the fugitives, by r.m. ballantyne. ________________________________________________________________________ a group of people from a british ship have gone ashore to stretch their legs, when enemies approach, the ship's boat retreats to the ship and they are left stranded ashore. the book deals with their efforts to find what they hope will be civilisation in the capital of the island of madagascar, which is something like the size of france. unfortunately the reigning queen has a hatred of christianity which had been brought to the island by missionaries some forty years before. our heroes find themselves assisted by a christian net-work, but when they get to the capital they are appalled by the carnage and torture they find when the queen has one of her rages against christianity. based on fact, the story told here of the repression of christianity in an emerging nation was all too true. the queen died in , and was succeeded by her son, an altogether different person, at which point our heroes take ship for england, and the story ends. the story is full of action, the only quibble being the long and rather similar names the malagasy people who appear in the story have. this makes it sometimes rather hard to make out what is happening. ________________________________________________________________________ the fugitives, by r.m. ballantyne. preface. it is almost allowable, i think, to say that this is a true story, for fiction has only been introduced for the purpose of piecing together and making a symmetrical whole of a number of most interesting facts in regard to madagascar and the terrible persecutions that took place there in the early part and middle of the present century. i have ventured to modify time and place somewhat, as well as to mix my characters and their deeds a little, in order to suit the conditions of my tale; but in doing so i have striven to avoid exaggeration and to produce a true picture of the state of affairs, at the period treated of, in what may be styled one of the most interesting and progressive islands of the world. i take this opportunity of thanking the rev george cousins, of the london missionary society, and formerly of madagascar, for kindly supplying me with much valuable information, and of acknowledging myself indebted, among others, to the works of messrs. sibree, ellis, and shaw. r m ballantyne. harrow-on-the-hill, . chapter one. introduces the chief actors and a few mysteries. intense action is at all times an interesting object of contemplation to mankind. we therefore make no apology to the reader for dragging him unceremoniously into the middle of a grand primeval forest, and presenting to his view the curious and stirring spectacle of two white men and a negro running at their utmost possible speed, with flashing eyes and labouring chests--evidently running for their lives. though very different in aspect and condition, those men were pretty equally matched as runners, for there was no apparent difference in the vigour with which they maintained the pace. the track or footpath along which they ran was so narrow as to compel them to advance in single file. he who led was a tall agile youth of nineteen or thereabouts, in knickerbocker shooting-garb, with short curly black hair, pleasantly expressive features, and sinewy frame. the second was obviously a true-blue tar--a regular sea-dog--about thirty years of age, of samsonian mould, and, albeit running for very life, with grand indignation gleaming in his eyes. he wore a blue shirt on his broad back, white ducks on his active legs, and a straw hat on his head, besides a mass of shaggy hair, which, apparently, not finding enough of room on his cranium, overflowed in two brown cataracts down his cheeks, and terminated in a voluminous beard. the third fugitive was also a young man, and a negro, short, thickset, square, tough as india-rubber, and black as the emperor of zahara. good-humour wrinkled the corners of his eyes, the milk of human kindness played on his thick lips and rippled his sable brow, and intense sincerity, like a sunbeam, suffused his entire visage. james ginger--for that was his name, though his friends preferred to call him ebony--scorned a hat of any kind; his simple costume consisting merely of two garments--canvas trousers and a guernsey shirt. the sailor wore a cutlass in his belt. ebony was unarmed. the youthful leader carried a short fowling-piece. a yell in the far distance, as if from a hundred fiends, told that the pursuers had discovered the trail of the fugitives, and were gaining on them. "we'll have to fight for it, doctor," growled the sailor in a savage tone, "better stop while we've got some wind left." "the wood seems more open ahead," replied the youth, "let's push on a bit further." "hi!" exclaimed the negro in surprise, not unmingled with alarm, as they suddenly emerged on an open space and found themselves on the edge of a stupendous precipice. the formation of the region was curious. there was a drop in the land, as it were, to a lower level. from their elevated position the three men could see a turbulent river rushing far below, at the base of the cliffs on the edge of which they stood. beyond lay a magnificent and varied stretch of forest scenery, extending away to the horizon, where the prospect terminated in a blue range of hills. no path was at first visible by which the fugitives could reach the plain below. the precipice was almost perpendicular. they were about to leap recklessly over, and trust to descending by means of an occasional bush or shrub which grew on the rocky face, when the negro uttered one of his falsetto exclamations. "hi! here am a track." he dashed aside the branches of an overhanging bush, and ran along a narrow path, or ledge, which sloped gently downwards. it was a fearfully giddy position, but this in the circumstances, and to men accustomed to mast-heads and yard-arms, was of small moment. on they ran, at a more cautious pace indeed, but still with anxious haste, until about a quarter of the distance down the face of the precipice, when, to their horror, they came to a turn in the path where it suddenly ended. a mass of rock, apparently detached from the cliff by recent rains, had fallen from above, and in its thundering descent had carried away fully ten yards of the path into the stream below, where they could see its shattered fragments in the rushing river. the gap in front of them was absolutely impassable. on the right, the cliff rose sheer upwards. on the left, it went sheer down. a sort of groan escaped from the doctor. "what's to be done now, hockins?" he asked sharply, turning to the sailor. "die!" replied hockins, in a tone of savage bitterness. "stuff an' nonsense! we no' die yit," said the negro, pointing to the snake-like branches of a climbing plant which, spreading over the naked face of the cliff, turned into a crevice and disappeared round a jutting point. "will it bear our weight, lad?" asked the sailor doubtfully. "it leads to nothing that i can see," said the young doctor, "and would only ensure our being dashed to pieces instead of speared." "nebber fear, massa breezy. dis not de fus' time i's hoed troo de forests. if you stop here you die. james gingah he go on an' lib." "go on then, ebony; we will follow," returned breezy, slinging his gun on his shoulder so as to leave his hands free. a yell of disappointment on the cliffs above accelerated their movements. it was evident that the pursuers had come out on the open plateau, but had not observed the path by which they descended. as it was certain, however, that they would find it in a few minutes, ebony sprang upon the creeping plant and clambered along its tortuous limbs like a monkey. young breezy followed, and hockins came last. the plant was tough. it stood the strain well. if it had given way, death on the jagged rocks below would have been the result. but death by savage spears was behind them, so they did not hesitate. a few seconds and all three had passed round the jutting rock and into the crevice, where they were completely hidden from the view of any one standing on the path they had just left. in the crevice they found a ledge or platform sufficiently large to admit of their standing together. they had scarcely obtained a footing on it when another shout announced that the pursuer had traced their trail to the head of the track. we know not, reader, whether you have ever experienced that heart-melting qualm which comes over one at the sudden and unexpected approach of what, at least, appears to be death. if you have, you will be able to understand the intense relief and thankfulness felt by the fugitives when, safe from immediate danger, they listened to their pursuers as they held excited conversation at the end of the broken track. not knowing the language they could not, of course, understand what was said, and being just beyond the range of vision--owing to the jutting cliff that concealed them--they could not see what their pursuers were doing, but they heard a suggestive crash and a sharp exclamation. had they been able to see, they would have understood the situation well enough without the aid of language. two of the natives, who were dark-skinned and almost naked savages, had come to the place where the track had been broken away. they gazed at the profound depths on the left and the inaccessible cliffs on the right, and then glanced at each other in solemn surprise. no doubt the creeping plant would in a few seconds have attracted special attention, had not an incident turned their minds in another direction. while the foremost savage was craning his neck so as to see as far round the projecting cliff as possible, the piece of rock on which his advanced foot was dislodged, and he had the narrowest possible escape from plunging headlong after the rock, which went bounding and crashing into the gulf below. instantly the faces of the two men gleamed with intelligence; they nodded with energy, grinned with satisfaction, and pointed to the abyss in front of them with the air of men who had no doubt that their enemies were lying down there in quivering fragments. something of this james ginger did indeed manage to see. curiosity was so powerfully developed in that sable spirit, that, at the imminent risk of his life, he reached out by means of a branch, and so elongated his black neck that he got one of his brilliant eyes to bear for a moment upon his foes. he appreciated the situation instantly, and drew back to indulge in a smothered laugh which shut up both his eyes and appeared to gash his face from ear to ear. "what's wrong with you, ebony?" whispered mark breezy, who was in anything but a laughing mood just then. "oh! nuffin', nuffin', massa; only dem brown niggers are sitch asses dat dey b'lieve a'most anyting. black niggers ain't so easy putt off de scent. dey tinks we's tumble ober de precipis an' busted ourselbes." "lucky for us that they think so," said hockins, in a soft tone of satisfaction. "but now, what are we to do? it was bad enough clamberin' up here in blazin' excitement to save our lives, but it will be ten times worse gettin' down again in cold blood when they're gone." "time enough to consider that when they _are_ gone," muttered breezy. "hush! listen!" the sounds that reached their place of concealment told clearly enough that a number of the savages had descended the cliffs, presumably to look at the place over which the white men had fallen. then there was much eager conversation in an unknown tongue, mingled with occasional bursts of laughter--on hearing which latter the huge mouth of our negro enlarged in silent sympathy. after a while the voices were heard to retire up the narrow track and become fainter until they died away altogether, leaving no sound save the murmur of the rushing river to fill the ears of the anxious listeners who stood like three statues in a niche on the face of that mighty precipice. "now, you know," said breezy, with a sigh of relief, "this is very satisfactory as far as it goes, and we have reason to be thankful that we are neither speared nor dashed to pieces; nevertheless, we are in an uncomfortable fix here, for night is approaching, and we must retrace our steps somehow or other, unless we make up our minds to sleep standing." "that's so, doctor. there's not room to lie down here," assented the sailor, glancing slowly round; "an', to tell 'ee the plain truth, i feel as funky about trustin' myself again to that serpent-like creeper as i felt the first time i went up through the lubber-hole the year i went to sea." "what you's 'fraid ob, mr 'ockins?" asked ebony. "afraid o' the nasty thing givin' way under my weight. if it was a good stout rope, now, i wouldn't mind, but every crack it gave when i was comin' aloft made my heart jump a'most out o' my mouth." "what have 'ee found there, doctor?" asked the seaman, on observing that his companion was groping behind a mass of herbage at the back part of the niche in which they stood. "there's a big hole here, hockins. perhaps we may find room to stay where we are, after all, till morning. come here, ebony, you've got something of the eel about you. try if you can wriggle in." the negro at once thrust his head and shoulders into the hole, but could not advance. "bery strange!" he said, drawing out his head, and snorting once or twice like a dog that has half-choked himself in a rabbit-hole. "seems to me dere's a big block o' wood dere stoppin' de way." "strange indeed, ebony. a block of wood could not have grown there. are you sure it is not a big root?" "sartin' sure, massa. i hab studied roots since i was a babby. hold on, i try again." the negro tried again, and with such vigour that he not only displaced the block of wood, but burst in several planks which concealed the entrance to a cavern. they fell on the stone floor with a crash that aroused a multitude of echoes in the dark interior. at the same moment something like a faint shriek or wail was heard within, causing the hearts of the three listeners to beat faster. "did you hear that, hockins?" "ay, i heard it sure enough. what is it, think 'ee, lad!" said the seaman to the negro. ebony, who was gazing into the dark cavern with glaring eyeballs and distended nostrils, replied-- "my advice to you is, let's go back de way we come. dis no place for 'spectable christians." "do you fear ghosts?" asked mark, smiling, yet at the same time bringing his gun into a convenient position, with his finger ready on the trigger. "i fears nuffin," returned the negro with a proud look, while beads of perspiration stood on his brow. "then ye're a braver man than i am, ebony, for i fear that climbin' plant worse than a ghost; so here goes to find out what it is." although the sailor spoke thus boldly, and tried to look cool, it is certain that he also was afflicted with sensations of an unusual description, which, of course, he would have scorned to admit were the result of fear! his power of will, however, was stronger than his fears. drawing his cutlass, he was about to enter the cavern, when mark laid a hand on his shoulder. "come, hockins, you have accepted my lead hitherto. it is not fair to take it out of my hands at this critical point." so saying he glided past his comrade, and was almost lost to sight immediately in the deep gloom. "softly, softly, doctor," whispered the seaman, as he followed, "there may be holes or pits within--" "all right; i'm feeling my way carefully. keep close." as he spoke a slight, indescribable sound was heard--almost like a sigh. "hist! did 'ee hear that?" said hockins in the lowest possible whisper. "oh! massa, let's go back de way we come," urged ebony, in the same low but earnest tone. mark breezy did not reply, but the click of his gun as he cocked it showed that he was on the alert. for nearly a minute the three men stood in absolute silence, listening for a repetition of the mysterious sound, and, though it did not recur, there was an indescribable feeling in the heart of each that they were not alone in that cavern. "have you not flint and steel?" asked mark. "yes; but to strike a light would only show our whereabouts if there _is_ any one here." the seaman accidentally touched ebony on the elbow as he spoke, and sent that worthy's heart, or something like it, into his throat with such violence as nearly to choke him. "git along, massa," he said in a gaspy whisper, when able to articulate, "we's got to go troo wid it _now_." acting on this advice the young man continued to advance cautiously, feeling his way step by step and fully expecting every moment to reach the inner wall of the cavern. presently the explorers were again brought to a stand by the sudden appearance of a light in the far distance. as, however, it did not move, they continued to advance, and soon were convinced that it was daylight shining through an opening in that direction. every step convinced them more and more that they were right, and their spirits rose with the hope of escaping, though the light made no appreciable difference as yet in the darkness that surrounded them. suddenly a sharp, loud, short cry filled the cavern for an instant, and almost froze their blood! the loudness and abrupt stoppage of the cry left the impression that the creature which uttered it had been suddenly and effectively killed, for it ended in a sharp gasp or gurgle, and then all was still,--but only for a moment, for the shock to mark's nerves was such that his finger inadvertently pressed the trigger of his gun, which exploded with a deafening crash, and awoke shrieks and cries that were not to be accounted for by mere echoes. this was too much for ordinary human beings. fabled knights of old in armour of proof might have stood it, but the two white men and the black, being ordinary heroes, regardless of pride and honour, went in for a regular stampede, and it is but simple justice to say that ebony won, for he reached the outlet of the cavern first, and sprang through it into daylight like a black thunderbolt. it is also due to his comrades to add that they were not far behind him. their courage, however, was soon restored. daylight has a celebrated power of restoring courage. on clearing the bushes which concealed the entrance to the cave they simultaneously stopped, turned round, and resolutely faced their foe! but no foe was to be seen! once again all was still as death. after glaring for a few seconds at the spot whence the expected enemy should have issued, the three fugitives relaxed their frowning brows and turned inquiring eyes on each other. "dis beats cockfightin' a'most," said ebony, with a sigh of intense relief. "ay, an' every other sort o' fightin' as i ever heard on," responded hockins. "come, friends," said their young leader, "whatever it may have been, it behoves us to get as far away from this spot as possible, and that as fast as we can." chapter two. harks back a little. the spot where our adventurers found themselves on issuing from the mysterious cave was a peculiarly rugged one. it formed a sort of hollow or depression in the forest-land, in which we introduced the three men as fugitives. from this hollow there descended a narrow track or pathway to the extensive valley which had been seen from the summit of the precipice that barred their flight, and had so nearly proved fatal. so confused was the nature of the ground here, and so intricate were the tracks--originally formed no doubt by wild animals, though made use of by wandering men--that it became impossible for mark breezy to know in what direction he was leading his comrades as he wound in and out among large rocks and fallen trees. in fact it was more by chance than guidance that they ultimately hit upon the path which finally led them to the lower region or plateau of forest-land; and it is certain that they would have found it impossible to find their way back to the cave, even had they desired to do so. their chief object, however, was to put as much space as possible between themselves and their late pursuers, and to this end they pushed forward at their best speed, until they reached a small river which appeared to be a tributary to, or a branch of, that which they had seen from the heights earlier in the day. "`come to a ribber--couldn't git across, gib a couple o' dollars for an' old blind hoss,'" murmured ebony, quoting an ancient ditty. "we shall have to swim it, i fear," remarked breezy, "for there is no horse here, blind or otherwise. perhaps that fallen tree may prove strong enough to serve as a bridge." he pointed to a slender tree which had evidently been placed there, with several others, for the purpose of forming a rough and ready bridge; but its companions had been removed by floods, for they lay tossed on the bank further down among other wreckage. "it'll be somethin' like tight-rope dancin'," said the sailor. "we'll have to repair the bridge." "nuffin' ob de sort! look here." ebony ran to the tree referred to, and skipped over with admirable agility, though it bent under him not unlike a tight-rope. "but _i_ can't do that," said hockins, "not bein' a black monkey, d'ee see?" with a sudden expression of intense pity the negro exclaimed-- "oh! i beg pardin'. didn't i forgot; you's on'y a white man. but stop; i come ober agin an' took you on my back." he pretended to be on the point of recrossing, but the sailor had already got upon the bridge, and, with much balancing and waving of his long arms, passed over in safety. mark was about to follow, when hockins called out, "better pitch over the powder-flask in case you fall in." "that's true, for i mayn't be as good as you or ebony on the tight-rope. look out!" he pulled the powder-flask out of his pocket and threw it towards his comrades. unfortunately the branch of an overhanging bush had touched his hand. the touch was slight, but it sufficed to divert the flask from its proper course, and sent it into the middle of the stream. ebony followed it head first like an otter, but soon reappeared, gasping and unsuccessful. again and again he dived, but failed to find the flask, without which, of course, their gun was useless, and at last they were obliged to continue their flight without it. this was a very serious loss, for they had not an ounce of provisions with them, and were in a land the character and resources of which were utterly unknown at least to two of them, while the youth who had become their leader knew very little more than the fact that it was the island of madagascar, that it lay about miles off the eastern shores of africa, and that the tribes by whom they were surrounded were little if at all better than savages. that day they wandered far into the depths of a dark and tangled forest, intentionally seeking its gloomiest recesses in order to avoid the natives, and at night went supperless to rest among the branches of an umbrageous tree, not knowing what danger from man or beast might assail them if they should venture to sleep on the ground. although possessed of flint and steel, as well as tinder, they did not use them for fear of attracting attention. as they had nothing to cook, the deprivation was not great. fortunately the weather at the time was pleasantly warm, so that beyond the discomfort of not being able to stretch out at full length, the occasional poking of awkward knots and branches into their ribs, and the constant necessity of holding on lest they should fall off, their circumstances were not insufferable, and might have been worse. while they are enjoying their repose, we will tell in a few sentences who they were and how they got there. when mark breezy, in the closing years of his medical-student career, got leave to go on a voyage to china in one of his father's ships, the _eastern star_, for the benefit of his health and the enlargement of his understanding, he had no more idea that that voyage would culminate in a bed up a tree in the forests of madagascar than you, reader, have that you will ultimately become an inhabitant of the moon! the same remark may with equal truth be made of john hockins when he joined the _eastern star_ as an able seaman, and of james ginger--alias ebony--when he shipped as cook. if the captain of the _eastern star_ had introduced those three,--who had never seen each other before--and told them that they would spend many months together among savages in the midst of terrestrial beauty, surrounded by mingled human depravity and goodness, self-denial and cruelty, fun and tragedy such as few men are fated to experience, they would have smiled at each other with good-natured scepticism and regarded their captain as a facetious lunatic. yet so it turned out, though the captain prophesied it not--and this was the way of it. becalmed off the coast of madagascar, and having, through leakage in one of the tanks, run short of water, the captain ordered a boat with casks to be got ready to go ashore for water. the young doctor got leave to land and take his gun for the purpose of procuring specimens--for he was something of a naturalist--and having a ramble. "don't get out of hail, doctor," said the captain, as the boat shoved off. "all right, sir, i won't." "an' take a couple o' the men into the bush with you in case of accidents." "ay ay, sir," responded mark, waving his hand in acknowledgment. and that was the last that mark breezy and the captain of the _eastern star_ saw of each other for many a day. "who will go with me?" asked mark, when the boat touched the shore. "me, massa," eagerly answered the negro cook, who had gone ashore in the hope of being able to get some fresh vegetables from the natives if any were to be found living there. "seems to me dere's no black mans here, so may's well try de woods for wild wegibles." "no no, ebony," said the first mate, who had charge of the boat, "you'll be sure to desert if we let you go--unless we send hockins to look after you. he's the only man that can keep you in order." "well, i'll take hockins also," said mark, "you heard the captain say i was to have two men. will you go, hockins?" "ay, ay, sir," answered the seaman, sedately, but with a wrinkle or two on his visage which proved that the proposal was quite to his taste. all the men of the boat's crew were armed either with cutlass or carbine--in some cases with both; for although the natives were understood to be friendly at that part of the coast it was deemed prudent to be prepared for the reverse. thus john hockins carried a cutlass in his belt, but no fire-arm, and the young doctor had his double-barrelled gun, with powder-flask and shot-belt, but ebony--being a free-and-easy, jovial sort of nigger--went unarmed, saying he "didn't want to carry no harms, seein' he would need all harms he had to carry back de fresh wegibles wid." thus those three went into the bush, promising to keep well within ear-shot, and to return instantly at the first summons. that summons came--not as a shout, as had been expected, but as a shot-- about an hour after the landing. our explorers ran to the top of a neighbouring mound in some surprise, not unmixed with anxiety. before they reached the summit a volley from the direction of the sea, followed by fierce yells, told that some sort of evil was going on. another moment, and they reached the eminence just in time to behold their boat's crew pulling off shore while a band of at least a hundred savages attacked them--some rushing into the water chest-deep in order to seize the boat. cutlass and carbine, however, proved more than a match for stone and spear. the fight had scarce lasted a minute, and our trio were on the point of rushing down to the rescue, when a white cloud burst from the side of the _eastern star_, the woods and cliffs echoed with the roar of a big gun, and a shot, plunging into the crowd of natives, cut down many of them and went crashing into the bushes. it was enough. the natives turned and fled while the boat pulled to the ship. uncertainty as to what should be done kept mark breezy and his companions rooted for a few seconds to the spot. indecision was banished, however, when they suddenly perceived a band of thirty or forty natives moving stealthily towards them by a circuitous route, evidently with the intention of taking them in rear and preventing them from finding shelter in the woods. it was the first time that the young student's manhood had been put severely to the test. there was a rush of hot blood to his forehead, and his heart beat powerfully as he saw and realised the hopelessness of their case with such tremendous odds against them. "we can die but once," he said with forced calmness, as he cocked his gun and prepared to defend himself. "i's not a-goin' to die at all," said the negro, hastily tightening his belt, "i's a-goin' to squatilate." "and you?" said mark, turning to the seaman. "run, says i, of coorse," replied hockins, with something between a grin and a scowl; "ye know the old song--him wot fights an' runs away, may live to fight another day!" "come along, then!" cried mark, who felt that whether they fought or ran he was bound to retain the leadership of his little party. as we have seen, they ran to some purpose. no doubt if they had started on equal terms, the lithe, hardy, and almost naked savages would have soon overtaken them, but fortunately a deep gully lay between them and the party of natives who had first observed them. before this was crossed the fugitives were over the second ridge of rolling land that lay between the thick woods and the sea, and when the savages at last got upon their track and began steadily to overhaul them, the white men had got fairly into the forest. still there would have been no chance of ultimate escape if they had not come upon the footpath down the precipice which we have described as having been partly carried away by falling rocks, thus enabling hockins and his companions to make a scramble for life which no one but a sailor, a monkey, or a hero, would have dared, and the impossibility of even attempting which never occurred to the pursuers, who concluded, as we have seen, that the white men had been dashed to pieces on the rocks far below. whether they afterwards found out their mistake or not we cannot tell. the reason--long afterwards ascertained--of this unprovoked attack on the boat's crew, was the old story. a party of godless white men had previously visited that part of the coast and treated the poor natives with great barbarity, thus stirring up feelings of hatred and revenge against _all_ white men--at least for the time being. in this way the innocent are too often made to suffer for the guilty. we will now return to our friends in the tree. chapter three. describes the deed of an amateur matador and the work of a rough-and-ready shoemaker. when the day began to break hockins awoke, and his first impulse was to shout "hold on!" ebony's first action was to let go, thereby bringing himself to the ground with an awful thud, which would have told severely on any one less akin to india-rubber. for a few minutes mark breezy, holding tight to his particular branch, looked down at his companions, yawned heavily, and smiled a little. then a sudden impulse of memory caused him to look grave. "come," he said, dropping lightly from his perch, "these natives may have been searching for us all night, and are perhaps nearer than we suppose. i vote that we push on at once." "agreed," said hockins, stretching himself. "no fear, massa," remarked the negro. "if it wur moonlight dey might 'ave search, but whar de nights am dark dey knows better. de niggahs in dis yer island hab got skins an' eyes an' noses. if dey was to go troo such woods in de dark, dey hab no skins or eyes or noses in de mornin'-- leas'wise nuffin' wuth mentionin'. cause why? dey'd all git knocked into a sorter mush. plenty ob time for breakfast 'fore we start." "that's true, boy," said hockins, "but where's the breakfast to come from?" "what! you no bringed nuffin' in your pockits?" asked the negro with a look of visible anxiety on his expressive face. hockins turned his various pockets inside out by way of reply. "i am equally destitute," said mark. the negro groaned as he slowly drew from his breeches pockets two sea-biscuits and a cold sausage. "i meant dat," he said, "as a light lunch for _one_ yisterday." "it'll have to do dooty, then, as a heavy breakfast for three this morning, ebony. come, divide, and let's have fair play." "here, massa," said ebony, handing the food to mark, "you divide, i ain't got de moral courage to do it fair. number one is too strong in me when i's hungry!" with a laugh at this candid admission the youth did his best at a fair division. in a few minutes the scanty meal was finished, and the fugitives proceeded straight into the interior of the country at the utmost speed which was compatible with sustained exertion. they could see the faint outlines of a mountain range in the far distance, and towards that they directed their steps, knowing that in the event of sustained pursuit they had a much better chance of escaping among the rugged fastnesses of a mountain region than in the forests or on the plains. but they saw plainly that there was many a weary mile to traverse before the sheltering mountains could be reached. at first they walked rapidly and in silence, one behind the other--mark leading--but as time passed, and the danger of being overtaken decreased, they fell more into line and began to talk of their plans and prospects. of course they thought about the _eastern star_, and the possibility of her hanging about the coast in the hope of picking them up; but as there was no certainty upon that point, and a return to the coast would be like rushing into the very jaws of the lion, from which they were fleeing, they soon dismissed the idea as untenable. "now then, the question is, sir, wot are we a-goin' for to do?" said hockins. "ay, dat's de question," added ebony with much force, and more than shakespearean brevity. "well now, lads," said mark, "i've been thinking over that, and it seems to me that there's not much to choose between. unfortunately, i know uncommonly little about this island--not that my geographical education has been neglected, but the class-books i have used did not give much information about madagascar. i know, however, that the mozambique channel, which divides us from africa, is a little too wide to swim. i also know that there is a capital somewhere near the middle of the island, the name of which begins with an `ant,' and ends with a `rivo.' there are some syllables between, i believe, but how many, is more than i can tell. there's a government in it, however, and a queen, and some christian missionaries. now, it strikes me that where there's a government, a queen, and christian missionaries, there must be more or less of civilisation and safety, so i would advise that we make straight for the capital." "right you are, sir," said hockins. "as i know nothin' whotsomever about the place, i'll take my sailin' orders from you, captain, an' steer a straight course for anty--whatever-she-is--arivo, where i hope we'll arrive o!--`all alive o!' in the course o' time. what say you, ebony?" "i's agreeable; don't care much for nuffin' when it don't trouble me. but i's gettin' awful hungry, an' i don't see nuffin' to eat in dis yer forest--not even fruit--dough it's pritty enough to look at." the scenery through which they were passing at the time was indeed more than pretty. it was gorgeous, and would certainly have claimed more attention from the travellers had they been less anxious to advance, and, perhaps, less hungry. by that time--near mid-day--they had got through the densest part of the woods, and were come to a part where occasional openings in the foliage lighted them up. they had also discovered a narrow track or footpath, which they gladly followed; for although by so doing they ran the risk of coming suddenly upon natives, who might be foes just as well as friends, the comparative ease of travelling was too great to be neglected. this path struck over hill and down dale in a somewhat dogged and straightforward manner, scorning to go round hillocks, save when too precipitous for unwinged animals. at times it wound in and out among trees of great beauty and variety, and of tropical aspect. elsewhere it plunged into denser stretches of forest, where the profusion of vegetable life was extraordinary--here, a dense undergrowth of shrubs, tree-ferns, and dwarf-palms; there, trees of higher growth, and, shooting high above them all, the slender trunks of many varieties of palms, whose graceful crowns and feathery leaves were pictured vividly on the blue sky. elsewhere, innumerable creeping plants interlaced the branches, producing a wild and beautiful net-work, their tendrils crossing in all directions, and producing a green twilight in places. the whole was enriched by orchids, the abundant pink and white wax-like flowers of which contrasted well with other wild-flowers innumerable, and with many large and gorgeous flowering trees. different species of bamboos gave quite a peculiar aspect to the scenery in some places, and still greater variety was secured by long pendant masses of feathery grey moss and lichens. some of the trees were of enormous height; one palm, with a straight stem, in particular, being estimated as not less than a hundred feet high to the spot where the leaves sprouted. "'tis a perfect paradise!" exclaimed mark, stopping suddenly and looking around with admiration. "yes, massa," murmured ebony, with solemn looks, "if dere was on'y a few wegibles--cooked! flowers is all bery well to look at, but we can't heat him." "well, if we can't eat, we can, at all events, sleep," returned mark. "i believe it is usually thought wise in tropical countries to cease work and rest about noon, so, as i feel rather tired, i'll have a snooze. what say you?" no objection being made, the party again climbed into the branches of a low spreading tree, in order to avoid snakes, scorpions, or any other noxious creatures, though they knew not at the time whether such existed on the island. in less than five minutes they were sound asleep. awaking after about two hours' repose, they descended, wished for something to eat, sighed, put a bold heart on it, tightened their belts to suit diminishing waists, and continued their journey. perseverance is sure to be rewarded. if that is not a proverb, it ought to be! at all events the perseverance of our travellers was rewarded at this time by their coming suddenly out of the woods into a wide grassy plain, on which was browsing a herd of wild cattle--at least they judged them to be wild from the fact of their being discovered in such a wild place, and resolved to treat them as wild because of the "wolves" inside of them, which clamoured so wildly for food. "beef!" exclaimed hockins in some excitement, as he pointed to the animal nearest to them, which happened to be a black, sleek, fat young bull, with slender limbs and fierce eyes. "neber mind the wegibles, massa; shot 'un!" exclaimed ebony in an excited whisper, as he turned his glaring eyeballs on his leader. "hush! don't speak," returned mark, drawing quietly back into cover--for the animal had not observed them. "we must consult what is to be done, because, you know, we have lost our powder-flask, the two charges in my gun are all i have got, and these are only small shot--i have no bullets!" grave concern overspread the face of the sturdy seaman--blank dismay that of the sea-cook! "might as well blaze at the beast wi' sand," said hockins. "or wid nuffin'," sighed ebony. "nevertheless, i will try," said mark, quickly. "we shall be starved to death at this rate. yonder is a line of bushes that runs close out to the brute. i'll stalk it. when close i will make a dash at it, get as near as i can, clap the muzzle against its ribs if possible, and--well, we shall see! you two had better stop here and look on." "no, massa," said the negro, firmly, "i go wid you. if you _is_ to die, we die togidder!" "what are you thinking of, hockins?" asked the youth, observing that the seaman stood staring at the ground with knitted brows, as if in deep thought. "i'll go with you too," he replied, drawing his cutlass and feeling its point with his finger. "you may need help. heave ahead, sir." mark could not avoid smiling at the way in which this was said, although he was sufficiently impressed with the hopelessness, it might even be the danger, of the attempt he was about to make. they found no difficulty in approaching to within about thirty yards of the animal, being well concealed by the line of bushes before mentioned, but beyond that point there was no cover. here therefore mark cocked his gun and gathered himself up for a rush, and hockins drew his cutlass. so agile was our young doctor that he actually reduced the thirty yards to ten before the astonished bull turned to fly. another moment and the contents of both barrels were lodged in its flank. the effect was to produce a bellow of rage, a toss-up of the hindquarters, and a wild flourish of the tail, as the animal scurried away after the rest of the herd, which was in full flight. poor breezy stopped at once, with a feeling of mingled disgust and despair. ebony also stopped, and looked with wide sympathetic eyes in his leader's face, as though to say, "well, massa, you's done your best." but hockins ran on with persistent vigour, although the creature was leaving him further behind at every stride. "absurd!" murmured mark, as he gazed at him. "no use wassomiver," said ebony. it did indeed seem as if the seaman's exertions would prove abortive, but something in the spirit of the wounded bull suddenly changed the aspect of affairs. whether it was the stinging pain of the small shot in its flank, or the indignation in its breast that influenced it we cannot tell, but in a moment it wheeled round with a furious roar and charged its pursuer. hockins stopped at once, and his comrades fully expected to see him turn and run; but our seaman was made of better stuff than they gave him credit for, and the situation was not so new to him as they imagined. in the course of his voyaging to many lands, hockins had been to a bull-fight in south america. he had seen with fascination and some surprise the risks run by the footmen in the arena; he had beheld with mingled anger and disgust the action of the picadors, who allowed their poor horses to be gored to death by the infuriated bulls; and he had watched with thrilling anxiety, not unmingled with admiration, the cool courage of the matadors, as they calmly stood up to the maddened and charging bulls and received them on the points of their swords, stepping lightly aside at the same moment so as to avoid the dangerous horns. the seaman's purpose now was to act the part of a matador. he knew that he possessed coolness and nerve sufficient for the deed; he hoped that he had the skill; he felt that hunger could no longer remain unsatisfied; he feared that death by starvation might be the lot of himself and his companions, and he preferred to meet death in action--if meet it he must. all things considered, he resolved to face the bovine thunderbolt with unflinching front, like a true-blue british tar! his coolness in the circumstances was evinced by the remarks muttered to himself in a growly tone as the bull approached. "three futt--that'll be enough. i don't rightly remember how near them mattydoors let him come before they putt their helms hard down an' let him go by, but i think three futt'll do." this decision was barely reached when the bull was upon him with lowered head and erect tail. it was an awful rush, but hockins stood like a rock with the cutlass pointed. at the pre-arranged moment he stepped to one side, but instead of letting the momentum of the animal do the work, he could not resist the impulse to drive the cutlass deeper into the bull's neck. the result was that, though he escaped the creature's horn by a very narrow shave, the cutlass was wrenched violently from his grasp, and he was sent head over heels upon the plain! seeing this, mark and the negro ran to the rescue, the one howling like a maniac, the other clubbing his gun; but their aid was not required, for the work of the amateur matador had been effectively done. after receiving the deadly thrust the bull plunged forward a few paces, and then fell dying upon the ground, while hockins got up and began to feel himself all over to make sure that no bones were broken. it need scarcely be told that they rejoiced greatly over their success, and that they cut off some of the flesh immediately, with which they returned to the forest to enjoy a much-needed meal. "we must kindle a fire now," said mark, stopping at an open space in the midst of a very secluded spot at the foot of a magnificent palm-tree. "you see i'm not prepared to act like a cannibal or eskimo, and eat the meat raw." "there won't be much fear now," said hockins, "especially if we make the fire of dry wood an' keep it small. just look at that, doctor." he held out his cutlass for inspection. it had been seriously bent in the recent encounter. "ain't that a cryin' shame to the owners, now, to send us poor fellows to the eastern seas, where we may meet pirates any day, with tin cutlashes like that." "you kin put him straight de next bull you kills," said ebony, as he prepared some touchwood; "you've on'y got to stick 'im on the _left_ side an' he'll twis' it all right. now, massa, i's ready, bring de gun an' snap de flints ober dat." hockins straightened his weapon between the branches of a tree, his comrades managed to capture a spark in a mass of dry combustibles, which soon burst into a flame. as the seaman had recommended, only the driest wood was used, and just enough of that to enable them to half-roast what food they required. then they returned to the carcass of the bull, and cut off a large quantity of meat, using the cutlass as well as their clasp-knives in the operation. "cut the meat in thin slices," said mark breezy, when they began this work. "why you so 'ticklar, massa?" asked ebony. "i's fond o' t'ick slices-- w'en him's not too tough." "because then we can dry the meat in the sun or over a slow fire, and so be able to keep it longer without spoiling. we must spend the night here for the purpose, and perhaps part of to-morrow.