he, too, scrutinized madam’s play
with a respectful pertinacity. She was losing without a
break; O’Rourke contented himself with an occasional small
bet on the color that madam's coin did not cover — and, as
a rule, he won.
Strangely enough, the coincidence angered him; his face
hardened, his eyes acquiring a steely glitter, and the muscles
on either side of his jawbone coming out into undue promi-
nence as he set his teeth and bided his time.
For an hour he continued this careless system; it was grow-
ing late, and the frequenters of the tables were, one by one,
forsaking their places. Eventually but half a dozen re-
mained — O'Rourke and the countess having their table
entirely to themselves.
The woman was still consistently losing. She had gone
quite pale — almost haggard. Her lips, that had been full
and red, had become a firm, set line, well-nigh white; her
eyes were filled with anxiety; and the short, sharp gasps with
which she bade farewell to hope, as each coin was ruthlessly
gathered in by the croupier's rake, showed how hard she was
taking her ill fortune.
At length the end was very near; for the tenth time, per-
haps, she had reopened her pocketbook; and by now its once
plump sides were limp and flabby. Her slender, tapering
fingers trembled nervously as she felt in the bare depths of
the receptacle — searched tremulously, and found little.
She produced a solitary sovereign; intuitively, as well as
[322]


The Voices of the Night
by process of deduction, O'Rourke knew it to be her last.
She had staked all — lost all. A wave of pity and compas-
sion swept upon the man as he noted the nervous agitation
of her hand, the dryness of her lips, the agony of suspense
with which she awaited the verdict of the wheel. It was the
last chance; should she win, it would mean a respite, a breath-
ing space with the possibility of further winnings; it would
mean that she might possibly recoup.
At least, thought the sympathetic Celt, it would mean that
to her. As for himself, the world-worn and worldly wise, he
thought he knew exceedingly well how matters were to turn
Out.
The countess had staked upon the 25 again — at the last
as well as at first. She bent forward eagerly, perhaps breath-
ing a little prayer as the croupier twirled the wheel and set
the little pellet of fate whirling in its race.
As for the croupier – a faded Frenchman, on whose
weary, seamed physiognomy was written large the history
of dissipated days — he glanced at the clock, and deli-
cately concealed a yawn with his white, elegant fingers. Then,
as the wheel began to slacken in its revolutions, he made a
careful mental note of madam’s stake.
It was late – very. Monsieur le croupier was weary and
quite agreeable that the play should have an early end. If
madam lost, there would remain only the Irishman. And
the tables are not kept open for one lone player.
The wheel gradually stopped; for an instant the ball was
sliding smoothly in its ebony run; another, and it rattled
madly over the compartments.
The countess's eyes refused to leave the ivory arbiter of her
fate; shè hung upon its maneuvers, fascinated. To all ap-
pearances O'Rourke was in like suspense; yet the Irishman’s
[323 ]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
swift glance did not fail to record the fact that one of the
croupier's hands had sunk beneath the level of the table.
Abruptly the ball hesitated; it seemed about to fall into the
25. Indeed, for the fraction of an instant it was in that com-
partment; and then it recoiled, slid gracefully out in a slight
arc, and settled in the double zero.
Impassively the croupier took up his rake, announcing the
result with merciless clearness. He glanced at the two stakes
– madam’s on the 25, black; O’Rourke's modest bet upon
the red — and reached forth with the rake like a hungry,
clutching claw.
Madame sank back with a half-suppressed cry.
O'Rourke put out his hand, and deflected the rake. “One
moment,” he said calmly.
“Monsieur!” expostulated the scandalized croupier.
“Oh, come now!” remonstrated O'Rourke pleasantly.
“Ye're not meaning to do anything like that, now, are ye?”
“What does m'sieur mean?”
“M'sieur means,” mimicked O’Rourke, still good-na-
turedly, “that ye're a trifle barefaced in your swindling,
me lad. Steady, now! Don’t shout! Ye'll only attract
undesirable notoriety.”
The croupier paused, his mouth open, his eyes glaring
undying hate into O'Rourke's. The Irishman dropped
his hand nonchalantly into the side pocket of his coat, and
turned to the woman – but without taking his gaze from
the gambler.
“One moment, if ye please, madam,” he begged her, as,
frightened and apprehensive, she was about to rise and take
her leave. “There has been a trifle of a mistake here. This
gentleman is about to make amends.”
From the gentleman’s expression, one would have said,
[324]


The Voices of the Night
rather, that he contemplated springing at O'Rourke's throat.
Doubtless, in point of fact, nothing kept him from such an
assault but that hand which remained negligently concealed
in the coat pocket.
O'Rourke followed his glance, and nodded meaningly.
“I should not hesitate,” he assured the fellow, twisting the
revolver upward so that its muzzle showed sharply through
the cloth. “Be very careful that I do not forget meself.”
The croupier's voice rattled huskily in his throat. “What
does m'sieur mean?” he would know. “I do not under-
stand —”
“Oh, yes, ye do!” contradicted O'Rourke. “But, as for
that, I mean this.”
He bent forward, very quickly, and seized the wheel by
the cross, attempting to lift it; and it failed to budge to his
strength.
“Ye see, madam,” explained O'Rourke, “the wheel is
fixed – likewise the game. Monsieur has cheated ye shame-
lessly. He will make restitution.”
He nodded brusquely to the man. “Quick, monsieur,”
he warned him, sharply. “Repay madam what she has lost
or — do ye wish all Tangiers to know your methods?”
So far the altercation had been conducted in tones dis-
creetly modulated; the others in the salon were unaware that
aught was amiss. The croupier assured himself of this fact
with a hasty glance. Then —
“You will not tell, m'sieur?” he pleaded.
“Not if ye repay madam’s wagers, and that quickly.”
“Nor madame?”
She shook her head in negation; not a word had she uttered
from first to last of the little scene. Only her gaze, at first
bewildered, then with dawning understanding, and later
[325]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
instinct with the light of gratitude, had searched O'Rourke's
face.
“Very well, m'sieur,” submitted the croupier meekly.
“How much, madame?”
She stated the amount in a small, tremulous voice: “One
hundred pounds.” And, counting out the notes with care,
the man handed them over.
“And now, madam,” suggested O’Rourke, “if ye will be
kind enough to leave us, I have a word or two to whisper in
this gentleman's ear.”
She rose. “I – I — ” she faltered, at a loss for fitting
phrases wherein to frame her gratitude.
“Later, if ye insist, madam,” said O'Rourke. “”Tis but
the bit of a minute.”
She bowed slightly, and swept out of the salon. O'Rourke
wheeled about, his eyes blazing, his anger at last out of leash.
“One word of this, ye scut!” he snapped, “and ye’ll regret
it to your dying day! Do ye understand me clearly?”
The man backed hastily away. “Yes, yes, m'sieur!” he
implored. “I – I shall be discreet.” -
“See that ye are. And — mark me words! — if an at-
tempt is made to do me an injury while I am in Tangiers,
your life shall be the forfeit. Don’t forget that!”
Contemptuously he turned his back and left the room. In
the hall he found the woman waiting for him, and forestalled
her protestations.
“”Tis nothing!” he told her lightly. “Madam, I beg of
ye! The thanks are due from me, ’tis meself that has been
waiting for that opportunity for several days. And will ye
permit me to give ye a word of counsel? Then, don’t ye
risk another sou in Tangiers; there's not a table in the place
that is run on the level.”
[326 |


The Voices of the Night
“But, sir,” she insisted, “I must, must thank you. You
— you cannot know what service you have done me! I —”
“Faith, madam, and I’d do the double of it in the twin-
kling of an eye if ye would do me the honor of asking me.
'Tis only to ask me, to tell me in what manner I may serve
ye – and, I promise ye, 'twill be done!”
His offer was not made lightly, but in all earnestness; his
tone was weighty with a meaning that brought home to the
woman how greatly she stood in need of one who could do
that which the Irishman boasted his ability to accomplish.
She stepped back a pace, a flutter of hope in her eyes, a
tremor shaking her. For a passing instant she even con-
templated taking advantage of his offer. Perhaps she had
a glorious glimpse of a vista of unharassed days stretching
before her – of peace and quiet, and the liberty to live out
her own life as she willed.
He bulked so big, so masterful, this Irishman who seemed
to mean every word that he uttered; his bearing was so
assured, his control of himself, as well as of others, so indis-
putable, that it seemed feasible for her to confide in him, to
trust in him to rid her of the abiding horror of her days.
His silent sympathy, so evident, tempted her mightily; and
yet she paused to think-when, all at once, hope was crushed,
blotted out, buried in the depths of her heart.
The man was an utter stranger to her. She did not even
know his name; what right had she to give into his hands the
weapon which von Wever held threateningly over her poor,
distraught head — to confide in this stranger, when she dared
not even breathe her secret to Senet, who, she knew, would
give his life for her?
“No,” she gasped, stepped back from him, as though the
man personified the most alluring temptation of which her
[327 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
mind could conceive; “no, no, sir—I — I — you are very
kind, indeed — but – I am so excited, nervous — you see –
I will be able to thank you properly to-morrow.”
He bowed gravely; she recovered her control sufficiently
to smile ravishingly upon the Irishman; and then, “Good
night, monsieur,” she told him, and was gone — all but
stumbling in her haste to be up the staircase, to be alone in
the seclusion of her room and free to lie awake, to plot,
to plan, to scheme her endless futile schemes to rid herself
of her crushing incubus.
O'Rourke, when she was out of sight, shrugged his shoul-
ders with a whimsical smile. “”Tis yourself that would be
the squire of dames, is it, O'Rourke?” he said. “Faith, but
it seems that ye will not. Let us go out and think about this
thing — for, if ever a woman stood in need of a man’s strong
arm, a man’s honest generosity, ’tis this countess, and upon
this very night — I’m thinking.”
He wandered abstractedly out upon the veranda. “Seyn-
Altberg, Seyn-Altberg!” he prodded his memory. “Now,
what is it that I misremember? And what is the rôle of Herr
Captain von Wever in this little drama? Let me think.
What's that, eh?” He gazed up into the cloudless Medi-
terranean sky, brilliant with an infinity of stars that paled
before the serenity of the high-sailing moon. Von Wever's
words came back to him like an echo:
“Europe need never know your husband lives, countess!”
“And,” added O'Rourke seriously, “’tis true that I have
no overpowering love for this von Wever in me heart!
Faith, now I begin to see a light!”
[328]


CHAPTER XIV
THE CAPTAIN OF VILLAINY
DANNY, the careworn, the solicitous of his master's for-
tunes — he of the brilliant head of hair – who slumbered
peacefully on the foot of O’Rourke's bed, was roused by the
application of the toe of O’Rourke's boot.
He looked up, yawning and digging clenched fists into his
sleep-laden eyes. O'Rourke stood over him, ejecting the
cartridges from the cylinder of his revolver and reloading the
weapon with a scrupulous care.
Without even a sidelong glance at his body servant, the
Irishman absentmindedly, carelessly, kicked him a second
time. “Get up, ye lazy gossoon!” he murmured softly.
“Who d'ye think ye are, to be wallowing there and making
the night hideous with the snoring of ye? Get up – and
that at once, Danny!”
Grumbling a remonstrance, Danny got to his feet and
stretched himself; he looked at the clock. “Three, is it?”
he cried. “Sure, now, sor, ’tis yersilf that's the late one to
bed! Sit down, sor, and I'll be taking aff the boots av ye.”
“Ye'll be doing naught of the sort, Danny,” remarked
O'Rourke pleasantly. “”Tis yourself, on the contrary,
who'll be putting a hat over that fiery crop of ye, and coming
along with me.”
“Sure, now, sor, ’tis yer honor's joking,” expostulated
Danny.
“Um-m,” agreed O'Rourke. “But ’tis not the time for
[329]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
ye. I take it ye have a convenient room where we can sit
down and discuss things at ease?”
“Yes,” grunted the German. “But —”
“Then suppose we go there, and ye’ll not be catching your
death of cold standing here in your nighties.”
With an inarticulate growl, von Wever wheeled about and
pushed aside a portière. “I’ve no doubt you will some
explanation make,” he said surlily. “Enter, if you please.”
“Oh, after yourself, sir!” protested O'Rourke with exag-
gerated courtesy. “And — light a lamp before ye sit down,
captain, dear.”
Again the mystified German obeyed, O’Rourke remaining
on guard at the entrance, while the captain's slippered feet
paddled around into the darkness of the apartment. A match
was struck, and a hanging lamp of Moorish design ignited.
O'Rourke removed his hand from the butt of his weapon,
and entered.
The room was the reception room of the house, as was
evident from its furnishings. A smell of stale tobacco smoke
pervaded it, and on a little stand by a divan were bottles and
glasses.
Von Wever sulkily threw himself on the divan, motioned
O'Rourke to an armchair, and, with another wave of his
hand, signified that the whiskey was at his unwelcome guest's
disposal.
“Thank ye,” said O'Rourke drily. “I’m not drinking
this night.”
Von Wever was; he poured himself a stiff dose and downed it,
then looked expectantly at the Irishman. “Well?” he said.
“”Tis to refresh me memory that I’m knocking ye up at
this early hour,” O’Rourke began. “Ye'll pardon me, I’m
sure, when I state me case.”
[334]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“A very light man, for a slave — eh, captain, dear? Al-
most as white as a white man, wasn’t he, now?”
“Many of the Fazzi are, I am told,” muttered the German.
The muzzle of that revolver was bulking very large upon his
range of vision; it seemed to fascinate him.
At that moment a knock resounded upon the outer door.
“A friend of mine,” explained O'Rourke, in a matter-of-
course tone. “Get up, captain, dear, and open the door to
him.”
& & I - I —”
Von Wever rose, shaking his fist at O'Rourke – a huge,
heavy fist that trembled with passion. “You’ll pay for
this!” he declared. -
“One of us will, that's sure,” assented O'Rourke. “For
the present, ye’ll pay attention to what I tell ye. Open that
door, ye swindler!” he thundered, with an abrupt change of
manner.
The German hastily obliged, O’Rourke following him out
into the hall with a quiet suggestion that von Wever would
do wisely to “try no funny business.”
Senet was admitted. “Captain von Wever?” he said.
“I’m told you wish to see me.”
“’Twas meself that sent for ye, Senet, lad,” spoke up
O'Rourke, over the German’s shoulder. “Come on in.”
He waited silently until both had entered the reception
room, then followed them. “Be seated, gentlemen,” he said,
waving the dumbfoundered Senet into a chair. “”Tis a little
reminiscence that Captain von Wever is regaling me with.
I thought ye’d be interested. Sit tight, me boy, and ye'll
understand why before long.”
Continuing in his standing position, he addressed the Ger-
Ima.Il.
[336] *