--why, hockins, what are you about?" "makin' a pair o' shoes, sir; you see them old dancin' pumps as i left the ship with wouldn't hold out another day o' this rough travellin', so i'm makin' a noo pair of shoes when i've got the chance." "they will be a primitive pair," observed mark. "if that means a good pair, you're right, sir. they are after the pattern first made by adam for eve--leas'wise it's supposed her first pair o' dancin' pumps was made this fashion. i'll make a sim'lar pair for you, sir, w'en your boots give out." in case the reader should ever be reduced to extremities in the matter of foot-gear we may explain the seaman's method. selecting what he believed to be the thickest part of the bull's hide, he cut off a small portion about eighteen inches square. spreading this on the ground with the hair upwards, he planted his naked foot on it and marked the shape thereon. then with his knife he cut away the hide all round the foot-mark at four inches or so from the outline of the foot. next, he bored little holes all round the margin, through which he ran a line, or lace, also made of raw hide. then, planting his foot again in the middle of the hide, he drew the line tight, causing the edges to rise all round the foot and almost cover it. "there you are, sir," he said, stretching out his limb and admiring the contrivance; "rough-an'-ready, you see, but soon finished. it ain't recorded in ancient history what eve said when adam presented her wi' the little testimonial of his affection, but if i might ventur' a guess i should opine that she said `puckery.'" "h'm! dey ain't a tight fit," observed ebony. "i's ob opinion dat your corns are quite safe in 'em." having completed his shoe-making work, the ingenious seaman assisted his companions to prepare the dried meat, which they afterwards tied up in three convenient little parcels to be slung on their backs. that night they found a more commodious tree to sleep in. under the pleasant influence of a good supper they enjoyed unbroken rest, and awoke the following morning greatly refreshed. they were thus, both physically and mentally, prepared for the events of that day, to which, as they afterwards had a most important bearing on their fortunes in the island, we will devote a separate chapter. chapter four. the doctor finds unexpected work in the wilderness, and a mysterious stranger is introduced. it has been said that the travellers--for we cannot now appropriately style them fugitives--had reached a more open country, and that hockins's fight with the wild bull had taken place on the margin of a wide grassy plain. this plain, however, was limited. in front of them the scenery was undulating and beautifully varied--almost park-like in its character, and only in one direction--to the right--did it extend like a sea of waving grass to the horizon. behind them lay the dense forest through which they had passed. the forest also curved round to their left, and stretched away, apparently unbroken, on to still far-off mountains. after they had breakfasted, packed their dried meat, and sallied forth on the journey of another day, they walked in silence until they reached the edge of the plain, where there was room to walk abreast. "now, comrades," said mark breezy, "we will go to the top of yon mound, see how the land lies, and hold a council of war." "just so, cap'n; take our bearin's an' lay our course," assented hockins. they soon reached the spot, and found the view from it unexpectedly beautiful. the whole landscape was clothed with tropical verdure. past the foot of the mound ran a considerable stream, which opened out into a series of lakelets in the hollows beyond, the waters of which seemed to be the home of considerable numbers of wild-fowl,--but there was no sign of the presence of man. "strange," said mark, in a low voice, "that such a lovely scene should have been created a solitude, with no one to profit by or enjoy it." "well now, sir," remarked the sailor, "d'ee know that same thought has puzzled me now an' again; for although my purfession is the sea, i've travelled a good bit on the land--specially in south america--and i've seen miles on miles o' splendid country, that made me think of adam an' eve in paradise, with never a soul, as you say, to make use of or enjoy it. i've often wondered what it was all made for!" "don't you tink," said ebony, with his head a little on one side, and his earnest eyes betraying the sincerity of his nature, "don't you tink dat p'r'aps de ducks an' geese, an' sitch-like, makes use ob an' enjoys it? to say nuffin' oh de beasts, hinsects, an' fishes." "you may be right, ebony," returned hockins, with an approving nod; "we human being's is apt to think too much of ourselves. moreover, it has come into my mind that great britain was a solitood once--or much about it--an' it's anything but that now; so mayhap them lands will be swarmin' wi' towns an' villages some day or other. what d'ee think, doctor?" but the young doctor said nothing, for while his companions were thus indulging in speculations, he was anxiously considering what course they should pursue. "you see, comrades," he said, turning to them abruptly, "if we go to the right and traverse this fine country we may very likely fall in with villages, but the villagers may be savages, like those we met on the coast. on the other hand, if we go to the left, we shall have to traverse the somewhat dark and difficult forests, but then we shall be making for the mountains and table-lands of the interior; and as the capital, ant--ant--" "anty-all-alive-o!" suggested hockins. "no, 's not dat. it ends wid `arrive o!' w'ich is just what we wants." "well, whatever may be its name, i know that it is in the centre of the island somewhere, and the centre of any land always means the mountains; so i think we had better decide to go to the left, and--" "hallo! look yonder, sir," said hockins, pointing towards a low cliff which rose in front of them not a quarter of a mile from the spot where they stood. turning in the direction indicated, they observed a man running swiftly, as if in pursuit of something. they could see that he was clothed, and that he carried several spears, from which they judged that he was a hunter. coming to the foot of the cliff before mentioned, the man ascended the face of it with wonderful agility, and had almost gained the top, when a treacherous root or stone gave way, causing him to lose his hold and roll violently to the bottom. "poor fellow, he's killed!" cried mark, running towards the fallen hunter, who lay on the ground motionless. he was not killed, however, though stunned and bleeding profusely from a deep wound in the arm, caused by one of his own spears while in the act of falling. when the three strangers suddenly appeared the hunter grasped one of the spears and made a vigorous attempt to rise, evidently under the impression that he was about to be attacked; but the fall and the loss of blood were too much for him. he sank back with a groan, yet there was a look of quiet dignity about him which showed that he gave way to no craven spirit. our young doctor, kneeling down beside him, proceeded at once to staunch the wound and bind up the arm with his pocket-handkerchief. while he was thus engaged, hockins brought some water from a neighbouring stream in a cup which he had extemporised out of a piece of bark, and applied it to the man's lips. ebony stood by, with a look of profound pity on his face, ready for whatever might be required of him. the hunter showed by the expression of his handsome brown features that he was grateful for these attentions. yet, at the same time, there seemed to be something of perplexity, if not surprise, in his looks as he gazed on the white men's faces. but he did not utter a word. when the dressing of the arm was completed--of course in a most businesslike manner--he again attempted to rise, but was so weak from loss of blood that he fell back fainting in the doctor's arms. "this is a most awkward business," said mark, as he laid the man carefully on the ground, and put a bundle of grass under his head for a pillow. "it behoves us to push on our journey without delay, yet it will never do to leave him here alone, and we can't very well take him on with us. what _is_ to be done!" both hockins and the negro _looked_ their incapacity to answer that question. just then the answer came in the form they least expected, for a sound of many voices in clamorous talk suddenly broke on their ears. the speakers, whoever they might be, were still distant, and the formation of the ground prevented our travellers being seen by them. "savages!" exclaimed mark and hockins in the same breath. "hide!" cried ebony, with a roll of his huge eyes, as he suited the action to the word, and leaped into the bushes. the others followed his example, and running about a hundred yards back into the woods, climbed into the branches of a lofty tree, from which outlook, well screened by leaves, they saw a band composed of some hundreds of natives walking smartly over the open plain. from the manner of their approach it was evident that they searched for some one, and as they made straight for the cliff where the wounded man lay, it seemed probable that they were following up his trail. "we're done for," said mark, in a tone of despair, as he noted this. "why d'ee think so, doctor?" asked hockins, who did not by any means seem to take such a gloomy view of their case. "don't you see? savages can follow up people's trails almost as well as dogs. they'll easily trace us to the foot of this tree by our footprints, and then they've only to look up!" "that's true. i had forgotten that." "dere's time to drop down yit, massa, and squatilate," suggested the negro, excitedly. mark shook his head. "might as well try to run from tigers as from savages," he returned, "unless you've got a good start." "but they ain't all savages, sir," whispered hockins, as the band drew nearer. "some o' the naked black fellows look savage enough, no doubt, but there's a lot of 'em lightish brown in the skin, an' clothed in fine though queer garments. they carry themselves, too, like gentlemen. p'r'aps we'd better go for'ard an' trust them." "trust to 'em, 'ockins!" said ebony with a decided shake of the head, "trust men wid _brown_ faces? nebber!" the whispered conversation ceased at this point for a loud shout of surprise mingled with alarm was raised as the band came to the foot of the cliff and found what appeared to be the dead body of the wounded man. evidently they were friends, for while some of them kneeled down beside the injured hunter to examine him, others gave way to gestures and exclamations of grief. presently the watchers observed that one of those who kneeled beside the body looked up with a smile and a nod of satisfaction as he pointed to his chest. "they've discovered that he's not dead," said mark. "yes, massa, an' dey've diskivered de bandaged arm." "ay, an' it seems to puzzle 'em," added the seaman. it did more than puzzle them. they had not observed it at first, because, just before running into the woods, mark had covered it with a loose shawl--a sort of linen plaid--which the man had worn round his shoulders. when they removed this and saw the bandage which was wound round the limb in the most careful and perfect manner, they looked at each other in great surprise; then they looked solemn and spoke in low tones, glancing round now and then with saucer-like eyes, as if they expected to see something frightful. "i do believe, doctor," whispered the seaman, "that they think your work has been done by a goblin of some sort!" it would indeed seem as if some such idea had entered the minds of the band, for instead of examining the ground for footprints and following them up--as was natural to have done--they silently constructed a litter of branches, covered it with some of their garments, and quietly bore the wounded and still unconscious man away in the direction of the plains. with thankful hearts our travellers slid to the ground, and hurried off in the opposite direction towards the mountains. that night they came to a deeply-shaded and rugged piece of ground in the heart of the forest where there were caverns of various sizes. here the solitude seemed to be so profound that the fear of pursuit gradually left them, so they resolved to kindle a cheerful fire in one of the caves, cook a good supper, and enjoy themselves. finding a cave that was small, dry, and well concealed, they soon had a bright fire blazing in it, round which they sat on a soft pile of branches--mark and hockins looking on with profound interest and expectation while the negro prepared supper. "if i only had a quid o' baccy now," said hockins, "i'd be as happy as a king." "i have the advantage of you, friend, for i am as happy as a king without it," said the young doctor. "well, there's no denyin'," returned the seaman, "that you have the advantage o' me; but if i only had the baccy i'd enjoy my disadvantage. p'r'aps there's a bit left in some corner o'--" he plunged his hands into each pocket in his garments, one after another, but without success until he came to the left breast-pocket of his coat. when he had searched that to its deepest recesses he stopped and looked up with a beaming countenance. "ho! got 'im?" asked ebony, with interest. hockins did not reply, but, slowly and tenderly, drew forth--not a quid, but--a little piece of brown wood about five or six inches long. "a penny whistle!" exclaimed mark. "speak with reverence, doctor," returned the sailor, with a quiet smile, "it ain't a penny whistle, it's a flageolet. i stuck it here the last time i was amoosin' the crew o' the _eastern star_ an' forgot i hadn't putt it away. wait a bit, you shall hear." saying this hockins put the tiny instrument to his lips, and drew from it sounds so sweet, so soft, so melodious and tuneful, that his companions seemed to listen in a trance of delight, with eyes as well as with ears! "splendid!" exclaimed mark, enthusiastically, when the sailor ceased to play. "why, hockins, i had no idea you could play like that! of course i knew that you possessed musical powers to some extent, for i have heard the tooting of your flageolet through the bulkheads when at sea; but two or three inches of plank don't improve sweet sounds, i suppose." "ho! massa, didn't i tell you t'ree or four times dat he play mos' awrful well?" "true, ebony, so you did; but i used to think your energetic praise was due to your enthusiastic disposition, and so paid no attention to your invitations to go for'ard an' listen. well, i confess i was a loser. you must have played the instrument a long time, surely?"--turning to the seaman. "yes, ever since i was a small boy. my father played it before me, and taught me how to finger it. he was a splendid player. he used sometimes to go to the back of the door when we had a small blow-out, an' astonish the company by playin' up unexpectedly. he was great at scotch tunes--specially the slow ones, like this." he put the little instrument to his lips again, and let it nestle, as it were, in his voluminous beard, as he drew from it the pathetic strains of "wanderin' willie," to the evidently intense enjoyment of ebony, who regarded music as one of the chief joys of life--next, perhaps, to cooking! but mark and ebony were not the only listeners to that sweet strain. just outside the mouth of the cave there stood a man, who, to judge from the expression of his face, was as much affected by the music as the negro. though he stood in such a position as to be effectually screened from the view of those within, a gleam of reflected light fell upon his figure, showing him to be a tall, handsome man in the prime of life. he was clothed in what may be styled a mixed european and native costume, and a gun on which he rested both hands seemed to indicate him a hunter. he carried no other weapon, except a long knife in his girdle. the mixed character of his garb extended also to his blood, for his skin, though dark and bronzed from exposure, was much lighter than that of most natives of the island, and his features were distinctly european. quiet gravity was the chief characteristic of his countenance, and there was also an expression of profound sadness or pathos, which was probably caused by the music. when hockins finished his tune the three friends were almost petrified with astonishment--not unmingled with alarm--as they beheld this man walk coolly into the cave, rest his gun on the side of it, and sit gravely down on the opposite side of the fire. the first impulse of our three friends, of course, was to spring up, but the action of the man was so prompt, and, withal, so peaceful, that they were constrained to sit still. "don't be alarmed. i come as a friend. may i sit by your fire?" he spoke in good english, though with a decidedly foreign accent. "you are welcome, since you come as a friend," said mark, "though i must add that you have taken us by surprise." "well now, stranger," said hockins, putting his musical instrument in his pocket, "how are we to know that you _are_ a friend--except by the cut o' your jib, which, i admit, looks honest enough, and your actions, which, we can't deny, are peaceable like?" the seaman put this question with a half-perplexed, half-amused air. the stranger received it without the slightest change in his grave aspect. "you have no other means of knowing," he replied, "except by my `jib' and my actions." "dat's a fact, anyhow," murmured ebony. "who _are_ you, and where do you come from?" asked mark. "i am an outlaw, and i come from the forest." "that's plain-speakin', an' no mistake," said hockins, with a laugh, "an' deserves as plain a return. we can't say exactly that _we_ are outlaws, but we are out-an'-outers, an' we're going through the forest to--to--anty-all-alive-o! or some such name--the capital, you know--" "antananarivo," suggested the outlaw. "that's it! that's the name--i couldn't recall," said mark, quickly. "we are going there, if we can only find the way." "i know the way," returned the outlaw, "and my reason for coming here is to offer to show it you." "indeed! but how came you to know our intentions, and what makes you take so much interest in us?" asked mark, with a look of suspicion. "my reason for being interested in you," returned the stranger, "is a matter with which you have nothing to do. how i came to know your intentions it is easy to explain, for i have followed you from the sea-coast step by step. i saw you escape from the savages, saw you frightened out of the cave by my friends the outlaws, who dwell in it, followed you while you traversed the forest, listened to your conversations, witnessed your exploit with the bull, and observed you when you helped and bandaged the wounded native." it would be difficult to describe the looks or feelings with which the three friends received this information. ebony's eyes alone would have taken at least half-an-hour of the pencil to portray. "but--but--why?" stammered mark. "never mind the why," continued the outlaw, with a pleasant look. "you see that i know all about you--at least since you landed--and i also know that you have been several times in unseen danger, from which i have shielded you. now, you have arrived at a part of the forest which is swarming with brigands, into whose hands you are sure to fall unless i am with you. i therefore come to offer myself as your guide. will you have me?" "it seems to me," returned mark, with something of scorn in his tone, "that we have no choice, for you have us at your mercy--we cannot refuse. i suppose you are the brigand chief, and are guarding us for some sinister purpose of your own." "i said not that i was a brigand," returned the stranger, quietly; "i said i was an outlaw. what else i am, and my motives of action, i choose not to tell. you say truly--i have you in my power. that is one reason why i would befriend you, if you will trust me." the outlaw rose up as he spoke. there was such an air of quiet dignity and evident sincerity in the man that mark was strongly impressed. rising promptly, he stretched his hand across the fire, saying, "we will trust you, friend, even though we were _not_ in your power." the outlaw grasped the youth's hand with a gratified look. "now," he added, as he took up his gun, "i will go. in the morning at day-break i will return. sleep well till then." with something like a courtly salute, the mysterious stranger left them, and disappeared into the depths of the forest. chapter five. the outlaw's friends. threatened danger curiously averted. as might be supposed, the unexpected appearance of the outlaw, as well as his sudden departure, tended somewhat to interfere with the sleep which he had wished the travellers at parting, and the night was far advanced before they grew tired of wondering who he could be, speculating as to where he came from, and commenting on his personal appearance. in short, at the close of their discourse, they came to the conclusion which was well embodied in the remark of ebony, when he said, "it's my opinion, founded on obsarvashun, dat if we was to talk an tink de whole night long we would come no nearer de troot, so i'll turn in." he did turn in accordingly, and, after exhausting the regions of conjecture, the powers of speculation, and the realms of fancy, mark and hockins followed his example. one consequence of their mental dissipation was that they slept rather beyond the hour of day-break, and the first thing that recalled the two white men to consciousness was the voice of their black comrade exclaiming:-- "ho! hi! hallo! i smells a smell!" they lifted their three heads simultaneously and beheld the outlaw sitting calmly beside the fire roasting steaks. for the first time the mysterious stranger smiled--and it was a peculiarly sweet half-grave sort of attractive smile, as far removed from the fiendish grin of the stage bandit as night is from day. "i knew you would be hungry, and guessed you would be sleepy," he said, in a deep musical voice, "so i have prepared breakfast. are you ready?" "ready!" repeated hockins, rising with a mighty yawn, and stretching himself, as was his wont; "i just think we are. leastwise _i_ am. good luck to 'ee mister outlaw, what have 'ee got there?" "beef, marrow-bones, and rice," replied the man. "you may call me samuel if you like. it was my father's first name, but i'm best known among my friends as ravoninohitriniony." "well, that _is_ a jaw-breaker!" exclaimed hockins, with a laugh, as they all sat down to breakfast. "ra-vo--what did 'ee say?" "better not try it till arter breakfast," suggested ebony. "couldn't we shorten it a bit?" said mark, beginning to consult a marrow-bone. "what say you to the first half--ravonino?" "as you please," replied the outlaw, who was already too much absorbed with steaks to look up. "not a bad notion," said hockins. "sam'l ravonino--i've heerd wuss; anyhow it's better than the entire complication--eh, ebony?" "mush better," assented the negro; "dere's no use wotsomediver for de hitri--hitri-folderol-ony bit of it. now, 'ockins, fair play wid de marrow-bones. hand me anoder." "is it far, mr ravonino," asked mark, "from here to the capital--to antananarivo?" "you cleared 'im that time, doctor!" murmured hockins, wiping his mouth with a bunch of grass which he carried as a substitute for a pocket-handkerchief. "yes, it is a long way," said the outlaw; "many days' journey over mountain and plain." "and are you going to guide us all the way there?" "no, not all the way. you forget i am an outlaw. it would cost me my life if i were to appear in antananarivo." mark was on the point of asking why, but, remembering the rebuff of the previous night, forbore to put questions relative to his new friend's personal affairs. indeed he soon found that it was useless to do so, for whenever he approached the subject ravonino became so abstracted and deaf that no reply could be drawn from him. as if to compensate for this, however, the man was exceedingly communicative in regard to all other subjects, and there was a quiet urbanity in his manner which rendered his conversation exceedingly attractive. moreover, to the surprise of mark, this mysterious stranger gave evidence of a considerable amount of education. he also gratified hockins by his evident delight in the flageolet, and his appreciation of nautical stories and "lingo," while he quite won the heart of ebony by treating him with the same deference which he accorded to his companions. in short each of our travellers congratulated himself not a little on this pleasant acquisition to the party--the only drawback to their satisfaction being their inability to reconcile the existence of such good qualities with the condition of an outlaw! "however," remarked hockins, after a long talk with his comrades on this subject when ravonino was absent, "it's none of our business what he's bin an' done to other people. what we've got to do with is the way he behaves to _us_, d'ee see?" "he's a trump," said ebony, with a nod of decision. "i agree with you," said mark; "and i only wish he was a little more communicative about himself. however, we must take him as we find him, and try to win his confidence." during the whole of that first day their guide conducted them through such intricate and evidently unfrequented parts of the forest that their advance was comparatively slow and toilsome, but, being young and strong and well-fed, they did not mind that. in fact mark breezy enjoyed it, for the wilder and more tangled the scenery was through which they forced their way, the more did it accord with the feelings of romance which filled him, and the thought, too, of being guided through the woods by an outlaw tended rather to increase his satisfaction. "are all the roads in your island as bad as these?" he asked, after plumping up to the knees in a quagmire, out of which he scrambled with difficulty. "no, many of them are worse and some better," answered the guide; "but i keep away from them, because the queen's soldiers and spies are hunting about the land just now." "oho!" thought mark, "i begin to see; you are a rebel." then, aloud, "your country, then, is governed by a queen?" "misgoverned," returned ravonino in a tone of bitterness, which, however, he evidently tried to restrain. fearing to tread again on forbidden ground, mark forbore to put questions about the guide's objections to his queen, but simply asked her name, and if she had reigned long. "her name," said ravonino, "is ranavalona. she has reigned for twenty-seven years--twenty-seven long and weary years! i was a little boy when she usurped the throne. now my sun has reached its meridian, yet she is still there, a blight upon the land. but god knows what is best. he cannot err." this was the first reference that ravonino had made to the creator, and mark was about to push his inquiries further, when a confused sound of voices was heard not far in advance of them. ravonino, who had been walking with an easy nonchalant air ahead of the party, on a very narrow footpath, suddenly stopped to listen with a look of anxiety. a moment later and he entered the bush that fringed the path and overhung it. "come," he said in a low voice, "follow me, close!" without a word of explanation he strode into the dense undergrowth, through which he went with the agility of a panther and the sinuosity of a serpent. the others, being, as we have said, very active and strong, kept close at his heels, though not without difficulty. coming at last to a place where the shrubbery was so intertwined that it was impossible to see more than a yard or two in advance, they suddenly found themselves stopped by a sheer precipice. only for a few seconds, however, was their progress arrested, while their guide turned to explain. "there is another and an easier way to the place i am making for, but it is much longer and more exposed. i take for granted that you have strong arms and steady heads, but if not, speak out, for i would not lead you into danger." "lead on," said mark, promptly, "wherever you go, we will follow." with something like an amused twinkle of the eye, ravonino began to climb up the face of the precipice, holding on to roots and rope-like creepers like a monkey. "if this here sort o' cordage was only a bit more taut i wouldn't mind it so much," growled hockins, as he lost his footing at one place, and swung off the face of the precipice,--holding on to a stout creeper, however, with seaman-like grip and coolness. he quickly caught hold of another creeper, and drew himself again into comparative safety. a minute later and they all stood on a ledge, high up on the face of the cliff, and close to what appeared to be the mouth of a cavern. "look there," said their guide, pushing aside the bushes which overhung the cliff in all directions. they looked, and through the opening beheld a band of men moving in single file along the track they had just left. they were most of them nearly naked, with only short calico breeches which did not quite reach to their knees, but all had muskets on their shoulders and cross-belts on their dark bodies, one of which belts sustained apparently a cartridge-box, the other a bayonet. their own thick hair was all the cap they wore, excepting two or three men of superior rank, who wore cloths wrapped in turban fashion on their heads, and a voluminous plaid-like garment on their shoulders. these carried swords instead of muskets. "the soldiers of the queen," said ravonino, in answer to mark breezy's look. "they are out hunting." "what do they hunt for?" asked mark. "men and women." "by which i suppose you mean rebels." "no, they are not rebels; they are the queen's most loyal subjects!" "but loyal subjects do not usually fly from their rulers," objected mark. "true, but loyal subjects sometimes fly from tyranny," returned the guide. "come, i will introduce you to some fugitives from tyranny." he turned as he spoke and led the way into the cave before mentioned. profound darkness did not prevent his advancing with a firm unhesitating step. as he led mark by the hand, hockins and ebony held on to him and to each other, and had no difficulty in following. presently they came to a wooden obstruction which proved to be a door. voices in conversation were heard on the other side of it. a knock from the guide produced sudden silence. another knock drew from those within an exclamation of surprise, and next moment the heavy door swung open on creaking hinges. "yes, it _is_ ravoninohitriniony! i knew his knock. he is come!" exclaimed a girlish voice, as a pair of arms were seen dimly to encircle the guide's neck. of course the girl spoke in the native tongue, which was quite incomprehensible to our travellers, but if we are to enlighten our readers we must needs translate as we go along. "my sister, ra-ruth," said the guide, presenting her to his new friends. "she was a lady in the palace of the queen once. now she is an outlaw, like myself--has fled from tyranny, and, perhaps, death. all in this cave are in the same case--fugitives from our tyrant queen." they reached the interior of the place as he spoke, and ravonino, pointing to a bundle of dried ferns, bade his companions rest there until he had explained some private matters to the people. nothing loth--for they were all somewhat fatigued by their recent exertions--our travellers flung themselves on what proved to be a luxurious couch, and observed what went on around them. truly it was a strange scene, romantic enough even to satisfy the longings of mark breezy! the cavern itself was a curious one, being in the form of a vast hall, with three smaller chambers opening out of it. the central hall seemed to have no roof, for although brightly lighted by several torches fixed to its rugged walls the upper part was lost in profound obscurity. this strange abode was peopled by a considerable number of men and women--natives of the island--who from the variety in their costume, features, and complexion, evidently belonged to different tribes. some were strong, tall, and rather harsh-featured, others were more slender in build and with refined countenances. a few were almost black, others of a light olive colour, and several made that approach to whiteness of skin which in england is known as brunette. all were more or less characterised by that quiet gentleness and gravity of demeanour which one is accustomed to associate with humbly borne misfortune. it was evident from the appearance of the large chamber that its inhabitants were associated in groups or families, spaces being marked off by an arrangement of logs and household goods, etcetera, as if to indicate the habitation of each group, and, from certain indications in the smaller chambers, it was equally evident that these had been apportioned as the sleeping-places of the females. a larger space at the end of the cave, opposite to that on which mark and his comrades reclined, seemed to be a general meeting-place. to this spot it was that ravonino went, leading his little sister ra-ruth by the hand, and followed by all the inmates of the place, who were eager to know what news he had brought. that the news was the reverse of good soon became evident, from the bowed heads and frequent sighs with which it was received. of course our travellers could make no use of their ears, but they made the best use of their eyes, and were deeply interested in the expressions and actions of the various members of the group who successively spoke after the guide had told his story. poor little ra-ruth, whose age might have been about seventeen, was not one of the speakers. she was evidently a timid as well as a pretty little creature, for she clung to and nestled against her stout brother's arm while he was speaking, and hid her face now and then in the masses of her luxuriant brown hair. close to her sat a young woman whose appearance and manner formed a striking contrast. she was much darker in complexion, but her features were of classical beauty and her air calm and self-possessed. when she had occasion to speak, she arose, displaying a tall elegantly-formed figure, which moved with queen-like dignity while she gesticulated with graceful animation, and frequently pointed upwards as if appealing to. god. when she was speaking ra-ruth's timidity seemed to vanish, for she shook back her hair, and fixed her eyes on the other's face with a gaze that told of ardent love as well as admiration. the next who spoke was a young man, who in face and figure so strongly resembled the last speaker, that it was impossible to resist the conclusion that they were brother and sister. there was the same tall commanding figure, of course on a larger scale, the same noble cast of feature and the same dignified mien. but in the man, more than in the woman, there was an air of gentle modesty which contrasted well with his powerful frame. he did not gesticulate much in speaking, and, judging from the brevity of his speech, he had not much to say, but what he said was listened to with profound respect by all. after this youth, several others took part in the debate. then they all stood up, and, to the surprise of their visitors, began to sing--very sweetly--an old familiar hymn! "it minds me o' home," whispered hockins, scarce able to restrain the tears that filled his eyes. the hymn was nearly finished, when a rushing sound and a subdued cry were heard to issue from a dark passage, the mouth of which was close to the couch of our travellers. the singing ceased instantly. next moment a man rushed into the chamber with labouring breath and flashing eyes. springing towards ravonino, he spoke several words eagerly, at the same time pointing in the direction of the passage just referred to. "lights out and silence!" cried the guide, authoritatively, in the native tongue. another moment and the cave was in total darkness, and a silence so profound reigned there that the three visitors could hardly persuade themselves the whole affair was not a strange dream. the voice of ravonino, however, soon dispelled that idea. "be still!" whispered the guide, laying his hand on mark's shoulder. "our foes have discovered our retreat." "there's a lot of stout fellows here," returned mark, also in a whisper. "we will help you if you have to fight." "we may not fight," replied ravonino softly. "if it be god's will, we must die. hush! they come." once more total silence prevailed in the cavern, and the sound of distant voices could be heard. in a few minutes a tiny light was seen at the end of the dark passage. it gradually increased in size, revealing a soldier who bore a torch. he advanced on tip-toe, and with slightly scared looks, into an outer cavern which formed a sort of vestibule to the large inner cave. the soldier was brave, no doubt, and would have faced an army in the field, but he was extremely superstitious, and advanced with a palpitating heart, the torch held high above his head, and eyes glancing nervously from side to side. a crowd of comrades, similarly affected more or less, followed the torch-bearer and pushed him on. "nothing here," said the leading man, of course in malagasy. "let us be gone, then," said one of his comrades. "no," observed a third, who seemed bolder than the rest, "perhaps there is another cave beyond," (pointing to the dark passage, through which, though unseen, mark and his companions with the guide were gazing anxiously at their foes). "give me the torch." the soldier seized the light and advanced quickly towards the opening. another minute and all must have been revealed. a feeling of despair took possession of ravonino's breast and he gave vent to an involuntary sigh. the sound reached the ear of the soldier with the torch and for a moment arrested him, but, thinking probably that the sound was in his imagination, he again advanced. the case was now desperate. just then a gleam of light flashed into the mind of hockins. next moment, to the consternation of his comrades and the guide, a strain of the sweetest music floated softly in the air! the soldiers stood still--spell-bound. it was not an unfamiliar air, for they had often heard the hated christians sing it, but the sweet, liquid--we might almost say tiny--tones in which it was conveyed, were such as had never before reached their ears or even entered their imaginations. it was evident from their countenances that the soldiers were awe-stricken. the seaman noted this. he played only a few bars, and allowed the last notes of his flageolet to grow faint until they died away into absolute silence. for a minute or two the soldiers stood rooted to the spot, gazing up into the roof of the cave as if expecting a renewal of the sounds. then they looked solemnly at each other. without uttering a word they turned slowly round, retreated on tip-toe as they came, and finally disappeared. we need hardly say that the astonishment of the people in the cave at the mode of their deliverance from the threatened danger was intense. when the torches were relighted the men and women assembled round ravonino with looks little less solemn than those of the soldiers who had just taken their departure. "surely," said the handsome young man whom we have already introduced, "surely god has wrought a miracle and sent an angel's voice for our deliverance." "not so, laihova," replied ravonino, with a slight smile. "we are too apt to count everything that we fail to understand a miracle. god has indeed sent the deliverance, but through a natural channel." "yet we see not the channel, ravoninohitriniony," said laihova's queen-like sister, ramatoa. "true, ramatoa. nevertheless i can show it to you. come, hockins," he added in english, "clear up the mystery to them." thus bidden, our seaman at once drew forth the little instrument and began to play the hymn they had just been singing, with the air of which, as we have said, he chanced to be well acquainted. it would be hard to say whether surprise or pleasure predominated in the breasts of his audience. at last the latter feeling prevailed, and the whole assembly joined in singing the last verse of the hymn, which appropriately terminated in "praise ye the lord." "but our retreat is no longer safe," said ravonino, when the last echo of their thanksgiving had died away. "we must change our abode--and that without delay. get ready. by the first light of morning i will lead you to a new home. these soldiers will not return, but they will tell what they have seen, and others less timorous will come here to search for us." immediately the people set about collecting together and packing up what may be termed their household goods, leaving the guide and their visitors to enjoy supper and conversation in their own corner of the cave. chapter six. the guide becomes communicative, and tells of terrible doings. during the progress of supper, which consisted of cold dried meat and rice, the quartette seated on the ferns in the corner of the cave were unusually silent. mark breezy and ravonino continued to eat for some time without speaking a word. ebony, although earnestly absorbed in victuals, rolled his eyes about as he looked from time to time at his companions with unwonted solemnity, and john hockins frowned at his food, and shook his shaggy head with an air of dissatisfied perplexity. "ravonino," at length said the last, looking up, and using his grass pocket-handkerchief, "it seems to me, bein' a plain straight-for'ard sort o' seaman, that there's somethin' not exactly fair an' above-board in all them proceedin's. of course it's not for me to say what a independent man should do or say; but don't you think that w'en a man like you professes to be honest, an' asks other men to trust him, he should at least explain _some_ o' the riddles that surround him? i'm a loyal man myself, an' i'll stand up for _my_ queen an' country, no matter what may be the circumstances in w'ich i'm placed; so that w'en i sees another man admittin' that he's a outlaw, an' finds the soldiers of _his_ queen a-huntin' all about the country arter him and his comrades-- seems to me there's a screw loose somewheres." "dat's _my_ sent'ments zactly," said the negro, with a decisive nod. mark took no notice of this speech, but silently continued his supper. for a few moments the guide did not speak or look up. then, laying down his knife and clasping his hands over one of his knees, he looked earnestly into the seaman's face. "you tell me you are loyal," he said. hockins nodded. "if your queen," continued ravonino, "were to tell you to give up the service of god and worship idols, would you do it?" "cer'nly not," replied the seaman, promptly, "for she has no right to rule over my soul. my duty to the king of kings stands before my duty to the queen of england." again the guide was silent for a few minutes. then he said:-- "hockins, by god's blessing you have saved the lives of all our party this day--at least it seemed so, for, another step, and that soldier would have discovered us if your little pipe had not stopped him. you are therefore entitled to expect some gratitude, and, from what i have seen of you and your comrades, i have reason to believe you will not betray us, even if you get the chance." "right you are, friend, i will never betray an honest man; an' i may speak for my comrades as well as self, for they're true-blue to the back-bone--" "furder nor dat," interposed ebony, "troo-bloo to de marrow!" "don't you shove in your oar till you're ordered, you nigger! well, as i was a-sayin', we'll never betray honest men, but i give you fair warnin' if you're _not_ honest, we'll have nothin' to do wi' your secrets, an' if our duty to god an' man requires us to go against you, we'll do it without flinchin'." "so be it. i am satisfied," returned ravonino, calmly. "i will tell you as much as i think you are entitled to know. it may have reached your ears, perhaps, that there has been terrible persecution in this island for many years." here mark breezy took up the conversation. "no," said he, with something of a deprecatory air, "we did not know it. for my part i am ashamed to say so; but i will say in excuse that the british empire is widely extended in every quarter of the globe, and her missions are so numerous that average men can scarcely hope to keep up with the details of all of the persecutions that occur. rumours, indeed, i have heard of doings in madagascar that vie with the persecutions of the scottish covenanters; but more than this i know not, though of course there are men connected with our missionary societies-- and many people, no doubt, interested in missions--who know all about the persecutions in madagascar. is it in connection with this that you have been outlawed?" "it is. ranavalona, the blood-stained usurper, our present queen, is filled with such bitter hatred of christianity that she has for many years persecuted the native christians who have been taught by white missionaries from your land. hundreds of men and women have been murdered by her orders because they refused to forsake christ; others have been banished to regions so unhealthy that they have died, and many have been sold into slavery." the eyes of the guide gleamed for a moment, and his stern countenance flushed as he thus referred to the sorrows of his people, but by a strong effort he controlled his feelings, and his countenance resumed its habitual quietude. "my mother and my sister and i," he continued, "were sold into slavery. my mother was a native lady, high in station, and a member of the court of king radama the first, who was very favourable to missionaries. i was an infant at that time; my little sister was not born. my father was an english trader, skilled in many handicrafts, and a great favourite with the king, who fostered the christian religion and helped those who came to teach us. our teachers learned our language; taught us the love of god, and, through the power of the holy spirit, brought many of us to the saviour. but they were persevering and wise as well as good. having learned our language--in which my father helped them much--they taught us to read; translated many parts of the word of god into our tongue; sent home for presses and types, and had these printed, as well as the _pilgrim's progress_ and other books. "peace, joy, and prosperity were spreading in our land. idol-worship and cruel customs were being uprooted, and everything was going well when the king died--whether a christian or not, who can tell? for, although favourable to, he never professed, christianity. `the lord knoweth them that are his!' the rightful heir to the throne, according to our customs, was rakotobe--a good young man who had been taught by the missionaries, and was nephew to the king; but ranavalona, one of the king's wives, resolved to seize the opportunity. a bold bad woman, with a powerful will and no principle, she carried her point by reckless bloodshed. there were men at court as bad as herself who agreed to aid her. when she boldly claimed the throne, four loyal nobles asserted the claim of rakotobe. they were instantly speared in the palace. the rightful heir was not present. soldiers were sent to his residence to seize and kill him, before he should hear of what was going on. "not content with shedding blood, the cruel monsters dug the poor youth's grave before his eyes. when they were thus engaged rakotobe kneeled down to pray, and while he was in this position they speared him and cast him into his grave. soon after the father and mother of rakotobe were murdered--the last being starved to death. the brother of radama was destroyed in like manner. he lingered eight days in agony before death came to his relief. then rakotobe's grandmother and other relations were slain by ranavalona's orders, and thus the murderess waded through blood to the throne of madagascar! "think you," continued the guide, with a passing gleam of the anger which he strove to restrain, "think you that i owe allegiance to _such_ a queen?" "truly ye do not," answered the seaman, stoutly. "my only wonder is that the people suffer her to reign." scarce heeding the reply the guide continued, with suppressed excitement, "but she did not rest content. it was in the year that she usurped the throne. since then she has persecuted the christians for more than a quarter of a century, and at times blood has flowed like water in our land. bad as she is, however, she would have been worse but for her love to her son. ay, the woman whose heart is a stone to most people is soft towards the young prince rakota, in spite of the fact that this youth is favourable to the christians and has often stood between them and his mother. "about nine years after the queen's coronation my little sister was born, and was secretly baptised--the name of ruth being given to her. it is our custom to prefix ra to many names--so she is ra-ruth. look at her!" he pointed to a group not far-off, where the delicate and graceful girl was busily assisting an elderly woman in her packing arrangements. "see you the lady beside her, with the grey hair and the sad worn face? that is my mother. i have said she was high at the court of radama the first. she was young then. i was born the year that radama died. ranavalona was fond of her, though she loved not her christianity, so she continued at the palace. the queen also became very fond of my little sister when she began to grow to womanhood, but ra-ruth could not return the affection of one whose hands were stained so deeply with christian blood. i was an officer in the palace at the time, but would gladly have left, only my doing so might have roused the queen's wrath against my father and mother. "at last the missionaries were ordered to quit the capital. in a great persecution took place. the queen became furious because her people would not cease to love and serve jesus. she ordered many men and women to be speared and burned and tossed over precipices, but all without avail, because `greater is he who is for us than all who can be against us.' "my father was away on a trading expedition at this time. one day in attempting to cross a lake he was drowned." the guide's voice deepened as he went on, "he was a good loving father to me. he taught me nearly all i know, and he was no mean scholar. he also sent me to the missionary schools. after his death the queen hardened her heart against us; and as we refused to give up praying to god and singing his praise, we were cast out of the palace--my mother and sister and i, with several others, among whom were laihova and his sister ramatoa. we were sold into slavery in the public market. "our purchaser was cruel. he put us to the hardest menial work. we remained for several years with him. the health of my poor mother and sister began to give way. then he sold me to another man, and we were separated. this was too much, i suppose, for the english blood in me to endure quietly. i made my escape. i went back to my old owner, and, in the night, induced my mother and sister to fly. many persecuted christians have fled since then and are now hiding in dens and caves like hunted beasts. we soon found some of these in the depths of the forests, and agreed to band together. they made me their leader, and i brought them here, where we have lived and worshipped god in peace; but, as you have seen, we are liable to be captured at any moment." "and if captured," said mark, "would the queen really put you to death?" "i fear she would; nay, i am certain of it, because one who recently escaped from antananarivo has just brought the news that the queen has been visited with a fresh burst of anger against the christians, has thrown many into prison and sent out troops to scour the country in search of those who have fled." "but if that is so," said hockins, earnestly, "what's the use o' you riskin' your life by goin' with us to ant--ant--all-alive-o! (i'll never git that name into my head!) why not just sketch us out a rough chart o' the island on a bit o' bark, give us the bearin's o' the capital, an' let us steer a straight course for it. i'll be bound that we'll make our port easy enough." "yes, hockins speaks wisely," added mark. "it is very kind of you to take so much trouble for us, but there is no need to run such great risk on our account." "you do not consider," replied ravonino, "that it is more difficult for sailors to cross the wild forest than to find their way on the trackless sea, and you forget also that the way is long, that madagascar is larger than great britain and ireland put together. there are many tribes, too, some of which are not so hospitable as others. you could not avoid the dangers of this wilderness easily without a guide. besides, i do not mean to enter the capital. i will merely guide you to within sight of it and then leave you. fortunately you require no assistance from natives, not being encumbered with this world's goods." "das troo; ha, ha-a!" cried ebony, opening his portentous mouth and shutting his eyes, "we've got no luggidge." "well, we shall only be too glad of your company," said mark, with some feeling, "and we thank you most heartily for your disinterested kindness." "my conduct is not altogether disinterested," returned the guide. "the truth is, i had no intention at first of doing more than guiding you to the right pass in the mountains, but since i have been with you my feelings have been modified, and the news which we have just received has--has filled me with anxiety, and raised in my mind the idea that-- that i may even make use of you!" "that's right," exclaimed mark, heartily, "i'm glad if there is the smallest chance of our serving you in any way. in what way can we do so?" for some moments the guide displayed a degree of hesitancy which his friends had not before noticed in him. then he spoke, slowly-- "well, the truth is, that i have a friend in the palace who is, i have been told, in great danger, owing to the wrath of ranavalona. i thought that somehow, perhaps, you might give warning to this friend, and say that samuel ravoninohitriniony is in the neighbouring forest, and--" here the guide stopped short, and seemed to be in some perplexity. mark breezy, whose young and romantic spirit was deeply stirred by the prospect of adventure which his words had opened up, assured him with enthusiasm that whatever was possible for man to accomplish he might depend upon being at least vigorously attempted. to which assurance john hockins begged to "putt the word ditto," and the negro fervently added, "das so--me too!" "but how are we to find your friend," asked mark, "seeing that we don't know him, and have never seen him?" "my friend is not a man, but a--a woman, a young girl," said ravonino, with the slightest possible symptom of confusion, which opened the eyes of mark instantly, and still further stirred his sympathies. "ravonino," he exclaimed, suddenly grasping the guide's hand, "treat me as a friend and trust me. you love this young girl! is it not so? nay, man, don't be angry with me. i can't help sympathising. why, i know something of your--your--a--condition myself. the morning i left england, the very last person i said good-bye to was a fair young girl, with golden hair, and a rosebud mouth, and such lovely blue--" "das right, massa," burst in ebony, with a crow of admiration. "it doos my bery heart good to see a man as is proud ob his sweet'art. i's got one too, bress you! but _she_ ain't fair! no, she's black as de kitchen chimbly, wid a bootiful flat nose, a mout' like a coal-scuttle, an' _such_ eyes--oh!" "hold your tongue, ebony! now, am i not right, ravonino?" "you are right," answered the guide, gravely, yet without displeasure. "my rafaravavy is in danger, and i must save her from this murderess at all hazards. it is right, however, to tell you that if you attempt to aid me you will encounter both difficulty and danger." "don't mention that, friend. no true man would shrink from either in a good cause," said mark. "but when must we set out on this expedition?" "by day-break to-morrow. our new hiding-place is on our way, so the change will not delay us; and from what the fugitives have told us, i hope--indeed i feel sure--that the queen will do no further mischief for some weeks to come. but now, comrades," said the guide, rising, "we must rest if we would work to-morrow. follow me." he led them into one of the side caves, when the whole of the people followed, as if by preconcerted arrangement. here a much-soiled book in a leathern cover was produced. it was a portion of the bible in the malagasy language. a few verses were reverently read by the guide; a brief earnest prayer was offered by a very old man; a hymn was sung, and then the people dispersed to their several sections of the cave. finally the lights were extinguished, and the place was left in silence and darkness profound. chapter seven. describes a meek mother and crocodile-son. journey resumed and strange treatment of the king of the waters. dawn was still struggling to assert itself in the far east and the depths of the forest were still shrouded in almost midnight gloom, when the strange band of outlaws emerged from their cave, and, led by ravonino, went forth to search for a safer dwelling-place in the still more inaccessible fastnesses of the wilderness. they had not much difficulty in finding a suitable spot, for the particular region to which they had fled from persecution was exceedingly wild and broken in form, and abounded with concealed caverns having outlets in several directions, so that pursuit and discovery were alike difficult. we may not delay here, however, to tell of their wanderings. like the christians of other lands and, more ancient times, they were hunted like wild beasts, though their only crime was a desire to serve and worship god according to the dictates of their consciences. it is the old familiar story, and comment is needless to those who understand it-- "man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn." there is only one other member of the party of whom we will make mention just now, because she appears again somewhat prominently in our tale. this was a little elderly female who seemed utterly destitute of the very common human attribute of self-assertion, and in whose amiable, almost comical, countenance, one expression seemed to overbear and obliterate all others, namely that of gushing good-will to man and beast! those who did not know reni-mamba thought her an amiable imbecile. those who knew her well loved her with peculiar tenderness. her modesty and self-abnegation were not, so far as any one knew, the result of principle. she was too unassertive to lay claim to principle! we are not sure that she understood the meaning of principle. before christianity in its doctrinal form reached her she had only one source of discomfort in life, and that was, that in _everything_ she failed! failed to do as much as she wanted to do for other people; failed to express herself always as affectionately as she felt; failed to avoid giving slight occasions of offence, although she "never, _never_ meant to do it!" in short she was, strange to say, a victim to self-condemnation. when the gospel of jesus came to her, telling, as it does, that "god is love," that christ came to sweep away for ever the very sins that troubled her, and that his holy spirit would fight for and _in_ her, so as to make her "more than conqueror," she caught it to her heart as the very thing she needed. she did not indeed condemn herself less--nay, she rather condemned herself more than formerly--but the joy of being on the winning side, of knowing that all sin was pardoned for his sake, of feeling assured of progressive victory now and complete victory in the end, thoroughly scattered her old troubles to the winds. her very name was characteristic. it is a common and curious custom in madagascar for parents sometimes to drop their own names and take the name of their eldest child with the word _raini_, "father of," or _reni_, "mother of," prefixed. now this amiable little elderly woman had been married young, and it so happened that her husband was away on an expedition to the coast when the first and only son was born. one of the first things that the child did after opening its black eyes on this life was to open its uncommonly large mouth, with the intention, no doubt, of howling. but circumstances apparently induced it to change its mind, for it shut its mouth without howling. the effect of the gape on the mother was to remind her of one class of inhabitants of her native rivers--the crocodile--and cause her laughingly to style the child her "young crocodile." the malagasy word for crocodile is _mamba_, and thus the child came by his name, with the usual prefix, ra-mamba. after a time his mother became so proud of her young crocodile that she dropped her own name entirely--congenially, as it were, obliterated herself--and ever after was known as reni-mamba, "mother of the crocodile." at the time we write of, mamba, (we will drop the "ra"), was a stalwart handsome youth of over twenty, with no resemblance whatever to his namesake except a goodly-sized mouth and an amazing strength of appetite. need we say that his mother's gushing powers were expended upon him with the force of a norwegian mill-race? it is gratifying to be able to add that the crocodile was keenly responsive! the father of little mamba--andrianivo--had returned to the capital soon after his son's birth. he was a man in good position among the aristocracy of the land, and occupied a post of trust in the queen's service. at that time the first great persecution of the christians had begun. it was known that andrianivo favoured the christians. on the question being put to him, he frankly admitted that he was one of them. he was therefore despoiled of all he possessed, and banished into perpetual exile and slavery. he was sent in chains to a pestilential part of the island, with the intention that toil and disease should end his life. so secretly and promptly was he spirited away that no one could tell the precise locality to which he had been banished. his heart-broken wife and child were also sold, but were taken to a more healthy region, where the child grew and became a stout boy; his little mother, meanwhile, acting the part of a meek and faithful slave. she would probably have lived and died in this condition had not her stout son, when he grew up, resolved to become free. his mother had taught him what she knew of the christian religion. from ravonino he learned more, and heard of the escaped christians who found a refuge in forests and mountains. finally he persuaded his mother to run away with him, and thus it came about that we find them with the band of which ravonino was leader--laihova being lieutenant of the band. an occasion for the display of his affectionate nature was afforded to mamba on the morning we write of. active as a kitten, though middle-aged, reni-mamba was skipping from rock to rock in a very rugged part of their route, when, her foot slipping, she fell and sprained her ankle badly. mamba was close to her. "mother!" he exclaimed, hurrying forward and raising her carefully, "why jump about like the squirrel? are you hurt?" "my son, help me to rise." gently the youth lifted her, and set her on her feet, whereupon she sank down again with a little shriek, and looked up with an expression of mingled humour and pain. "my leg, i think, is broken!" said reni. for the sake of brevity we will drop the "mamba." "surely not, mother; it has been too tough and strong to break ever since i knew it." mamba spoke encouragingly; nevertheless, he examined the limb with anxious care. being ignorant of surgery his examination was not of much use, but, fortunately, just then mark breezy, who had lingered behind to gather some plants, arrived on the scene. he found the injury to be a bad sprain, and did the best he could for the poor woman in the circumstances. "now, we must carry her," he said to the guide, "for she won't be able to walk for many days." on this being translated, mamba gathered his mother up as if she had been a bundle of clothes, or a baby, and marched away with her. "stop, stop!" cried ravonino, "you can't carry her more than a few miles on such ground as i shall soon lead you over. we must arrange for her a _filanzana_." the guide here referred to the sort of palanquin used by travellers in a country where there were no roads. it consisted of a shallow, oblong basket, with light wooden framework, filled in with plaited strips of sheepskin, and hung between two light poles or bamboos. as several such machines were used by some of the party to carry their few household necessaries, one of them was at once emptied and reni put therein by her affectionate son. four stout young men put the ends of the poles on their shoulders, and the party once more advanced, mamba walking by the side of the _filanzana_ to be ready to assist in cases of difficulty or danger, and to relieve the bearers occasionally. that afternoon they arrived at their new abode--a large, dry cavern--the entrance to which was not only well concealed on the face of a cliff in the heart of a dense jungle, but so difficult of access that a mere handful of men might easily have maintained it against a host. here ravonino made no further delay than was necessary to see the party fairly settled. then he left them, but not before receiving many an earnest and affectionate message to friends and kindred of the fugitives still at the capital, but who had, as yet, managed to elude the vigilance and escape the malignity of queen ranavalona and her spies. some of the women even wept as they bade the guide farewell, saying that they felt sure he would at last fall a victim to the relentless fury of the queen, and that they should see his face no more. with these the guide gently remonstrated. "think you not," he said, "that god is as able to protect me in antananarivo as here in the wilderness? i go because i think that duty calls me. i expect no miracle in my behalf. i will take all possible precautions. farewell." once more our three travellers found themselves advancing rapidly in single file through the forest, with the guide in advance. before the sinking sun compelled them to encamp under the trees that night they had put many miles between them and the hiding-place of the outlawed christians. next day, as they were about to resume their journey, ravonino told them that about noon they would come to a large river, on the other side of which there was a village where they could spend the night, for the people and their chief were friendly. "are they christians?" asked mark. "no--at least the most of them are not, though there may be a few secret converts among them; for this hot persecution at the capital has scattered the christians far and wide through the land, so that the knowledge of the blessed gospel spreads. thus our god makes the wrath of man to praise him. the remainder of wrath he has promised to restrain. if he wills it otherwise, are we not prepared to die at his bidding? many of our people have died already under the bloody reign of ranavalona the usurper. how many more shall perish, who can tell?" "but how do it come about," asked hockins, "that this here chief is friendly?" "because i had occasion to render him good service at one time, and he is grateful." "good! das allers de right way," remarked ebony, with an approving nod. "w'en a man's grateful he's safe--you's sure ob 'im. is dat de ribber you refur to jes' now?" he pointed to an opening among the trees ahead, through which the sheen of water glittering in the sunlight could be seen. before the guide could reply a loud shout startled them, and next moment they were surrounded by half-naked savages, who brandished their spears threateningly. quick as lightning, according to a pre-arranged plan in case of sudden attack, mark, hockins, and the negro stood back-to-back, facing in all directions--the first with his gun advanced, the seaman pointing his cutlass at the foe, and ebony levelling a spear with which he had provided himself, little would their courage have availed them, however, if ravonino had not been there, for a flight of spears would have ended their resistance in a moment. "voalavo, your chief, is my friend," said the guide, calmly, without putting himself in an attitude of defence, or showing the slightest symptom of alarm. "is voalavo with you?" "voalavo comes," they replied, at once lowering their weapons and pointing in the direction of the river, whence proceeded sounds as of the lowing of cattle. "we have been to visit our enemies," said one of the party, who, from his tones and bearing, appeared to be a leader. "we have smitten them, and we have brought away their cattle." as he spoke another native was seen approaching. he was a large burly jovial-looking man, somewhere about forty years of age, armed with a spear and enveloped in the native _lamba_, a garment used much in the same way as the scottish plaid, which it resembled in form, though of much lighter material. the ornamentation of this garment proclaimed the wearer a person of distinction, and the evident satisfaction that beamed on his broad jovial countenance when he recognised and greeted ravonino showed that it was voalavo himself--the chief of the village they were approaching. "i'm sorry to see," said the guide, after the first few words of salutation, "that my friend still delights in war and robbery." "don't be sorry, friend, don't be sorry," returned the chief with a hearty laugh, as he gave the other a slap on the shoulder. "sorrow does no good. it only puts water in the eyes and makes them red. look at me--just returned from `war and robbery,' and as happy as a squirrel. if a man does not delight in war and robbery, what is there in the world to delight in? if _i_ am not sorry why should _you_ be? if you can't help it--then laugh at it and try to enjoy your sorrow. that's the way _i_ do. it suits me. i grow fat on it!" he certainly did grow fat--if not on laughing at sorrow, certainly on something else--and his followers, although respectfully silent, showed by their smiling faces that they sympathised with their chief's hilarious mood. "but where did you fall in with the white men?" asked voalavo, turning suddenly towards mark and hockins, who stood listening with interest and curiosity to the rapid flow of his unintelligible talk. "such pale flowers do not grow in _our_ forests!" in a few words ravonino explained the history of our adventurers as far as he knew it, and the chief, on learning that they were his friend's friends, bade them welcome, and shook hands heartily in the european fashion--a mode of expressing friendship which had probably been learned from the missionaries, who, after spending many years in madagascar, had, about the time we write of, been all banished from the island. "come now," cried the chief, "the rice will soon be ready--that won't make you sorry, ravonino, will it?--and we have yet to cross the river with the cattle in the face of the hungry crocodiles--which won't make _them_ sorry! come." turning impulsively, in the brusque careless manner which characterised him, voalavo led the way to the banks of the river--a considerable stream--where the cattle were assembled and guarded by a band of over a hundred warriors. "cattle seem to be plentiful in these parts," said mark to the guide as they walked along. "they are numerous everywhere in madagascar. in truth a large part of our exports to the mauritius and elsewhere consists of cattle.--look! the chief was right when he said the crocodiles would not be sorry to see the cattle crossing." he pointed to a ripple on the water caused by the ugly snout of one of the creatures referred to. it seemed by the activity of its movements to be already anticipating a feast. "crocodiles," continued the guide, "are numerous in many of our lakes and rivers, and dangerous too, though they are naturally timid, and can be easily frightened away. i remember a curious instance of this kind happening on the east coast, where a european trader was cleverly imposed on--deceived, or, what you call--" "humbugged," suggested hockins. "well, yes--humbugged! he was a big ignorant fellow, this trader; strong and energetic enough, but full of conceit--thought he knew almost everything, but in reality knew next to nothing, yet self-willed and obstinate enough to--to--you know the sort of man?" "yes, yes; a stoopid cockscomb," said hockins. "i know the breed well-- lots of 'em everywhere." "jus' so--a born idjit; go on, massa," said ebony, who was always charmed at the prospect of a story or anecdote. "well, this trader," continued the guide, "was on his way from antananarivo to the coast with cattle for exportation, and one day they came to a place where they had to cross a narrow part of a lake. the natives of that place advised him not to venture without trying the effect of their _ody_, or charms, on the crocodiles. these they said, and believed, would protect the cattle in crossing. but the trader scouted the idea, and, laughing at their superstitions, gave orders to drive the bullocks into the water. he quickly repented his obstinacy, for no sooner were they in than the crocodiles seized nine of them and dragged them down. `oh! bring the ody--work the ody--quick!' cried the anxious man, fearing lest all the cattle should be seized. the _ody_ was worked instantly, and to his astonishment, as well as the triumph of the natives, the rest of the cattle crossed in safety. even those that had been nearly drowned escaped and passed over." "but how was dat?" asked ebony, with a perplexed air. "if de _ody_ was nuffin', how could it do suffin'?" "simply enough," returned the guide. "the charm consisted merely in noise. the natives, in canoes and on both sides of the lake, shouted furiously and beat the water with branches of trees, so that the poor crocodiles were scared away. see--there is something of the same sort going to be performed just now." previous to this process, however, the chief voalavo went through a singular ceremony to propitiate the crocodiles. the malagasy, like the ancient egyptians, regard the crocodile with superstitious veneration. they esteem him the king of the waters, and to dispute his right to reign would, they believe, expose them to his vengeance. hence they seldom kill crocodiles, and rather avoid whatever is likely to provoke them. it is their custom, also, sometimes to make solemn speeches and vows to the crocodiles when about to cross rivers. voalavo, who was unusually reckless, free-and-easy, and regardless in ordinary affairs, was nevertheless remarkably superstitious. before giving orders to cross the river, therefore, he advanced to the water's edge and mumbled incantations or made vows in a low tone for nearly half-an-hour. then, elevating his voice, so as to be heard across the river, he continued, addressing the crocodiles:-- "now, i pray you, good mamba, to do me no injury, and particularly to spare my cattle, for you do not know what trouble i have had to get them. no doubt you know how anxious i and my people are to eat them, for you have much of the same desire; but i beseech you to exercise self-denial. you don't know how pleasant that will make you feel! remember that i have never done your royal race any injury--never waged war with you or killed you. on the contrary i have always held you in the highest veneration. if you do not remember this, but forget it, i and my whole race and all my relatives will declare war and fight against you for ever more! so be good and do what i tell you!" "now, my men," he cried, turning round, "drive in the cattle, work the _ody_, and make all the dogs bark!" in the midst of an indescribable hubbub the herds were then driven into the river, and the men--some in canoes and some on both banks--enacted the very scene which ravonino had described. in a few minutes the whole herd was got over in safety. half-an-hour later and our travellers were seated in the chief's house regaling themselves with beef-steaks and marrow-bones, chickens and rice. chapter eight. a friend appears unexpectedly, and our travellers spend a disturbed night. whatever ethereal persons may say to the contrary, there can be no doubt whatever that the consumption of food is an intellectual treat, inasmuch as it sets the body free from the cravings of appetite, and by stimulating those nervous influences which convey vigour and vitality to the brain, not only becomes the direct cause of physical gratification, but induces that state of mind which is most favourable to the development of the interesting creations of fancy and the brilliant coruscations of imagination. we might pursue this subject further did time and space permit; but our objection to "skipping" is so great, that we shrink from giving the reader even a shadow of excuse for doing so. moreover we dread the assault of the hypercritical reader, who will infallibly object that it is not "the consumption of food," but the resulting mental effect which is the "intellectual treat." as if we did not know that! "but," we would retort with scorn, "can any cause be separated from its effect without bringing about, so to speak, the condition of nonentity?" passing to the subject which gave rise to these erratic thoughts, we have to relate that the whole party, entertainers and entertained, did ample justice to the rice, beef, chicken and marrow-bones, after which hockins wafted the natives to the seventh heaven of delight and wonder by means of his flageolet. it was very late that night before they retired to rest. it was later still before they went to sleep. the native village at which our travellers had arrived was a rude, poor-looking place, inhabited by a brave and war-like tribe, who depended more for defence on their personal prowess and the difficulties presented by their forests, than upon ditches or ramparts. the village was, however, surrounded by a fence of trees growing so close together that it would have been almost impossible to carry the place by assault if resolutely defended from within. the huts were roughly constructed of bamboos plastered with clay and lined with matting,--also with the large leaves of the "traveller's tree," and thatched with rushes. the chief's hut, in which the white guests were feasted, was of course larger and somewhat better in construction than the others. its floor, composed of hard-beaten clay, was covered with matting, clean pieces of which were spread for the visitors to squat upon, for there were no chairs, stools, or tables. in the north-west corner was the hearth--a square of between two and three feet, with a few large stones for supporting the cooking utensils, but without chimney of any kind. smoke was allowed to find an exit as it best could by crevices in the roof and by a small window or hole in the north gable. a few cooking-pots, earthen jars, rice-baskets, some knives, a wooden chest, and several spears, completed the furniture. against the northern roof-post hung a small bottle-shaped basket, which contained the household _sampey_, or god, or charm. in madagascar this usually consists of a meaningless stone; sometimes a chip of wood, the leaf of a tree, or a flower, and this is what the natives pray to and profess to trust in! our travellers found, after supper was over, that they were not to sleep in the chief's house, for they were led to that of a head-man of the village, and told they were to rest with him. this man was old, and seemed to have no wife or family, for the only person at home at the time, besides himself, was an old woman, perhaps his sister, who looked after the household. he was a hospitable old man, however, and made them heartily welcome to their beds of matting in the north end of the hut. unfortunately the south end of it was usually occupied by pigs and poultry. these were expelled for the occasion, but they insisted several times on returning to their own abode, being unable, apparently, to believe that their expulsion was really intended! as there were several openings in the hut, the difficulty of excluding the animals was great, for when expelled at one hole, amid remonstrative shrieks and screams, they quickly re-entered at another with defiant grunts and cacklings. by stopping up the holes, however, the enemy was finally overcome. then the old man, having retired to his corner, and the sister having departed, mark breezy, john hockins, james ginger, and ravonino drew round the fire, heaped-on fresh logs, lay down at full length on their mats, and prepared to enjoy that sleepy chat which not unfrequently precedes, sometimes even postpones, repose. "that was a curious speech that voalavo made to the crocodile, ravonino," said mark. "do you really think he believed it did any good?" "yes, truly, he believed it. this is a land of charms and superstition. voalavo is of too honest and straightforward a nature to practise what he does not believe in." "does _you_ b'lieve in charms an' soopistition?" asked ebony, with expectant eyes. "what need to ax that, you stoopid nigger?" said hockins; "don't you know he's a christian?" "das true, 'ockins. i hoed an' forgot." "but tell me, ravonino, are de crokindiles awrful rampageous when dey're roused?" "yes, they are pretty bad," said the guide, clearing his throat, for he was fond of expatiating on the wonders and beauties of his native land! "and although they look sluggish enough when sprawling on mud-banks, half-asleep in the sun, you would be surprised to see them go after fish, which is their principal food. their favourite haunts are the deep rugged banks of a river or lake overhung with trees, where they can hide themselves and watch for prey. it is not only in water that they are dangerous. they fasten their teeth, if they get the chance, on any animal that comes to the river to drink. they sometimes get hold of bullocks when drinking, and often do so when the cattle are swimming across. they are unnaturally ferocious, too, for they will devour their own young." "oh! de brutes!" exclaimed ebony, poking the fire with a bit of stick savagely. "don't de mudders fight for de young uns?" "not they. the mothers lay their eggs in the sand and leave them to look after themselves. the others are sly, and--" "dat's de fadders, brudders, an' unkles ob de eggs, you mean?" "yes, that's what i mean. the old he-crocodiles watch where the eggs are laid, an' when it's about time for them to break an' let the young ones out, these monsters go into the water at the edge and wait. when the baby-crocodiles get out of prison they make straight for the water, where the old villains are ready to receive an' devour them. some times the young ones are stupid when they are born, they take the wrong road and escape their relations' teeth only to get to the rice-grounds and fall into the hands of the natives. many of the eggs, too, are destroyed, before they are hatched, by vultures and other birds, as well as by serpents. men also gather them by hundreds, boil them and dry them in the sun to preserve them for use or sale." "the miserable young things seem to have a poor chance of life then," said mark, sleepily. "das so, massa. i'd rader be a nigger dan a crokindile." hockins said nothing, being sound asleep. "what makes that rattling among the cooking-pots?" asked mark, looking round lazily. "rats," replied the guide. "didn't you see them running along the roof when you came in?" "no, i didn't." "look up now, then, and you'll see them on the beams." mark and ebony both looked up, and beheld a row of rats on the beam overhead--their bead-like eyes glittering as they gazed over one side of the beam, and their long tails just showing on the other. "das funny," said the negro, who was in sympathy with the whole brute creation! mark thought it very much the reverse of funny, but held his peace. "dar's a ole grey un, massa, right ober 'ockins's head--a tremenjous big 'un. don't you see 'im wid a griggy young un beside 'im?" whether the griggy young one was also larky we cannot tell, but while the negro was speaking it executed a flourish (whether intentional or otherwise who can say?) which knocked the big grey rat off the beam, and caused it to fall with a heavy flop on hockins's face. three others fell off in their anxiety to observe the result. hockins leapt up with an indignant roar, and the rats leaped among the pots and pans with a horrified squeak, while ebony and the others looked on with excruciating enjoyment. the scurrying of many little feet among the household implements told that the grey rat's friends were numerous though unseen, and the angry grunting of pigs proved that other slumbers had been broken. of course the whole party were thoroughly awakened by this incident, but they took it good-humouredly, and, after replenishing the fire, lay down again, and resolutely shut their eyes and ears. slumber was once more stealing over them, when a noise at the door of the hut awakened them. next moment they started up, for two warriors of the tribe entered with a prisoner between them. "we caught this man entering our village," said one of the warriors, fiercely, to the guide; "we would have taken him to our chief, but he says that you are his friend--yet i think he lies." "he speaks the truth," returned ravonino, calmly. "he is my friend. doubtless he has good reasons for coming here. leave him with us, we will guard him till morning." the warriors at once released their prisoner and retired, while the man stepping forward into clearer light revealed the handsome countenance of laihova. "sit down, my brother," said ravonino to the youth, in tones of unusual tenderness, "and let me know what brings you here so unexpectedly." "i come to offer my service," replied the youth, with a modest air. "you have told me that you go to antananarivo to rescue rafaravavy. your face is known to every one in the town. if you enter it, your death will be certain." "but i do not intend to enter it," said ravonino; "these my white friends will aid me." "the white men may be wise and brave, but they know not how to aid you, i am not so well-known in the town. i will venture into it, and will show them where to go and what to do." the guide shook his head and was silent for some moments. he seemed uncertain how to act. "what says laihova?" asked mark breezy at this point, for the conversation having been conducted in the native tongue they as yet understood nothing. the guide briefly explained, and then turned to the young man. "but how can you think of leaving your friends in the cave, laihova? they may require your strong arm; and my sister is--" "it was my friends who advised me to leave them," said the youth, quickly, "and ra-ruth bade me go. besides, have we not entered into the covenant of blood?" "well, you may come with us. after all, ra-ruth is right." "what does he mean by the covenant of blood?" asked mark when the guide explained what had just been said. "it means that he and i are united by one of the closest ties that bind the men of this island. no doubt you will think it a strange alliance, nevertheless it is a true and a strong bond of brotherhood. it is meant to unite two people in sacred friendship, so that ever afterwards they feel bound to help and defend each other. when two persons agree to form this bond, a meeting is arranged for the performance of the ceremony and taking the vow. some gunpowder and a ball are brought, with a little ginger, a spear, and two particular kinds of grass. a fowl is also used. its head is nearly cut off, and it is left to bleed during the ceremony. then a long vow of mutual friendship, assistance, and defence is pronounced. after this each man drinks a few drops of the other's blood. to obtain it they make a small cut in the skin of the centre of the bosom, which they call `the mouth of the heart.'" "and did you go through this ceremony with laihova?" asked mark. "i did, many years ago, when we were little more than boys. he saved my life by jumping into a deep pool in a lake and rescuing me from the crocodiles. i had fallen in off the steep bank. i could not swim, and he could. after that we made the alliance of brotherhood. laihova was not a christian at that time. since then god has made use of me to rescue him from a more awful death than that which threatened me. laihova is grateful, and, knowing that i run much risk in going near the capital, has come, as you see, to help me." "not a bad style of brotherhood that," said hockins, with a tremendous yawn. "eh, ebony? what d'ee think of you an' me goin' in for the same sort o' thing?" "p'r'aps," answered ebony, with a responsive yawn which threw that of hockins quite into the shade, "p'r'aps black blood mightn't agree wid your stummick. but i say, massa breezy, don' you tink it a'most time we was goin' to sleep?" as the night was far spent--or, rather, the morning far advanced--by that time, the whole party willingly assented. laihova was supplied with a separate mat, the embers of the wood-fire were drawn together, and they all lay down once more, to make the most of what remained of the period of repose. but circumstances were against them. true, being tired and healthy men, they dropped off at once with the facility of infants, and during a quarter of an hour or so, while the fire continued to emit an occasional flicker, all went well; but when the last vestige of flame died away, the rats again came out with bead-like eyes and cautious tread. gradually they became bolder. impunity never fails to encourage presumption. in short they soon began to hold a sort of carnival. the pots and pans became, as it were, musical, to the evident distress of the slumbering seaman--especially when the large grey rat fairly overturned a small rice-jar, which in its fall removed several props from other utensils and caused a serious clatter. still the wearied men slept through it all, until the enemy took to scampering over their bodies. then the enraged ebony, being partially awakened, made a fierce grasp at one of the foe, and caught hockins by the ear. of course the result was a howl, and a sleepy request from mark, to "stop that noise!" but even that incident failed to arouse them thoroughly, though it filled the rats with temporary horror, and caused them to flee. the last word reminds us that there were others there that night, besides rats, to disturb the sleepers' dreams--but we merely make a suggestive hint at that! soon the rats returned in greater force and more demonstrative hilarity than ever. they evidently went in for a game of hide-and-seek round and over the slumberers, causing the sleepy growls of john hockins to resemble the fitful mutterings of distant thunder. thus they went on until the grey dawn of morning appeared. then an extremely large cock, in the south-east corner of the hut, feeling that it had enjoyed a sufficiently good night's rest, flapped its ungainly wings, stretched out its neck, and gave vent to a clarion-crow which-- "brute!" exclaimed hockins, not even giving us time to finish the sentence! he said no other word, but seizing a piece of wood, sent it forth with such true and effective aim, that he cleared not only the cock, but all his wives off their perch, and sent them in cackling consternation out of the hut by the nearest hole in the wall. after that the much-tried party slumbered in peace until the sun was high. chapter nine. a jovial chief, and new experiences of various kinds. the friendly hospitality of the chief of this village was found to be likely to cause delay, for he would not hear of his visitors departing until they had been feasted and entertained with games and hunting. as they were completely in his power there was nothing for it but to submit with the best grace possible, although ravonino was naturally anxious to push on. "you see it won't do to look as if we were indifferent to his hospitality," said the guide. "he would be greatly offended, for you must know that the malagasy pride themselves on their hospitality. come, we will go and have a look at the neighbouring woods while they are preparing breakfast for us, and i will tell you a story about the late king radama." "was that the good king you told us about who did so much for the missionaries, though he wasn't a christian himself?" asked hockins, as they all passed through the enclosure of the village and entered the woods. "yes, the same," replied the guide, "though whether he was a christian or not i cannot tell. i judge no man. he made no profession of christianity, but he was kind to the missionaries--very different from ranavalona." "das de oosurper, what you call 'er?" said ebony. "just so," returned the guide. "well, as i was saying, our people are very hospitable. everywhere, almost, throughout the country, when a traveller enters a village, a present is usually brought to him of rice, poultry, or fruit, or whatever they have on hand. you'll find out that for yourselves as you go along--" "a bery proper state ob tings," remarked ebony. "and whatever house you come to," continued ravonino, "the owner will invite you politely to enter, and make you welcome. of course there are greedy and surly people here and there, but these are an exception to the rule. well, on one occasion king radama heard of some people of that sort. you must know that our chiefs have always required that they should be entertained on the best the people could provide. it is an old custom. well, radama made a law that all the provisions and other kinds of property should belong to the people, but all the houses in the country should belong to the sovereign; and he ordered the inhabitants to furnish lodgings to his servants and soldiers wherever they went. in order to make sure that his orders were obeyed the king soon after went in disguise to a village some distance off, and towards evening entered a peasant's house and asked to be taken in for the night. "the heads of the family did not refuse, but rendered their hospitality in such a way as showed that he was not welcome. next day he went to another house. there he was kindly welcomed, civilly treated, and the best they had in the house was set before him. in the morning when taking leave he made himself known, no less to the surprise than consternation of the family, and he left, assuring them that their hospitality should not be forgotten. the king kept his word, for he afterwards sent his officers to the village with a stern reproof to his first entertainer and a handsome present to the other." just as the guide finished his anecdote a resplendent butterfly of enormous size rose from the bushes, and mark, to whom it was quite a new specimen, bounded after it, but failed to effect a capture. "neber mind, massa," said the sympathetic ebony, "you'll hab better luck nex' time--p'r'aps!" "besides," added the guide, "there are plenty more where that came from, for we have got into a good region for insects." "seems to me," said hockins, "it's a good region for everything. look at that now,"--he pointed to an object in front of him. "i would say that was a spider if it warn't as big as a bird, and hadn't set up a fishin'-net for a web!" although not strictly correct, the seaman's description had a foundation in truth, for some of the spiders of madagascar are enormous, and their webs so thick that it requires a considerable effort to break them. moreover they are said to be poisonous, and the bite of some even deadly. the contemplation of those creatures, however, had to be cut short at that time, as they did not dare to risk keeping voalavo waiting breakfast for them. "we are going to stick pigs and hunt wild cattle," said the jovial chief, with his mouth full of chicken and rice, when they arrived. "we will show the white men some fun." on this being translated ebony hoped that the black man was included in the white, and mark asked if the hunting-ground was far-off. "a long way," said the chief, "we shan't reach it till night. but that's no matter, for night is our time to hunt." he said this with a twinkle in his eye, for he saw well enough that his guests were impatient to be gone. "but," continued he, on observing that they did not seem cheered by the prospect, "our road to the hunting-plain lies on your way to antananarivo, so you won't lose time." as he spoke he opened a small box containing a brown sort of dust, of which he put as much as he possibly could between the teeth of his lower jaw and the lip. "what in all the world is he doin'?" asked hockins of the guide in a low tone. "he is taking snuff." "i always s'posed," remarked ebony, "dat snuff was tooken by de nose!" "so it is, they tell me, in england; but we have a different fashion here, as you see, and quite as foolish." "you don't mean that it's tobacco he treats in that way?" exclaimed mark. "not pure tobacco, but tobacco mixed with other things--something like the cheap cigars which you english are said to smoke!" replied ravonino with something of a humorous twinkle in his eyes. "but we don't smoke. we only snuff. in making our snuff we first dry the tobacco leaves and grind them to powder. then to this we add the ashes of the leaves of a sweet-smelling herb, the mixture being twice as much tobacco as ashes; a small quantity of potash or salt is added, and then it is considered fit for use." "don't your people smoke at all?" asked hockins. "not much, and never tobacco--except those on the coast who have been corrupted by europeans. some of us used to smoke _rongona_, a kind of hemp. it is a powerful stimulant, and used to be taken by warriors before going out to battle, because it drove them nearly mad, and so fitted them for their bloody work. government has lately forbidden its use--but it is still used in secret." "they've got baccy, an' don't smoke!" murmured hockins to himself in a kind of meditative surprise, as though he had just been told that the natives possessed food and did not eat. "but _you_ don't smoke?" remarked the guide. "that's 'cause i hain't got baccy nor pipe. you give me pipe and baccy an' i'll smoke you into fits in no time." "do you feel the want of it much?" "not much. at first i did, most awful, but now i'm gettin' over it." the guide was silent. he might have remarked, "yet now, if you had the chance, you would enslave yourself _again_!" but, not being of an argumentative turn of mind, he merely shook his head and changed the subject. it was well, for hockins was one of those people who, "if convinced against their will, remain of the same opinion still." after breakfast, while the young men of the tribe armed themselves and made preparation for the expedition, ravonino took his friends through the village, the inhabitants of which were evidently as deeply interested in seeing the white men as the latter were in seeing the brown; for each were objects of curiosity to the other. during the stroll our friends saw the weaving of the _lamba_--the large plaid-like garment of hempen cloth worn extensively in the island. the looms were rude and simple, but the fabrics produced were wonderfully good in appearance and texture, some being made of a kind of coarse silk. many of them were ornamented, and rendered very heavy with immense quantities of small leaden beads fastened to the garment either in straight or curved rows, the lead having been procured from traders at the coast, and the beads having been manufactured by themselves. these natives wore but little clothing--merely a cloth round the loins, and sometimes a jacket made of coarse material. the _lamba_ is usually worn over the shoulders in the cool of the morning, but at the time we write of most of the men who used the garment, had bound it tightly round their waists. our travellers were made acquainted at this time with a game which interested them greatly--especially arousing the enthusiasm of the negro. it was a kicking game, played by some of the more active among the young men, who, having got ready for the field quickly, were waiting for their slower companions. the chief peculiarity of the game consisted in the mode of kicking, namely backwards, in the horse or donkey fashion. the guide explained that the name of the game, when literally translated, was, "striking blue with the sole of the foot!" it is a desperate game, and when played, as it frequently is, by hundreds of active and powerful young men, the results are sometimes sprained ankles, broken legs, etcetera. "oh! das de game for me!" cried the enthusiastic ebony, who could hardly be restrained from joining. "de sole ob my foot's awrful broad, an' i could strike black as well as blue. do let me try, massa!" fortunately, perhaps, for our negro, the chief came out of his hut at that moment and gave the signal for the hunters to advance, thus bringing the game and ebony's aspirations to an abrupt end. the young men at once fell to the rear, and the whole party sallied forth into the forest. it was magnificent weather, with just cloud enough to prevent the sun being overpoweringly hot, and the tract of country over which they passed was surpassingly beautiful. to mark breezy it seemed as if all the winged insects in the island had come forth to welcome him. there were butterflies of various sizes and brilliant colours flitting to and fro among the wild-flowers, besides dragon-flies, grasshoppers of exquisite beauty, spiders with coats of gold and silver, caterpillars half-a-foot long in gorgeous array of black, scarlet, and yellow, and many other creatures which we may not pause to describe here, though mark and the guide frequently paused to look at them, insomuch that they were often left a considerable way behind. one of the butterflies which mark caught at that time was very beautiful, and a slow flier. it actually measured eight inches across the extended wings. of larger animals they saw none; and it may be as well to remark here that there are no large carnivora in madagascar--no lions, tigers, leopards panthers, or creatures of that sort--nothing larger than a wild-cat and a wolf being known. neither are there elephants, giraffes, rhinoceroses, hippopotami, antelope, nor deer; the only large animals being two species of ox, and the wild-boar, goats and sheep, and crocodiles. there are also huge bats, an animal of the monkey tribe called the lemur, hedgehogs, and rabbits. the lemurs are very pretty little things, and, being gentle affectionate creatures, are sometimes tamed and kept as pets. the scenery, we have said, was beautiful. at one turn of the road in particular a landscape of such beauty appeared suddenly before them that mark was arrested as if spell-bound; it was such a gorgeous combination of luxuriant foliage--ferns and palms and bamboos, interlaced with creepers, and enlivened by streams which brawled and tumbled in picturesque cascades, over which hundreds of butterflies sported in the sunshine. from the height of land on which they stood a wide, well-watered plain was seen to extend far below them. it was hemmed in on either side by wooded hills and backed by the interior highlands. far down the hill-side their companions could be seen wending their way through the tangled shrubbery, just in rear of the native hunters, led by their energetic chief voalavo. as the men carried spears, the points of which glittered in the sun, the party had quite a martial aspect. to our young student the whole scene was enchanting. it had the effect of subduing and solemnising his feelings in a way which he had never before experienced. the earnest, religious cast of his companion's spirit also tended not a little to deepen this feeling and induce him for the first time in his life to understand that "nature's god" was in very truth present with him. "is not the hand of the master here?" said ravonino, after a long silence. "truly, my friend, it is," replied the young man, "and your remark puts me to shame. for many a time, through the microscope and the human frame and the surrounding world, might i have seen this master-hand everywhere--if my eyes had been open." the guide turned on mark an earnest, inquiring look. "friend," he said, impressively, "if this be so, you are now very specially awakened to the truth. if you have passed through and seen so much without recognising god in his creatures, you have been brought for the first time to know yourself. turn now--now--to the saviour, and you will henceforth see a glory in all things that you never saw before. turn, my friend--for `now is the accepted time.'" ravonino spoke with such an earnest look and tone that the youth could not doubt the sincerity of his belief in the saviour whom he so affectionately held up to his view. "ravonino, i believe you are right. god help me to turn!" "he _has_ helped you already," said the guide. "that prayer, _if true_, never yet came from an unrenewed heart." as he spoke a shout from those further down the hill-side stopped the conversation and obliged the friends to resume the descent. "that is the plain, i am told," said ravonino, "where they expect to find wild cattle, and where we shall have to encamp, no doubt, till night enables us to hunt." "not a very cheerful time to go sporting," said mark. "they do not count it sport," remarked his comrade, gravely. "they are short of meat, and hunt for food." a few minutes later and the party was encamped in the thick woods that bordered the plain. chapter ten. tells of a grand hunt and other things. while the party of hunters awaited the approach of night, (for the wild cattle feed chiefly at night), they kept as quiet as possible. the scouts had brought news that a large herd was feeding on a part of the plain which was not far distant, although concealed from view by the formation of the land. still thinking of the recent conversation which he had had with the guide, mark breezy retired a little from the rest of the party and flung himself on the ground under a tree to rest and meditate. he was not left long, however, in solitude, for hockins and ebony soon discovered his retreat. each of these worthies was armed with a spear. "hallo, doctor," exclaimed the former, as he came up, "are you not supplied with a weapon?" "yes, i am," replied mark, pointing to a native spear which lay at his side, "but i think i won't use it." "why not, massa?" asked ebony. "because i don't yet know how to go about this style of hunting, and if i were to attempt anything i might spoil the sport. i intend merely to look on." "right you are, sir," remarked the sailor. "p'r'aps it'll be as well for all of us to keep in the background." "pooh!" ejaculated ebony, turning up his nose--a needless action, as it was well-turned up already--"pooh! i not keep in de background! you're all wrong. w'en you knows nuffin, jest you wait till you knows suffin'--ebber so little--an' den go at 'im." "that's just what i said i should do, ebony. i will merely look on at first." "but how long does you prepose to look on, massa? ain't five or six minits enuff? dis is what i's a-gwine to do. i'll foller close on de chief--what you call 'im?