Captain of Villainy
Senet leaped from his chair; he was across the room in a
trice; he faced about with the whip in his hand.
“Thank you, O'Rourke!” he panted gratefully.
And as the portière dropped behind him, the Irishman
heard the crash and the clash of shattered glass as the table
was overturned; a second later he heard the first shriek of
von Wever's agony.
[341 |


CHAPTER XV
THE HOMEWARD BOUND
IT was the middle of the following afternoon, and there
was quiet in the premises of the Hôtel d'Angleterre. Its
guests languished, napping through the heat of the day in their
rooms; and only in O’Rourke's quarters were any evidences
of activity to be found. But there confusion reigned — such
confusion as might be expected to attend a sudden and un-
expected departure from a place wherein one has believed
oneself established for an indeterminate if lengthy period
of time.
Danny, his face as red as his hair, perspiring and profane,
stood in the middle of the floor, ankle-deep in a litter of wear-
ing apparel, saddles, belts, holsters, and all the variegated
paraphernalia which O'Rourke had seen fit to attach unto
himself in the course of a short but active campaign for for-
tune — upon which in this one instance, contrarily enough
to prove her sex, Fortune had smiled. The acquisitiveness
of an Irishman with a pocketful of money is proverbial; of
late nothing had been too good for O'Rourke, too cumber-
some, or too expensive. He had been prospering, and the
shopkeepers of the Mediterranean ports were bearing in fond
remembrance his extravagances.
And Danny, wild-eyed and desperate, was endeavoring
to pack all this resultant accumulation of rubbish into one
Small trunk and a smaller leathern suit-case, in time to get
them off, together with himself and his master, upon the
[342 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“My dear Chambret” (he wrote):
“”Tis no manner of use. I am not a polite letter writer.
This I tell you frankly, having no intent to deceive. The
truth is that this will be about the 'steenth start I have made
to this note — and so far, praises be! the most promising.
Being in a hurry to get this off within the next two hours,
which I am, this must serve — or nothing will. At the same
time, I’m appreciative of the fact that 'tis the deuce of a poor
hand I am to write letters, and I’m sorry for yourself, who'll
have to wade through it all.
“Nevertheless, I feel expansive, and it's myself who will
be opening my mind and heart to you, and probably at
length – since I am unskilled in the pruning of my thoughts
to fit in a certain number of words. Faith! telegrams were
always an uncommon expense to me!
“I am here in Tangiers – a fact of which you will be sus-
picious the minute you lay eyes on the note-paper and the
postmark. No matter. When you receive it, it is myself
who will be in a neater, cleaner land than this — and glad
am I of the prospect. I leave this night for the old country.
And you will please to address your answer to The O'Rourke
himself (who is now me), Castle O'Rourke, County Galway,
Ireland, U. K.
“It’s the matter of a year, more or less, since I left ye in
Lützelburg, and by that same token it's the divvle of a long
time, and it's much we’ll have to tell one another, I’m hope-
ful, when next we meet. During that time, it's not a word
you have sent me of yourself nor your affairs; though I un-
derstand from other sources that all's well with you and
Madame la Grande Duchesse – to whom you will kindly
convey my respects and best wishes. You are a fortunate
man. Faith, I wish I could say as much for myself!
[344]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
own, praises be and no thanks to Uncle Peter, whom I verily
believe lived ten years longer than he really wanted to, just
to keep me out of my due!
“And now I am resolved to settle down and lead a quiet
and peaceful life for the rest of my days. I’ll never again
lift a hand against any man either in anger or for the love of
the fight. And if you dare laugh, or even so much as chuckle,
at me for saying that, I give you my word that I’ll call you out
and run you through, friendship or no friendship, Chambret!
“Now, the meat of all this lies in the fact that, so soon as I
can settle my affairs I will be strolling over to Paris, and I
shall count upon your meeting me, if you still love me, with
word of the whereabouts of the one woman in all the world
for whom I give the snap of my fingers. There's no need
naming names, but in case there should exist in your mind
any confusion as to the identity of the particular lady in ques-
tion, I'll just whisper to you that she's Madame la Princesse,
Beatrix de Grandlieu.
“Where is she, Chambret? Don’t be telling me she's
married, for myself wont believe a word of it. Faith, she
promised to wait for me, and now ’tis no penniless Irish ad-
venturer who is languishing for her, but The O’Rourke –
you have my permission to inform her — landed proprietor
himself and as good a man as ever walked in shoe leather.
“Is she happy? Does she talk of me? Would she, do
you think, be glad to see me? Where can I find her, Cham-
bret? And when? In a single word – Speak out, man!
Don’t you know I’m faint with longing for her? – in a word
does she still love the O’Rourke? I can’t live without her,
old friend, now that I’m rich enough to support a wife, and
the man that tries to win her from me will be sorry for the
rest of his life!
[346]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
— and yet the memory of the princess of his dreams lured
him northwards irresistibly.
As he waited, upon a pier-head, for the boat which was to
bear him and Danny and their luggage to the steamer, a man
came bounding hurriedly through the precipitous streets of
Tangiers, and caught him almost at the last moment, — a
young man, with a glowing, happy face, breathing heavily
because of his haste.
“I have come to bid you God-speed, O’Rourke,” said
William Everett Senet, Consul-General, grasping the ad-
venturer's ready hand. “And — and I suppose I am wrong
to feel this way, but I have good news – of a sort.”
O'Rourke lifted his brows. “The Count of Seyn-Alt-
berg?” he asked.
Senet nodded. “Von Wever confessed – you know.
We found the poor fellow — the count – But there's no
profit going over that. He — it was terrible; he was beyond
aid. Died this morning, early. Von Wever's gone inland
. . . hunting!”
“And yourself?”
“Oh, I’ve sent in my resignation,” said young Senet.
“I’m going to take Nellie home — the countess, I mean —”
he blushed furiously — “just as soon as my successor ar-
rives.”
“That's right,” said O'Rourke. “Me boy, ’tis no place
for the likes of ye – this Tangiers. May ye both be happy!”
[348]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
days since for the provinces, or for Italy, or for Germany, or
perhaps for a trip around the world. The concierge did not
know and doggedly asserted that he did not care — that is
to say, his demeanor continued surly enough and altogether
annoying until O'Rourke happened to mention his own
Ilal Ine.
Thereupon a distinct change was noticeable in the de-
meanor of that concierge. He prefaced all things by de-
manding mysteriously the name of O’Rourke's valet, and
the color of that person's hair, which having been pronounced
respectively to be Danny and red, the concierge with alacrity
invited O'Rourke to ascend to Monsieur Chambret's apart-
ments, at the same time declaring himself to be possessed of
a letter intrusted to him for delivery to O'Rourke upon his
arrival in Paris.
Accordingly, O’Rourke and Danny mounted five flights of
steps and were admitted to the apartments, and, the gas hav-
ing been lighted by the concierge, O'Rourke was permitted to
peruse the communication. Being translated, it ran some-
what to the following effect:
MY DEAR COLONEL: Nothing could have been more oppor-
tune than the receipt of your note. Only the previous day I had
received a call from a trusted servant of madame's, who gave me
a message which madame had not deemed wise to trust to paper;
together with the little packet, herewith inclosed, which I was
requested to forward to you. I did not then know your where-
abouts. To me there is something wonderful in the fact that I
now do know.
This will be left with the concierge, who has instructions not to
deliver it into any hands save those of Colonel Terence O’Rourke,
whose valet is a red-headed Irishman named Danny. I take
these precautions for reasons which you will readily understand,
as you read on.
By the time this is handed you, I shall be at Montbar, whither
I trust you will follow me at your earliest convenience, Nay, I
[35ol


The Two Messages
know that you will arrive there without a minute's delay – else
you are not the impetuous lover that once you were.
Madame is at Montbar – I believe. Three days ago she was
in Paris. Since then—since communicating with me, that is—
she has mysteriously disappeared. But I happen to be cognizant
of the fact that, within the week, an announcement will be pub-
lished in the Parisian newspapers of her contract to marry Duke
Victor, of Grandlieu, brother of that Prince Felix whom I had
the good fortune to exterminate during the Lemercier-Saharan
affair, thus making madame a widow.
Duke Victor is a worthy brother to Felix. I scarce need elab-
orate. Probably you are aware of his reputation; since the death
of Felix he has come to be regarded as the most notorious roué of
all Europe, as well as the most conscienceless and skilful duelist.
Of course, you understand that nothing but the most persist-
ent and the strongest pressure in addition to your continued
silence could ever have induced madame to consent to marry this
man. Victor himself is a man of undoubted charm; he has fas-
cinations at his command which are not to be regarded lightly —
even by The O'Rourke of Castle O'Rourke. His personality is
at once magnetic and repellent. In other words, he is a man
calculated to entrance a woman’s fancy.
Moreover, I repeat, you were not upon the ground.
Notwithstanding all this, however – notwithstanding the fact
that madame has agreed to put her name to the marriage con-
tract, your influence is feared. To prevent her meeting you,
madame has been spirited away to Montbar. Of this there
can be little doubt; her servant confided to me madame's fear
that something of the sort might take place, that she might be
kept in seclusion until the marriage was an accomplished fact.
For all of which you are entitled to feel complimented.
I am going to Montbar — which, as you are doubtless aware,
is the capital city of the principality of Grandlieu — at once, to
be upon the ground, ready to render whatever service I may, I
shall lodge at the Hôtel des Etrangers under my own name. I
should advise you, however, to come to Grandlieu incognito—
as an English milord. I should also counsel you to come at
once, and shall look for you hourly. Possibly I may have good
news for you, monsieur; for, if I can pick a quarrel with Duke
Victor, he will be as good as a dead man from the moment.
I am, devotedly,
ADOLPH CHAMBRET.
[351 |


Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
O'Rourke replaced the letter in its envelope, frowning
thoughtfully.
“Faith,” he said aloud, “’tis something to have made a
friend like Chambret – the saints presarve him!”
And eagerly he opened the little packet which Chambret
had mentioned as an enclosure. All during his reading of
the letter it had lain squeezed tight in the palm of O’Rourke's
clenched fist. Now he regarded it tenderly ere breaking the
seals — a round, small package, no broader than a silver
dollar, though twice as thick, wrapped in heavy, opaque
paper and protected by many seals of violet-hued wax, bear-
ing above the arms of Grandlieu the initial “B.” It was
entirely unaddressed.
“Beatrix!” whispered O'Rourke softly. He glanced
hastily around the apartment, discovering that Danny had
fallen asleep in a chair; he was practically alone, and he
raised the packet to his lips and kissed the seals. “Beatrix!”
he breathed.
He opened the small blade of his penknife and ran it under
the edge of the wrapper, so preserving the seals intact; for
had she not impressed them with those hands for whose
caress the heart of O’Rourke was fairly faint?
Something fell into his hand — the half of a golden coin –
a broken English sovereign, in fact. O'Rourke's eyes
glowed as he fitted it to the other half, which hung depend-
ent from his watch guard.
“Sweetheart!” he said. “Ye promised me ye’d send
it — when ye needed me sword! Please God, I'll not
be too late to save ye from that black-hearted scoundrel,
Victor!”
But there was something else, and it was with a rapidly
beating heart that O'Rourke removed it from the wrapper
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
that won’t be troubling ye ten minutes longer. Yes — run
along.
“And, Danny!” He stepped across the room and stirred
with the toe of his shoe his servant's recumbent form.
“Danny, ye lazy gossoon, wake up, before I take strenuous
means to wake ye. Come, ye scut, move!”
Already his plans were formulated and solidifying into
determinations. He communicated them to Danny, as the
fiacre conveyed them rapidly to the Gare de l’Est. And
Danny, with an eye toward his personal comfort, was swift
to subscribe unto them.
[354]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
But he spoke in English, which the man failed to compre-
hend. The look of suspicion upon his face, however, was
intensified by the ring of the unfamiliar accents.
“What language is it you speak, m'sieur?” he asked
peremptorily.
“English,” responded O'Rourke in execrable French –
French positively mutilated by a strong British accent. “And
what's that to ye?” he desired further to know.
“This is the frontier, m'sieur — the frontier of Grandlieu.
M'sieur will be pleased to exhibit his passport.”
“M'sieur will be pleased to do nothing of the sort.”
O'Rourke lolled back in his chair and pulled his broad-
brimmed, soft hat well down over his eyes. “If ye want to
see me passport,” he grunted, “ask me courier for it. He
has both his own and mine. Now, get out.”
But the officer of Grandlieu's frontier guard lingered.
“And m'sieur’s courier?” he asked. “Where is he?”
“How the divvle would I be knowing? In the third-class
carriage – I know no more than that. Ask for the courier
for Lord Delisle, and he will declare himself, probably. A
small, quick-looking fellow he will be, with black hair and
black eyes.”
“Many thanks, milord. Pardon, milord, for the unfor-
tunate but necessary intrusion. Good night, milord.”
O'Rourke snorted and snuggled himself within his great-
coat, pretending to woo sleep a second time. The guard and
the customs officer sidled respectfully from the compartment
and closed the door. O'Rourke did not move. To all
appearances he was sound asleep when they returned,
chattering excitedly.
“But, milord!” expostulated the man of Grandlieu, jerking
open the door and a second time letting in a gust of icy wind.
[356]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
It was truly unfortunate. But, after all, although there
was an order about something which they concluded not to
enlarge upon, but which evidently had to do with English-
men purposing to enter Grandlieu, the milord would not be
subjected to further discomfort. It was not necessary.
One single infraction of the rule would do no harm. No.
The milord could proceed to Montbar, from which place it
would be possible for him to set forward inquiries after the
missing courier.
And again O’Rourke found himself alone in the compart-
ment, with the train crawling slowly on and up a steep moun-
tain side. He was in Grandlieu at last, and at that, despite
the order which Duke Victor had evidently issued calling for
O'Rourke's detention at the frontier – just as O'Rourke
had suspected he would.
O'Rourke hugged himself in the grateful warmth of his
overcoat, chuckling inwardly at the deception he had prac-
tised upon the two men. It had been well planned. Be-
yond doubt the order for his apprehension had spoken of an
Irishman using most excellent French, and accompanied by
a red-headed Irish servant. O'Rourke congratulated him-
self upon the foresight which had led him to leave Danny in
Paris. -
He was, in point of fact, just entering upon the danger
zone. From that moment on his life was in peril – or at
least his liberty and his heart's desire were hanging in the
balance. And so — he was comfortable and well pleased,
as was strictly in keeping with the disposition of the
Ima.I1.
But it is conceivable that, could he have known of the mark
which the customs official had unobtrusively chalked upon
the door of the compartment, O'Rourke would not have felt
[358]


The Road to Paradise
so assured of the man's stupidity, nor so sure that in the end
he would win to the side of Madame la Princesse, Beatrix de
Grandlieu.
An hour later the Irishman left his compartment and
stepped out upon the platform of the railway station at Mont-
bar.
The midnight wind that rushed, shrieking, between the
mountainous walls of the narrow, level valley which con-
stitutes the major part of the principality of Grandlieu — an
independent state with a total area of some sixty-nine square
miles — was bitter cold and searching. The faces of the
porters and railway officers, who were forced to attend to
outdoor duties, were blue and immobile in its ice-laden
breath; and upon the lighted windows of the station itself
frost had formed, thick and white.
O'Rourke, noting these things, thought of the warmth of a
bed in the Hôtel des Étrangers, and the comfort of a meal,
with warm drinks, in the supper room of that hostelry, and
was glad that he journeyed no farther that night.
Runners for the three most prominent hotels in the city
besieged him with advice bearing upon the surpassing merits
of their respective houses. O'Rourke listened to all alike
stolidly, and apparently at random indicated him who repre-
sented the Hôtel des Étrangers, so avoiding all suspicion of
having chosen Chambret's place of shelter with purpose
aforethought.
Priding himself upon the neatness of this little strategy, he
climbed into a hack and settled himself for what he was as-
sured would be no more than a ten minutes' drive.
His eyes closed and he nodded, thinking dreamily of the
fair face pictured in that miniature which rested above his
heart. The hack plunged on through the night, rattling and
[359]


The Road to Paradise
me, I should be desolated” — the man mocked—“to be lost
to your good graces, Colonel O'Rourke, merely because we
have succeeded in outwitting you. In all fairness, that was our
business. Could you have expected us to act otherwise?”
“No,” admitted O'Rourke, caught by the fellow's tone of
good-natured raillery; “but surely ye don't expect me to be
pleased with meself, monsieur? Faith!” And he laughed
bitterly.
“So, then, I have made no mistake, after all? You admit
that you are Colonel Terence O'Rourke?”
“Admit it, me friend? Sure, and ye did not expect me to
deny it? Whilst there's a fighting chance, monsieur, I am
prepared to lie with the best of ye; but when ye have me,
body, soul and breeches — I'll throw up me hands, just as I
did when ye asked me to, so politely. But,” he continued,
talking to make time, and to throw the fellow off his guard if
possible, “could ye favor me with a bit of a word as to me
probable fate, monsieur? Sure, and ’tis no crime for a man,
even an Irishman, to journey into Grandlieu?”
“No — no crime, monsieur. But, perhaps, an indis-
cretion. Shall we call it a breach of international etiquette,
monsieur — taking into consideration all the circumstances?”
“Faith, would ye make me out a Power, together with that
precious duke of yours?” O’Rourke laughed.
“The comparison is not unapt, monsieur.” His captor
bowed — and maintained the muzzle of the revolver within
a foot of O’Rourke's heart. “Not unapt,” he repeated;
“which you are to consider as the reason why I am taking
such care of you, monsieur.”
“I would ye were less careful. Is there anything now,
monsieur, which might tempt ye to carelessness — for one
little moment?”
[363 ]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
There was an instant's silence. Then the man chuckled
disagreeably. “We are arrived,” he announced briefly,
glancing out of the window for the fraction of a second, and
immediately resuming his vigilance.
The carriage stopped. There were the sounds of voices,
of rapid footsteps, of the jingling of bits and the pawing of
hoofs, clear upon the frosty air. After what seemed an in-
terminable wait, something clanged loudly metallic, and a
face appeared at the window. The door was opened with a
jerk, and a man’s voice invited “Monsieur the Colonel
O'Rourke” to be pleased to alight.
He was not pleased; but an instant's consideration of the
menacing weapon constrained him to give in with what grace
he had to command, and, rising, he jumped lightly to the
frozen ground. At once he was seized from behind, his arms
twisted into his sides, a rope passed about them and drawn
tight.
“The divvle!” swore O'Rourke – but under his breath;
outwardly he maintained an impassive aspect.
Before him loomed the steep, rock wall of a castle. He
had heard somewhat of this castle from the lips of Madame
la Princesse herself, in former, happier days. They called
it Castle Grandlieu. It was centuries old — a grim reminder
of the days when from this rocky aerie the lords of Grandlieu
held the countryside in meek subjection, harrying the low-
lands of France and taking toll of all unfortunate passers-by.
It had been the whim of the princes of Grandlieu to live
in this castle, keeping it with all its medieval atmosphere —
its moat and drawbridge, its portcullis and battlements and
towers, all as they had stood frowning down upon the valley
when first erected back in the darkness of the Middle Ages.
Something in its bleak and austere showing sent a chill to
[364]