--vollyvo--an' w'en i sees him stick one hox, das nuff for me. i den go at 'im on my own hook, an' stick away right an' left!" "i'll give you a wide berth, then, for it's as like as not that you'll stick some o' the hunters in the dark," said hockins, rising, for just then there was a stir in the camp as if preparation was being made to go out. a few minutes later and laihova came to them with the news that he had heard the chief say they were getting ready, as it was necessary to make a long round through the woods to get well to leeward of the cattle. this process of getting ready consisted in every man stripping and washing himself all over in order to get rid of the smell of the smoke of their huts. even the guests were obliged to conform to the custom. then they set off in profound silence, every man being armed with a couple of spears, excepting the guests, who were allowed only one spear each, it being feared that if they carried two they might chance to rattle them together and thus alarm the game, for the kind of cattle they were about to attack are exceedingly active and suspicious--always on the alert, continually snuffing and snorting at the bare idea, as it were, of an approaching enemy. unlike the tame cattle of the island, these animals have no hump, but strongly resemble the ordinary cattle of england, save that their horns are shorter and their bellowings deeper. they are, however, very savage, and when wounded or annoyed are apt to attack their enemies with terrible ferocity. to mark breezy and his companions the expedition proved to be full of excitement, for, apart from the novelty of the situation, and uncertainty as to what lay before them or was expected of them, the extreme darkness of the night, and the quick silent stealthy motion of the almost invisible hunters, filled their minds with--if we may say so--awfully pleasurable anticipations! the whole band followed their chief in single file, and as he was intimately familiar with the topography of the region, the only anxiety of each man was to tread carefully in his footsteps. as for ebony, his whole soul and spirit were in the enterprise, as well as his black body, and the varying expression of his mobile features would have charmed the heart of a physiognomist, had such a man been there with light enough to enable him to see. as there was no physiognomist, and no light, the reader must fall back on imagination. intent on carrying out his pre-arranged plans, our negro walked close behind the chief--so close indeed, that he inadvertently brought his spear down rather heavily on the left shoulder of that fiery person, for which he received a buffet on the ear, and an order to keep further back. in other circumstances the plucky spirit of ebony would have been roused to indignation--perhaps to retaliation; but a sense of justice was strong in that negro's breast. overwhelmed with shame at his clumsiness, and eager to rectify the error--yet not daring to speak, for silence had been strictly enjoined--he raised the spear over his shoulder and turned the point backwards, thereby bringing it down on the head of the man in the rear. doubly shocked at this, he raised his weapon to the perpendicular, and knocked some tropical bird violently off the lower branches of a tree. it fluttered screeching to the ground, and bounced angrily into the bushes. the whole band of hunters came to a sudden and breathless halt, but no word was uttered. in a few moments the chief resumed his silent march, and the ghostly column moved on--ebony, greatly subdued but by no means crushed, keeping his weapon at such a slope as would prevent its doing damage to birds above or men below. thus they proceeded for nearly an hour, at the end of which time they could hear the wild cattle roaring and bellowing not far-off. when the hunters had got completely to leeward, and were beginning to draw quite near to the feeding-ground, they advanced with increased caution, and some of the men began to pull the tops of the grass with their hands, as they went, in order to mimic as nearly as possible the noise made by an ox grazing. the instant this sound reached the ears of the cattle they became absolutely silent, neither bellowing nor feeding! it was evident that they were listening with the utmost attention. understanding this, the hunters stood quite still, without a whisper, but a few of those who were adepts at the art continued their imitation of cropping the grass. after listening for a time the animals appeared to arrive at the conclusion that it was a false alarm, for they re-commenced feeding, and the hunters continued their stealthy approach. soon they came to the thinly scattered shrubbery which marked the termination of the woods and the beginning of the plain. and now, profoundly dark though the night was, they could faintly perceive the forms of their game looming black against the dark sky beyond-- themselves being quite invisible, however, owing to their background of forest. nearer and nearer the men moved, still cropping the grass as they advanced, until they fairly got up to the herd, and were less liable to disturb them, for, being almost invisible, they were, no doubt, mistaken for members of the family! as the hunters now scattered, ebony had some difficulty in keeping close enough to the chief to observe his movements. voalavo himself was too intent upon his work to think of anything else, or to care who was near him. gradually he approached close enough to an animal to thrust his spear deep into its side. it sprang from the ground and made a noise as if hurt by the horn of a comrade, but this is so common an event that the rest of the cattle were in no way disturbed by it. the chief saw by the staggering of the animal that it was mortally wounded, and that there was no need to follow it up, as it could be easily tracked and found in daylight. he therefore turned to attack another animal that was close at hand. "now den," said ebony to himself mentally, "your time's come. go at 'im!" lowering his weapon to the charge, he glanced round and observed the indistinct form of an animal on his right. it was apparently a little one. "weal is as good as beef," thought ebony, as he made a silent but furious rush, scarcely able to restrain a shout of anticipated victory. the spear-point missed the animal, just grazing its back, and went deep into the ground, while the negro plunged with crushing violence on the back of john hockins, who had been trying to approach his game _a la_ red indian! to say that poor ebony was filled with horror, as well as shame and self-abhorrence, is but a feeble statement. "don't speak, you black monster!" whispered the seaman in his ear, as he seized him by the throat. the rush of apology which had sprung from ebony's heart was checked abruptly at the lips. hockins released him, picked up his spear, and resumed his creeping way. by this time several of the hunters had dealt silent death around them, but still the herd failed to take alarm! being left alone ebony's courage returned, and with it his enthusiasm. "come," he muttered, mentally, as he drew the spear from the ground, "'ockins not killed yet. das one good job. no use to cry for not'ing. you try again, ginjah. better luck nixt time." greatly encouraged by these thoughts he advanced on tip-toe--spear at the charge--eyes glancing sharply all round. suddenly a tall form seemed to rise up right in front of him. the negro's heart leaped violently. he was on the point of charging when a doubt assailed him. the creature before him, though scarce distinguishable from the surrounding gloom, was not long-bodied like an ox. he could perceive that clearly. it was tall like a man--very tall. perhaps it was mark breezy? the recent mistake made him think anything possible! "is dat you, massa?" he whispered, in anxious alarm. a furious bellow was the reply, followed by a still more furious charge. ebony had forgotten that an ox "end on" and head up is tall and not long! happily, in stepping back he tripped, and the animal went right over him. but the alarm had been given, and a sudden thundering of feet told that the entire herd had taken to flight, while the shouting and cries of the hunters, added to the confused roaring, showed that there was now no need for concealment. when the muster-roll was called it was found that nobody was missing or hurt, though several had to tell of narrow escapes, especially john hockins, whose account of ebony's exploit formed, at the feast that followed, subject of interesting converse and much comment during the brief intervals of relaxation between beef-steaks and marrow-bones. daylight revealed the fact that somewhere between thirty and forty animals had been killed outright, besides a dozen or so which, having been fatally wounded, were afterwards followed up and some of them secured. but daylight also brought a large party of men from a distant village with a pressing invitation to voalavo and his men to pay them a visit, and a possibly disinterested offer to assist him in the consumption of the cattle which he had slain; for it chanced that several young men of this village were encamped in the woods that night near the spot where the hunters attacked the cattle. knowing full well what was being done, these youths hurried home to tell what was going on. the head-man of the village was on good terms with voalavo at the time, besides being a distant relative. hence the message and the invitation. as our happy-go-lucky chief was out in what may be termed a larky state of mind, and had nothing particular to do, he accepted the invitation. the meat was slung to bamboo poles, hoisted on the shoulders of his men, and away they went over the plains to pay this visit. happily the village lay on the way to the capital, so that the guide and his party could still accompany them without losing ground. the plain over which they passed was a very wide one, seeming to extend to the very base of the distant mountains of the interior, but our travellers were mistaken in their ideas about it. the plain was itself part of the mountain region into which they had already advanced, but by so gradual an ascent that they had scarcely perceived the rise in the land--a deception which was increased somewhat by the frequent descents they had to make when passing over ridges. on the way hockins pushed up alongside of ravonino, who was walking beside mark. "ravvy," said the seaman, (for to this had he at last curtailed the guide's name), "where do these fellows fall in wi' the iron to make their spearheads and other things?" "in the earth," answered the guide. "what! d'ee mean to say that you manufacture your own iron in them parts?" "of course we do. think you that no people can work in iron except the british? we have plenty iron ore of good quality in the island. one of our mountains is so full of ore that we call it the iron mountain. it is named in our language the mountain of ambohimiangavo." "an' how d'ee work the ore o' this am-ambo-bo-bominable-avo mountain?" asked the sailor. "we smelt it, of course. we break the lumps of ore into smallish bits and spread them on charcoal, layer and layer about, in a hollow in the ground. this is covered over with a top-dressing of stone and clay. then we set it on fire and keep the blast going with wooden bellows, till the metal is melted and runs in a mass to the bottom of the hole. this we break into smaller pieces, purify them with more fire, and run them into bars convenient for use. our bellows," continued the guide, "are not like yours, with two boards and leather between. the rats would soon make short work with these. they are two cylinders formed from the trunk of a tree, with a piston in each, packed with coarse cloth, and having valves. an old musket-barrel carries the air to the furnace, and, by pumping them time about, the blow is kept going continuously." "why, how do _you_ come to know so much about valves, pistons, cylinders, and such like?" asked mark. "you forget that my father was an englishman," returned the guide, "and, besides being a trader, was a sort of jack-of-all-trades. he taught me many things about which the kinsfolk of my mother know very little. you must not suppose that because some of us are only half-civilised we can do nothing neatly or well. many of our men are skilful workers in metal, and we owe much of our power in that way to english missionaries, who brought christian mechanics to the capital. there is hardly anything in the shape of wrought iron-work that we cannot execute if we have a model or pattern. we can work also in copper and brass. but it is not only in metals that we can work fairly well--indeed _very_ well, if we are to take the word of some of your own countrymen who have seen and judged our work--we are also pretty good at pottery and cabinet-making. as you have seen, we can weave good cloth of cotton and silk, and some of our ingenious men have even tried their hands at clock-making and musical instruments." "from what you say, madagascar will soon become a great country, i should think," said mark, somewhat amused as well as interested by the evident enthusiasm of the guide. ravonino shook his head. "my country might become great," he returned, "but there are some things much against her. the system of forced service to the government instead of taxes is one. this tends to repress ingenuity, for the cleverer and more ingenious a man is the more will be demanded of him, both by the government and his own feudal superior. then the love of strong drink is too common among us; and last, as well as most serious, great multitudes of our people have no regard at all for their maker." "why, ravonino," said mark, with something of a smile, "from the way you speak of `our' people and `my' country, i fear you think more of your malagasy than your english extraction." for a few moments the guide was silent. at length he said, slowly, "england has indeed done us a service that we can never repay. she has sent us the blessed gospel of jesus christ. she is also the land of my father, and i reverence my father. he was very kind and good to me. but this is the land of my _mother_! i am a man of madagascar." it was evident from the expressive features of ebony, who had joined them, that he heartily approved of this maternal preference, but the gravity of the guide's countenance, no less than his pathetic tones, prevented his giving the usual candid vent to his ever-ready opinion. towards the afternoon the party arrived at the native village, where grand preparations for festivities had been made. it was evident also that some parts of the festive libations had been taken in advance, for the head-man had reached the solemnised point of intoxication, and some of his young men the owlish condition. in some parts of this island of madagascar, as in other parts of the world, the people reduced themselves to great poverty through strong drink. though they had abundance of rice, and much beef, which latter was salted for exportation, they sold so much of their food for arrack-- imported by traders from mauritius and bourbon--that little was left for the bare maintenance of life, and they, with their families, were often compelled to subsist on roots. they did not understand "moderate drinking"! intoxication was the rule until the arrack was done. the wise king radama the first attempted to check the consumption of ardent spirits by imposing a heavy duty on them, but his efforts were only partially successful. the tribe to which our travellers were at this time introduced had just succeeded in obtaining a quantity of the coarse and fiery spirits of the traders. their native visitors being quite ready to assist in the consumption thereof, there was every prospect of a disgusting exhibition of savagery that night. "don't you think we might escape this feast?" said mark to the guide, after the ceremony of introduction was over, "by urging the importance of our business at antananarivo?" "not easily. voalavo is one of those determined and hearty men who insist on all their friends enjoying themselves as they themselves do. to-morrow we may persuade him to let us go. besides, i do not object to stay, for i intend to preach them a sermon on ungodliness and intemperance in the middle of the feast." mark could scarcely forbear smiling at what he deemed the originality of the guide's intention, as well as the quiet decision with which he stated it. "don't you think," he said, "that this way of bearding the lion in his den may rouse the people to anger?" "i know not--i think not; but it is my business to be instant in season and out of season," replied ravonino, simply. mark said no more. he felt that he had to do with a christian of a somewhat peculiar type, and thereafter he looked forward with not a little curiosity and some anxiety to the promised sermon. he was doomed, like the reader, to disappointment in this matter, for that night had not yet run into morning when an event occurred which modified and hastened the proceedings of himself and his friends considerably. chapter eleven. an uninvited guest appears with news that demands instant action. the villagers and their guests were still in the midst of the feast, and the arrack had not yet begun to stimulate their imaginations, so that the deeds of their ancestors--which formed the chief subject of conversation--were still being recounted with some regard to modesty and truth, when voalavo said to the assemblage, with a beaming countenance, that he had a treat in store for them. "you are all fond of music," he said. "who does not know that the malagasy are good singers? the songs you have already sung have delighted my ears, and the clapping of your hands has been in the best of time; but you shall soon have music such as the idols would enjoy, i have no doubt, when in a merry mood." the chief uttered the last sentence with an air of good-natured contempt, for he was what we may style an unbeliever in all gods--not an uncommon state of mind in men of superior intelligence when they think seriously of the debasing absurdities of idolatry. "now, my friend," he said, turning to john hockins, with an air and tone of command, "let them hear the little pipe on which you--you-- tootle-ootle." hockins had much ado to keep his gravity as he drew out the flageolet, and every eye was instantly fixed on him in glaring expectancy. it need hardly be said that the effect of the sweet instrument was very powerful, and it is probable that the party of admirers might have taxed the seaman's powers of performance to the uttermost, if they had not been suddenly interrupted by the entrance of a tall wild-looking man, who was evidently in a state of tremendous excitement. he wore the usual cloth round the loins, and the _lamba_, which was thrown like a scottish chieftain's plaid over his left shoulder--but these garments bore evidence of rough usage and hard travel. the man was not a stranger, for, as he suddenly stood panting vehemently in the midst of the party, with his long arms outstretched, voalavo addressed him in tones of surprise. "razafil!" he exclaimed. "glad are we to see the bard of imarina. your coming is well-timed. we are feasting, and singing, and story-telling. words from the poet will be welcome." notwithstanding the friendly reception thus accorded to the bard of imarina, it was evident that the words were thrown away upon him, for he continued for some time to glare and pant while perspiration rolled down his face, and it became clear to every one that something was wrong with him. at last he spoke in a kind of low singing tone which harmonised with his appearance-- "vain man! observ'st thou not the dead? the morning warmth from them has fled, their mid-day joy and toil are o'er, though near, they meet fond friends no more." he paused and looked wildly yet tremblingly round, as if in search of some one, but took no notice of his friends, many of whom were present at the gathering. then he continued in the same strain-- "a gate of entrance to the tomb we see, but a departure thence there ne'er shall be. the living waves his signal high, but where's the loved one's fond reply? ah! where are those thus doomed to die? "vain man! observ'st thou not the dead? no more their homeward path they tread. the freeman lost may ransom'd be, by silver's magic power set free; but, once the deadly hand has laid them low, no voice can move them, for they cease to know. regardless of our love they lie; unknown the friends that o'er them sigh; oh! where are those thus doom'd to die?" again the poor man paused, and gasped as if some terrible agony were rending his bosom, yet no tear moistened his eyes, from which there seemed to gleam the wild light of insanity. his appearance and words had sunk like a pall upon the festive party, but no one spoke or moved. it was as if they were spell-bound. once more the poet spoke, and this time in tones of deepest pathos-- "vain man! why groan ye for the dead? to be with jesus they have fled, with shattered limbs--'mid scorching flame, they sang the praises of his name; now, joy unspeakable, they tread the shore whence ransom'd sinners shall depart no more. but ah! while mangled corpses lie, our trembling, riven hearts _will_ cry-- `why, why were those thus doom'd to die?'" the man ceased; his arms fell listlessly by his side, and his chin sank on his breast. "i fear much," whispered ravonino to mark, "that i understand but too well what he means." without waiting for a reply the guide rose. going up to razafil he laid his hand gently on his arm, and said-- "my brother!" the bard looked at him earnestly for a few seconds, then, grasped him by the wrist as with a grip of iron. "ravoninohitriniony," he said, fiercely, "my little one is dead! she is gone! they took her--a mere child--they tortured her, but she would not yield. hear what i say. you knew her well--the soft one; the tender one, who was always so pliable, so unselfish, so easily led,--she _would not_ yield! they led her to the place of execution; they tied her to a stake and kindled the fire about her beautiful limbs,--my little child, raniva! i saw the skin upon her flesh blacken and crack and blaze. but she sang! sang loud and clear! i would have rushed into the fire to her but they held me back--four strong men held me! when she was consumed they led me away to the torture--but i burst from them--escaped--i know not how--i care not! for my little one is lost!--lost!--" "nay, razafil--not lost!" said ravonino, in a quiet but firm tone, for he saw the gleam increasing in the poor father's eyes. "did you not say just now that she is singing with joy unspeakable the praises of his name?" the words were fitly spoken. the father's agonised soul was quieted, but as quietness partly returned to him, a new expression appeared on his countenance. "listen," he said, still holding the guide's wrist in his powerful grasp. "i go to my poor wife. she is safe in the cave with reni-mamba--" "not in the cave you think of," interrupted the guide, explaining the change of abode which had been recently made by the christian fugitives. "no matter," returned the bard, "i know all the caves, and can find the one she has gone to. but now i must warn you--warn all of you who are christians," he added, with emphasis, looking round upon the natives, "if there be any such among you--that queen ranavalona has got one of her bad fits again. she has ordered that no one is to sing or pray to jesus, or to read the word of god, on pain of imprisonment, death, or being sold into slavery. many have been sold already, and some have died. things would have been even worse, for the english missionary has left antananarivo, but prince rakota remains our friend. still, he cannot save every one. he could not save my raniva! now," he added, turning to the guide abruptly, as if anxious to keep his mind from dwelling on his terrible bereavement, "you must go to antananarivo with all haste if you would save rafaravavy, for she is in great danger." the bard had touched a cord in ravonino's breast which vibrated sensitively. "she has not confessed? she is not in prison?" he asked, quickly, with emotion which was too powerful to be entirely suppressed. "as to confessing," returned razafil, "there is no need for her to do that, for it is well-known that she is a christian; but the queen is fond of her and wishes to spare her. nevertheless, she is so exceeding mad against us just now, that there is no saying when her forbearance may come to an end. if you would save rafaravavy, you must get her out of the palace without delay." the guide did not reply for a few seconds. it was evident, from the knitted brows and the pallor of his countenance, that he was endeavouring to make up his mind to some course of action. suddenly the frown passed from his brow, his countenance became perfectly calm, and his eyes closed. "he is speaking with god," whispered laihova to one who sat near him. laihova may have been right. if so, the prayer was a very brief one, for the guide turned almost immediately to voalavo and explained that in the circumstances it was absolutely necessary for him and his comrades to depart at once for the capital. the chief, being a sympathetic as well as a hilarious soul, made no objection, but rather urged him to make haste. ravonino then turned to his white companions, who could, of course, only guess at the meaning of all that had been said, and explained to them the whole matter. they rose at once, and, having no preparations to make, professed to be ready to start there and then. now, while they were yet speaking, the festive party received another surprise, or alarm, which was even more exciting than the previous one. a young man suddenly burst into the village with the announcement that a body of the queen's soldiers were close at hand. they had been sent off in pursuit of razafil, with directions to scour the country, and bring in as many christian fugitives as possible, and he--the young man--being a fast runner, had been sent in advance by some friends of the bard to warn him of his danger. "i would not try to avoid them if i stood alone," said razafil, softly. "should _i_ shrink from dying for jesus, after seeing my raniva go to him in a chariot of fire? but i stand not alone. my wife claims my support, and my little boy." while he was speaking, it was seen that a few of the hunters, as well as one or two inhabitants of the village, rose quietly and left the place. these were either professing or suspected christians, who were anxious to make their escape from the danger that threatened. after bidding voalavo farewell, the guide and his friends left the village and struck into the woods. they were accompanied by the bard a short distance, until a point was reached where their routes diverged, and here, after a few words of brotherly sympathy and counsel from ravonino, the bereaved man went on his solitary way, and the others directed their course towards the capital. "poor man," said ebony, who looked over his shoulder with profound sorrow in his earnest eyes as long as the tall figure of the bard was in sight, "i's most awrful sorry for 'im. why don't dey hang randalvalona, or shot 'er?" "history teaches that it's not always so easy as one might think to get rid of objectionable queens in that way," said mark. "hm! i'd teach history suffin diff'rent if i had my way," returned the negro. "but surely the great men around her might have some sort o' power to clap a stopper on 'er?" said hockins. "they have some power, but not much," returned the guide, "for ranavalona is a passionate, self-willed, cruel woman; and when such a woman happens to be a despotic queen, nothing short of a revolution, or her death, can save the country. she usurped the throne in , we have now reached , so she has been reigning more than twenty-seven years, and a bitter reign it has been. there have been many persecutions of the christians since it began. hundreds have been slain; thousands have been sold into slavery; many more have been banished to pestilential districts, where disease has laid them low. god grant that this mad fit may not be the forerunner of another burst of cruelty." "but do you really think," said mark, "that rafaravavy is in great danger? did not the bard say that she is a favourite with the queen?" "that is some security, but not much, for ranavalona is changeable as well as cruel. but my dear one is in the hands of god. no harm can come to her unless he permits. nevertheless, our god works not by miracles but by means, therefore it is my business, having the opportunity given me, to hasten to her rescue." "and it is mine to help you," said mark, an impulse of youthful enthusiasm and sympathy swelling his heart as his mind suddenly reverted to the morning when he left england, and said his last good-bye to the fair one with the golden hair and the rosebud mouth and "such lovely blue eyes!" "but how," he continued, "shall we best aid you in this matter?" "that question i cannot answer immediately. when we draw near to the capital and hear what is going on i shall be able to form a plan. what we have to do just now is to travel fast. you are strong stout men, all of you. do you think you can walk fast and far with little rest or sleep, and without breaking down?" "i think so," answered mark, modestly. "i's cock-sure ob it," said ebony, "if we's allowed lots o' grub." "i'm not quite so sure," said hockins; "you must remember i've only got sea-legs on--but i'll try." and he did try, and so did the others; with such success, too, that before the sun set that evening they had penetrated into the very heart of the mountain range which runs through the centre of the island. there had not been much conversation on the way, for hill-climbing all day at top-speed is not compatible with small talk. besides, the obvious anxiety of ravonino rendered his companions less inclined than usual to engage in desultory remarks. nevertheless there were occasions--during momentary halts to recover breath, or when clear bubbling springs tempted them to drink--when the prolonged silence was broken. "putty stiff work dis hill-climbin', massa," said ebony, during one of these brief halts, as he wiped the perspiration from his sable brow with the back of his hand. "lucky i's used to it." "used to it?" repeated mark. "yes. di'n't i tell you i was born an' raised among de andes in sout' ameriky?" "to be sure, i forgot that, but there must be a considerable difference between the two mountain ranges." "das troo, massa, but de diff'rence don't make much diff'rence to de legs. you see, wild rugged ground much de same wheder de mountains rise a few t'ousand foot, like dese, or poke der snow-topped heads troo de clouds right away up into de blue sky, like de andes. rugged ground is rugged ground, an' hard on de legs all de same, an' dis am rugged 'nuff even for 'ockins!" the negro opened his huge mouth in an amiable laugh at his companion, who had taken advantage of the brief halt to give a hearty rub to his colossal limbs. "rugged enough it is, no doubt," said the sailor, gravely, "an' it makes my sea-legs raither stiffish. but never you fear, ebony; they're tough, an' will last as long as yours, anyhow." "you's right, 'ockins. dey'll last _longer_ dan mine by eight or ten hinches--if not more." "your jokes are small, ebony, which is more than can be said for your mouth. shut it, man, or some of us'll go tumblin' into it by accident." while these two were indulging their little pleasantries, the guide and his friend laihova had gone to the top of a neighbouring bluff to consult as to the best route to adopt in the present troubled state of the country. the view from the commanding height on which they stood was indeed marked by a rugged grandeur which might have done credit even to the giant andes themselves, and offered a variety of routes, or rather obstructions to routes, which might well perplex men who were eager to cross country swiftly. the point which they had reached, and much of the range they had crossed, was formed of basalt in various stages of decomposition; but in the country before them, for several miles in advance, huge masses of granite and fragments of quartz indicated a change in the nature of the prevailing rock. the position of these masses, as well as their size, gave a wild titanic aspect to much of the scenery. many enormous stones projected out of the ground at various angles. one of these stood out horizontally to the distance of between twenty and thirty feet, forming a cave under it, in which it was evident, from sundry suggestive appearances, that wayfarers were accustomed to lodge. the neighbourhood of this cave formed one of the most romantic and picturesque scenes they had yet seen. it was a dark narrow vale, in many places not less than five hundred feet deep, with a considerable stream at the bottom, which brawled among detached and shattered rocks, or was partly lost to view in its meanderings among the beautiful green shrubs which clothed its banks. various kinds of birds twittered among the bushes, and wherever water expanded in the form of pond or lakelet numerous waterfowl sported on the surface. "a glorious prospect!" exclaimed mark, as he joined the guide and his friend, "and a splendid place, i should think, for fugitives from persecution." he pointed, as he spoke, to the scene on his right, where masses of rock varying from thirty to fifty feet in length projected from the side of the ravine. on the top of these rested other masses in a position that seemed to threaten destruction to all who ventured beneath them. "the caves of this region," said the guide, "have served to shelter the christians many a time. it looks as if god had provided these blocks of granite for this very purpose, for the caverns which extend beneath them are dark and intricate, having many entrances, and being lighted in some places by openings between the blocks, while in other places they are profoundly dark and of unknown extent. see also, if you look at the stream below, they form a splendid bridge. at this distance they do not seem large, but some of these blocks are not less than a hundred feet long. this whole region is infested by robbers, but the recent act of the queen in sending troops out to scour the country for fugitive christians seems to have driven them away. but if they had been here we should have had little to fear, for robbers are not usually fond of attacking even small parties of men who are well able to defend themselves; besides, they do not injure the outlawed christians much. perhaps they have a sort of fellow-feeling for us!" at this point laihova spoke a few words to the guide in the native tongue. the latter nodded approval, and turning to mark, said-- "we have been consulting about our route. there are two roads--one rugged, round-about, and safe, which would take us a longer time, however, to reach the capital than the other, which is the regular beaten path, through the villages. but this latter way lays us open to the danger of meeting with soldiers, and of my being captured along with my friend laihova. there would be no danger to you and your friends, for you are strangers." "ravonino," said mark, quickly, "do what is best for rescuing rafaravavy. we have no will but yours. we will follow wherever you choose to lead." a quiet look of satisfaction played on the guide's features as he turned to his friend. "what says laihova? the englishmen are willing to do whatever we wish." "let us go by the villages. let us push on by night as well as by day," said laihova. "time flies! ranavalona is mad! rafaravavy is in danger!" it was finally arranged that, at this place, which was considerably to the south of antananarivo, they should diverge to the right, so as to avoid certain points of danger, and arrive ultimately at the eastern side of the capital. having settled this point, the three men rejoined their comrades, who were still conversing amicably beside the spring. thereafter they all descended into the valley by a steep and rugged pathway. chapter twelve. a narrow escape and threatening clouds. their progress after leaving the spot described in the last chapter was not so rapid as could have been desired by anxious men, for it was absolutely necessary to proceed with extreme caution. not only were the queen's troops out in various directions, but many of her spies had been seen prowling about, like the evil one they served, seeking whom they could devour. of this the travellers were made aware at the first villages they came to; and as ravonino had formerly been well-known at the capital, it became necessary for him not only to disguise himself, but to keep as much as possible out of sight. disguising himself was not very difficult, owing to the fact that when he lived in antananarivo he had, like his father, worn a bushy beard. this had made him a marked man, for the malagasy, as a rule, have little beard, and what little they possess is usually pulled out by the roots. since he became a fugitive the guide had shaved closely. this of itself went a long way to change his appearance; but when, in addition, he had modified the arrangement of his hair, and stained his face of a darker hue, he had made himself almost unrecognisable, even by his best friends. his chief difficulty was with his voice, which had a mellow sweetness in it that resisted modification. however, by keeping silence, or speaking low, he hoped to escape recognition until he should reach the vicinity of the capital, where he had friends who would gladly receive and conceal him, even at the risk of their lives. as to the great object that lay nearest his heart, he hoped to manage that through his friend laihova, without himself entering the capital. our travellers soon reached the inhabited part of the country, where, being surrounded by men and women going about, as well as journeying towards the antananarivo market with provisions, etcetera, they ceased to attract much attention. of course the englishmen were subjects of curiosity--sometimes of inquiry,--but as laihova reported that they were men who had been cast on the southern coast of the island, and whom he was guiding to the capital, suspicion was not aroused. laihova at this point became leader of the party, in order to enable the guide more easily to fall into the background; and he was all the more fitted for the position in that he had acquired a smattering of english from his friend ravonino, and could both understand much of what was said to him and also make himself pretty well understood by his white friends. this part of the journey was by no means without adventure, sometimes of a kind that filled them with anxiety. one evening they approached a small hamlet, or group of cottages, where they learned, among other things, that two of the queen's spies were at that moment in the neighbourhood, searching for two ladies of the court who had fled because ranavalona had threatened them with imprisonment. "are they young?" asked ravonino, forgetting his caution in his anxiety. "i know not," replied the man who had informed them of the fact. "i think some one told me they were not young--but i forget." the guide said no more. he regretted having said so much, for the man glanced at him suspiciously. affecting an air of unconcern he turned away and bade his comrades follow. "come," he said, when out of ear-shot of the man, "we must pass through this village quickly, for we know not in what house the spies may have taken up their quarters." "but, don' you tink," suggested ebony, "dat we five could wallop any oder five men in de univarse, to say not'ing ob two spies?" a grim smile was all the reply that the guide gave him, as he walked quickly along the path that led out of the hamlet. "i have a friend," he said to mark, "who lives in a solitary cottage half-a-mile further on. he is rich, and, i think, a christian man--but secretly, for fear of the queen. we will call at his house in passing." as he spoke, they approached a large house by the roadside, the owner of which, a brown old gentleman, was enjoying himself with his wife and family in front of it. "is that your friend?" asked mark. "no; he lives in the house just beyond. we shall see it on clearing this group of trees." the track which they were following led close past the large house above referred to, necessitating compliance with a custom of the country, which greatly surprised, and not a little amused, the englishmen. we have spoken of the residence as a house, because it belonged to one owner, but it would be more correct to call it a farm-steading, or a group of buildings. except among the very poorest people, a malagasy family has usually two or three houses in its enclosure--frequently more, for young married people often live beside their parents, and some houses are appropriated to slaves, while others are used as kitchens, etcetera, the whole being surrounded by a wall of clay. where a house is near the public road they have usually a little square platform, called the _fijerena_, in an angle of the wall, or at the gate, with steps leading up to it. here the family sits, when the work of the day is over, to watch--and, doubtless, to criticise--the passers-by; also to do the polite according to malagasy ideas, for it must be told that these people are very courteous. even the poorest have a natural dignity and ease of manner about them. as our travellers approached the house they were observed with much interest by the brown old gentleman and his comfortable-looking wife, and his pretty little light-brown daughter, and a very uncomfortable-looking elderly female with her head tied up, who were all squatted on the _fijerena_. when within hearing laihova stopped, and said in the politest tone and manner possible-- "will you allow me to pass, sir?" "pray proceed, sir," replied the old gentleman, with a gracious smile. this interchange of civilities was entirely formal, and stood in the place of the englishman's opening remarks on the weather, to which a malagasy would as soon think of referring, in this connection, as he would to the hatching of crocodiles' eggs. then followed the conventional inquiry, "how are you? how is it with you?" which politenesses, in a number of variations unknown to western speech, would have been continued, in ordinary circumstances, until the passers-by were beyond the range of hearing; but the appearance of the englishmen induced the brown old gentleman on this occasion to beg the travellers to stop and accept his hospitality. this they declined to do, with many expressions of regret, on the ground that their business at the capital was urgent. "it would have gratified me much," said the old gentleman, "to have entertained you. but you are all well, i hope?" "yes, we are very well," answered laihova; "and how do _you_ feel?" "i feel as well as possible. and is it well with _you_?" "it is well with us. but it does not seem to be well with the lady," returned laihova, glancing at the uncomfortable female with her head tied up. "no, it is not well with her. she has toothache on the north side of her head. farewell," said the brown old gentleman, re-squatting on the _fijerena_, as the travellers moved on; "may you live," he shouted after them, when nearly out of ear-shot, "and reach old age." great was the amusement of our travellers at all this, especially when ravonino explained about the toothache. "you must know," he said, "that almost all the houses in the central provinces of the island are built with their length running north and south, or nearly so, and the people use the points of the compass in describing the position of things. thus, if they tell a slave to look for a thing in the house, they will say, look in the north, south, east, or west corner, or side; and they apply this rule to the person also. i once heard the member of a mission from england told by his host that some rice was sticking to his moustache. the missionary wiped the wrong side. `no,' said the host, `it is on the _southern_ side of your moustache.'" "do you know," said mark breezy, "that is not so strange to me as you might suppose; for i was once told by a friend who lived in the scottish highlands, that an old woman there actually said to her that she had toothache on the east side of her head!" further comment on this point was arrested by their coming suddenly in sight of the house where the guide's friend dwelt. "you had better stay here at the edge of this wood, while i go forward alone," said the guide; "because although the man is kind, and has always professed to be my friend, i am not quite sure of him. it is well to be cautious. if i wave my hand to you, come up to the house, all will be well. if things don't seem favourable i will return to you--but keep close; don't show yourselves needlessly. you see, my friend is an officer of the palace. if friendly he can be very useful to us, if unfriendly he can be dangerous." "but why run risk by going near him at all?" asked mark. "we _must_ run risk when life and death are in the balance," replied the guide, shortly. concealed by the bushes, the travellers watched their companion as he went up to the house. before he reached it a man opened the door and stepped out. suddenly this man seemed to burst into a furious passion. he grasped ravonino by the throat, almost threw him on his back, and, seizing a stick, began to belabour him violently, while two other men appeared at the door of the house, and, from their inordinate laughter, seemed fully to enjoy the scene. "hi!" exclaimed ebony in shrill falsetto, as he jumped up in blazing wrath, intending to rush to the rescue, but hockins grasped his woolly head and pulled him back. "obey orders, you black grampus! d'ee think he's a babby as can't take care of himself? didn't he tell us to keep close?" great as had been the surprise of the watchers at this sudden and unprovoked assault, it was as nothing compared with their astonishment when they saw their guide fairly turn tail and run towards them, closely followed by the furious man, who continued to thrash him all the time. as ravonino drew near, the angry man seemed to have exhausted himself, for he fell behind, and finally stopped. the guide ran on at full speed until he reached the wood, but did not even then slacken his speed. as he ran past his friends, however, he exclaimed in a sharp, stern voice-- "follow me!" laihova obeyed with the unquestioning readiness of a faithful hound. the others followed suit with the open eyes of perplexity and amazement! reaching a sequestered dell in a few minutes, ravonino suddenly stopped and turned round with a calm air of satisfaction. "well, dis am de most awrful supprise i'se had since my mudder give me my fust wollopin'." the expression on the negro's face rendered the remark needless. "it was well done," said the guide, seating himself on the trunk of a fallen tree. "a'most too well done!" returned hockins, with a touch of sarcasm. "do you know," continued the guide gravely, "i've had a narrow escape? the two men you saw laughing at the door are the very men we have been trying to avoid,--the queen's spies,--whom i have long known, and who would certainly have discovered me in spite of my shaved and stained face if we had come to talk to each other in the same room. luckily my friend is smart as well as true. he knew my voice at once. to have talked with me, or warned me, or let me enter his house, would have been fatal. his only resource lay in thrashing me off his premises--as you have seen. how he will explain matters to the spies i know not, but i can trust him for that." "das most awrful clebber!" exclaimed ebony, his every feature broadening with delight at the success of the ruse. "but what are we to do now?" asked mark. "wait till he comes here. he told me to wait." "what! told you?" "ay--you don't suppose he let his tongue lie idle while he was using his stick. of course i was myself taken aback at first when he seized me by the throat, but two or three muttered words in the midst of his anger opened my eyes, and i ran at once. all the way as he ran after and belaboured me he was giving me important information in furious tones! the spies are only staying with him for a short rest. when they are gone he will come and find us here." "he's a born actor," said hockins. "true--and he acted some of his blows heavier than i could have wished, in his anxiety to impress his information on me!" said the guide. "what is his name?" asked mark. "fisatra. he is named after a great chief who lived in this district not long ago.