The Road to Paradise
the marrow of the Irishman. It bulked as grim and for-
bidding as a tomb. It — who knew? — might be his tomb.
It was said, indeed, that Duke Victor was a famous duelist
and one invincible. If he offered O’Rourke the chance to
fight, there would be an instant acceptance; of that one might
feel assured. And who should prophesy the outcome?
Not the O’Rourke of Castle O'Rourke, be certain. There
was a legend in his family that a penniless O'Rourke was
unconquerable; and vice versa.
Was this, then, to be the end of his epic?
[365]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
care of a lover of weapons, and representing all ages and
climes. In front of the fireplace a canvas had been stretched
across the parquetry flooring, to serve for fencing bouts.
It was an immense room, and deeply interesting;
O'Rourke's eyes lit up as he glanced down the racks of
arms, but he had little time to feast his martial spirit with
the sight of them.
For, standing with his back to the fire, teetering gently
upon his toes, with hands clasped idly at his back, was a man
whom O'Rourke found little difficulty in identifying as the
Duke Victor himself, from his resemblance to his dead
brother, and from a certain air of domineering confidence
in himself as well.
Whether or no he was a young man would have been hard
to say; at least, he had the air and the look of youth – the
hue of rich blood in his cheeks and the lines of youth in his
figure, that was as straight and supple as any stripling's.
He was something above middle height, and as good a man
to look upon as ever O’Rourke had seen — save, perhaps,
for a lack of breadth between his eyes: a sure index to a
nature at least untrustworthy, if not positively treacherous.
O'Rourke's captor halted at the door and saluted with a
military air. For the first time O’Rourke was able to have a
good look at him. Now that he had thrown aside his cloak,
a uniform of light gray adorned with a sufficiency of gold lace
and insignia was revealed. From the straps on his shoulders
O'Rourke calculated that he was a captain in the standing
army of Grandlieu — which, in all, numbered eighty men
and officers; or so the Irishman had heard.
For the rest of him, he was of a Gallic type — a large man,
blond, well-proportioned, heavier and taller than O’Rourke,
and as well set up. He was smiling slightly, with an ironic
[368]


The Devil in the Duke
air, as he endured the Irishman's gaze, and stood at ease
with one hand upon the hilt of a saber which he had assumed
since entering the castle.
Duke Victor was the first to speak.
“Colonel O'Rourke, I believe?” he said pleasantly enough
— with the air of one greeting an unexpected guest. “Cap-
tain de Brissac'.”
“Your highness?”
“I observe that Colonel O’Rourke's hands are bound
behind him. Surely that is unnecessary, in addition to being
an indignity. Loose him at once.”
The captain untied the ropes. O'Rourke moistened his
lips nervously, looking the duke up and down, for once in his
career at a loss for words. But the duke saved him the
trouble of speaking.
“Colonel,” he said familiarly, resuming his nonchalant
teetering in front of the great fireplace, “you will no doubt
have complaint to make in regard to our method of welcoming
you to Grandlieu!”
“Faith, I have that!” O’Rourke assured him earnestly.
“So I surmised.” The duke smiled. “As to why we
have acted in this manner — why, monsieur, it's hardly
necessary to discuss our reasons. I fancy they’re evident
and well understood by you and myself.”
“Faith, yes,” O’Rourke agreed. “I’m not the man to
deny that. But I dispute your right, monsieur.”
“Oh –!” And the duke waved a slender, white hand
airily. “There's no need of going into that, either, my
colonel. You dispute the right — I arrogate it unto myself
and shall consistently maintain it. No gain to either of us
— to fight over that. The point of the whole matter is —”
He paused thoughtfully.
[369 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“Now,” assumed O'Rourke, “ye seem to be getting down.
to business.”
“Precisely, my friend,” laughed the duke amusedly. “And
it's simple enough, Colonel O’Rourke. You were, to use the
legal term, accessory before the fact of my brother's — Prince
Felix's — death. Naturally, for that I hold you in no very
great good will. And I understand that both before and
after the mur—”
“Monsieur!”
“Oh, very well! Before and after, —shall we say?—the
unfortunate accident, you made love to the wife of my
brother — my promised wife of to-day.”
“Ye may understand what ye will,” said O'Rourke. “But
I'll tell ye this, monsieur the duke, that when ye say that
madame promised to marry ye, ye lie!”
“Strong language, Colonel O'Rourke! Upon what do
you base such an assertion?”
The duke was holding himself well under control; but he
had flushed darkly on hearing the epithet which O’Rourke
had flung in his teeth with intent to provoke. Indeed, at
present all that the Irishman was hoping for was to madden
the duke into accepting or issuing a challenge to a duel.
Then – well, the best man would win.
“I know that ye lie,” continued O'Rourke evenly, “from
the fact that within the week madame has sent for me.”
“Which means — what, monsieur, may I ask?”
“It means that madame once promised to be me wife,
Monsieur the Duke; and that she is standing ready to redeem
her pledge. Is it conceivable that she'd be promising her
hand to ye at the same time? I think not.”
“Your judgment may be prejudiced, colonel. Madame
may have changed her mind, may have wished to see you in
[37o]


CHAPTER XIX
THE DOOR TO ETERNITY
FoR some minutes the two strode on in silence, De Brissac
in the advance, O'Rourke watching his huge shoulders with
a calculating glance, debating whether or no, upon necessity,
he could overcome this man in a struggle hand to hand. He
shook his head dubiously, much impressed by De Brissac's
evidently ponderous muscular development.
From the inhabited portion of the castle they passed back
into the more bleak and uninviting section, where the air
hung heavy, chill, and damp, and great gusts of wind eddied
through silent, echoing hallways. And they followed, in the
main — or, at least, so far as O'Rourke could determine –
the course by which they had entered.
At length De Brissac paused before a heavy door, set deep
in the walls of stone.
“Colonel O’Rourke,” he said, “I regret that our carriage
is no longer at your disposal. Had you been otherwise
minded, it might have been a different matter. As it is, we
have no choice but to consider you a determined enemy, to
afford whom food, aid or comfort would be treason.” He
laughed sardonically. “This door,” he continued, “opens
upon the road. There is a little bridge over the moat, which
you’ll find it no trouble to negotiate. After that, the road is
lighted all the way to Montbar. It is a short journey at the
worst. You will reach the Hôtel des Étrangers within the
hour. Good night.”
[375]