--but here he comes to speak for himself." at that moment a tall, fine-looking man, of very dark complexion, and clad in the ample folds of a beautiful lamba, approached them. his whole countenance was wrinkled with the lines of fun, and his brilliant teeth glistened as he smilingly held out his hand to the englishmen, and asked them to accept his hospitality. as they passed into the house they saw two slave-girls pounding rice in a large wooden mortar, with two enormous wooden pestles, while the savoury steam that arose from some invisible kitchen served to put a finer edge on their already sharpened appetites. when the mats were spread, and the feast was being enjoyed, ravonino asked the host how he had got rid of the spies, and how he managed to explain his conduct without raising their suspicions. "nothing easier," said fisatra, while his broad shoulders heaved with an inward chuckle. "you know that i used to be feared in the palace in days gone bye because of my violent nature, and the way in which i used to knock about the furniture and make the household slaves--sometimes the household troops--scurry when i was in a rage. yet i'm sure you know very well, (he looked sheepishly innocent here), that i never was an angry man--at least not a cruel one. but that's all changed. i am one of _your_ set now, though no one suspects it. since i met mr ellis--" "is mr ellis here just now?" interrupted ravonino, anxiously. "not now," answered fisatra; "he departed some weeks ago, but i believe has not yet left the coast. and now there is no check on the queen's violence. well, as i was about to say, i took to the old habit in pretence, as you have seen, and when i returned from thrashing you i went storming through the house, kicking about the pots and pans, and foaming at the mouth in such a way that i not only stopped the spies laughing, but put them in fear of their lives." again the fun-wrinkles corrugated the visage of fisatra, and his mighty shoulders heaved with internal explosions. "after i had calmed down a bit," he continued, "the spies ventured to ask timidly if that was a great enemy that i had beaten. this set me into, a worse passion than ever. `enemy?' i shouted `no--no--not an enemy--he--he's a--a--' but i got no further than that, for i didn't know what to say, and i wouldn't lie, so i took to foaming and stamping again! at last i said, `don't speak to me about him--excuse me, my friends; i can't stand it--and--and the rice is nearly ready. you must be hungry!' i said this with a look and tone as if another fit was coming on. they excused themselves. `no,' they said, `we are not hungry, and we have yet far to go this day before the sun descends. the queen's orders will not wait.' and off they went, glad to get out of my way. truly, if it is sinful to get in a rage, it is useful sometimes to act it! so now, my friends, eat--eat--while you have the chance, and fear not the return of the spies!" "tell me," said the guide, anxiously, "are you sure that rafaravavy is still safe?" "she is still safe--but no one knows how long that may be, for she is fearless, and utters the forbidden prayers even in the presence of the queen. if it had not been for the love that ranavalona bears her, she would have been tossed from the `rock of hurling' long ago." "faithful, even unto death," said the guide, with a look and tone in which pathos and triumph were strangely blended. "she has not yet been tried to that extent, but if she is, god will enable her to stand firm," said fisatra, whose grave child-like sincerity, when talking of religious subjects, was not less impulsively honest and natural than were the outbursts of his fun when another humour stirred his feelings. the "rock" to which he alluded was a frightful precipice at one side of the city from which criminals were usually hurled--a spot which is hallowed by the blood of many christian martyrs who perished there during the long reign of that tyrant queen ranavalona. "has then the queen forbidden the christians to pray?" asked ravonino. "have you not heard?--but of course you have not, being an outlaw and having only just returned. recently a very bad fit has come over the queen. you know that for some years past there have been a few french people living in antananarivo, who by their knowledge and skill in mechanics and mercantile matters have made themselves useful to our government. these men lately tried to dethrone the queen, on pretence of delivering the country from her cruelties, and establishing a `french protectorate.' they gained over some of our chief men, collected in one of their houses a large quantity of weapons and ammunition, and had even fixed the night when the palace was to be invaded, the queen seized, and the protectorate set up. fortunately the plot came to my knowledge. i say fortunately, because a bad queen is better than a french protectorate, for the first will die, but the latter might never end! well, i at once informed the queen, who had the conspirators seized and banished from the country for ever. among them were a roman catholic lady and two jesuits. the anger of the queen was of course very great, and she has had, as i have said, a very bad fit against the christians; for, as these unprincipled conspirators have the name though none of the reality of christians, she naturally mixed us all up together--and i know not what the end will be, but i have much fear, because the queen is very angry." "has she done nothing yet?" asked ravonino. "nothing--except threaten and fume. but when the black cloud is overhead, and muttering thunder is heard, one knows too well what to expect--especially when one has been exposed to the storm in former years." "the sun is shining behind the black cloud and it will break through when the master wills," said laihova, joining in the conversation for the first time that evening, and looking earnestly at his friend ravonino, as if the words were meant for his ear alone--as indeed they were. "thanks, thanks, my friend, for the comforting words," said ravonino, "and i take shame to myself that my faith is so weak." "you will spend the night with me?" said their host to the guide. "no, fisatra, i dare not delay. even now i may be too late. i will journey all night." ravonino rose quickly and prepared to go. the others followed his example, and soon the party was proceeding rapidly along the high-road towards the capital, under a cloudless sky and a galaxy of twinkling stars. chapter thirteen. arrival at the capital--queen ranavalona's troubles and perplexities. towards sunrise on the following morning our travellers, on passing out of a rather dense piece of plantation which crowned the brow of a low hill, came in sight of the capital--antananarivo. it was still in the far distance, with many a rice-field and garden between, but distinctly visible, for it occupies the summit and slopes of a considerable hill. "here, then, through the goodness of god, we have reached the end of our journey," said ravonino, halting, "and i must remain behind, while you, my friends, push on to the city. fain would i go with you, but that would ruin all, for i am a known and marked man. laihova will now guide you, and tell you what to do. i have just one word for you at parting. be peaceful, do not take offence. interfere not with our customs. use not the fist, and commit your way to god." the guide looked so pointedly at ebony while he spoke that that sable comrade could not help noticing it. "what you looks so hard at me for, hey?" demanded the negro. "because you are somewhat hot-tempered and apt to get people into scrapes," answered ravonino, with a slight twinkle in his eye. "_me_ 'ot-tempered!" exclaimed ebony, in surprise, with an appealing glance at his comrades. "i'd knock you down, ravonino, for sayin' dat, only it would be like as if what you say's true! ob all de niggers on 'art' i's de meekest, quietest--jest like a babby; why, my moder always said so, an' surely _she_ ought to know!" "no doubt she knew, whatever she said," observed hockins, with a laugh. "we will be careful," said mark. "but are your people, then, so particular, that we should require this caution?" "well, they are not very different from other people," replied the guide, "and if things had been as usual i should have had no fear; but when queen ranavalona has one of her bad fits, there's no saying what she may do. her banishing the europeans is a bad sign. i would that i had not brought you here, but there is no help for it now. we have been seen by many people. the news will spread to the town, and if you did not soon appear you would be suspected as spies, and the country would be scoured in search of you. no, there is nothing for it now but a bold face and an honest purpose." "humph!" ejaculated ebony, "you's a fine feller to talk 'bout bold faces an' honest purpusses, w'en you're goin' to steal a young ooman out ob de pallis, fro' under de bery nose ob do queen!" "to help rafaravavy to escape of her own free will is not theft," replied the guide, gravely. "when we are persecuted in one city scripture advises us to flee to another." "das true, ravonino. no offence meant. gib us your flipper, old boy!" grasping the guide's hand, the negro shook it warmly, and at the same time vowed that he would be most "awrful careful," and that he would bring rafaravavy to his feet, dead or alive, though he should have to fight the whole town single-handed to effect his object. it was a thursday evening when they stood thus conversing. they had kept count of the days because of the guide's quiet but firm determination to rest in camp on the sabbath--a plan which, although they had no very strong principle on the subject, commended itself to the rest of the party because of the pleasant effect of the day's rest on both soul and body, for it afforded opportunity to have long and earnest talks with ravonino about the former days of persecution, as well as quiet strolls, alone or in couples, and--it must be admitted-- occasional slumbers in the cool shade of bush or tree! "i have purposely contrived," said the guide, "that, by walking all night, you shall arrive early to-morrow--friday--because it is market-day in the town, and you will be less noticed, as well as more amused by what you see, than if you were to arrive on any other day. go, and god go with you! i shall be found in the cave that laihova knows of. farewell." he turned, with a wave of his hand, as he spoke, and re-entered the bush, while the others, taking the most direct route to antananarivo, descended into the open country. soon they were involved in the crowds which were passing along all the roads leading to the city. the people were either taking their goods for sale or going to make purchases-- mayhap to meet friends or kindred. all night laihova led his friends at a smart pace. next day, as the first object of our travellers was to get into the town without attracting attention, they kept in the thick of the throng all the way up to the market-place. of course the people nearest them took special note of the two englishmen, and some were inquisitive, but, by telling the simple facts regarding their arrival in madagascar, laihova removed any unpleasant suspicions that might have arisen regarding them. the crowds increased as they advanced, and the numbers were still further augmented, as well as diversified, by the hova army, which they came upon exercising on a plain just below the city. ascending the sides of the steep hill on which antananarivo stands, they obtained a magnificent view of the animated scene, which conveyed the impression rather of a grand holiday than an ordinary market-day. this, no doubt, was largely owing to the operations of the soldiers, whose manoeuvres hockins watched with a critical eye, for his father, having been a soldier, had made him intimately acquainted with the drill as practised in the british army at that period. "why, i do believe the fellers are speakin' english!" he said, in some surprise. "not wonder much, for ingleesh drill'd um," said laihova, who, since they parted from ravonino, had begun to use his broken english to the best of his power. it must be said that that power was not great, even at the best. he explained to his friends that radama the first--that wise king who had been so fond of the english, and had done so much to aid the missionaries, abolish the slave-trade, and civilise his people--had, among other changes, remodelled his army after the british pattern, and had obtained the services of non-commissioned officers from the mauritius to drill his troops. these organised them into divisions, brigades, regiments, companies, etcetera, and as they found no native words suitable to express military evolutions, they introduced their own english words of command, which have remained in use ever since. by means of this army of hova troops, and the flint-lock weapon known familiarly as `brown bess,' radama succeeded in subduing all the native chiefs of madagascar, with only a few exceptions, and thus became the recognised king of an island considerably larger than great britain. being an enlightened and well-disposed monarch, he made good use of the power thus acquired. it was only after his death in that a retrograde movement set in, as we have said, under the wicked queen ranavalona. it is one of the misfortunes of our fallen condition that rectitude in any course, however good, cannot long be maintained--at least in reasonable perfection. the army which had enabled radama to pursue on the whole a beneficent course, ere long began to make its creator know its power. feeling his dependence on it, radama adopted the unwise policy of increasing the military influence, and weakening that of the civil officials, the heads of the people, and other functionaries whose position was derived from ancient political arrangements. public offices of honour and importance were given to military officers rather than to civilians, and this unfair exaltation of the military over the civilian class led, as it always does, to tyranny and injustice. the system of service was in itself a gross form of injustice to the people, for, although the theory of service does not at first sight appear unjust, the practice of it was very much so. more than the half--perhaps nearly two-thirds--of the whole effective male population of the central province were enrolled either as officers or privates. these received no pay, except an occasional gift of a lamba, and about a week's rice during the year! the soldiers were indeed freed from money taxes in consideration of their service, but this was small compensation for the hardships that it entailed. although the drills at ordinary times did not occur more frequently than for a day or two every fortnight, much time was taken up in passing to and from the exercises, especially in the case of those who lived at a distance, and thus found it almost impossible to cultivate their own rice-fields. frequently, also, the officers would not allow the men to return home without a money bribe. in short, the private soldier was little better than a slave--in some cases worse--while the officers of the highest rank possessed unreasonable power. military rank was founded on a system which led to some absurdities. it was reckoned by numbers, commencing with _one honour_ for the private, _two honours_ for the corporal, three for the sergeant, and so on up to thirteen for a field-marshal of the higher rank--a few having sixteen honours! those thus highly _honoured_ were not numerous; but the number of officers of lower grade was much greater in proportion to privates, than in the british army. indeed from a third to a fourth of the army was composed of officers, so that "ta phairshon," with his excess of pipers over fighting men, would not have appeared very outrageous in the eyes of the malagasy troops! these officers had an eye to profitable business when not on service. it is stated by the missionaries that when engaged in building their churches and schools they sometimes found they had a field-marshal for a foreman, a colonel for mason or carpenter, a major for bricklayer, and so on! above the thirteenth rank the numbers were very few, and of the sixteenth there were not above half-a-dozen. good, stout, courageous fellows were the men whom john hockins and his comrades saw that day manoeuvring below them on the plain of imahamasina; men who, although by no means comparable to european troops in precision of movement, understood their work nevertheless, and would have proved themselves formidable opponents to deal with in war. laihova further informed them that the first man who organised the force was a sergeant brady, who began his work in the year , carried it on for many years, and rose to the rank of major-general in the service of king radama. after general brady's death, the native officers continued the work on the same lines. but in costume and appearance these soldiers were what is familiarly known as "a queer lot!" the uniform of the rank and file consisted of a tunic and trousers of white material, with a narrow-brimmed straw hat painted white, cross-belts and cartouche-box--by no means an unbecoming dress. but it was worn only at drills and reviews and state ceremonies. at other times, when on duty, soldiers went about almost naked, and the contrast of their dirty-white cross-belts with their brown breasts was curious, to say the least, while their straw hats and slovenly gait suggested anything but soldierly bearing. the variety of dress indulged in, however, by the crowd of officers was outrageous as well as mirth-provoking. "why it seems to me," said mark, "that every officer may put on what seemeth right in his own eyes! i see old regimental red coats and pantaloons; hats and shakos that must have been worn a hundred years ago. i even see what looks at this distance like naval uniforms and cocked hats, and no two of them seem to be dressed alike." mark looked inquiringly at laihova as he spoke, but that dignified native merely smiled, and made a slight inclination of his head, as if to say, "just so, that's the way we do it here!" "why do they let civilians mix wi' them?" asked hockins, pointing to a particular part of the field. "to keep 'em cibil, i s'pose," suggested ebony. "where?" asked laihova, with a puzzled look. "there--don't you see 'em? fellers all in black--with bell-toppers-- beavers--chimney-pots on--i don't know what you call 'em here." "them be officers too," said laihova. and this was true, for the higher grades of officers usually appeared at drill in a full suit of black cloth, with the common black silk hat doing duty as a helmet, and contrasting oddly enough with the rough home-made scabbardless sword, which was carried naked in the hand. on some occasions, as our travellers afterwards learned, these regiments turned out in every variety of costume, with coats, hats, vests, and trousers, of all colours and patterns--as if they had been got up by an extensive dealer in old clothes. this passion for variety even extended to the officers of the palace, with whom, however, the material was of the best as well as gayest--for they were all gorgeously clad in blue and scarlet cloth; and velvet, with gold and silver lace, embroidery, feathers, etcetera,--but what nation, even in the so-called civilised world, is free from barbarism in this respect? one pair of eyes beheld this review on that friday with something of fiendish satisfaction. these belonged to no less a personage than queen ranavalona herself. high up on the balcony of her palace she sat under the shade of a scarlet umbrella. that very day she had had an angry interview with her prime minister, rainiharo, in reference to her only child prince rakota, who was a young man of mild gentle disposition, as kind to the christians as his mother was cruel and unjust. indeed it was believed that he himself was among the christians, for he dared openly to defend them before his mother, and often protected them secretly from her violence. rainiharo, the prime minister, on the contrary, was their bitter foe, and in his interview with the queen above mentioned, had ventured to accuse the prince of aiding in the protection of those who practised the proscribed religion. the one redeeming point in the character of ranavalona was her love for this son. when asked to punish the prince for his conduct, she would say in tones of tenderness that seldom issued from her lips, "is he not my son--my only son?" alas! she had little pity for the son or daughter of any one else, whether "only" or otherwise! the dress of ranavalona, as she sat in her balcony under her scarlet umbrella observing the troops, was gorgeous, but the greater part of it was hidden under the voluminous folds of the scarlet lamba of finest english broad-cloth, with which her person was enveloped. here and there, however, portions of a rich silk dress of european manufacture could be seen, as well as various gold and silver rings, bracelets, chains, charms, and ornaments of ivory. scarlet being the royal colour, only the sovereign is entitled to wear the scarlet lamba or use the scarlet umbrella. the queen's lamba was ornamented heavily with gold-lace. her head was not much decorated, but her hair was anointed with that hideous horror of the sick-room, castor-oil! the odour of which, however, was disguised, or rather mixed, with a leaf which smelt like nutmeg. "i will submit to this no longer," said the queen, with a stern frown. "have i not said it? is the will of ranavalona to be thwarted?" this remark was, in the conversation above mentioned, made to the prime minister, a stern old man, dressed in a scarlet coat with huge gold epaulettes, and profusely braided with gold-lace, blue pantaloons, also gold-laced, and a magnificent brazen-sheathed sword. he stood at the queen's elbow with a perplexed expression of countenance, being the bearer of news about the effect of which he felt uncertain. but rainiharo was a bold man as well as a bad one. "your will, madam, is sure to be thwarted," he replied, "as long as you suffer prince rakota to act as he pleases. your son is a christian. he prays with the christians and encourages them in this new doctrine. we are lost if your majesty does not stop the prince in his strange self-willed ways." "but," repeated the queen, "he is my son--my only, my beloved son! let him do what he pleases. if he wishes to be a christian, let him--he is my beloved son!" "but, madam," urged rainiharo, who hated rakota, "if your son resists your will what becomes of the government? i know that rakota--" "cease to speak to me of rakota," interrupted the queen, impatiently. "he is my son, i tell you. i love him. let him alone--he will not disobey me." "prince ramonja, it is said, has also joined the christians," continued the minister, with a slightly cynical expression. "is this true?" demanded ranavalona, fiercely, while she seemed to grind her teeth in wrath. "i have reason to believe it." "let inquiry be made, and if it proves to be true," said the queen, sternly, "let ramonja be deprived of all his military honours, reduce him to the ranks, and fine him heavily." "but he is your own nephew, madam," returned the minister, simply, yet with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "it matters not. it is of our mercy that he does not die, as many others have died before him. let my orders be obeyed if ramonja is guilty. let him be a warning to others in the palace, for it has come to my ears that some of our courtiers are hankering after this religion that seems to have turned my people mad. indeed it is said that some related to yourself are among them." she looked pointedly at rainiharo as she spoke, and the prime minister winced, for he had lately discovered that his own son was among the number of the "praying people." recovering himself in a moment, however, he merely said that he was not aware of any of his kindred having fallen away from the customs of their ancestors. "i hope not," returned the queen, darkly, "for degradation and slavery, if not death, await them if they do. go. let a proclamation be made to-day in the market-place. let my people and the army know that i have resolved to extinguish christianity. tell those officers who have become christians, or have taken any part in religious teaching, that they shall lose their honours. they have transgressed my laws and deserve death, but through the supplications of the people of imerina their lives are spared. but their honours, i say, shall be thrown into the river and carried over the cataract of ifarahantsana, for they are trying to change the customs of our ancestors. of some, half the honours shall be thrown into the river. of others, one-third of their honours shall be thrown in, and some shall lose all their honours; the precise number shall be in proportion to their offences. moreover," continued the angry woman, as she worked herself into a state of great wrath, "there must be no more praying; no more psalm-singing among my people; no more--" she stopped suddenly and listened, while the veins in her neck and forehead seemed to swell almost to bursting, for at that moment the clear notes of a sweet female voice came from some distant part of the palace and broke softly on her ear. there was no mistaking the nature of the music, for the queen had long been familiar with the music of the psalms, in which the "praying people" were wont to sing praise to the name of jesus. "who sings?" she asked, with a fierce look at rainiharo. the prime minister again gave vent to a very slight touch of sarcasm as he replied, "i think it is rafaravavy." this time the queen noted the tone, and sharply ordered her minister to be gone and do her bidding. now, rafaravavy was a lady of the palace, as we have said, and a great favourite with her royal mistress, but the queen's affection for the girl had been severely tested since the latter showed symptoms of a leaning towards the christian religion. it is probable that ranavalona would have cared little as to what her favourite thought about christianity if she had only kept quiet, but rafaravavy was one of those earnest straightforward souls who are prone to act in accordance with their conscientious beliefs without regard to consequences. she did not indeed go about endeavouring to proselytise the household, for she was naturally timid, soft-hearted, and meek, but she made no attempt to conceal her opinions and her sympathy with the persecuted christians. she had even gone the length of interceding for them once or twice when she found her mistress in an amiable mood, but the explosion of wrath which resulted warned her not to presume again in that way. for some time ranavalona sat brooding over the mystery of that religion, which, notwithstanding all her power and cruelty, she had, after so many years of tyranny, been unable to suppress. then she sent for rafaravavy. the girl, who in a few minutes entered her presence, was possessed of no ordinary beauty. her delicate features and oval face were much lighter in complexion than those of the other ladies of the court, resembling rather those of a spanish brunette than a hova beauty. her eyes were large, soft, and lustrous; her nose was straight and thin, and her mouth small, with an expression of habitual gravity which made her smile, when it came, all the more attractive. little wonder that poor ravonino had lost his heart to her, for, besides beauty of countenance, the girl was endowed with a sylph-like form, a sprightly disposition, and the sweet grace of humility. "you have disobeyed me, rafaravavy," said the queen as she entered. "forgive me!" answered the girl in a low musical voice. "i did not think my song of praise would reach your ear. it was meant only for my god and saviour." "is your god then deaf, that you must sing so loud?" asked the queen, sharply. "he is not deaf, blessed be his name!" exclaimed the maiden, with enthusiasm, "neither is his arm shortened that it cannot save. oh! if you--" "stop!" cried the angry queen, "you have presumed to talk to me thus too often. you deserve to die for singing psalms. have you given up praying since i forbade it?" there was that in the voice of ranavalona which alarmed the girl, and caused her to tremble as she replied, with some hesitation, that she still prayed. instead of giving way to another burst of passion the queen adopted a bantering tone, and said-- "come, rafaravavy, tell me what you pray for." "i pray for the pardon of my sins." "is that all? surely you pray for something more than that. something nice that you want very much." "yes," continued the girl, becoming somewhat pale, yet praying silently for courage even while she spoke. "yes, i pray for the pardon of--of _your_ sins, and--" "go on! why do you stop?" "and that your eyes may be opened that you may `see the king in his beauty,' and be drawn to him by the cords of love, so that you may cease to persecute the christians and learn to join with them in praising the name of jesus who redeemed us from destruction, and is ready and willing to save us from our sins." while rafaravavy was speaking ranavalona put her hand over her eyes. when the former ceased, she did not remove the hand, but said, in a tone which the poor girl could not quite understand-- "go! enough. leave me!" as rafaravavy left the balcony, a prepossessing youth of delicate form and gentle mien emerged upon it by another door. "mother," he said, earnestly, "do, _do_ give me leave to recall your proclamation. i have just heard of it from rainiharo. believe me, many of the nobles are not so good--i mean so guilty!--as you think. and the poor christians--why should they not pray and sing? it is all that you have left to them, for they no longer dare to worship together in the churches." "no, rakota, i will not recall it. your constant pleading worries me. it is enough to say that the people shall be examined--by the tangena ordeal if necessary--and they shall be punished according to their deserts. is that all that you come here for, my son?" it was evident from her tone that ranavalona relented a little, though her words were firmly spoken. "i came also to tell you," said the prince, "that the europeans whom your spies brought news of some time ago have arrived. they are even now in the market-place. by my orders the guards have let them pass without question." "always interfering, rakota!" said the queen, angrily. "why were they not seized and guarded till i should find time to speak with them?" "because, mother, that would scarcely be a civil way of receiving strangers." "strangers! spies you should have said. have you forgotten the ungrateful frenchmen who so lately tried to overturn my government?" "but these are not frenchmen. they are english," said the prince, "and i will answer for them being good and true men." "no doubt english are better than french--at least i hate them less; but they are all pale-faced liars and christians, and none of them shall remain in my land. but how can _you_ tell, boy, that they are good and true men? have you had speech with them?" "not i," returned the prince. "i have only seen them as they entered the town, but that was enough. one glance satisfied me of their being true men. when the sun rises it needs not much wisdom to know that there is heat and light. an honest face is like the sun. you cannot fail to know it." "go, foolish boy. you are too confident. i will not tolerate europeans. these men shall be arrested. hence, and send hither an officer." finding that the queen was not in a temper to be trifled with, rakota wisely made no reply, but bowed and went his way. in delivering the message to the officer, however, he whispered such words to him as secured a little delay in the execution of the royal commands. chapter fourteen. the prime minister lays deep plans--so does his nephew--the great market-place--a friend in deadly peril, and our three heroes come to grief. returning to his own quarters in the palace, and chafing to find that some one had informed the queen about his son's defection, rainiharo encountered a favourite nephew, named soa, who had also, unknown to his uncle, given up idolatry, and, like prince ramonja, been led to embrace the gospel through the instrumentality of prince rakota. "well met, soa," said the premier, "i have a proclamation to make which will bring sorrow to the hearts of some of these hated christians." he paused a moment, as if in thought, and soa, a fine-looking young man of pleasant countenance and agile frame, seemed about to reply, but checked himself. "now, my boy," resumed the old man, "i have a piece of work for you to do. you have heard of the arrival of the englishmen?" "yes, uncle." "well, i have reason to believe that they have been led hither by that son of a thunderbolt, ravoninohitriniony, and that he is even now in hiding in the neighbourhood. at the gate you will find one of our spies, who will conduct you to the cavern in which he lies concealed. of course i could have him seized at once if i chose, but i have a deeper game to play, and want to make ravoninohitriniony an unwitting instrument. it seems that more of the people in the palace are christians than i knew of. it has come to my ears that some of these intend going stealthily to the cave to meet ravoninohitriniony, for they are fond of this son of a wild-boar, and probably hope to have news by him of their banished kindred." lest it should be supposed that we are putting flippant expressions into the mouth of rainiharo, we may explain that the malagasy define an ungrateful man as the "son of a thunderbolt," and sometimes as the "offspring of a wild-boar," because--so they say--the young of the wild-boar, when running by the side of its dam, continually gets in advance and turns round to bite her. the ingratitude of which our friend ravonino was supposed to be guilty, consisted in his having forsaken the idols of the country and renounced the favour of the queen by becoming a christian, preferring, like moses, to suffer affliction with the banished people of god. "no doubt," continued the premier, "they will be praying and psalm-singing. now, knowing your detestation of these christians, i have resolved to send you to their meeting _as a christian_. you are wise enough to know how to act when among them. take note of the men and women you see there, whether high or low; make out a list of them, and bring it to me. death and chains shall be their portion, for i am fully more determined than the queen is to stamp out this religion. go, and do as i bid ye as quickly as you can." for a few seconds the youth stood perplexed and irresolute. then he said, suddenly, "yes, uncle, i will go, according to your bidding, _as a christian_!" and hastily left the room. meanwhile mark breezy and his companions, led by laihova, followed the throng of country-folk to the market-place. they had passed the guard at the gate by means of that potent talisman, silver, before which few gates are permanently closed. if the party had sought to pass with any pomp or circumstance, or if they had carried merchandise along with them, they could not have passed so easily; but laihova had only to bestow some bits of silver on the guard and the way was at once clear. they might have passed without it, however, had they known of rakota's interference in their favour. we speak of "bits" of silver advisedly, for the malagasy take the simplest and most literal way of making small change; they clip their dollars into little pieces of various sizes, and therewith transact the business that in other lands is settled with pence. as these clippings are not very accurate, however, they weigh the pieces, and for this purpose every one carries about with him a tiny pair of scales in his waist-cloth. these dollars were all foreign coins, for the malagasy at that time had, (and we believe still have), no native coinage. all silver that comes to their net is considered good fish. the standard coin is the spanish dollar, but one will find every variety of european and american money in circulation among them. the method of clipping and weighing the small change might be thought somewhat cumbrous in european markets, for the dollar is cut up into eight _sikajy_, (each about sixpence); the sikajy into nine _eranambatra_, and each eranambatra into ten _vary-venty_, each of which last is about the weight of a plump grain of rice. four weights, marked with a government stamp, are used in weighing the money. these weights are equal, respectively, to about a half-a-dollar, a quarter-dollar, sixpence, and fourpence. other amounts are obtained by varying these in the opposite scales and adding grains of rice. but all this forms no difficulty in madagascar. like most easterns the natives there dearly love to haggle and prolong a bargain--as our travellers found to their amusement that day; for not only were the principals vociferous in their disputatious, but the bystanders entered into the spirit of the thing and volunteered their opinions! profound was the interest of the white men in this market, and deep was the absorption of ebony, for that amiable negro had a faculty of totally forgetting himself and absolutely projecting himself into the shoes of other people, thus identifying himself with their interests--a faculty which cost him many anxious, indignant, pathetic, and hilarious moments. "das a most 'straor'nary sight," he said, looking round with glistening eyes and expanded lips at the crowds of people who pressed along the road leading to zoma, the great market-place. "by the way they stare at you, ebony," said hockins, "they evidently think _you_ something 'straor'nary!" "not at all, 'ockins. you's wrong, as usual," retorted the negro. "dey quite used to black mans, but i tink dis de fust time dat some ob dem hab saw a man wid a face like putty." there was indeed some ground for the negro's remark, for the people crowded round our heroes and gazed at them with undisguised interest. the market-place was well suited to give some idea of the various types of countenance among the different tribes from distant parts of the island, also for making acquaintance with the products of the country and the manufactures of the people. it was a sort of museum and centre of commerce combined, with all the varied incidents, comical, semi-tragic, and otherwise, for which markets in general are more or less famed. here were to be seen great heaps of earthenware of red clay--pans for cooking rice, water-jars, bottles, and dishes of all sorts, as well as english crockery, especially that with the old willow-pattern design! there were great varieties of straw hats, beautifully made of rice and other straw. elsewhere might be seen iron-work of native manufacture, some of it displaying considerable taste and skilful workmanship. there were also beds, with well-turned posts, made of a wood like mahogany, and the mattresses for these were stuffed with down from a certain flower, which made soft and comfortable couches. lambas of many kinds were also to be seen, from those of coarse rofia cloth to those of finer and more ornamental material--though the finest silk lambas and the more expensive european goods were not often exposed for sale there, but were to be had at the houses of the traders and manufacturers. one part of the market was devoted to wood for the rafters and framework of houses, another to the sale of vegetables and fruits--among which were sweet potatoes, manioc, beans, maize, peaches, bananas, mangoes, pine-apples, oranges, lemons, pumpkins, melons, grapes, cape gooseberries, mulberries, guavas, pomegranates, and many others, besides bread-fruit and rice--which last is the staple food of the people. "oh! i say, 'ockins," whispered ebony at this point, "my mout's a-waterin'." "well, mine's somethin' in the same way," returned the seaman, "but we haven't a rap to buy with." whether laihova overheard the whisper or not we cannot tell, but he stopped at that moment, purchased a large quantity of the tempting fruit, and handed it, without a word, to his friends, who received it with becoming gratitude. "you's a trump, hovey," said the negro, as he put a whole peach into his capacious mouth. "ditto," said hockins, performing the same feat with a banana. "do i hear music?" said mark breezy. "an' don't i smell rum?" remarked hockins. "an' doesn't i hear cackling?" inquired ebony. by way of answer to all three, laihova turned round the corner of a stall, when the party reached a spot which was devoted to the sale of native rum, or "toaka"--a coarse fiery spirit made from sugar-cane, and sold at a very low price. here a native musician was discovered twanging a native guitar, either as an accompaniment to the cackling of hundreds of fowls and the gobbling of innumerable turkeys, or as a desperate effort to beat these creatures at their own game of noise. on inquiry mark found that fowls were sold at from fourpence to eightpence a-piece; geese and turkeys from a shilling to eighteenpence. also that beef and vegetables were proportionally cheap. "it seems to me," remarked hockins, as they moved slowly along, enjoying the fruit and the scene, "that this here island is a sort of paradise." before many minutes were over the seaman had reason to change his views considerably on this point, for their guide led them to a spot where the slave-market was held. the sights they witnessed there were such as filled the hearts of the white men with deep sorrow and indignation, while it drew tears from the eyes of the sympathetic negro. for the men and women and children were no mere criminals who might in some sense be deserving of their fate--though such there were also amongst them,--but many of the men were guilty of political offences only, and not a few, both of men and women, were martyrs, who, because they had left the faith of their fathers and become followers of jesus christ, were sold into temporary--in some cases perpetual--slavery, with their wives and families. at sight of these unfortunates laihova was evidently much affected, though he made strenuous efforts to conceal his feelings. "you are grieved, i see," said mark, in a tone of profound sympathy which touched his guide's heart. "grieved! yes--verily," said laihova, whose broken english was much interlarded with scriptural words and expressions, "for does i not see my friends there? but com. they must not know me. it is danger. com." he led them quickly away from the slave-market, and as they walked along he explained that some of the poor slaves whom they had just seen thus publicly exposed for sale were among the nobles of the land--not only in regard to human rank, but in right of that patent which man can neither give nor take away,--an upright regenerated soul. he further explained, as best he could, that slaves in his land were derived from three or four different sources--namely, captives taken in war; persons condemned to slavery for crime, for political offences, and for religious opinions; people who had been sold for debt, and the descendants of all of these. they had gradually quitted the market while thus engaged in conversation, and were ascending one of the steeper parts of the city, when their attention was attracted by a shouting not far-off. presently they observed a number of men and boys running in and out amongst the houses and the low walls which surrounded them, as if in chase of something. soon a man was seen to dart along the road they were following. as he drew near they observed that he stumbled as he ran, yet forced the pace and panted violently--like one running for his life. a few moments more and the crowd was close at his heels, pelting him with stones and yelling like wild beasts. the fugitive turned up a narrow lane between high walls, close to where our party stood. he was closely followed by the crowd. at this point some of the pursuers stopped as if from exhaustion. "what has he done?" said laihova to one of these. "he has been stealing in the market by cutting a lamba." it is the practice to carry money tied up in a corner of the lamba, and thieves, by cutting off this corner, sometimes manage to secure the money. a great cry arose just then, and some of the pursuers came running back. "he is down," said one. "he is dead!" said another. now our friend hockins was one of those men who have at all times an irresistible tendency to take the part of the weak against the strong, without much regard to the cause of battle! he instantly, without a word, ran off at full speed to the rescue. ebony ran after him from sympathy. mark breezy followed from the natural desire to keep by his comrades, and back them up, while laihova followed--no doubt from good-fellowship! they soon came upon the poor man, who was completely naked, bruised and bleeding, and surrounded by a crowd of youths, who were deliberately stoning him as if he were a dangerous animal or a mad dog. with a roar like a lion hockins went at them. he tripped up some half-dozen big boys, flattened still more the flat noses of some of the men, stretching them flat on their backs, and then, standing astride the fallen man, flourished his enormous fists, and invited the entire population of antananarivo to "come on!" the population refused the invitation and retired. ebony was not slow to follow suit, with this variation, that instead of roaring he yelled, and instead of bestriding the fallen man, he gave sudden chase hither and thither, with powerful effect, rendering the rout complete. meanwhile mark attended to the injured man, who seemed to be dead. turning him over on his back he discovered, to his inexpressible amazement, that he _was_ no other than their old friend mamba--the crocodile--whom they had left with his mother and the others in the cave many days before. "how is it possible," he exclaimed, while dressing his wounds, "that he can have arrived at the same time with us, for we started before him and have travelled fast?" laihova explained that mamba was one of the fleetest men in the island, and that he could easily have passed them though starting later than they did. but why he had come, and why he had passed instead of overtaking and travelling with them, he could not even guess. as most of poor mamba's wounds were bruises, and the few cuts were not deep, his four friends raised him and carried him quickly into a neighbouring house, the door of which was immediately shut. laihova explained that it was the house of a personal friend of his own, who was also a christian, but secretly, for fear of the queen. here mamba was sufficiently brought round by mark's ministrations to be able to sit up and answer questions, but at first he seemed disinclined to speak, and then gave evasive replies. "why this secrecy, my friend?" asked laihova, in the native language. "if i could answer," said mamba, "there would be no secrecy." "true, and i would not pry into your secrets," returned laihova, "but we would help you if we can." "you cannot help me," returned mamba, in a somewhat sad tone. "i have business in hand which requires haste. i have tried to keep clear of you to prevent delay, and to avoid mixing myself up in your dangers, for you are in danger here. i would not have come near the town at all, but i required to make a purchase in the market, and hoped to do so without being recognised. unfortunately an old enemy saw me. he fell on the device of cutting off the corner of his own lamba, and then, raising the cry of thief, pretended that i had done it. i ran. you know my speed of foot. i trusted to that instead of trusting to my god. they surrounded me. you know the end." while mamba was yet speaking a loud knocking was heard at the door, and a stern voice demanded admittance. on hearing it mamba leaped from the couch on which he had been laid as if nothing were the matter with him. he glanced hastily round. the owner of the house seemed to divine his wishes, for he pointed to a small window which opened into what appeared to be a court at the back of the dwelling. the window was merely a square opening, which appeared scarcely wide enough to let a man's shoulders pass, but mamba did not hesitate. to the amazement of mark and his friends he took what is familiarly known as a "header" through the window--_a la_ harlequin--and disappeared. to the still greater amazement of mark and his friends, laihova instantly followed suit, without a word of explanation! indeed there was no time for that. a moment after the owner of the dwelling opened the door with a very submissive look and admitted a band of armed men. the leader of the band, from his dress and bearing, was evidently a man of position. he carried in his hand a large spear highly ornamented with silver. this weapon--as mark afterwards learned--was an official spear with the queen's name engraven on it. the bearer of it, as well as the spear itself, was named "tsitialainga," which means "hater of lies." turning to the owner of the house, the hater of lies sternly asked some questions of him; but as he spoke in the native tongue he was unintelligible to our travellers, whose spirits were not cheered by the scowling looks of the armed men. whatever the question was, the answer appeared to be unsatisfactory, for the hater of lies immediately turned to his men, and pointing with the silver spear to the three strangers, gave them a command. instantly they sprang upon mark and his companions, and seized them. both hockins and ebony were for a moment paralysed by surprise; then, their impulsive souls being stirred by a sudden gush of indignation, they gathered themselves up for a mighty burst which would certainly have resulted in disaster of some sort if mark had not recovered presence of mind in time. "submit!--submit!" he shouted in a loud voice of authority. then, in a sharp but lower tone, "it is our only chance! _don't_ resist!" with feelings of something like despair the two men obeyed. a few minutes more and they were bound, led through the streets surrounded by a guard, which alone protected them from death at the hands of the angry populace. then they were cast into a dark prison, loaded with chains, and left to their reflections. chapter fifteen. the spies and the secret meeting--the prime minister foiled by the prince. the sun was setting, the air was balmy, the face of nature was beautiful, the insects and birds were buzzing, humming, and chirping happily, as if there were no such things as care and sorrow in the wide world, when soa, the prime minister's nephew, with his guide, approached the forest in which was the cavern where the persecuted christians had arranged to hold their secret meeting. "i am to go as a christian!" thought soa, as he walked on swiftly and in silence, "as a christian hypocrite and spy!" the young man's countenance relaxed into something like a smile as he thought thus; then it became solemnised as he offered the silent prayer, "lord, enable me to do the work honestly and well." the way was long, but the youth's limbs were strong and agile, so that night had not long overspread the land when he reached the end of his journey. the night was unusually dark--well adapted for deeds of secrecy and crime. if it had been lighter the two spies would have seen a number of men and women, and even children, hurrying along stealthily in the same direction with themselves. they observed only two or three of these, however, who chanced to fall in their way. they loomed up suddenly like spectres out of the surrounding darkness and as quickly melted into it again. soa paid no attention to these apparitions, neither did he utter a word to his companion during the journey. most of the way he kept a pace or two in advance of his guide, but when they reached the more intricate and broken grounds of the forest, he fell behind and suffered the other to lead. at last the path wound so much among broken rocks and over steep knolls that their progress became very slow--all the more so that the overshadowing trees rendered the darkness profound. sometimes they had to clamber up steep places on hands and knees. suddenly they were arrested by what seemed to them a faint cry or wail. listening intently, they perceived that the sounds were musical. "the christians are singing," said the spy in a tone which, low though it was, betrayed a touch of contempt. "they hold their meeting in a cave on the other side of this mound." "remain here, then, till i return to you," said soa. "they know you to be a spy. they will not suppose that _i_ have come in such a capacity." the man gave vent to a slight laugh at the supposed joke and sat down, while the courtier advanced alone. on the other side of the mound the sounds which had reached the listeners' ears as a wail, now swelled upon the young man as a well-known hymn, in which he had many times joined. a feeling of joy, almost amounting to triumph, filled his heart as he stood there listening. while he listened he observed several indistinct forms glide past him and enter the cave. he crept after them. a strange sight met his eyes. the cave was so large and high that the single torch which burned in it merely lighted up a portion of the wall against which it was fixed. even in the immediate neighbourhood of the torch things were more or less indistinct, while all else was shrouded in darkness profound. here more than a hundred dusky figures were assembled--those furthest from the light melting, as it were, into the darkness, and leaving the imagination to people illimitable space with similar beings. soa slipped in, and sat down on a jutting rock near the entrance just as the hymn was closing. few people observed him. immediately after, an old man who sat nearest the light rose to pray. beside him stood our friend ravonino. on the other side sat a young man with a remarkably intelligent countenance. with intense earnestness and great simplicity the old man prayed, in the name of jesus, that the holy spirit might bless their meeting and deliver them from the power of their enemies. he also prayed with much emphasis that their enemies might be turned into christian friends--at which petition a loud "amen" arose from the worshippers. "now totosy will speak," said the old man, after a brief pause, turning to the young man with the intelligent countenance. "let the word be brought forth." "stop!" cried a man, rising in the midst of the crowd, "it may not be safe to bring out the word just now." "why not, my son?" asked the old man. "are not all here to-night our friends?" "i think not," returned the man. "as i came along i saw one of the queen's spies, who is well-known to me. he was walking with the nephew of our deadly foe rainiharo, and soa himself sits _there_!" he turned as he spoke, and pointed straight at soa, who rose at once and advanced to the front. "my friends," he said, in a gentle voice, "the last speaker is right. i am here, and i was led here by one of the queen's spies. but the spy is not here. he awaits me outside. let two of your young men guard the entrance of the cave so that our conference may not be overheard." two stalwart youths rose at once and hurried to the outside of this primitive meeting-house, where they mounted guard. "i have been sent," continued soa, "by my uncle, with orders to enter your meeting `_as a christian_,' take note of your names, and report them to him!" there was a tendency on the part of some to shrink into the background on hearing this. "now," continued soa, "i have come to obey only part of his orders. i have come, _as a christian_, to warn you of the dangers that surround you. the queen is exceeding mad against you. it will be your wisest course to refrain from meeting together just now, and rest content with worshipping in your own homes. but let not this distress you, my friends. the god whom we love is able to turn darkness into light and to make crooked things straight. neither let it break up our meeting just now. we are safe at present. let us get out the word and enjoy the worship of our saviour while we may." there were murmurs of assent and satisfaction at the close of this brief address, and one of the young men, with grave--almost mysterious--looks, took up a small spade and went towards that part of the wall where ravonino sat. the latter rose to let the young men get at a particular spot, which was marked on the wall with a small--almost imperceptible-- red square. here, after turning up a few spadefuls of earth, he struck upon a stone. lifting it, he disclosed a hole about a foot square. the old man who presided at the meeting thrust his hands into this hole and gently lifted out a thick volume, which he laid reverently upon a flat rock that formed a sort of natural table in front of him. this was "the word" to which reference had been made--an old, much-soiled and worn malagasy bible, which had been buried there, so that, whatever might become of its christian owners, it might escape being found and condemned to the flames, as so many of its fellows had been. it was a curious bible this, in more respects than one. in madagascar the bible was printed first in sections by the natives, under the superintendence of the missionaries; these sections got scattered, for teaching purposes, and various editions of different sizes were printed at different times. the original owner--if we may not call him fabricator--of the bible, now referred to as having been dug up in the cave, must, in his desire to possess the word of god complete, have been at considerable pains to secure every fragment and leaf that came in his way, and then had them all bound together. a clasp of leather and a european hook-and-eye fastened the edges. the different portions, of course, did not fit exactly, and some of the verses necessarily overlapped. nevertheless, a nearly complete and substantial bible was the result of his labours. _see note _. taking up the treasured book with great care, the young man before mentioned by the name of totosy opened it and selected a text. "fear not, little flock, it is your father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." from this he preached an admirable sermon, full of hope and consolation to men and women situated as his companions were at that time, and holding up jesus not only as the deliverer of the world from sin but from fear of physical death. strengthening of this sort, truly, was much-needed, for during the previous persecutions of and queen ranavalona had given terrible evidence of her fierce and relentless nature, so that christians were now well aware of what they had to expect if another cruel fit came upon her. the sermon finished, another hymn was sung, followed by a prayer, after which, before finally breaking up and dispersing, the worshippers collected in various groups; and exclamations of surprise, joy, and fervent thanksgiving were heard, now and again, when friends who had parted as enemies on account of religious differences unexpectedly met as brothers in the lord. it has ever been a result of persecution that the persecuted cause has made progress--naturally so, for trial and suffering winnow out the chaff and leave the good seed to flourish with increased vigour. few false professors attended those midnight meetings, which were so full of joy and danger, and none of these ever got the length of ranavalona's fiery stakes or the fearful "rock of hurling." for fully a quarter of a century, (from to ), did the persecution of the native christians last in madagascar. during most of that dark period queen ranavalona the first endeavoured, by cruel prohibitive laws, torture, and death, to stamp out the love of christ from her dominions. through most of that period she tried to prevent her people from meeting for worship, praying to god in the name of christ, or reading the scriptures or any other christian book, and those who disobeyed her did so at the risk of losing property, liberty, or life. nevertheless, in spite of this, worship was kept up in secret--in secluded villages, in recesses of the forest, in caves, even in rice-holes; the word was read, faithful natives preached, and baptism and the lord's supper were continuously observed. small portions of scripture--even leaves--were carefully treasured and passed from hand to hand until "these calamities" were past; and now, at the present time, the church in madagascar is ten times stronger than ever it was before! of course active persecution was not maintained throughout the whole period of twenty-five years. the volcano smouldered at times. for brief periods it almost seemed as if about to become extinct, but at intervals it burst forth with renewed violence. at the time of which we write, ( ), there were mutterings of the volcano, and portents in the air which filled the persecuted ones, and those who loved them, with grave anxiety. in a dark corner of the cavern soa and ravonino stood apart, after the service was over, and conversed in subdued tones. "do you think the lives of my comrades are in danger?" asked the latter, anxiously. "it is difficult to answer that," replied soa. "the queen fears to offend the english by putting european subjects to death; but she is in a savage mood just now, and your friends have intermeddled with matters that they would have been wise to let alone. banishment is more likely to be their fate, but that will be almost equal to death." "how so?" asked ravonino. "because ranavalona will probably treat them as she treated the europeans who lately tried to overthrow her government. she sent them down to the coast with orders to their conductors to keep them so long on the way--especially on the unhealthy fever-stricken parts of the route--that sickness might have time to kill them." "and was the plan successful?" "not quite, for the white people turned out to be tough. they managed to get away from our island alive, but in a state of health, i believe, that will very likely prevent them from ever wishing to return!" "i have much love for these men," said ravonino, after a pause. "you have influence with rainiharo. can you not befriend them?" "i shall have little influence now with my uncle," returned soa, sadly, "for i am a christian, and he will soon discover that. but i will help them if i can--for your sake." "and rafaravavy," said ravonino, in a lower voice, "do you think she can be induced to fly? if she were brought to me here, i should have little difficulty in taking her to a place of safety." "the difficulties in your way are greater than you suppose," said soa. "the queen's spies and soldiers are out all over the land. even now, were it not that i am your friend and brother in jesus, you would have been caught here as in a trap. besides, there is the greater difficulty that rafaravavy is filled with fidelity to her royal mistress, and pities her so much that she will not leave her. you know that she openly confesses christ in the palace, yet so great is the queen's regard for her that she will not listen to my uncle, who would gladly see her tossed over the `rock of hurling.' i had converse with her the other day, and i see that she even hopes to be the instrument of the queen's conversion to christianity." "god bless her!" exclaimed ravonino, fervently. "amen!" returned soa, "and i doubt not that the blessing will come, though it may not come in the way we hope. it is no easy matter to say `thy will be done' when we are suffering." "prince rakota has done much for the christians in time past," urged poor ravonino, who felt that all hope of delivering the girl he loved, at the present time, from the dangers that surrounded her was gradually slipping away from him; "surely he can and will protect her." "i fear he has not the power," answered soa. "he has interfered in behalf of the christians so often of late that the queen is losing patience; and you know that if she once gives way to her cruel rage, the life of rakota himself is not safe. but, you may trust me, my friend; i will do my best to move him to aid you--and your friends also." most of the people had left the cave while these two were conversing, with the understanding that they were not to return, as it was no longer a safe retreat. another and more distant rendezvous was, however, appointed; the treasured bible was not restored to its old place of concealment, but carried off by totosy, the young preacher, to be reburied in a new place of refuge. "do you follow them?" asked soa of ravonino, when the others had all gone and they were about to part. "no. my companions will come here expecting to find me if they escape. i must remain, whatever befalls. if the soldiers come, i will see them before they arrive, and give them the slip. if they give chase they will find it troublesome to catch me!" when soa returned to the city he went straight to the apartments of the prime minister, whom he found impatiently awaiting him. "you have been long," said the latter. "the distance is great," replied the nephew. "well?" exclaimed the uncle, inquiringly. "you ordered me to act as a christian," returned the young man, with a slight smile, "and you know it takes time to do that." "true--true. and you have brought me the list?" "no, uncle." "what mean you, boy?" "i mean that i have obeyed your first command; i have been to the christian meeting _as a christian_." a puzzled, inquiring look overspread the premier's countenance. "well, what then?" "well, then, of course i acted the part of a christian to the best of my power. i told them why i had been sent, warned them of the evil intended them, and advised them to escape for their lives; but, as no immediate danger was to be feared, i joined them in their worship." "and you have brought no list?" "none." rainiharo's visage, while his nephew spoke, was a sight to behold; for the conflicting emotions aroused produced a complexity of expression that is quite indescribable. "young man!" he said, sternly, "you have disobeyed my orders. why have you done this? your head must fall, for you show that you are a christian." with great simplicity and gentleness soa said: "yes, my uncle, i _am_ a christian; and if you please you may put me to death, for i _do_ pray to jesus." utterly confounded by this straightforward and fearless reply, rainiharo stood for some moments gazing in silent wonder at the youth who thus calmly stood prepared to abide the consequences of his confession. at first it almost seemed as if, in his anger, he would with his own hand, then and there, inflict the punishment he threatened; but once again, as in the case of ranavalona, love proved more powerful than anger. "no, no, boy," he said, turning away with a wave of his hand, as if to dismiss the subject finally, "you shall not die. it is a delusion. you deceive yourself. go. leave me!" soa obeyed, and went straight to the apartment of prince rakota to relate to that fast friend and comrade his recent adventures, and consult with him about the dark cloud that threatened to burst in persecution over the unhappy land. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . a bible of the kind here described may now be seen in the museum of the british and foreign bible society, queen victoria street, london, just as it was dug up out of the earth, where it had been buried by christian natives who probably perished in the persecutions. the new testament bears the date of , the old testament that of . chapter sixteen. in prison--effects of a first sight of torture. a new day had begun, cattle were lowing on the distant plain, and birds were chirping their matutinal songs in bush and tree when mark breezy, john hockins, and james ginger--_alias_ ebony--awoke from their uneasy rest on the prison floor and sat up with their backs against the wall. their chains rattled sharply as they did so. "well now," said hockins, gasping forth his morning yawn in spite of circumstances, "i've many a time read and heard it of other folk, but i never did think i should live to hear my own chains rattle." "right you are, 'ockins; ob course i's got de same sentiments zactly," said the negro, lifting up his strong arm and ruefully surveying the heavy iron links of native manufacture that descended from his wrist. mark only sighed. it was the first time he had ever been restrained, even by bolt or bar, much less by manacles, and the effect on his young mind was at first overwhelming. bright though the sun was outside, very little of its light found a passage through the chinks of their all but windowless prison-house, so that they could scarcely see the size or character of the place. but this mattered little. they were too much crushed by their misfortune to care. for some time they sat without speaking, each feeling quite incapable of uttering a word of cheer to his fellows. the silence was suddenly but softly broken by the sound of song. it seemed to come from a very dark corner of the prison, in which nothing could be seen. to the startled prisoners it sounded like heavenly music--and indeed such it was, for in that corner sat two christian captives who were spending the first minutes of the new day in singing praise to god. the three comrades listened with rapt attention, for although the words were unintelligible, with the exception of the name of jesus, the air was quite familiar, being one of those in which english-speaking christians are wont to sing praise all the world over. when the hymn ceased one of the voices was raised in a reverent and continuous tone, which was obviously the voice of prayer. just as the petition was concluded the sun found a loop-hole in the prison, and poured a flood of light into it which partly illumined the dark corner, and revealed two men seated on the ground with their backs against the wall. they were fine-looking men, nearly naked, and joined together by means of a ponderous piece of iron above two feet long, with a heavy ring at either end which encircled their necks. the rings were so thick that their ends must have been forced together with sledge-hammer and anvil after being put round the men's necks, and then overlapped and riveted. thus it became impossible to free them from their fetters except by the slow and laborious process of cutting them through with a file. several old and healed-up sores on the necks and collar-bones of both men indicated that they and their harsh couplings had been acquainted for a long time, and one or two inflamed spots told all too clearly that they had not yet become quite reconciled. _see note _. "now isn't that awful," said john hockins in a low voice with a sort of choke in it, "to think that these poor fellows--wi' that horrible thing that can't be much under thirty pounds weight on their necks, an' that must ha' bin there for months if not for years--are singin' an' prayin' to the almighty, an' here am i, john hockins, with little or nothin' to complain of as yet, haven't given so much as a thought to--" the choke got the better of our sailor at this point, and he became suddenly silent. "das so!" burst in ebony, with extreme energy. "i's wid you dere! i tell you what it is, 'ockins, dem brown niggers is true kistians, an' we white folks is nuffin but hipperkrits." "i hope we're not quite so bad as _that_, ebony," said mark, with a sad smile. "nevertheless, hockins is right--we are far behind these poor fellows in submission and gratitude to our maker." while he spoke the heavy door of the prison opened, and a jailor entered with two large basins of boiled rice. the largest he put on the ground before our three travellers, the other in front of the coupled men, and then retired without a word. "well, thank god for this, anyhow," said mark, taking up one of the three spoons which lay on the rice and going to work with a will. "just so," responded the seaman. "i'm thankful too, and quite ready for grub." "curious ting, 'ockins," remarked ebony, "dat your happytite an' mine seems to be allers in de same state--sharp!" the seaman's appetite was indeed so sharp that he did not vouchsafe a reply. the prisoners in the dark corner seemed much in the same condition, but their anxiety to begin did not prevent their shutting their eyes for a few seconds and obviously asking a blessing on their meal. hockins observed the act, and there passed over his soul another wave of self-condemnation, which was indicated by a deprecatory shake of his rugged head. observing it, ebony paused a moment and said-- "you's an awrful sinner, 'ockins!" "true, ebony." "das jist what i is too. quite as bad as you. p'r'aps wuss!" "i shouldn't wonder if you are," rejoined the seaman, recovering his spirits somewhat under the stimulating influence of rice. the recovery was not, however, sufficient to induce further conversation at the time, for they continued after that to eat in silence. they had scarcely finished when the jailor returned to remove the dish, which he did without word or ceremony, and so quickly that ebony had to make a sudden scoop at the last mouthful; he secured it, filled his mouth with it, and then flung the spoon at the retiring jailor. "that was not wise," said mark, smiling in spite of himself at the tremendous pout of indignation on the negro's face; "the man has us in his power, and may make us very uncomfortable if we insult him." "das true, massa," said ebony, in sudden penitence, "but if dere's one thing i can't stand, it's havin' my wittles took away afore i'm done wid 'em." "you'll have to larn to stand it, boy," said hockins, "else you'll have your life took away, which'll be wuss." the probability of this latter event occurring was so great that it checked the rise of spirits which the rice had caused to set in. "what d'ee think they'll do to us, sir?" asked the sailor, in a tone which showed that he looked up to the young doctor for counsel in difficulty. the feeling that, in virtue of his education and training, he ought to be in some sort an example and guide to his comrades in misfortune, did much to make mark shake off his despondency and pluck up heart. "god knows, hockins, what they will do," he said. "if they were a more civilised people we might expect to be let off easily for so slight an offence as rescuing a supposed criminal, but you remember that ravonino once said, when telling us stories round the camp-fire, that interference with what they call the course of justice is considered a very serious offence. besides, the queen being in a very bad mood just now, and we being christians, it is likely we shall be peculiarly offensive to her. i fear that banishment is the least we may count on." "it's a hard case to be punished for bein' christians, when we hardly deserve the name. i can't help wonderin'," said the seaman, "that lovey should have bolted as he did an' left us in the lurch. he might at least have taken his risk along with us. anyhow, he could have spoke up for us, knowin' both lingos. of course it was nat'ral that, poor mamba should look after number one, seem that he was in no way beholden to us; but lovey was our guide, an' pledged to stand by us." "i can't help thinking," said mark, "that you do injustice to laihova. he is not the man to forsake a comrade in distress." "that was my own opinion," returned the sailor, "till i seed him go slap through yon port-hole like a harlequin." "p'r'aps he tink he kin do us more service w'en free dan as a prisoner," suggested ebony. "there's somethin' in that," returned hockins, lifting his hand to stroke his beard, as was his wont when thoughtful. he lifted it, however, with some difficulty, owing to the heavy chain. they were still engaged in conversation about their prospects when the prison-door again opened, and two men were ushered in. both wore white lambas over their other garments. one was tall and very dark. the other was comparatively slender, and not so tall as his companion. for a moment the strangers stood contemplating the prisoners, and mark's attention was riveted on the smaller man, for he felt that his somewhat light-coloured and pleasant features were not unfamiliar to him, though he could not call to mind where or when he had seen him. suddenly it flashed across him that this was the very man to whose assistance he had gone, and whose wounds he had bound up, soon after his arrival in the island. with a smile of recognition, mark rose and extended his hand as far as his chain permitted. the young native stepped forward, grasped the hand, and pressed it warmly. then he looked round at his tall companion, and spoke to him in his own tongue, whereupon the tall man advanced a step, and said in remarkably bad english-- "you save me frind life one taime ago. ver' good--him now _you_ save." "thank him for that promise," said mark, greatly relieved to find at least one friend among the natives in his hour of need. "but," continued the interpreter, "you muss not nottice me frind nowhar. unerstand?" "oh yes, i think i do," returned mark, with an intelligent look. "i suppose he does not wish people to think that he is helping or favouring us?" "that's him! you's got it!" replied the interpreter, quite pleased apparently with his success in the use of english. "my!" murmured ebony to hockins in an undertone, "if i couldn't spoke better english dan dat i'd swaller my tongue!" "well--good-boy," said the interpreter, holding out his hand, which mark grasped and shook smilingly, as he replied, "thank you, i'm glad you think i'm a good-boy." "no, no--not that!" exclaimed the interpreter, "good _day_, not good _boy_; good-night, good morning! we goes out, me an' me frind. him's name ravelo." again ravelo shook hands with mark, despite the rattling chain, nodded pleasantly to him, after the english fashion, and took his departure with his tall friend. "well now, i do think," remarked hockins, when the door had closed behind them, "that rav--rave-what's-his-name might have took notice of me too as an old friend that helped to do him service." "hm! he seemed to forgit _me_ altogidder," remarked the negro, pathetically. "dere's nuffin so bad as ingratitood--'cept lockjaw: das a little wuss." "what d'ee mean by lockjaw bein' wuss?" demanded hockins. "w'y, don't you see? ingratitood don't _feel_ `thankee,' w'ereas lockjaw not on'y don't feel but don't even _say_ `thankee.'" a sudden tumult outside the prison here interrupted them. evidently a crowd approached. in a few minutes it halted before the door, which was flung open, and four prisoners were thrust in, followed by several strong guards and the execrations of the crowd. the door was smartly slammed in the faces of the yelling people, and the guards proceeded to chain the prisoners. they were all young men, and mark breezy and his friends had no doubt, from their gentle expression and upright bearing, that they were not criminals but condemned christians. three of them were quickly chained to the wall, but the third was thrown on his back, and a complex chain was put on his neck and limbs, in such a way that, when drawn tight, it forced his body into a position that must have caused him severe pain. no word or cry escaped him, however, only an irrepressible groan when he was thrust into a corner and left in that state of torture. the horror of mark and his comrades on seeing this done in cold blood cannot be described. to hear or read of torture is bad enough, but to see it actually applied is immeasurably worse--to note the glance of terror and to hear the slight sound of the wrenched joints and stretched sinews, followed by the deep groan and the upward glare of agony! with a bursting cry of rage, hockins, forgetting his situation, sprang towards the torturers, was checked by his fetters, and fell with a heavy clang and clatter on the floor. even the cruel guards started aside in momentary alarm, and then with a contemptuous laugh passed out. hockins had barely recovered his footing, and managed to restrain his feelings a little, when the door was again opened and the interpreter re-entered with the jailor. "i come--break chains," said the former. he pointed to the chains which bound our travellers. they were quickly removed by two under-jailors and their chief. "now--com vis me." to the surprise of the interpreter, mark breezy crossed his arms over his breast, and firmly said--"no!" swiftly understanding his motive, our seaman and ebony followed suit with an equally emphatic, "no!" the interpreter looked at them in puzzled surprise. "see," said mark, pointing to the tortured man in the corner, "we refuse to move a step till that poor fellow's chains are eased off." for a moment the interpreter's look of surprise increased; then an indescribable smile lit up his swarthy features as he turned to the jailor and spoke a few words. the man went immediately to the curled-up wretch in the corner and relaxed his chains so that he was enabled to give vent to a great sigh of relief. hockins and ebony uttered sighs of sympathy almost as loud, and mark, turning to the interpreter, said, with some emotion, "thank you! god bless you! now we will follow." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the fetters here described may be seen in the museum of the london missionary society in blomfield street, london, along with an interesting collection of malagasy relics. chapter seventeen. mamba is succoured by one of the "ancient soot," and fulfils his mysterious mission. when laihova and mamba took the reckless "headers" which we have described in a former chapter, they tumbled into a court-yard which was used as a sort of workshop. fortunately for them the owner of the house was not a man of orderly habits. he was rather addicted to let rubbish lie till stern necessity forced him to clear it away. hence he left heaps of dust, shavings, and other things to accumulate in heaps. one such heap happened to lie directly under the window, through which the adventurous men plunged, so that, to their immense satisfaction, and even surprise, they came down soft and arose unhurt. instantly they slipped into an outhouse, and there held hurried converse in low tones. "what will you do now?" asked laihova. "i will remain where i am till night-fall, for i dare not show myself all bruised like this. when it is dark i will slip out and continue my journey to the coast." "to tamatave?" asked laihova, naming the chief seaport on the eastern side of madagascar. "yes, to tamatave." "do you go there to trade?" "no. i go on important business." it was evident that, whatever his business might be, mamba, for reasons best known to himself, resolved to keep his own counsel. seeing this, his friend said-- "well, i go to the eastward also, for ravoninohitriniony awaits me there; but i fear that our english friends will be thrown into prison." "do you think so?" asked mamba, anxiously. "if you think i can be helpful i will give up my important business and remain with you." "you cannot help us much, i think. perhaps your presence may be a danger instead of a help. besides, i have friends here who have power. and have we not god to direct us in all things? no, brother, as your business is important, go." mamba was evidently much relieved by this reply, and his friend saw clearly that he had intended to make a great personal sacrifice when he offered to remain. "but now i must myself go forth without delay," continued laihova. "i am not well-known here, and, once clear of this house, can walk openly and without much risk out of the city. whatever befalls the englishmen, ravoninohitriniony and i will help and pray for them." another minute and he was gone. passing the gates without arousing suspicion, he was soon walking rapidly towards the forest in which his friend ravonino lay concealed. meanwhile, mamba hid himself behind some bags of grain in the outhouse until night-fall, when he sallied boldly forth and made his way to the house of a friend, who, although not a christian, was too fond of him to refuse him shelter. this friend was a man of rank and ancient family. the soot hung in long strings from his roof-tree. he was one of "the ancient soot!" the houses in the city are usually without ceiling--open to the ridge-pole, though there is sometimes an upper chamber occupying part of the space, which is reached by a ladder. there are no chimneys, therefore, and smoke from the wood and grass fires settles upon the rafters in great quantities inside. as it is never cleared away, the soot of course accumulates in course of time and hangs down in long pendants. so far from considering this objectionable, the malagasy have come to regard it with pride; for, as each man owns his own house, the great accumulations of soot have come to be regarded as evidence of the family having occupied the dwelling from ancient times. hence the "old families" are sometimes complimented by the sovereign, in proclamations, by being styled "the ancient soot!" the particular ancient soot who accorded hospitality that night to mamba was much surprised, but very glad, to see him. "have you arrived?" he asked, with a good deal of ceremonial gesticulation. "i have arrived," answered mamba. "safely and well, i hope." "safely and well," replied mamba--ceremonially of course, for in reality he had barely arrived with life, and certainly not with a sound skin. "come in, then," said the ancient soot. "and how are you? i hope it is well with you. behold, spread a mat for him, there, one of you. and is it well with you?" "well indeed," said mamba once again, falsely but ceremonially. "may you live to grow old!" resumed soot. "and you have arrived safely? come in. where are you going?" "i'm going yonder--westward," replied mamba, with charming conventional vagueness, as he sat down on the mat. "but it appears to me," said ancient soot, passing from the region of compliment into that of fact, and looking somewhat closely at his friend, "it seems to me that you have been hurt." mamba now explained the exact state of the case, said that he required a good long rest, after that a hearty meal, then a lamba and a little money, for he had been despoiled of everything he had possessed by the furious crowd that so nearly killed him. his kind host was quite ready to assist him in every way. in a few minutes he was sound asleep in a little chamber on the rafters, where he could rest without much risk of disturbance or discovery. all next day he remained in hiding. when it began to grow dusk his host walked with him through the streets and through the gates, thus rendering his passage less likely to be observed--for this particular ancient soot was well-known in the town. "i will turn now. what go you to the coast for?" asked his friend, when about to part. "you would laugh at me if i told you," said mamba. "then tell me not," returned his friend, with much delicacy of feeling, "for i would be sorry to laugh at my friend." thus they parted. ancient soot returned to the home of his forefathers, and mamba walked smartly along the road that leads to the seaport of tamatave. he spent that night in the residence of a friend; the next in the hut of a government wood-cutter. felling timber, as might be supposed, was, and still is, an important branch of industry in madagascar. forests of varied extent abound in different parts of the country, and an immense belt of forest of two or three days' journey in width covers the interior of the island. these forests yield abundance of timber of different colour and texture, and of various degrees of hardness and durability. the wood-cutter, an old man, was busy splitting a large tree into planks by means of wedges when our traveller came up. this wasteful method of obtaining planks is still practised by some natives of the south sea islands. formerly the malagasy never thought of obtaining more than two planks out of a single tree, however large the tree might be. they merely split the tree down the middle, and then chopped away the outside of each half until it was reduced to the thickness required. the advent of the english missionaries, however, in the early part of this century, introduced light in regard to the things of time as well as those of eternity-among other things, the pit-saw, which has taught the natives to "gather up the fragments so that nothing be lost." thick planks are still however sometimes procured in the old fashion. the wood-cutter belonged to "the seven hundred" which constituted the government corps. the members of this corps felled timber for the use of the sovereign. they also dragged it to the capital, for oxen were never employed as beasts of burden or trained to the yoke. the whole population around the capital was liable to be employed on this timber-hauling work--and indeed on any government work--without remuneration and for any length of time! after the usual exhaustive questions and replies as to health, etcetera, the old man conducted his visitor to his hut and set food before him. he was a solitary old fellow, but imbued with that virtue of hospitality which is inculcated so much among the people. having replied to the wood-cutter's first inquiry that he was "going yonder," mamba now saw fit to explain that "yonder" meant tamatave. "i want to see the great missionary ellis before he leaves the country." the wood-cutter shook his head. "you are too late, i fear. he passed down to the coast some weeks ago. the queen has ordered him to depart. she is mad against all the praying people." "are _you_ one of the praying people?" asked mamba, with direct simplicity. "yes, and i know that _you_ are," answered the wood-cutter with a smile. "how know you that?" "did i not see your lips move and your eyes look up when you approached me on arriving?" "true, i prayed to jesus," said mamba, "that i might be made use of to help you, or you to help me." "then your prayer is doubly answered," returned the old man, "for we can each help the other. i can give you food and lodging. you can carry a message to tamatave for me." "that is well. i shall be glad to help you. what is your message?" "it is a message to the missionary, ellis, if you find him still there; but even if he is gone you will find a praying one who can help me. long have i prayed to the lord that he would send one of his people here to take my message. some came who looked like praying people, but i was afraid to ask them, and perhaps they were afraid to speak; for, as you know, the queen's spies are abroad everywhere now, and if they find one whom they suspect of praying to jesus they seize him and drag him away to the ordeal of `tangena'--perhaps to torture and death. but now you have come, and my prayer is answered. `he is faithful who has promised.' look here." the old man went to a corner of the hut, and returned with two soiled pieces of paper in his hand. sitting down, he spread them carefully on his knees. mamba recognised them at once as being two leaves out of a malagasy bible. soiled, worn, and slightly torn they were, from long and frequent use, but still readable. on one of them was the twenty-third psalm, which the old wood-cutter began to read with slow and intense interest. "is it not grand," he said, looking up at his young guest with a flush of joy in his care-worn old face, "to think that after this weary wood-cutting is over we shall dwell in the house of the lord for ever? no more toiling and hauling and splitting; above all, no more sin-- nothing but praise and work for him. and how hard i could work for him!" "strange!" said mamba, while the old man gazed at the two soiled leaves as if lost in meditation, "strange that you should show this to me. i have come--but tell me," he said, breaking off abruptly, "what do you wish me to do?" "this," said the old man, pointing to the leaves, as though he had not heard the question, "is all that i possess of the word of god. ah! well do i remember the time--many years past now--when i had the whole bible. it was such a happy time then--when good king radama reigned, and the missionaries had schools and churches and meetings--when we prayed and sang to our heart's content, and the bible was printed, by the wonderful machines brought by the white men, in our own language, and we learned to read it. i was young then, and strong; but i don't think my heart was so warm as it is now! learning to read was hard--hard; but the lord made me able, and when i got a bible all to myself i thought there was nothing more to wish for. but the good radama died, and ranavalona sits upon his throne. you know she has burned many bibles. mine was found and burned, but she did not suspect me. i suppose i am too poor and worthless for her to care about! perhaps we did not think enough of the happy times when we had them! a brother gave me these two leaves. they are all that i have left now." again the old man paused, and the younger forbore to interrupt his thoughts. presently he looked up, and continued, "when the missionary ellis was on his way to the coast i met him and asked for a bible. he had not a spare one to give me. he was very sorry, but said if i could find any one going to tamatave who would carry a bible back to me, he would send one. now you have come. will you see the great missionary, or, if he is away, find one of the other men of god, and fetch me a bible?" there was a trembling earnestness in the old wood-cutter's voice which showed how eager he was about the answer. mamba readily promised, and then, after singing and praying together, these like-minded men retired to rest. next morning mamba pursued his way eastward with rapid step, for he was anxious--yet with a glad heart, for he was hopeful. many things of interest were presented to his gaze, but though he observed them well he did not suffer them to turn him aside for a moment from his purpose-- which was to reach tamatave in the shortest possible time, so as to meet and converse with the missionary before he should quit the island. mamba was of an inquiring disposition. in ordinary circumstances he would have paused frequently to rest and meditate and pray. he would have turned aside to examine anything peculiar in his track, or even to watch the operations of a spider, or the gambols of a butterfly; but now he had "business" on hand, and set his face like a flint to transact it. the distance from the capital to tamatave was nearly two hundred miles. there were dangers in the way. as we have said, the queen's spies were everywhere. mamba's wounds and bruises were still sufficiently obvious to attract attention and rouse curiosity, if not suspicion. at one part of the journey he came upon some criminals in long chains which extended from their necks to their ankles. they were doing work on the roads under a guard. he would fain have conversed with these men, but, fearing to be questioned, turned aside into the shelter of a plantation and passed stealthily by. at another place he came to a ferry where, when he was about to enter the boat, two men stepped in before him whom he knew to be government officers and suspected to be spies. to have drawn suddenly back without apparent reason would have proclaimed a guilty conscience. to go forward was to lay himself open to question and suspicion, for he had prepared no tissue of falsehoods for the occasion. there was no time for thought, only for prayer. he committed his soul to god as he entered the boat, and then began to converse with the boatman in as easy and natural a tone of voice as he could assume. having to face the boatman for this purpose enabled him to turn his back upon the government officers. scarce knowing what he said in the perturbation of his spirit, his first question was rather absurd-- "did you ever upset in crossing here?" he asked. "of course not!" replied the boatman, with a look of offended dignity. "ha! then," continued mamba, who quickly recovered his equanimity, "then you don't know what it is to feel the teeth of a crocodile?" "no, i don't, and hope i never shall. did you?" "oh yes," returned mamba, "i have felt them." this was true; for it happened that when he was a little boy, his mother had taken him down to the side of a river where she had some washing to do, and while she was not looking the urchin waded in, and a crocodile made a snap at him. fortunately it failed to catch him, but its sharp teeth grazed his thigh, and left a mark which he never afterwards lost. "where did that happen?" asked the boatman, when the other had briefly stated the fact--for the passage was too short to permit of a story being told. "in the betsilio country." "that's a long way off." "yes, a long way. i left my old mother there. i'm going to tamatave to buy her a present. now, my friend," said mamba, in a bantering tone, as the boat ran into the opposite bank, "take care never to upset your boat, because crocodile teeth are wonderfully sharp!" mamba had the satisfaction of hearing the two officers chuckle at his little joke, and the boatman growl indignantly, as he leaped ashore and sedately strode away with a sigh of relief and thankfulness for having made what he deemed a narrow escape. the road to tamatave was by no means lonely, for, being the highway from the seaport to the capital, there was constant traffic both of travellers and of merchandise. there were also great droves of cattle making their way to the coast--for a large part of the wealth of the chiefs and nobles of the land consists of cattle, which are exported to the islands of bourbon and mauritius, and disposed of to the shipping that come there for supplies. at last mamba reached tamatave, footsore, worn, and weary, and went straight to the house of friend--a native of wealth and importance in the town, and one whom he knew to be a christian. from him he learned, to his great joy, that mr ellis had not yet left the place, and that he hoped to be permitted still to remain there for some time. it was dark when mamba arrived, and rather late; but he was too anxious to transact his "business" to wait till morning. having ascertained where the missionary lived, he went there direct, and was ushered into his sitting-room. "you wish to converse with me," said mr ellis, in a kind voice, and in the native tongue, as he placed a chair for his visitor--who, however, preferred to stand. "yes, i come from very far away--from the betsilio country. my mother dwells there, and she is a praying one--a follower of jesus. she loves the word of god. i heard that you had brought the bible to us from your own land--printed in our language, and so i have come to ask you for a bible." "have you come all that long journey to procure the word of god?" asked the missionary, much interested. "yes--that is my business," replied mamba. although mr ellis liked the look of his visitor, and was strongly disposed to believe him, he had too much knowledge of the native character to place immediate confidence in him. besides, the man being a stranger to him, and possibly one of the government spies, he feared to comply at once with his request, lest he should hasten his own banishment from the island. he replied, therefore, with caution. "i cannot give you what you want to-night," he said, "but you may call on me again to-morrow, and i will speak with you." this answer did not at all satisfy the eager heart of the poor fellow who had travelled so far and risked so much. his countenance showed the state of his feelings so strongly that the sympathetic missionary laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, bade him cheer up, and asked for his name as well as the name of some one in tamatave who knew him. "now then, mamba," he said, as they were about to part, "don't be cast down. come here to see me to-morrow. come early." comforted a little--more by the missionary's look and tone than by his words,--mamba took his departure. meanwhile mr ellis made inquiries, visited the friend to whom he had been referred, and found that not only was mamba a good and true man, but that many of his family "feared the lord greatly." when, therefore, his anxious visitor returned very early the following morning, he was ready for him. "i am assured that you are a christian, mamba," he said, "as well as many of your kindred." "yes, i love the lord, and so do many of my kinsmen. but my family is large and scattered." "have any of them got the scriptures?" "they have seen and heard them," returned mamba, "but all that we possess are a few pages of the words of david. these belong to the whole family. we send them from one to another, and each, after keeping them for a time, passes them on, until they have been read by all. they are in my hands just now." "have you them with you?" asked the missionary. mamba did not reply at once. he seemed unwilling to answer, but at last confessed that he had. "will you not show them to me? surely you can trust me, brother!" mamba at length made up his mind. thrusting his hand deep into his bosom, he drew a parcel from the folds of his lamba. this he slowly and carefully opened. one piece of cloth after another being unrolled, there appeared at length a few leaves of the book of psalms, which he cautiously handed to mr ellis. though it was evident that the greatest care had been taken of that much-prized portion of scripture, the soiled appearance of the leaves, worn edges, and other marks of frequent use--like the two leaves owned by the wood-cutter--showed how much they had been read. even mamba's anxiety was allayed by the tender way in which the missionary handled his treasure, and the interest in it that he displayed. "now, my friend," said mr ellis, still holding the tattered leaves, which mamba seemed anxious to get back, "if you will give me these few words of david, i will give you _all_ his words; and i will give you, besides, the words of jesus, and of john, and paul and peter. see--here they are." saying which, he handed to his visitor a copy of the new testament and psalms, in malagasy, bound together. but mamba did not leap at this gift as might have been expected. either it seemed to him to be too good news to be true, or he was of a sceptical turn of mind. at all events he was not satisfied until he had sat down with the missionary and assured himself that every verse in his ragged treasure was contained in the presented volume, and a great deal more besides. then he let the old treasure go, and joyfully accepted the new, which, he said, he was going to carry back to his mother who greatly longed for it. before retiring with it, however, he mentioned his friend the wood-cutter, whom mr ellis remembered well, and gladly gave another testament to be taken back to him. then, uttering expressions of fervent gratitude, mamba left the house. in the course of that day the missionary inquired after his visitor, wishing to have further converse with him, but the christians of tamatave told him that mamba had started off, almost immediately after quitting him, on his long return journey to betsilio-land--doubtless "rejoicing as one that findeth great spoil." dust was not allowed to accumulate on the bibles of madagascar in those days! chapter eighteen. unexpected deliverance and several surprises. at the time when mamba started away on his expedition to tamatave, ravonino, as we have said, lay concealed in the forest, anxiously awaiting news from the town. at last the news came--the two white men and the negro had got involved in a row, and were in prison! so said laihova on entering the cave and seating himself, weary, worn, and dispirited, on a ledge of rock beside his friend, to whom he related all that had befallen. "give not way to despondency," said ravonino, though he could not smooth the lines of anxiety from his own brow. "does not the lord reign? let the earth rejoice! no evil can befall unless permitted, and then it will surely work for good. let us now consider what is to be done. but first, we will