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
He swung open the door. O'Rourke looked into his eyes,
and smiled contemptuously. “A small lot,” he commented:
“a petty revenge. I’m pleased to be able to breathe air un-
polluted by ye, monsieur. Good night.”
He turned and confronted the black, vacant oblong made
by the open door. The frost-laden wind slapped his cheeks
and pinched his nose. Without, there was unrelieved night.
O'Rourke negatived the proposition, mentally. He did not
know what lurked out there, in the blackness. He would
have much preferred to leave the castle and come out at
once upon the lighted road. And he stepped back toward
De Brissac.
“If ’tis not too great a strain upon your courtesy,” he sug-
gested, “I’d prefer to leave be the way I entered, monsieur.”
Abruptly he became aware that De Brissac was making
for him with outstretched, clutching hands, and the ap-
parent intention of seizing O’Rourke and casting him forth
bodily into the outer darkness.
The Irishman did not precisely comprehend; but he was
quick to step to one side and to meet De Brissac's rush with a
blow from the shoulder, delivered with all the strength that
was in him. It struck the man’s chest, glancing, and stag-
gered him for the moment; and that instant O'Rourke im-
proved by grappling with him.
Neither spoke. O'Rourke was bewildered, but in some
vague way aware that he was fighting for his very existence.
De Brissac was straining, with set teeth, to break the Irish-
man’s hold upon him. For many minutes they swayed back
and forth and from side to side, there in the narrow, stone-
walled passage in the old castle.
At length, De Brissac stumbled and went to his knees. He
was up again in a trice, but in the struggle to regain his
[376 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
with the instantaneous effect of the vanishing of a kineto-
scopic picture.
For a moment O'Rourke waited, holding the revolver
ready, expecting any moment to see De Brissac rise from the
ground and attempt a re-entrance to the hall.
Nothing of the sort happened, however. The silence and
quiet without continued unbroken, save for the sighing of
the wind. It struck O’Rourke as a curious fact that he had
not heard the sound of the fall. A dread thought entered
his brain, and took possession of his imagination, and he
paled with the horror of it.
Slowly he picked up the sword, and he cautiously advanced
again to the threshold of the door. Then he unsheathed the
weapon and poked about in the blackness with the scabbard,
holding the revolver poised to repel an attack, should one
come — as he half hoped.
None came. Abruptly O'Rourke threw the empty scab-
bard into the darkness, listening to catch the clank of it upon
the bridge of which De Brissac had spoken.
There was no sound.
The Irishman’s heart seemed to cease its pulsations for a
full minute; and then, far, far below him, he heard a faint,
ringing clash.
So! That, then, had been the fate prepared for him by
Duke Victor and De Brissac – that sudden plunge into a
fathomless void, with a sure, swift death waiting at the end
of his flight!
Faint and sick with disgust, trembling as with a vertigo,
reeling and swaying like a drunkard, O’Rourke managed to
close the door, and stagger a dozen yards or so away; and
then, for a long time, he stood with one forearm to the wall,
supporting his brow, the while he shuddered with sympathy
[378]


Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
“You have no sins, then,” asked the duke, with evident
surprise, “for which to crave forgiveness ere you die?”
“Monsieur,” returned the Irishman, “if ye are not on
guard at once — your blood be upon your own head!”
He threw himself into position, facing his antagonist, and
saluted. The duke laughed evilly, and carelessly touched
O’Rourke's blade with his own.
A second later he was retreating swiftly down the hall —
falling back under an onslaught the like of which he had
seldom experienced, in point of sheer audacity and cunning.
But he parried with amazing ease, giving ground until he
had recovered from his surprise, and permitting the im-
petuous Irishman to tire himself to the fill of his satisfaction.
“This is not so bad,” he jeered. “It is, in fact, somewhat
a pleasure to cross swords with a man who knows his
weapon.”
“The pleasure will be short-lived, I promise yel” retorted
O'Rourke.
The firelight flickered like lightning upon the crossed
blades. The stamping of their feet was like dull thunder
upon the padded fencing place.
The duke did not attempt again to speak. There was an
anxious look in his eyes; he was trying to fathom the school
by whose precepts O'Rourke fought — and trying in vain;
for O'Rourke fought with the cunning and the technique of
all schools, or, when occasion demanded, audaciously, ac-
cording to his own inspiration of the moment. Possibly he
was the most dangerous broadswordsman in the world; cer-
tainly his equal was not to be found in all Europe — not even
at Castle Grandlieu in the person of the redoubtable Duke
Victor himself.
And the duke was realizing that fact. He was tacitly
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Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
point sank deep into the panel, and the blade snapped half-
way down to the hilt.
Agile, and merciless as a cat, the duke was again instantly
upon his feet. O'Rourke, defenseless save for the hilt in his
hand, leaped backwards, a dozen feet, in the twinkling of an
eyelash. The duke hurled himself after him, like an aveng-
ing whirlwind, slipped upon the polished flooring, and
sprawled headlong.
His saber blade fell at O'Röurke's feet, and the adven-
turer promptly put one heel upon it while the other, without
compunction, he brought down heavily upon the duke's
fingers. The man swore with the pain and relaxed his
hold upon the hilt; O'Rourke stooped and tore the sword
from him.
Disarmed, the duke rose, his death clear to his eyes; the
polish of the nineteenth century dropped from him, like a
mummer's cloak; he stood, raging like a rat in a corner, show-
ing himself for what he was — a primitive savage, raw, blood-
thirsty, unprincipled, untouched by the monitions of a con-
science. Fear was in his eyes, for he expected his just due
— death; but rage was in his heart – rage, because he had
fought and lost and must pay the penalty.
He threw his arms wide with a passionate gesture, invit-
ing the down sweep of the saber, bowing his head to its cleav-
ing stroke. And when that did not come, he raised his gaze
again to the face of the adventurer, puzzled, wondering; and
saw O'Rourke standing at ease, regarding him with pity, but
without hatred. He recognized that the Irishman was of a
fiber finer than his own, that he could spare the life even of
an antagonist who had but the moment gone tried to take his
own by cowardly assault. And the knowledge was insup-
portable; it was intolerable to contemplate an existence
[384]


The Door to Eternity
owed to the mercy of a man to whom one had shown no
mercy.
He stepped back a pace, his features distorted with hate
and cunning. O'Rourke made no move, but continued –
the saber swinging idly in his hand – to regard the van-
quished man, reflectively, as though he were wondering what
was to be the outcome, what portion – barring death — he
should mete out to him to whose honor he might not trust.
The duke sidled away, his eyes fixed upon the adventurer's,
and informed with an implacable, unreasoning hatred.
Abruptly, when he had contrived to put a sufficient distance
between them, he turned and began to run down the length
of the great hall, swiftly, with an eye ever glancing over his
shoulder, watching to see whether or no the Irishman would
follow.
But O'Rourke did not. Somewhat puzzled, he waited,
confident in his own prowess, now that he was armed, in his
ability to cope with any device of the duke's, however in-
fernally inspired.
At the center table, Monsieur the Duke stopped and fum-
bled with the lock of a certain drawer, a slight, crafty sneer
of triumph and contempt admixed with the fear and hatred
in his expression. He jerked open the drawer; it slipped
from its runners, crashed loudly upon the floor, and the duke
knelt by it, watching O'Rourke always, with cat-like vigi-
lance, and groped an instant among the papers it contained.
Abruptly he started to his feet, holding a small, shining
object that fitted snugly in his grip. There was a flash, a
crack, and a bullet sang past O'Rourke and splattered upon
the stones of the chimney-place.
With a roar of honest rage, O'Rourke started for him,
swinging the saber above his head; it was to that alone that he
[385 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
must trust – to the edge against the lead: to the straightfor-
ward sword against the subtle bullet.
Yet there were many feet between him and the revolver —
perhaps ten yards. He had been criminally negligent in thus
permitting the man a chance to redeem his life. He had
trusted his life to the honor of one without honor, and he was
to pay the price of his folly.
He had scarce moved before the revolver spoke again; and
again the duke missed. He had, however, four bullets left,
and remembering this, the man calmed himself, steadied his
hand, took time for a more accurate aim. His next bullet
ploughed through the adventurer's shoulder.
It was like being pierced by a rod of fire; for an instant
O'Rourke was staggered; and then the burning agony mad-
dened him. He felt that he was to pay the price of his own
life for the duke's, yet felt that he would gladly do so if only
he might pass the threshold of Eternity in company with the
soul of Monsieur le Duc, Victor le Grandlieu.
Half blind with wrath, he threw himself towards the man,
like an avenging angel with flaming sword. There sounded
one more shot: fortunately the revolver was of small caliber
— no larger than a .38; though the bullet again took effect
and found lodgment in the Irishman’s side, yet the impact of
it was not sufficient to stop him. He whirled on, swinging
the broadsword high above his head.
Cold fear tightened about the heart of Monsieur the Duke.
His fingers trembled. He fired again, futilely, then, in a gust
of abject terror, dropped his weapon and leaped back, cower-
ing his arms wavering above his head, a weak barrier against
the gleaming yard of steel.
His heel caught, somehow, upon a rug, and he fell, but not
more swiftly than the saber. The blade smashed through
[386 |


Terence O’Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
after gulp. Sound and in his right mind, the quantity would
have well-nigh killed him. At the moment it lent him, tem-
porarily, fictive but necessary strength. He showed it at
once in his manner.
“Time?” he demanded.
“They are battering upon the doors; they may break in.”
“I can’t go this way.”
It was true that the people of the castle were assaulting the
doors of the great hall; the thundering blows upon the stout
oaken panels were rapid and constantly increasing in force.
Yet the doors were strong, and would hold yet a little while.
“The way out?” he asked.
She seemed to glide across the floor, swiftly, to one wall,
where, beneath a hanging tapestry, she discovered to him a
sliding panel. “Here?” she announced, waiting expectantly,
quivering with anxiety and pity.
“Turn your back,” he commanded roughly, “and stay so
for – till I speak.”
She obeyed. Despite the exquisite pain he endured, the
man nerved himself to manage to remove his coat. With
his knife he slit away one sleeve and the side of his shirt —
grinding his teeth with mortal anguish. Then, swiftly tear-
ing the linen into strips, he moistened them with water from
a silver pitcher on the table and plastered them upon his
wounds. “They be not wide, nor deep,” he said to himself.
“”Tis not worthy the name of O’Rourke I am if I cannot
overcome them — win out of here — mend. . . .”
Somehow — it seemed by hours of painful struggling, he
got the coat on again and buttoned it tight about him. Then,
with his one sound arm pressing the other against his side,
tightly, to hold the bandages — such as they were — in
place, he turned, gathered himself together for a supreme
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The End of the Quest
effort, and with a tolerably firm step moved across the floor
and joined the woman.
He noted that she was attired as though for traveling. The
circumstance puzzled him, yet at the moment he could spare
no strength for words.
“Ready, madame,” he announced with difficulty.
The woman stepped through the opened panel into stark
blackness, which lay beyond. He followed; and she turned
and slid the panel back into position. A furious crash told
him that the doors to the hall — one or both of them — had
given away.
Summoning the utmost of his iron resolution, the Irishman
permitted the woman to take the lead, stumbling after her,
guiding himself through the impenetrable darkness by the
sounds of her passage — the rustle of her skirts and the light,
almost inaudible tap of her footsteps.
“Faith, ’tis a woman after me own heart, she is!” he
thought. “To lead on so, without weakness or faltering,
in a time like this — without stopping to comfort me, or to
mourn!”
He felt himself stronger with each instant. The liquor
was acting upon him oddly, seeming to flood his being with
great, recurring waves of power. This effect, he knew, was
but transient; yet it would serve.
It seemed that they trod miles of dense darkness; they
descended steps, climbed again, felt their way down narrow
and tortuous passages, cold as the heart of death itself. It
was a progress interminable to the wounded man: hours
seemed to elapse.
“Surely,” he thought, “’tis morning, be now.”
Yet when they unexpectedly emerged, it was into the open
air of the mountainside, and the winter's night still held over
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The End of the Quest
Once she told him: “The frontier is not far, sweetheart.
Once over that, beyond immediate pursuit, we will stop at an
inn and summon a surgeon. Can you bear, O my dearest,
to wait so long?”
“I – Ah, faith! I could endure a thousand deaths —
and yet live on — in your arms . . .”
And again he asked: “”Tis miraculous — this escape!
Tell me how it was contrived.”
“Through Monsieur Chambret,” she replied: “Monsieur
Chambret, to whom we owe all. He communicated with
me through my maid, by means of that secret passage, of
which you know. And, not knowing when you would
arrive, dear heart — Ah, but you were long! — we laid our
plans for an escape whether or not you came ... I had sworn
that I would marry no man but you! . . . It was schemed for
this very morning; the automobile was to be in waiting on
that by-path. I was in the act of leaving the castle when I
heard the shots . . . Iran, was the first to enter the hall.”
“And so . . . Ah, sweetheart, sweetheart! If the O’Rourke
dies, ’twill be of sheer happiness!”
She caught him more closely to her. The pain in his
wounds seemed to be lessening; a delicious and dreamy lan-
guor crept over him, and he lay very still, content in her arms,
feeling himself slip gradually into slumber from which he
could not be sure that he should ever waken: while the motor
car crashed and roared on through the dawn — the bright
dawn of many confident to-morrows.
[393]