pray." in the gloom of the cavern the two men went down on their knees, and, in very brief but earnest sentences, made known their wants to their creator. "it is useless to remain here idle," said the guide, as they resumed their seat on the ledge. "it is useless to go into the town," returned laihova. "i am known now as one of those who aided mamba to escape." "but i am not known--at least not in my present guise," said ravonino. "have you seen rafaravavy?" "no; i tell you we had not been long in the town when this mischance befell." "did not mamba tell you why he has undertaken so long a journey?" "he did not, but i can guess," answered laihova, with a slight smile. "the night before we left our friends in the cave in betsilio-land i heard his mother urging him to accompany us to the capital and fetch her, if possible, a copy of the word of god. she was joined in her persuasions by my sister ramatoa, and you know he loves ramatoa. i have no doubt that the two overcame his objections." "do you know why he objected?" asked ravonino. "he _said_ that he was afraid to quit his mother and the others at a time when she might sorely need his protection, but other motives may have influenced him." "if he _said_ it he _meant_ it," returned the guide, with some decision, "for mamba is open and true of heart. no doubt he had other motives, but these were secondary. god grant him success and safe deliverance from the hands of his enemies!" "amen!" responded laihova. for some time the two friends sat there in silence, meditating as to what they should do in the circumstances, for each felt that action of some sort was absolutely necessary. "my friend," said the guide at last, "it seems to me that the lord requires me at this time to go with my life in my hand, and give it to him if need be. i have led these englishmen into danger. i must do my best to succour them. rafaravavy also is in great danger of losing her life--for the queen's fondness for her may not last through the opposition to her will which she is sure to meet with. at all risks i will enter the town and try to meet with rafaravavy. but you, my friend, have no need to run so great a risk. the englishmen have no claim upon you. my sister ra-ruth, as well as the other banished ones, need your arm to defend them, all the more that mamba has left for a time. i counsel you to return to the betsilio country and leave me. there is no fear. i am in the hands of god." for a few moments laihova was silent. then he spoke, slowly. "no. i will not leave you. are not our friends also in the hands of god? for them, too, there is no fear. at present they are far from danger and in safe hiding, for even the outlaws--the robbers who infest the forests-- understand something of their case; they have sympathy and will not molest them. besides all that, ravoninohitriniony, is there not the blood-covenant between you and me? no, i will _not_ leave you! where you go i will go, and if you die i will not live!" seeing that his friend's mind was made up, the guide made no further effort to influence him, and both men prepared themselves to go to the city. we return now to our friends mark breezy, john hockins, and james ginger, whom we left in the act of quitting their prison after being the means of obtaining some extension of mercy to an unfortunate sufferer whom they left behind them there. the interpreter led them up several steep streets, and finally brought them to a court-yard in which were several small houses. into one of these he ushered them, having previously pointed out to them that the building occupied a prominent position not far from the great palace of the queen. "so--if you out goes--git losted--know how to finds you'self agin!" "das so," said ebony. "you's a clibber man." "now you stop," continued the interpreter, paying no attention to the remark, "for git some--some--vik--vik--vikles--eh?" "vikles!" repeated mark, with a puzzled air. "yis--yis--vikles," repeated the interpreter, nodding his head, smiling, opening his mouth very wide, and pointing to it. "p'r'aps he means victuals," suggested hockins. "yis--yis--jus' so--vittles," cried the interpreter, eagerly, "wait for vittles. now--good-boy--by-by!" he added, with a broad grin at his blunder, as he left the room and shut the door. the three friends stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds in silence, looked at each other, and smiled dubiously. "let's see if we really _are_ free to go and come as we choose," said mark, suddenly stepping to the door and trying it. sure enough it was open. they passed out and went a short distance along the street, in which only a few natives were moving about. these, strange to say, instead of gazing at them in idle curiosity, seemed to regard them with some show of respect. "hold on, sir," said hockins, coming to an abrupt halt, "you know that feller told us to wait for victuals, and i am uncommon disposed for them victuals; for, to say truth, the trifle of rice they gave us this mornin' was barely enough to satisfy an average rat. better come back an' do as we're bid. obedience, you know, is the first law of natur'." "das w'at i says too. wait for de wittles." "agreed," said mark, turning on his heel. on reaching the house they found that two slaves had already begun preparations for the hoped-for feast. in a few minutes they had spread on the mat floor several dishes containing rice, mingled with bits of chicken and other meats, the smell of which was exceedingly appetising. there was plain beef also, and fowls, and cooked vegetables, and fruits of various kinds, some of which were familiar to them, but others were quite new. slaves being present, our three travellers did not give full and free expression to their feelings; but it was evident from the way that hockins smacked his lips and ebony rolled his tongue about, not to mention his eyes, and mark pursed his mouth, that they were smitten with pleased anticipation, while the eyes of all three indicated considerable surprise! there were no knives or forks--only horn spoons for the rice; but as each man carried a large clasp-knife in his pocket, the loss was not felt. in any other circumstances the singularity and unexpected nature of this good treatment would have stirred up the fun of ebony and the latent humour of hockins, but they could not shake off the depression, caused by the memory of what they had seen in the prison--the heavy iron collars and the cruel binding chains. they tried to put the best face possible on it, but after a few faint sallies relapsed into silence. this, however, did not prevent their eating a sufficiently hearty meal. "there's no sayin' when we may git the chance of another," was hockins's apologetic remark as he helped himself to another fowl. "it is very mysterious that we should receive such treatment," said mark. "i can only account for it by supposing that our friend ravelo is an officer of some power. if so, it was doubly fortunate that we had the opportunity of doing him a good turn." "now, you leave dem two drumsticks for me, 'ockins," said ebony, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "you'll do yourself a injury if you heat de whole ob 'im." "well, i must confess to bein' surprised summat," said the seaman, referring to mark's observation, not to ebony's. they were destined to receive some additional surprises before that day was over. the meal which they had been discussing was barely finished when their friend the interpreter again entered and bade them follow him. "queen ranavalona wish sees you," he said. "what! all on us?" exclaimed hockins, with elevated eyebrows. "yis--all." "oh! nonsense," he cried, turning to mark. "it must be you, doctor, she wants to see. what can she want with a or'nary seaman like me?" "or a extraor'nary nigger like me?" said ebony, with a look of extreme contempt. "you kin stop in house if you choose," remarked the interpreter, with a quiet grin, "but you heads be splitted if you do." "then i think i'll go," said hockins, quietly. "me too," remarked the negro. accordingly they all went--with a slight qualm, however, for they felt slightly doubtful whether, under existing circumstances, they might not after all be going to execution. the royal palaces, to which they were led, occupy a very conspicuous and commanding position on the summit of the hill, and stand at an elevation of more than feet above the surrounding plains. they are conspicuously larger than any of the other houses in the city, are grouped together in a large court-yard, and number about a dozen houses--large and small. the chief palace, named manjaka-miadana, is about feet long by broad, and high to the apex of its lofty roof. a wide verandah, in three stories, runs all round it. all is painted white except the balustrade. the building next in size to this is the silver house. on the eastern side of the court-yard are the palace gardens, and around it stand a number of houses which are the residences of the chief officers of the army, the secretaries of state, and other members of the government. on reaching the palace gate two young officers approached to receive the visitors. they were dressed in splendid european regimentals, much bedecked with gold-lace, tight-fitting trousers, wellington boots, sash, sword, and cocked hat, all complete! one of these, to their surprise, spoke english remarkably well. "i learned it from the missionaries when i was leetle boy," he explained to mark, as he conducted the visitors through the archway and across the spacious court-yard into the palace. in the second storey of the verandah the queen was seen seated beneath that emblem of royalty the scarlet umbrella, with her court around her. before entering the court the visitors had removed their hats. they were now directed to make a profound reverence as they passed, and proceeded along the side of the building to the further end. a line of native troops was drawn up across the court, but these wore no uniform, only the lamba wound round their waists, and white cross-belts on their naked bodies. they were armed with the old flint-lock muskets and bayonets of the period. their conductor, who was an under-secretary of state, led them by a dark narrow stair to the balcony where the queen sat, and in a few moments they found themselves in the presence of the cruel ranavalona, of whom they had heard so much. she did not look cruel at that time, however. she was dressed in a rich satin gown, over which she wore the royal scarlet lamba, and jewels of various kinds ornamented her person. she was seated in a chair raised two or three steps above the floor, with her ladies on one side and her gentlemen on the other. the former, among whom were some really good-looking brunettes, had all adopted the english fashion of dress, with parts of native costume retained. some wore head-dresses of gorgeous colouring, composed of ribbons, flowers, and feathers in great profusion, but as no head-dress, however strongly marked by barbaric splendour, can excel the amazing feminine crests in present use among the civilised, we refrain from attempting description! most of the men also wore european costume, or portions thereof, some being clad in suits of black broad-cloth. the amount of ceremony displayed on all hands at court seemed to have infected our three adventurers, for, when led before the queen, they approached with several profound bows, to which hockins added the additional grace of a pull at his forelock. in this he was imitated by ebony. for some moments ranavalona eyed her visitors--perhaps we should say her captives--sternly enough, but there was also a slight touch of softness in her expression, from which mark drew much comfort; in silence, for as yet the queen had given no indication, as to whether the new-comers were to be treated as friends or spies, and the recent banishment of the missionaries, and harsh treatment of europeans by the queen, left their minds in some doubt on the point. turning to the secretary who had introduced the party, ranavalona spoke to him a few words. when she had finished, the secretary turned to mark, whom he at once recognised as the chief and spokesman of the trio. "queen ranavalona bid me ask where you comes from," he said. to which mark replied that they came from england, that they were all english subjects, though one was an african by descent. "i have heard," continued the queen, through her interpreter, "that you have been shipwrecked, that one of your number is a maker of medicine, and that you helped one of my people--even saved his life--soon after your arrival in my country. is that so?" mark explained that they had not been shipwrecked, but had been left on shore, and obliged to fly from the natives of the coast; that he was indeed a maker of medicine, though his training had not been quite completed when he left england, and that he had rendered a trifling service to an unfortunate man who had slipped in climbing a cliff, but he could hardly be said to have saved the man's life. while he was speaking, mark observed that his friend ravelo stood close to the queen's chair, in front of a group of officers, from which circumstance he concluded that he must be a man of some note, and that it was he who had procured the deliverance of himself and his friends from prison. "tell the young maker of medicine," said the queen, in a loud voice, so that all the court might hear, "that europeans have behaved very ill here of late, so ill that they had to be banished from my country; for i, ranavalona, permit no one, whether his face be black, brown, or white, to meddle with my government. they fancied, i suppose, that because i am a woman i am weak and ignorant, and unable to rule! they have now found their mistake, and christians shall not again be permitted to dwell in my country. but i am ranavalona, and i will do what i please. if i choose to make an exception i will do it. if any one thinks to oppose my will he shall die. the man whose life was saved by this young maker of medicine is my son rakota--my beloved son. is it not so?" the queen looked round as she spoke, and the man whom we have hitherto styled ravelo bent his head and replied, "it is so," whereupon there were murmurs of surprise and approval among the courtiers. "now," continued the queen, "as i am grateful, and as i want a physician at court just now, i appoint this young maker of medicine to that post, and i appoint his black companion to be his servant. do you all hear that?" all the courtiers made murmurs of assent. "tell them all that, secretary," said the queen. mark breezy and his friends had considerable difficulty in concealing their astonishment when "all that" was explained to them, but they had the presence of mind to acknowledge the information with a profound obeisance. at the same time mark explained, with much modesty, that he was not entitled to aspire to or to accept so high and honourable a position, as he had not yet obtained the standing which entitled him to practise in his own country. "tell him," said the queen, sternly, "that i, ranavalona, have nothing to do with the customs of england, and have no regard for them. if he does not accept what i offer, instant banishment--perhaps worse--will be his portion!" "oh! massa, accep' him _at once_!" murmured ebony in an undertone, and in much anxiety. mark took his advice, and agreed to become physician to the court of the queen of madagascar, without stipulating either as to salary or privileges! "i am also told," said the queen, with a smile of condescension to her physician, "that your english companion is full of music, and performs on a wonderful little instrument. i have a good band, which was trained by your countrymen, but they have no such little instrument. let the man of the sea perform." on this being translated mark looked at the man of the sea, and could with difficulty restrain a burst of laughter at the expression of his countenance. "what!" exclaimed hockins, "me play my whistle afore this here court? unpossible!" "you'll have to try," said mark, "unless you wish for instant banishment--or something worse!" "oh! 'ockins, blaze away at _once_!" murmured ebony, with renewed anxiety, for the "something worse" was to him suggestive of imprisonment, torture, and death! thus pressed, the seaman put his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew forth his cherished flageolet. in a few minutes the queen and all her courtiers were enthralled by the music. it was not only the novelty and bird-like sweetness of the instrument itself that charmed, but also the fine taste and wonderful touch of the sailor. the warbling notes seemed to trill, rise and fall, and float about on the atmosphere, as it were, like fairy music, filling the air with melody and the soul with delight. "good! let the man of the sea be also cared for. give them quarters in the palace, and see that they all attend upon us in the garden to-morrow." so saying, the queen arose, swept into the palace, and left her courtiers to follow. immediately prince rakota came forward and shook hands with mark. "so then, your highness," said the latter, "_we_ are indebted to you for all this kindness." "it is only one small ting," returned the prince in broken english. "am i not due to you my life? come, i go show you your house." on the way, and after entering the house which was appropriated to their use, mark learned from the prince that their approach to the capital had been discovered and announced by spies long before their arrival; that it was they who had discovered and revealed to the queen hockins's wonderful powers with the "little tube." also that it was well-known who had guided them through the country, and that ravoninohitriniony was being diligently sought for in his hiding-places. this last piece of information filled the three friends with deep concern and anxiety. "he has been so _very_ kind to us," said mark, "and i know is one of the most generously disposed and law-respecting subjects of her majesty." "that not help for him if he tumbles into the hands of my mother," said the prince, sadly. "he is a christian. he has run to the forest, and has made others to fly." "but you have much power with the queen," pleaded mark, "could you not induce her to pardon him?" "yes--if he will give up christianity--if not do that--no!" "that he will never do," said mark, firmly. "i know him well. he will rather die than deny christ." "he is likely to die then," returned rakota, "for my mother is fixed to root up the religion of jesus from the land." "but surely _you_ don't agree with her," broke in hockins at this point. "no, i not agree," said the prince. "but i can not command the queen. some time it very hard to move her even a leetle. my only power with her is love." "das de greatest power in de world!" chimed in ebony. "it is," returned the prince, "and you be very sure i use the power much as i can for save your friend." chapter nineteen. a malagasy garden party--the cloud grows blacker. the garden party is by no means a novelty of the present day. in the early part of this century--if not much earlier--malagasy sovereigns seem to have been wont to treat their court and friends to this species of entertainment. the order which the queen had given that her european visitors should attend upon her in the garden, was neither more nor less than an invitation to a garden party, or pic-nic, to be held the following day at one of her surburban retreats named anosy, about half-a-mile from the city. accordingly, early in the morning--for the malagasy are early risers--their friend the interpreter came to conduct them to the spot, with a gift of a striped lamba for each of the white men. "why she not send one for _me_?" demanded ebony, pouting--and ebony's pout was something to take note of! "'cause you're black and don't need no clothing," said hockins, awkwardly attempting to put the lamba on his broad shoulders. "humph! if she knowed what splendid lobscouse an' plum duff i kin make," returned the negro, "ranny valony would hab sent me a silk lamba an' made me her chief cook. hows'ever, dere's a good time comin'. i s'pose i ain't to go to the party?" "yis--you muss go. all of you got to go. kill-deaded--if you don't go." "i'm your man, den, for i don't want to be deaded yet a while; moreover, i want to see de fun," returned the negro. meanwhile the interpreter showed them how to put on the lamba--with one end of it thrown over the left shoulder, like the spaniard's cloak,--and then conducted them to the palace, where they found three palanquins--or chairs supported by two staves--awaiting them. getting into them they set off, preceded by the interpreter in a similar conveyance. ebony and his bearers brought up the rear. the queen and her court had already started some time. our party soon reached the scene of festivities, at the south-east of the city. it was a charming spot, having large gardens laid out in the european style, with goodly trees overshadowing the pleasure-house of anosy, and an extensive lake. the house was on an island in the lake, and was reached by a narrow causeway. at the entrance to the place two enormous letters, "r r," formed in grass borders that surrounded flower-beds, indicated that radama rex, the first king of that name, had originated those gardens. and they did him credit; for he had made great exertions to accumulate there specimens of the most useful and remarkable trees and plants in the country--especially those that were of service in _materia medica_. some immense camphor-wood trees were among the most conspicuous, and there were several specimens of a graceful fan-palm, as well as clumps of the long-leaved rofia. the lake was covered in part with a profusion of purple waterlilies, and was well stocked with gold-fish. in the garden and on the upper part of the grounds were luxuriant vines, besides figs, mangoes, pine-apples, and coffee-plants. here, to the strains of an excellent band, hundreds of people, in white and striped lambas, and various gay costumes, were walking about enjoying themselves, conversing with animation, or consuming rice, chickens, and beef, on mats beneath the mango and fig-trees. elsewhere the more youthful and lively among them engaged in various games, such as racing, jumping, etcetera. "come," said their friend of the previous day--the secretary--to mark and his comrades, breaking in on their contemplation of the animated scene, "the queen wishes to see you." her majesty, who was dressed in a long robe of muslin, embroidered with gold, sat near the door of the garden-house, surrounded by her ladies, who all wore the simple but graceful native dress. a guard of soldiers stood near at hand. the queen merely wished to ask a few ceremonial questions of her visitors. while she was engaged with hockins and the secretary, mark ventured to glance at the ladies of the court, among whom he observed one who made a deep impression on him. she wore, if possible, a simpler dress than any of her companions, and no ornaments whatever. her features were well formed, and her rather pensive countenance was very beautiful. when they were retiring from the presence of the queen, mark could not resist the temptation to ask the secretary who she was. "that," said he, "is our self-willed little christian, rafaravavy." "she does not look very self-willed," returned mark. "true, and she is not really so--only in the matter of religion. i fear we shall lose her ere long, for she minds not the queen, and no one who defies ranavalona lives long. but come, let us sit down under this mango tree and eat. you must be hungry." he led them as he spoke to a sequestered spot near a coppice which partially guarded them from public gaze on three sides, and on the fourth side afforded them a charming view of the gardens, the gay assemblage, and the country beyond. at first both hockins and ebony hesitated to sit down to breakfast with so distinguished a person as an under-secretary of state. "we ain't used, you see, doctor," observed the seaman in a low tone, "to feed wi' the quality." "das so, massa," chimed in ebony in the same tone; "wittles nebber taste so pleasant in de cabin as in de fo'c's'l." "don't object to _anything_," replied mark, quickly, "just do as i do." "hall right, massa. neck or nuffin--i'm your man!" as for the seaman, he obeyed without reply, and in a few minutes they were busy with the secretary over drumsticks and rice. the free-and-easy sociability of that individual would have surprised them less if they had known that he had been specially commissioned by the queen to look well after them, and gather all the information they might possess about the fugitive christians who were hiding in the forests. fortunately our young student was quick-witted. he soon perceived the drift of the secretary's talk, and, without appearing to evade his questions, gave him such replies as conveyed to him no information whatever of the kind he desired. at the same time, he took occasion, when the secretary's attention was attracted by something that was going on, to lay his finger on his lips and bestow a look of solemn warning on his comrades, the effect of which on their intelligent minds was to make the negro intensely stupid and the seaman miraculously ignorant! now, while our friends are thus pleasantly engaged, we will return to rafaravavy, whom we left standing among the queen's ladies. of all the ladies there that little brunette was not only the best-looking, the sweetest, the most innocent, but also, strange to say, the funniest; by which we do not mean to say that she tried to be funny--far from it, but that she had the keenest perception of the ludicrous, and as her perceptions were quick, and little jokes usually struck her, in vulgar parlance, "all of a heap," her little explosions of laughter were instantaneous and violently short-lived. yet her natural temperament was grave and earnest, and her habitual expression, as we have said, pensive. indeed it would have been strange had it been otherwise, considering the times in which she lived, the many friends whom she had seen sacrificed by the violence of her royal mistress, and the terrible uncertainty that hung over her own fate. after a time the queen dismissed some of her attendants to ramble about the grounds,--among them rafaravavy, who sauntered down one of the side-walks by herself. she had not gone far when, on reaching a turn of the road where a small thicket of shrubs concealed her from the more public part of the garden, she heard her own name pronounced. stopping abruptly, she listened with intense anxiety expressed on her countenance. "rafaravavy!" repeated the voice again, "fear not!" next moment the bushes were turned aside, a man stepped on the path, and ravonino stood before her! he seized her in his arms, and printed a fervent kiss upon her lips. "oh! samuel," she said, using her lover's christian name, which she naturally preferred, and speaking, of course, in her native tongue, "why did you come here? you know that it is death if you are caught." "i would risk more than death, if that were possible, to see you, rafaravavy. but i come to ask you to fly with me. our dear lord's counsel is that when we are persecuted we should flee to a place of safety." "impossible!" said the girl, in a tone of decision that made her lover's heart sink. "besides, i am not persecuted. the queen is fond of me, and bears much." "fond of you she may well be, my loved one, she cannot help that; but she is fonder of herself, and the moment you go beyond a certain point she will order you out to execution. has she not done the same sort of thing before? she is capable of doing it again. she will _surely_ do it again. come, dearest! let us fly now--this moment. i have a lamba here which will conceal most of your dress. arrangements are made with some of our friends in the lord to aid us. bearers are ready. i will guide you to the caverns in the forest where my sister ra-ruth is longing to receive you, where many of your old friends are dwelling in security, where we worship god, and pray to jesus, and sing the sweet old hymns in peace. come, dear one! will you not come?" it was evident that the intense earnestness of the lover was exerting powerful influence over the affectionate maiden, for she began to waver. "oh! do not persuade me thus!" she said. "i know not what god would have me do. but the queen has been _very_ kind to me in spite of my religion, and sometimes i have thought that she listens to my pleading. perhaps god may use me as the means of bringing her to jesus. think what that would be--not only to her own soul but to the multitudes who are now suffering in--" at that moment footsteps were heard on the gravel walk. they were evidently approaching the spot where the lovers stood. before ravonino could make up his mind to drag her into the thicket by main force, rafaravavy had disengaged herself and bounded away. at the same moment ravonino glided into the shrubbery and disappeared. a few seconds later and mark breezy stood on the spot they had quitted. he was alone. "strange!" he muttered to himself, "i am almost certain that she took this path, and i fancy that the man's voice sounded like that of ravonino. nothing more natural than that he should ferret her out. yet it seems to have been imagination." "it was not imagination," said a rather stern voice at mark's elbow. he turned quickly. "i was sure of it!" he exclaimed. "if you were so sure of it," said the guide, with a touch of bitterness, "why did you interrupt us and scare the maiden away?" "you do me wrong in your thoughts," replied the student, flushing. "one of the queen's secretaries is even at this moment coming along this track in company with hockins and ebony. while seated at breakfast i saw rafaravavy walk in this direction, and somehow i took it into my head that you would surely meet her here--i know not why i thought so, unless it be that in like circumstances i myself would have acted the same part--so i hastened on in advance to warn you. hush! do you not hear their steps?" "forgive me," said ravonino, extending his hand, and grasping that of his friend. then, speaking low and hurriedly, "you are in favour at court. will you befriend her?" "i will. you may depend on me!" there was no time for more. already it was almost too late, for the guide had barely disappeared in the thicket when his comrades and the secretary appeared. "hallo! doctor," exclaimed hockins, "was ye arter a pretty girl that you bolted so, all of a sudden?" "yes, i was," answered mark promptly. "i saw one of the queen's ladies come in this direction and ran after her! i suppose there is no harm in that, mr secretary? you don't forbid men to look at your women, do you, like the arabs?" "certainly not," replied the secretary, with a slight smile and a ceremonial bow. "come, then, let us follow the track, we may yet meet her." so saying, mark led the way along the path where rafaravavy had vanished, not for the purpose of overtaking her, but in order to give his friend time and opportunity to get out of the thicket unperceived. on the evening of that same day, after the garden festivities were over, queen ranavalona sat in her palace with a frown on her brow, for, despite her determination and frequent commands, the christians in the town still persisted in holding secret meetings for worship. those who knew her moods saw plainly that she was fanning the smouldering fires of anger, and that it needed but a small matter to cause them to burst out into a devouring flame. while she was in this critical frame of mind an influential courtier appeared before her. he seemed to be greatly excited. "madam," he said, "i request that a bright and sharp spear may be brought to me!" somewhat surprised at the nature of the request, the queen asked to know the reason. "madam," continued the courtier, "i cannot but see with grief the dishonour that is done, not only to our idols but to the memory of your own predecessors, by the doctrines of these foreigners. our ancient customs are being destroyed and the new faith is spreading on every hand. all this is but preparatory to the invasion of madagascar by europeans; and, as i would rather die than see my queen and country so disgraced, i ask for a spear to pierce my heart before the evil day arrives." this speech had a powerful effect on the queen. she began to regard christianity as not merely a sacrilege, but a political offence; for were not people learning to despise the idols of their forefathers and to cease praying to the royal ancestors, by whom the kingdom had been established, and under whom the country had become great and powerful? might they not eventually despise herself and learn to treat their living sovereign with contempt? for some time ranavalona remained silent, leaning her forehead on her hand. suddenly she looked up with a flushed countenance. "it is true--all true," she said. "when i was carried along in procession to-day did i not hear these christians singing one of their hated hymns? they will not cease till some of them lose their heads. have you got with you the formal accusation that was made before my chief judge yesterday?" "no, madam, i have not." "go. fetch it and read it to me." the courtier bowed, left the apartment, and speedily returned with a paper containing the accusations referred to. unfolding it, he read as follows:-- "first. the christians are accused of despising the idols. second. they are always praying. third. they will not swear, but merely affirm. fourth. their women are chaste. fifth. they are of one mind with regard to their religion. sixth. they observe the sabbath as a sacred day." strange to say, this catalogue of so-called accusations deeply affected the queen with grief and rage. "i swear," she said, with flashing eyes and clenched hands, "that i will root out this religion of the europeans if it should cost the life of every christian in the land! go. leave me!" for a fortnight subsequent to this the palace and court appeared as if in mourning for some public calamity. no band played; no amusements were allowed, and a dread of impending evil seemed to weigh upon the spirits of all classes. during this time, also, measures were taken to effect the final destruction, as far as possible, of all that had been done in the country by the teaching of the missionaries and their converts. at last the storm burst. a kabary, or immense general assembly of the nation, was called by proclamation at the capital. the people were only too well aware of what this signified to doubt that the queen was thoroughly in earnest and in one of her worst moods. with trembling hearts they hastened to obey the summons. chapter twenty. a great kabary is held, followed by dreadful martyrdoms. no rank or age was exempt from attendance at the great assembly. soldiers were sent about the city and suburbs to drive the people towards the place of assembly near the palace, and the living stream continued to pour onwards until many thousand souls were gathered together at imahamasina. here a body of troops fifteen thousand strong was posted, and in the earlier part of the day the cannon along the heights of the city thundered out a salute to inspire the people with awe and respect for the royal authority. the highest civil and military officers were there in their varied and gay trappings, but ranavalona herself did not appear in person. her message was conveyed to the people by one of the chief officers of state. it was interspersed here and there with the various titles of the queen, and was to the following effect:-- "i announce to you, oh ye people! i am not a sovereign that deceives. i therefore tell to you what i purpose to do, and how i shall govern you. who, then, is that man who would change the customs of our ancestors and the twelve sovereigns in this country? to whom has the kingdom been left by inheritance, by impoin, imerina, and radama, except to me? if any, then, would change the customs of our ancestors, i abhor that, saith rabodon-andrian-impoin-imerina." after a good deal more to much the same effect, the message went on to say:-- "as to baptisms, societies, places of worship distinct from schools, and the observance of the sabbath, how many rulers are there in the land? is it not i alone that rule? these things are not to be done; they are unlawful in my country, saith ranavalo-manjaka, for they are not the customs of our ancestors; and i do not change their customs, excepting as to things alone that improve my country. and then, in your worship, you say `believe!' `follow the christian customs!' and thus you change the customs of the ancestors, for you do not invoke all that is sacred in heaven and earth, and all that is sacred in the twelve sovereigns and the idols. and is not this changing the customs of the ancestors? i detest that; and i tell you plainly that such things shall not be done in my country, saith ranavalo-manjaka. "now i decree that all bibles and books of the new religion shall be delivered up to be destroyed, that all who are guilty shall come in classes, according to the nature of their offences, and accuse themselves of having been baptized, of being members of the church, of having taught slaves to read--all shall come to the officers and confess; but those who conceal their offence and are accused by others shall be subjected to the ordeal of the tangena, and those who resist my commands shall die, saith ranavalo-manjaka." this message was no idle threat. the people were well aware of that, and the city was filled with weeping and consternation. it was while things were in this state that mamba arrived at antananarivo with his precious new testament and psalms in the folds of his lamba. although well aware of what had taken place, he recklessly visited his friends in the city. from them he learned more particulars, and saw, when too late, that it would be impossible for him now to pass out of the gates with the testament on his person, as the guards had been cautioned to search every one whom they had the slightest reason to suspect. hearing of the sudden exaltation of his english friends, he formed the wise resolution to place his treasure in their hands. boldness is often successful where timidity would fail. without hesitation, or even consultation with his friends, mamba went straight to the palace and demanded permission to visit the maker of medicine. he was allowed to pass and conducted by an official to the quarters of mark breezy, who was seated with hockins and ebony at the time. great was their surprise at seeing their friend. "why, mamba! i thought you had gone to tamatave?" said mark, shaking hands heartily with him. "yis--yis--i hoed," said mamba, and then endeavoured to tell something of his doings in english; but his knowledge of that language was so very imperfect that they could make nothing of it. they understood him, however, when he cautiously and lovingly drew the testament from its hiding-place and gave it into mark's hands. "what am i to do with it, my poor friend?" said mark. "i know that you have no chance of retaining it, after the decree that has just been passed." "keep 'im--keep--for _me_," said mamba, anxiously. "i will do so, if i can, but it may not be possible," answered mark. "yis, keep--safe. got 'im for me mudder." "you're a brick," cried ebony, enthusiastically grasping the man's hand, for he had a great love for his own mother, and experienced a gush of sympathy. at that moment there was a loud knocking at the door, and mark had barely time to slip the testament into his coat pocket when hater-of-lies entered with his silver spear and attendants. seizing hold of poor mamba, without uttering a word they led him away. hockins instantly followed, and ebony was about to do the same when mark laid his hand on his shoulder and checked him. "what would you do, ebony?" "look arter 'ockins, massa." "hockins is well able to look after himself. no doubt he has gone to see where they take mamba to. one pair of eyes is enough for that. your company would only trouble him." a few minutes later the seaman returned with the information that the unfortunate man had been cast into the prison, from which they had been so recently released. at this time the christians in the island possessed numerous entire copies of the scriptures, besides a large number of testaments and psalms, and books of a religious character, which, having been secreted, had escaped the destruction of previous persecutions. some of these were now given up and destroyed. many of the more timid among the natives came forward, as commanded, and accused themselves, thus escaping punishment; but there were others who would neither give up their bibles nor accuse themselves. some of these were accused by their slaves, others by their so-called friends and kindred--in some cases falsely. next day the prime minister came to the queen and reported that one lady, named rasalama, who had not accused herself, had been accused by some of her slaves of attending religious meetings. "is it possible," exclaimed the queen, "that there is one so daring as to defy me? go, let her be put to death at once!" the intercession of friends of the accused produced no effect on the queen, and even the pleading of prince rakota failed, in this instance, to do more than delay the execution for a few days. meanwhile rasalama was cast into prison and loaded with chains. "is it not strange," she said to her jailors, "that i should be put in chains, and some of my friends should be sent to perpetual slavery and some killed, though we have done no evil? we have neither excited rebellion, nor stolen the property of any, nor spoken ill of any--yet we are treated thus, and our property is confiscated. it will be wise if the persecutors think what they do, lest they bring on themselves the wrath of god. but i do not fear. when hater-of-lies came to my house i rejoiced that i was counted worthy to suffer affliction for believing in jesus." when this speech was reported to the judges, rasalama was ordered to be put into heavier irons and severely beaten. this cruel order was carried out; and after her tender limbs had been additionally weighted, her delicate skin was lacerated with terrible stripes. yet her fortitude never forsook her. nay more--through the grace bestowed on her she actually sang hymns in the midst of her torment! sometimes, indeed, her physical strength failed for a brief space. at other times the song of triumph blended with a wail of agony, but she always recovered to renew the hymn of praise. her tormentors were confounded. this was something quite beyond their understanding, and their only solution of the mystery was that she must be under the influence of some powerful charm. others there were, however, who listened to her triumphant songs, and beheld her calm steadfast countenance with widely different thoughts and feelings. but the sufferings of this poor creature had not yet terminated. the rage of her persecutors was not yet appeased. next day the ordinary chains she wore were exchanged for others, consisting of rings and bars fastened around her wrists, knees, ankles, and neck, and these, when drawn together, forced her whole body into a position that caused intense agony--something like that which we have described as having been seen by mark and his comrades in the same prison-house. in this posture it was impossible to use the voice in song, but, doubtless, she was not even then prevented from making melody in her heart to the lord, for whose name she suffered so much. all night long was this terrific trial endured, but with the dawn of day came relief, for then the chains were relaxed; and so great was the change that poor rasalama looked forward to the fate which she knew awaited her with feelings of joy. that fate was not long delayed. soon they led her out of the prison, and took the road which conducted towards the southern extremity of the hill, on which the city stood, where was the tremendous precipice down which many a criminal and many a christian martyr had already in ranavalona's evil reign been hurled out of time into eternity. yet this was not the gate through which rasalama was to pass into paradise. _see note _. as she walked along, the poor martyr began again to sing a favourite hymn. when passing the place of worship, at that time closed, she exclaimed, "there have i heard the words of the saviour." hundreds of people accompanied her. some even ventured to whisper words of comfort to her as she went along, although by doing so they imperilled their own lives, and one young man, utterly regardless of consequences, walked boldly by her side, speaking to her of the saviour, till the place of execution was reached. to this spot mark breezy and his companions in exile had hastened, for the secretary had told them that some of the christians were about to be executed, and a fearful suspicion that their friend mamba might be among the number impelled them to hasten to the spot with some half-defined intention of interfering in his behalf. for they had gradually, and imperceptibly to themselves, acquired a great liking for the young native, whose earnest, straightforward, yet playful spirit, together with his great kindness to his mother, had deeply impressed them during the brief time they had sojourned together in the forest. "will we fight for 'im, massa?" asked ebony, with anxious looks, as they ran to the place of execution, which was not far-off. "that would be useless," answered mark. "if we were thirty samsons instead of three ordinary men, we could not overcome the queen's army." "i've half a mind to try," said hockins, with something unusually fierce in his expression. "many a man has run a-muck before now. i've got to die once at any rate!" "and what good would that do to mamba?" asked mark. "no, i will try another plan. i have fortunately done service to the queen in saving the life of her son. if mamba is to be martyred, i will throw my arms round him and ask the queen in return to spare the life of my friend." they had by that time mingled with the dense crowd that stood on the brow of the precipice of ambohipotsy to witness the execution. pushing to the front with breathless anxiety, they were just in time to see rasalama led forward by two men armed with spears. in front of them was a shallow ditch, and a little further on the brow of the precipice, from which was seen a magnificent prospect of the surrounding country. but no prospect, however sublime, could have attracted the eyes of the three friends just then, for in front of them stood two crosses supporting the bodies of two christians who had been crucified thereon the day before. even these, however, lost their horrible power of fascination, when they observed the cheerful holy expression of rasalama's countenance as she was led to the edge of the ditch which was to be her grave. the bottom of that grave was already strewn with the bloody remains and the bleaching bones of other martyrs who had preceded her. the crowd, who had followed the procession with imprecations against the christians, now ceased to shout. "will you allow me a short time to pray?" asked rasalama of the executioners. her request being granted, she kneeled on the rocky ground, clasped her hands, and raised to heaven a look of calm trustfulness, as she held communion for the last time on earth with her redeemer. "where is the god she prays to that he does not save her now?" whispered some. others held their peace, but laid these things to heart. while the poor creature was thus engaged, the two executioners, without warning, thrust their spears deep into her body. it was the custom of these men to plunge the spears into the loins of their victims on each side of the back-bone in such a position that they did not produce immediate death, but allowed the martyrs to tumble into the ditch and writhe there in agony for some time with the spears still sticking in them. happily, in the case of rasalama, the thrusts were--either intentionally or accidentally--more effective than usual. after a very brief struggle, her happy soul was set free to be "for ever with the lord." in that ditch her poor mangled body was left to be devoured by the wild dogs that frequent all places in madagascar where criminals suffer. _see note _. "oh, god!" exclaimed mark, unable to repress a groan. "let us quit this accursed spot." "stay, sir, stay," whispered the sailor at his elbow, "you forget mamba. more are comin'." more martyrs were indeed coming, as the singing of hymns proved. close on the heels of rasalama, a band of nine other christians were carried to the place of execution, each with his feet and hands tied together and slung on a pole, the ends of which were borne by two men. straw had been stuffed into their mouths to prevent praying or singing, but several of them, managing to get rid of the straw, burst into the triumphal songs which had attracted the attention of our seaman. arrived at the ditch, the victims were asked if they would give up praying to jesus. in every case the answer was a decided "no!" they were then thrust into the ditch, forced down on their knees, and made to bend forward. while this was being done, the shuddering friends of mamba perceived that he was not among the martyrs. one by one each unfortunate was stabbed in the loins, close on either side of the back-bone, but not one was terrified into recanting, although by so doing he might have been restored at once to life and liberty. the truth of that word, "as thy days thy strength shall be," was clearly and wonderfully proved in the case of these sufferers. after all had fallen, their heads were cut off and placed in a row on the edge of the ditch. five of the nine belonged to one family. one man who had been reserved to the last, for some reason or other that was net explained, was led to the brow of the precipice, and the same question was put to him that had been put to his fellow-martyrs. from the spot on which he stood he could look down into the awful gulf, a sheer descent of sixty feet first to a place where a ledge projected, and then, a further descent of still greater depth to the bottom, where the ground was covered with rocks and debris from the cliffs. unfaltering in courage and allegiance to the master, his "no!" was distinct and decisive. next moment he was hurled over. with terrific force he struck the ledge, and it must have been a lifeless body that was finally shattered on the plain below. as the people immediately began to disperse after this, mark and his friends hastened sway from the place with an overwhelming sense of horror upon them, but thankful as well as relieved to know that their friend mamba was not yet among the martyrs. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . rasalama was in truth the first martyr of madagascar. she was slain in the year . we have only transposed the date. her story is given, without variation worthy of mention, from authentic records. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . close to the spot where the heroic rasalama knelt to pray and die, a large memorial church now stands, the spire of which forms a conspicuous object in every distant view of the city. chapter twenty one. mamba, subjected to the ordeal of the "tangena," escapes, but afterwards accuses himself and is condemned. if not yet among the martyrs, it was soon evident that mamba stood a good chance of being among them before long--and that the mother of whom he was so fond, and for the gratification of whose spiritual longings he had risked so much, would probably never receive the gospel of peace from his hands. while in prison under accusation of being a believer in the religion of the white man, he had debated much with himself as to what was his duty in the present distress. was he bound to confess christ and take the consequence--which, of course, he knew to be death? to deny him was out of the question. he at once dismissed that idea as untenable. but was there no other mode of escape? did not the word itself advise that when persecuted in one city he was not only entitled but advised to escape to another? "but how am i to escape? oh god, guide me!" he cried, lifting his clasped hands as he converted the question into a prayer. the rattling of his chains seemed to bid him dismiss all hope, but he did not lose faith. he continued to pray and meditate. and the longer he meditated the more anxiously did he long to be back in the cave beside his reni--his humble-minded loving little mother--and beside-- yes, he made no attempt to conceal it from himself--beside the beautiful queen-like sister of laihova. the more he meditated, however, the more hopeless did his case seem to become. to lie he would not--not even to gain ramatoa. to die he would _rather_ not! to escape he could not! at last he hit upon an idea. he would refuse to answer. he would take refuge in absolute silence! as might have been expected, this course of policy did not avail him much. when it was found that he would not say whether he was a christian or not, it was resolved that the matter should be settled by an appeal to the ordeal of the tangena. this used to be a common and much-practised ordeal in madagascar in days but recently past. it consisted in the administration of poison. other ordeals existed in the island--such as passing a red-hot iron over the tongue, or plunging the naked arm into a large pot of boiling water and picking out a pebble thrown therein for the purpose of trial. alas for both innocent and guilty subjected to either trial! but the ordeal most universally in favour was that of the tangena. the tangena is in fact a poisonous nut about the size of a chestnut which derives its name from the tree that bears it. if taken in small doses it acts as an emetic; if in large doses it kills. many pages would be required to give a full and particular account of all the malagasy superstitions connected with the ordeal. let it suffice to say, roughly, that previous to the poison being administered the accused person is obliged to swallow whole, or rather bolt, three pieces of the skin of a fowl, about the size of a dollar. then the decoction of tangena in rice-water is administered. if given strong it kills, and the unfortunate is held to have been guilty. if not too strong, and the sufferer be able to bear it, vomiting is the result, and the three pieces of skin are eagerly looked for. the finding of the pieces proves the accused to be innocent. the not finding of them proves him guilty, and at once, if he be a free man, he is killed, if a slave he is sold, and got rid of in some distant market. there was a very complex system of combined profit and superstition surrounding the whole affair which it is difficult as well as useless thoroughly to understand, but which it is easy to see afforded clever scoundrels the means of persecuting, defrauding, or killing any whom they chanced to dislike, or who stood in their way. of course it was very easy to make the potion strong enough to kill, or to dilute it with rice-water until it became almost harmless. now, when mark breezy heard that mamba was condemned to swallow the tangena he went straight to his friend rakota. "prince rakota," he said, earnestly, "if your expressions of gratitude to me are sincere you will save the life of this man." "i will try," returned the prince, "but the queen is very angry just now!" when the prince pleaded for the man's life ranavalona asked of what he was accused. "of praying to the christians' god." "does he admit the charge?" demanded the queen sternly. "no--i believe not." "then, let the tangena decide. it always speaks the truth. our ancestors thought so, and i will not change the customs of our ancestors!" said this outrageously conservative queen. rakota, however, was a determined man and not easily foiled. going privately to those who had the management of the matter, he made use of those mysterious arguments with which princes manage to attain their ends, and afterwards told mark the result, which was, according to hockins, that, "mamba's grog was to be well-watered!" as mark could do nothing more for his friend he went with his companions to see the result. there was another man, accused of stealing, who was to be tested at the same time. he was a strong sturdy pugnacious-looking man. a good deal of ceremonial of course preceded the ordeal. among other things the poison had to be tested on two fowls. it killed them both and was deemed too strong. being diluted it was tried on two other fowls, and killed neither. it was therefore considered rather weak. at last, having been reduced to the exact strength which killed one fowl and only sickened the other, the potion was administered to the reputed thief, after a long prayer or invocation. for two hours there was no result, but at the end of that time the pains began, and increased with much violence, yet the man maintained his innocence. his agonies were soon extreme. amidst his torture he solicited medicine, but this was refused. his bowels, he said, were writhing as if in knots. his groans were awful. his eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets. his countenance assumed a ghastly hue, and his entire frame was convulsed with torture. then he vomited violently, and, fortunately for him, the three pieces of skin which he had swallowed made their appearance. he was at once pronounced innocent and set free. poor mamba had to witness all this before his own turn came. once more he was questioned, but continued dumb. then he was made to swallow his three pieces of skin and to drink the tangena. the state of mind of his friends, as they watched him after what they had just seen, may be conceived but cannot be described. in mamba's case the poison acted differently. being well diluted, its effects, although severe, were not to be compared with those experienced by the first sufferer. still they were bad enough, and vomiting commenced much sooner. to the great satisfaction of his friends the three pieces of skin were ejected, and mamba, being pronounced innocent, had his fetters removed and was set free. but when mark hastened to congratulate him, what was his surprise to see the poor fellow clasp his hands and raise them to heaven, while an expression of pain--very different from that resulting from physical suffering--convulsed his features. "oh! no, no!" he exclaimed, in a tone of agony, "i am not innocent. i am guilty! guilty! _very_ wicked! i have denied thee, dear lord, by my _looks_, though not with my lips! forgive me, o god!" then, turning quickly to the officers of justice, "here--put on the chains again. i _am_ a praying man! i love the lord jesus. he will save _you_ as well as me if you will come to him!" as this was spoken in the native language our englishmen did not understand it, but they had little difficulty in guessing the drift of it when they saw the officers replace the chains and lead mamba back to prison, where the last words the jailor heard as he left him were, "mother, mother! ramatoa! i shall never more see your dear faces in this life--never more!" but in this mamba was mistaken, as the sequel will show. meanwhile mark hurried back to the palace and told rakota what had occurred. the prince was not surprised. he had mingled much with the christians, and knew well the spirit by which they were animated. he went at once to the queen, who was enraged at first by his persistent pleading, vowed that mamba should die, and gave orders to that effect. but on reconsidering the matter she commuted the sentence into life-long slavery in long chains. there is usually but brief delay between a sentence and its execution in madagascar. the very next day heavy chains were riveted on mamba. these, at one end, were attached to an iron collar round his neck, at the other end to iron rings round his ankles. what sailors would call _the slack_ of these heavy fetters was gathered up in one of the wearer's hands, and thus carried while he moved about at work. the poor fellow was first set to work on a piece of road-mending just outside the city gate, with several others--martyrs and criminals--in similar condemnation. and here mark and his companions met him unexpectedly before they were aware that the fearful punishment had begun. at the time poor mamba was toiling with pick and shovel. his heart was almost broken. death he could have faced without flinching, but to be a life-long slave in galling chains, with the possibility even of seeing his mother and ramatoa, without being permitted to go near or speak to them, was almost more than he could bear. a deep groan burst from his overcharged breast as he cried, "oh lord jesus, enable me to bear it!" it was just then that ebony observed him and uttered a falsetto cry of astonishment. the secretary, who was conducting mark and hockins on a visit to one of the suburban places of resort, stopped and looked round. "dars mamba, massa!" cried ebony. mark ran to him at once, but was stopped by the guard. a few words from the secretary, however, sufficed, and mark was allowed to speak to the slave, which he did through the secretary. despair was in mamba's every tone and look, for the crushing calamity was too recent and too tremendous to be borne with equanimity at first. yet through it all there ran, as it were, a tiny silver thread of hope. "for is it not true," he said, "that `with god all things are possible?'" "my friend," said mark in reply, and with a burst of enthusiasm, "i will save you _somehow_! keep a good heart." mamba smiled faintly, yet gratefully, as he shook his head, gathered up the superfluous links of his chain, and resumed his toil. "how will you save him?" asked the secretary, with a peculiar half-amused look, as they walked away. "i know not," answered mark. "but we have a proverb, `where there's a will there's a way,' and i have a determined will to save my poor friend from this slavery. i will not cease to try--as we say in england, `i will leave no stone unturned,'--till i have accomplished this thing. moreover i will not cease to pray for this end. mamba's trust in god puts me to shame. up to this time i have only recognised by name that saviour whom this man worships. god helping me, i will henceforth follow the lord!" to the surprise of the young man the secretary turned suddenly on him and grasped his hand, and said in a low voice, as he looked cautiously round--"it gives me joy to hear you speak so. i too am a follower of jesus. i tell you this because i know, now, that you will not betray me. there are many of us in the palace besides prince rakota, but we dare not speak out, for the queen is very angry, as you know. hush! tell it not even to our companions. little birds have ears. if the queen suspects any of us, in her present state of mind, she will either ruin or kill us." "i have heard something of this," said mark, "from the friend who guided us to the capital--" "i know," interrupted the secretary, with an intelligent nod. "it was ravoninohitriniony. he is well-known to us. he loves rafaravavy, and is now in the neighbourhood of the capital, hoping to induce her to fly with him to the forests. you are surprised, but you would not be so if you knew the number of spies that ranavalona has out everywhere." "has my friend ravonino," (we call him so for brevity), "been seen in-- in--i mean _near_ the city lately?" asked mark, anxiously. "not _in_ the city, certainly," returned the secretary. "bold and daring though he is, he would scarcely venture that; but he has been seen and heard of more than once lately." mark felt relieved. it was evident the secretary neither knew of nor suspected the fact that ravonino had actually attended the garden party and met rafaravavy almost under the queen's eyes! remembering, however, that the prime minister had sent soa to pretend to be a christian, in order that he might discover the secrets of the christians, and not having yet had much experience of the secretary's character, he resolved to be very cautious in his reference to ravonino,--indeed to any one with whom he had to do. acting on this resolve he changed the subject by asking questions about the extensive rice-grounds around the capital. the secretary was of a communicative disposition, and evidently fond of airing his english. he willingly followed in conversation wherever the young doctor chose to lead, and gave him and his friends a great deal of interesting information as to the manners and customs of the malagasy people--their habits, beliefs, and laws. among the latter he spoke of a curious fact in regard to criminals which gave mark a sudden inspiration! hockins afterwards styled it a "wrinkle." ebony called it a "dodge." but, whatever might be said on that head, it had the effect of very materially altering the conditions of some of the personages of this tale, as the following chapters will show. chapter twenty two. the court physician prescribes for the queen--a blow-up, and mysterious preparations for tremendous surprises. about this time the anger of queen ranavalona against the christians was so great that she made herself quite ill, and more than once had to send for her court physician, mark breezy, to prescribe for her. our youthful medico understood her complaint, which was a simple one. he prescribed much exercise, change of air, and amusement, so as to distract her mind from the cares of state, and the evil passions to which she was giving way. he hoped thus to serve the christians indirectly, for he saw clearly that the mere mention of their existence made her ill. some slight administrations of physic, also, coupled with judicious alterations of diet, put her majesty in a state of such excellent health and spirits that she began to entertain quite a warm regard for her court physician, and congratulated herself not a little on the good fortune which had sent him to the capital. thus mark was enabled to disperse, for a time, the dark cloud which had been lowering over the land--not, however, in time to prevent many christians from being slain, and some even of the officers and ladies of the palace from being degraded, their honours taken from them, and themselves and children sold as slaves. among the ladies, rafaravavy had a narrow escape. for a time her life seemed to hang by a hair, for she was rebellious as well as fearless, and _would_ sing her favourite hymns in spite of orders to the contrary! love prevailed, however, as in the case of prince rakota, and she was tolerated as a sort of spoilt child. being a favourite, mark of course became a man of power in the capital. this fact would have raised him a host of enemies had it not been for the kindness of his disposition and the urbanity of his manners. when a strapping powerful young fellow treats every one with respectful deference, keeps in the background, and neither by word nor look asserts himself, but, on the contrary, seems to entertain kindly thoughts about every one, it argues such an absence of selfishness that most people are irresistibly attracted to him. thus, unwittingly, he escaped jealousy and enmity in a palace where both were rife, and, holding in his hands as he did, the power to alleviate many of the "ills that flesh is heir to," he secured a good deal of warm friendship. being also an ingenious youth, he devised many little plans for amusing ranavalona and preventing her mind from dwelling on dangerous memories. among other things, he induced her to go in for a series of garden parties, and encouraged the people to practise their national games at these gatherings in a systematic way. what all this was ultimately to lead to he did not know--indeed at first he had no particular end in view save the great one of preventing the queen from ordering any more of the horrible scenes of bloodshed which he and his friends had so recently witnessed. but as time ran on his ideas became more definite and concentrated. it occurred to him that ravonino would inevitably venture to attend the garden parties in the hope of again meeting rafaravavy, and now that the secretary had avowed himself on the side of the christians, he felt that through him he might influence her to agree to her lover's proposal. then his plan to effect the rescue of mamba was gradually matured. "ebony," he exclaimed, suddenly, one afternoon when sitting at his table preparing some villainous compound for the queen, "go down to the laboratory, boy, and fetch me some gunpowder, sulphur, saltpetre, and charcoal." mark's laboratory, by the way, contained not only the medicines which chanced to be in the capital at that time, but also a vast collection of miscellaneous articles and substances which, in the opinion of palace officials, could be classed, however remotely, with "doctor's stuffs." "them stuffs," remarked hockins, who sat luxuriously in an arm-chair smoking a short pipe--for he had unfortunately obtained tobacco since arriving at the capital!--"them stuffs are apt to cause surprisin' effects w'en properly mixed." "just so. that is my reason for sending for them. i shall create some surprising effects if my old cunning in pyrotechny has not forsaken me. when i was a school-boy, you must know, i was fond of dabbling in fireworks, and it strikes me that i could compound some things that would charm the queen and astonish the natives." "massa," asked ebony, powerful surprise expressed in his sable visage, while mark spooned large quantities of the ingredients referred to into an earthenware dish, "is dem powders to be took inside arter bein' well shooken, or rubbed outside?" "whichever way you please, ebony. would you like to try?" "no thankee, massa." "now, then, look here," said mark, making some pencil notes on a sheet of paper, after arranging several plates in a row. "you and hockins set to work and mix these in the exact proportions set down on this paper. i'd do it myself, but i'm due at the palace, and you know the queen does not like to be kept waiting. stick to the paper, exactly, and here you have an egg-cup, a table-spoon, and a tea-spoon to measure with. put your pipe out, i advise you, hockins, before beginning. if rainiharo should call, tell him he will find me with the queen. i don't like that prime minister. he's a prime rascal, i think, and eggs the queen on when she would probably let things drop. he's always brooding and pondering, too, as if hatching mischief." "if that's a sign of hatching mischief," said hockins, with a short laugh, "the same thing may be said of yourself, doctor, for you've done little but brood and ponder for more nor a week past." "true, i have been plotting; but many a man plots much without much resulting." hurrying away, mark found the secretary waiting for him to act as interpreter, for the queen understood little or no english. after the preliminary ceremonial salutations, the young doctor asked if her majesty would honour the gardens with her presence the following day, hold a grand reception, and make arrangements to remain in anosy till after dark. yes, the queen was quite ready to do so, but why did her court physician make such a proposal? had he some new surprise in store for her? "i have," answered mark. "in my country we make very grand displays with fire. but i have various little surprises and plots in store, which cannot be properly wrought out unless ranavalona will consent to go to the gardens privately--that is to say, without public announcement, for that has much to do with the success of my scheme." "it shall be done, though it is against my custom," said the queen, with a good-natured nod, for she had begun to regard her young physician as an eccentric creature who needed and deserved encouragement in his amusing and harmless fancies. immediately after the audience, mark and his sympathetic interpreter, the secretary, obtained an interview with rafaravavy. the doctor began abruptly. "i am well acquainted with your lover, dear young lady." at this she pouted a little, blushed terribly, and drew her pretty figure to its full height--which was not great! "and," continued mark, "i have been very deeply indebted to him." rafaravavy relaxed a little, and fixed her fine dark eyes on the youth searchingly, but said nothing. "now i know," mark went on, pretending not to observe the maiden's varying moods, "that my friend loves you so profoundly--so deeply--that he will risk his life to see you, and if he is caught, you are well aware that in the present state of the queen's mind the result would be his death--almost certainly, and perhaps you would die along with him. therefore, if you get an opportunity soon you should agree to fly with him." during the first part of this speech the young girl's face glowed with evident pleasure, but the last part was unfortunate. it did not suit the temper of one who was brave as she was beautiful. "i know not, sir," she said, with flashing eyes, while the little figure drew up again, "what english girls may think or do, but malagasy women are not afraid to die with those whom they love. your advice may be kindly meant, but i doubt if it is wise. besides, i am a servant of my queen, and owe allegiance to her." "your queen, mademoiselle, is a servant of the devil," said mark, whose indignation was severely stirred. "and, rafaravavy, do you not profess to be a servant of the christians' god--the almighty? does not the book state that it is impossible to serve _two_ masters?" "come, come!" cried the secretary, in a sharp tone, after translating this faithfully, "it is time to go. follow me!" mark's surprise at this abrupt termination of the interview was great, but as rafaravavy retired hastily, he had no resource but to follow his friend. "why so sharp?" he asked, as they passed along the corridor. "because you have said enough," returned the secretary, with a quiet smile. "you may understand your own women, no doubt, but not the malagasy girls as well as i do. when a man has said _enough_ to a woman he should stop and let it simmer. all the rest that he would say she will say to herself--and say it much better, too! but tell me, when do you think ravoninohitriniony will meet rafaravavy?" "i don't know. all i know is that a true lover is sure to manage a meeting soon--and somehow." he was glad to be able to make this indefinite reply; for although he trusted the secretary, and would have revealed his own affairs fully to him, he felt that he had no right to reveal the affairs of his friend to any one. before they reached the palace-yard a loud report was heard. the palace shook as with an earthquake. loud cries of soldiery were heard without, and mark's heart sank with an undefinable dread. to account for this report we must go back a little. when hockins and ebony were left, as we have seen, to mix their "powders," the former, being a reckless man, forgot to put his pipe out, and ebony being a careless man, (as regarded himself), did not observe the omission. the consequence was that the seaman kept on puffing and emitting sage reflections to his admiring friend while they mixed their compounds in concert. "hand me the powder, ebony." "das good--ha! ha! das awrful good," cried the negro, referring to the latest sage reflection--as he pushed across the powder canister, which was a large one. at that inauspicious moment a spark fell from the pipe! next moment the door was burst open, the window blown out, hockins was laid fiat on his back, while ebony went head-over-heels upon the floor! slowly and with a dazed look the seaman raised himself on one elbow and looked round. "any--anything of ye left, boy?" he asked, quietly. "i--i's not kite sure, 'ockins," replied the negro, slowly passing his hand down one of his legs without rising from the floor. "'ow does it feel wid _you_?" "all right, i think," replied the seaman, rising and presenting a remarkable exhibition of singed beard and frizzled locks, "no bones broke, anyhow." at that instant mark rushed into the smoke-filled room in consternation, followed by the secretary and a number of soldiers who formed the guard of the palace, and great was their surprise, as well as their satisfaction, to find that the two men had received no damage worth mentioning. "well, i _am_ thankful," exclaimed mark, beginning to pick up the debris of plates and furniture. "so am i," remarked the sailor, "thankful to think that i've got it over at last--so easy too!" "why, what do you mean?" "i means, doctor, that i've gone the whole round o' human possibilities now--leastwise i think so--and am alive to tell it! i've bin shot, an' stabbed, an' drownded--all but--an' now i've bin blow'd up!" "so's i, 'ockins, so you needn't boast," remarked ebony, as he tenderly felt the place where his wool ought to have been, but where only a few irregularly-shaped patches of scrub remained. we need scarcely say that mark breezy did not allow this little _contretemps_ to interfere with his plans. "you'll have to work all night, both of you--that's your punishment for disobeying orders--and without the solace of a pipe too," said mark, when order was somewhat restored and work resumed. "the garden party, you know, is fixed for to-morrow, and it's as much as our heads are worth to disappoint the queen of her expected amusements. time, tide, and ranavalona the first wait for no man! i've got to go out for an hour or so. when i return i'll show you how to make stars and crackers and red rain, etcetera." "but i say, doctor," asked hockins, looking up from his work, "where are the cases to hold all this here stuff?" "time enough for that when we want 'em. i've got some fellows at work on small ones, and there's a big one that will open the madagaskite eyes if there's virtue in saltpetre. it's made of--ah! here it comes," he added, as the door opened and two natives carried in a piece of cast-iron pipe about six feet long and four inches in diameter. "the pistol-barrel of a giant," exclaimed the seaman. "a young cannon!" said ebony. "w'y, massa, you gwine to make a roman candle ob _dat_?" he turned for an answer, but mark had hastily quitted the house. encountering the secretary in the court-yard, he took his arm and said, "i want your help." "well, you shall have it. but you are so mys--mys--what is it--sterious about your leetil plans, that i fear my help is not useful." "oh! yes, it is, i want you to get me a paper from--i don't know who-- the proper officer, whoever he is, authorising me to take a gang of convicts--four will do--to work for me." "good, you shall have it," returned the secretary, with a laugh. "i see you are going to give us big surprises to-morrow." "you are right, i am," said mark, as the secretary left him to execute his mission. armed with an order, mark left the palace and hurried through the steep narrow streets of the town, until he reached a piece of road that was being mended by four slaves in long chains. that morning mark had observed that his friend the crocodile was one of the four. passing close enough to attract the attention of the poor fellow, he whispered, without stopping, "mamba, expect me to-morrow." this he had said in the native tongue, having by that time acquired a few sentences, of which he made the best and most frequent use possible. going to the guard of these slaves, he presented his paper, and said that he should come personally for them early in the morning. then he returned to the laboratory and assisted his comrades to load the firework cases with various kinds of "fire," stars, golden rain, etcetera. the young cannon especially was loaded, with a succession of surprises, to the very muzzle, before midnight. "suppose he bust!" suggested ebony, with a solemn visage. "de queen ob madigascur be blow'd into middle ob nixt week--hey?" "i shall take precautions against that, ebony. in the first place, i'll have it buried in the earth up to the muzzle, and, in the second place, i'll not place it too near her majesty." when all was prepared the wearied triumvirate retired to rest, each to dream of the subjects that lay nearest his heart and imagination at the moment. hockins dreamed of tobacco-pipes and explosions; mark dreamed of freed slaves, thunder-struck queens, eloping lovers and terrible consequences; and ebony dreamed of incomprehensible situations, crashing thunderbolts, and unimaginable coruscations of resplendent fire! chapter twenty three. in which mark carries out his plans successfully, and powerfully astonishes himself as well as every one else. it was a brilliant lovely morning when the guests began to wend their way to the suburban residence of anosy, where ranavalona was to hold her garden party. the people were very gay, somewhat excited, and very chatty, for they were aware that the young english doctor had prepared something new and surprising for the queen's special benefit. just before the earliest of these guests, however, had set off to the garden, our three heroes had passed down to that part of the road where the four slaves were already at work with pick and shovel and clanking chain. it was a little after sunrise when mark went up to the guard to relieve him. "take care," said the guard, when about to leave, "that you keep the slaves well out of the way when the queen passes. all the others in the neighbourhood have been taken off long ago. i was beginning to be afraid you would not come in time." "i understand," said mark, who knew enough of the language, (and also of the situation), to follow the drift of his meaning. the guard thereupon turned, shouldered his musket, and went off, apparently well pleased at the unexpected relief from duty. while this little incident was occurring three of the slaves were looking on with a slight expression of surprise in their sad faces. the fourth, mamba, was standing in a dejected attitude before hockins and ebony, holding a pick in one hand and his heavy chain in the other. "oh! man, i _am_ sorry to see you like this," said hockins, extending his brawny hand, "an' i does wish i could set you free--but you know i'm as helpless as a babby in this matter." mamba dropped the pick and grasped the strong hand, but did not look up. his heart was too full. he did not understand the seaman's words, but he understood the tone. if he had looked up he would have seen that the tears were hopping over ebony's cheeks in spite of the powerful efforts of that sympathetic soul to control them, and that he was unable to speak because of a lump in his throat. "das most awrful!" he exclaimed at last. "oh, mamby, i'd fight for you like a wild-cat wid the cholera if that would do you any good, but it would be ob no use." just then mark came forward. "quick, follow me," he said, leading the way to a thick clump of bushes behind a wall that bordered the road. here, quite concealed, yet able to peep through the leafy screen, he ordered his party to sit down on a heap of stones and await orders. he then went to the top of a mound that lay immediately behind them. from this he could see the road winding along for about two or three hundred yards. descending to his comrades he sat down beside them. "you look anxious, doctor," remarked the seaman. "i _am_ anxious," returned mark, "i am on the point of making a great venture, and the results may be serious. but we are in god's hands;" then, turning to mamba, who looked at him with much curiosity and a gleam of hope on his intelligent face, "i have hope of success and have prayed for it." mamba, whose knowledge of english was very slight, shook his head and looked puzzled. "have you forgotten, mamba, the law of your land--that the criminal who _looks_ upon the queen is from that moment entitled to claim freedom? ranavalona is to pass along this road in less than half-an-hour." of course mark said this in remarkably bad malagasy, but mamba understood. a gleam of intelligence shot into his swarthy visage, and his chest began to heave with strong emotion as he glared rather than gazed at the speaker. not less surprised were hockins and ebony when mark explained, for although they had indeed heard about the law in question they had forgotten it. after recovering the first shock, mamba turned quickly and pointed to his three comrades in suffering. "yes, yes--i understand," said mark, "i shall set them free at the same time. why not? the risk will not be increased." "a reg'lar jail-delivery!" murmured hockins, as he drew in a long breath. "hush! they come!" cried mark, crouching so as the more effectually to conceal himself, in which act he was quickly imitated by the others. according to promise, ranavalona had set out from her palace that morning without her wonted display and ceremonial, with only a few of her courtiers and a handful of troops around her. she did not, however, omit the scarlet umbrella of state, and it was this brilliant object which had attracted mark's attention. when the procession had approached close to the place of concealment, mark whispered "now!" and ran to the top of the mound before referred to. the four slaves followed him. the summit gained they turned, lifted up their arms and chains, _looked upon the queen_, and gave vent to the "oo!--oo!--oo!" which stands to the malagasy in the place of a cheer. recognising the importance of the event, hockins and ebony, unable to restrain themselves, gave vent to a hearty british hurrah! at this interruption, the bearers of the royal palanquin or chair halted, the soldiers brought their muskets to the "ready," and a dark frown overspread the features of the queen. before the storm could burst, however, mark descended the mound, went to the side of the chair, knelt on one knee, and exclaimed-- "forgive, madam--forgive me!" "this, then, is _your_ doing," replied the queen, sternly, through the secretary, who was at her side. "it is, madam. i am guilty. if punishment must descend, i alone should bear it." there was something so modest, yet so fearless, in the youth's tone and bearing, that the queen's brows relaxed a little. "but why did you dare to interfere with my laws?" demanded ranavalona, still angrily. "i did not venture to interfere, madam," returned mark, humbly, "i did but use one law to neutralise another. one of these slaves is my friend. i think he would be very useful in helping me to-night with my magic fires!" there was so much of cool presumption in thus quietly changing the subject, with such charming modesty of demeanour, too, that the queen burst into a hearty laugh. "strike off his fetters," she said, and gave the signal to her bearers to move on. "ay," said mark to the secretary in an authoritative tone, "and also strike off the fetters of the other three!" "you've got cheek for anything a'most, doctor," said the amazed and amused seaman, as they fell into the procession, and followed the queen to the pleasure-garden. here extensive preparations had been made for spending the day in games and festivities that far exceeded anything of the sort ever before attempted in that land. for mark breezy had not only an ingenious mind to devise, but an organising spirit to make use of the services of others in carrying out his plans. when the guests were scattered about the grounds, after a good breakfast, enjoying the delightful shade of the trees, tempting the gold-fish in the lake with crumbs of food, and loitering among the by-paths, the young doctor made himself almost ubiquitous. acting the double part of manager of the games and amusements, and private conspirator, he set an army of palace officials in motion, whom he pledged to secrecy, and led each to suppose that he was the prime mover in some plot that was to astonish and delight the queen, in all which he was ably assisted by the secretary. when he had thus stirred up, as it were, an air of mystery and expectation, he led the secretary, hockins, and ebony, to a retired spot, and, bidding them sit down, gave them a brief address. "you see," he said, "the time has now come for me to explain to you more fully, the plans and plots with which i have been engaged for some time past. and in doing so i would impress upon you, mr secretary, that i am placing my life in your hands; but i do so without fear, believing that you are a christian and will not betray me." mark paused and looked full at the secretary, who said, "but you must remember that i can do nothing that will be disloyal to the queen." "if you were persecuted by the queen and threatened with death, would you consider it allowable to fly to the forests?" "yes--the word of the lord recommends that." "would you consider it right to assist a fellow-christian to fly?" "truly i would!" "well then, you will assist me this night, for i have spoken to rafaravavy. my malagasy words are few, but love does not require many words! she has agreed to fly with ravonino--" "have you seen ravonino lately?" asked hockins. "no--i have not seen him _lately_." "how, then, do you know he will be ready?" "because," said mark, with a peculiar look, "i have been smitten with his complaint, and know that it runs the same course and exhibits the same phases in most men. let a young fellow see his intended bride treated with cruelty, and you may be sure that, no matter what difficulties may be in the way, he will hasten at the very first opportunity to meet and carry off the sweet little fairy in spite of--" "das me an' my black darlin', zactly--same zif you bin dar an' sawd us do it!" exclaimed ebony, with beaming interest. "just so," resumed mark. "however, i have not left things altogether to chance. although i did not see ravonino lately, i saw him not _very_ long ago, and gave him to understand that when some unusual festivities were going on in this garden he was to be ready at the old spot for whatever might happen! now, here is my little plan. you know i've been drilling fifty picked natives for some time in that big shed at the back of the cliff on the north side o' the city. i picked them for intelligence as well as strength and activity. well, i have taught them a wild war-dance. it cost me no little trouble and many sleepless nights to invent it, but i've managed it, and hope to show the queen and court what can be done by a little organisation. these fifty are first of all to glide quietly among the trees, each man to a particular spot and hang on the branches fifty earthen saucers full of grease, with wicks in them. at a given signal they are to light these instantaneously and retire. at another signal they are to rush upon the open space in front of the garden-house, and there engage in a sham fight. while thus engaged, men who have been taught will set fire to the mildest of our fireworks. when these are about to go out i will myself light the big roman candle--" "de young cannon, massa?" "yes, the young cannon, and that will keep things going for a considerable time. now, it is when the fight of the fifty begins and engrosses the attention of every one that i will myself take rafaravavy out from among the ladies and lead her to the rendezvous. you will all stand by--to lend a hand if need be--at the south-east corner of the garden-house, that i may know exactly where to find you. my hope and expectation is that by keeping things going as long as possible our friends ravonino and rafaravavy will get a good start. after the flight of the latter is found out, nothing more can be done for them." "do they go all alone?" asked hockins. "no, laihova goes with them; and mamba, who knows the secret meeting-places of the christians, will, i have no doubt, soon find out which way they have gone. anyhow they will all certainly make for the cave in betsilio-land where so many of their friends are. may god speed them! meanwhile we must keep the queen amused with races, wrestling, and such-like; and when she begins to get wearied with mere eating and talking, i want you, hockins, to go in for a wrestling-match with ebony by way of varying the entertainment, and showing them what englishmen and niggers can do." "wery good," said the seaman, with a sedate smile, "if that's to be the fun, you better make your will, ebony, for i'll break your back." "all right," retorted ebony, with a grin, "an' i tink you'll be wise to make your last dyin' speech afore we begin, for i'll bust you!" the various plans which we have here sketched were carried out with such brilliant success that the queen did not weary at all, and darkness began to descend on the scene before the day seemed to have half run its course. at this point mark hastened to the south-east corner of the garden-house, where he found the other conspirators faithfully at their post. "have you the flageolet with you?" he asked, hastily. "in course i has. never goes nowheres without it," said the seaman, drawing the little instrument from his breast-pocket. "go then, make your bow to the queen, and give her a tune. you know she's quite in love with your pipe--or yourself--and has been asking me about it already. she's in the verandah just now, and they are lighting the torches there." with the silent obedience of a man-of-war's man, hockins went off, and, without prelude, began. dead silence was the instant result, for the small bird-like pipe seemed to charm the very soul of every one who heard it. we know not whether it was accident or a spice of humour in the seaman, but the tune he played was "jock o' hazeldean!" and as mark hurried off to see that his fifty men were in readiness, he gave vent to a slight laugh as he thought of the lines: "she's ower the border and awa' wi' jock o' hazeldean!" to the surprise of the audience, no sooner had the last notes of the air died away than the performer thrust the pipe into his pocket, threw off his coat, and in a loud voice challenged the best man in madagascar to wrestle with him. as the challenge was given in english of course no native responded. even if it had been given in choice malagasy we question whether any brown man there would have ventured a hug with the huge sailor. but no sooner had the challenge passed his lips than ebony sprang forward, flung off not only his coat but his vest and shirt, and embraced his white opponent in a grip of iron. at that opportune moment the signal was given to the fifty men, who applied their lights, and, as if by magic, the entire scene was illuminated by a blaze of intense light that almost rivalled that of the sun itself! a tremendous "oo!--oo!--oo!" of applause burst from the astonished company, who, having had their attention fixed on the wrestlers, did not observe how the sudden illumination had been effected. truly the proceedings of hockins and ebony would have surprised even more finished wrestlers than those of madagascar, for the two men had entered into a sly compact not only to exert their strength to the uttermost, but to give way, each at certain points or moments, when by so doing the appearance of what they styled a "back-breaker" and a "buster" might be achieved in an effective manner. it was a marvellous exhibition. ebony glared and gasped! hockins growled and frowned! nothing short of a tussle between achilles and hercules could have equalled it. the court, from the queen downwards, was awe-stricken, eye-strained, open-mouthed, and breathless, but mark felt that it was time to cut it short. giving a preconcerted signal, he caused both men to fall down side by side as if exhausted but not conquered. then he gave another signal. a moment after, fire-wheels and roman candles began to play, and the fifty warriors rushed upon the scene, brandishing muskets and yelling like fiends. hastening, according to orders, to the south-east corner of the garden-house, hockins and ebony found the director-general awaiting them. "i cannot delay to fire the big candle," he said quickly. "de young cannon!" panted ebony. "yes, yes. you must fire it for me in about ten minutes or so, when the warriors seem to be getting knocked up. follow me, hockins, and keep close." another minute and rafaravavy, who was standing near the queen's chair, felt a touch on her arm. she looked round with a start, for, like every one else, she had been fascinated and quite engrossed by the scene before her. a glance and motion of the hand from mark sufficed. she glided gently backwards and reached the other side of the house unobserved. here mark grasped her hand and hockins followed. they walked at first, but began to run on gaining the shrubbery, which was rendered doubly dark by contrast with the glare behind them. in a couple of minutes they reached the thicket where the previous meeting had taken place. the over-arching foliage deepened the darkness so that it was impossible to distinguish features. a form was dimly seen, but it was only by the sound of the voice that they knew it to be ravonino. few words were uttered. every instant was precious. "farewell, dear friend," said ravonino, grasping mark's hand, "god grant that we may meet again in better times! laihova waits for me beyond the garden--" he stopped abruptly, seized rafaravavy's hand and glided with her noiselessly into the thicket, for at that moment another figure was seen to approach them. from his unusual size they knew him to be one of ranavalona's chief executioners. he was a cool-headed and suspicious man, a sort of natural detective, who always had his wits about him. having observed several people gliding through the shrubbery he had quitted the sports and followed. to have been recognised by this official would have been fatal--at least to those plotters who did not take to flight. hockins, who was prompt to conceive and act when danger pressed, at once stepped forward and gave the man of blood a right-hander on the top of the nose which instantly romanised that feature and laid its owner on his back insensible. at the same moment--as if the blow had been the touching of a secret spring--the whole garden was lighted up with a magnificent red glare, and they knew that ebony had done his part and lighted the giant candle. the red glare lasted long enough to reveal the fact that ravonino and rafaravavy were gone, and that the man at their feet was indeed the executioner whom they had guessed him to be. leaving him there they ran quickly back to the scene of festivities, hoping that their absence had not been observed. before they had gone half-a-dozen steps there was an explosion like that of a big gun, a bomb went high into the air, and burst in a magnificent constellation of brilliant stars, mingled with fiery rain. the "oo!--oo!--oo!" cheers became vociferous at this, and were, if possible, still more enthusiastic when the red fire changed to a beautiful blue. "splendid!" exclaimed mark, much satisfied with the result of his recent labours, "and it will keep going on for a considerable time yet." as he spoke there was a crash like the loudest thunder, and a momentary glare as of the brightest noon-light, which was followed by intense darkness, while the garden was shaken as if by an earthquake. loud cries and shrieks were accompanied by the falling of a shower of dust and small stones. evidently there had been a catastrophe, and the quaking conspirators hastened to the spot, half expecting to find the queen and court of madagascar blown to atoms. "the whole consarn's busted up!" exclaimed hockins, on coming in sight of the garden-house. the seaman's explanation was the true one. owing to some inexplicable mistake in the loading of the monster roman candle, fire had communicated somehow with the lowest charge, which was a good strong one, intended to propel a glorious mass of ingenious contrivances into the air and end the matter with an effective bang. as it turned out, the bang was ten times more effective, for it not only blew out the entire charge but burst the cast-iron case, and upturned tons of earth in which mark had taken the precaution to bury the thing up to its neck. at first the queen, like her people, had got a severe fright; but, seeing that no one seemed to be hurt, she controlled her feelings, under the impression, no doubt, that the explosion was part of the programme. "have you got your whistle, hockins?" asked mark, quickly, as he ran forward. "ay, sir--always here, ready for action!" "come, then, play up when i give the word--something quieting. hold on! let's do it sedately." by this time they had got within the circle of torchlight. reducing their run to a smart walk the two friends advanced, as mark had suggested, sedately, in front of the queen, while the secretary rejoined the circle of courtiers unperceived. as they advanced they encountered ebony with an unused roman candle in each hand, and an expression of horror on his black face. "oh! massa--" he began. "hush! never mind! follow me!" said mark, in a peremptory whisper. another moment and the sweet tones of the flageolet silenced the noise of the excited throng, as hockins stood before the queen and played one of the sweetest of scottish songs. mark placed ebony behind his comrade, made him hold up the roman candles, quietly lighted them both, and retired. thus hockins, much to his own surprise, found himself, in the midst of spouting fire, producing the melodious notes of "afton water!" when the little candles exploded, our director-general advanced to the royal chair and expressed a hope that the performances had given satisfaction. this the secretary--ever-ready in time of need--translated, and returned the answer that the queen was charmed, after which the proceedings terminated, and ranavalona returned to her palace to dream, no doubt, of fireworks and music instead of martyrdoms. so engrossed was the whole court with the exciting and singular events of the day that no one noticed the absence of rafaravavy, and, happily, the queen did not happen to require her attendance that night. even those who were in closest proximity to the fugitive's own room, were so taken up with what they had seen that they either did not think of her, or supposed that fatigue had induced her to retire early. thus it came to pass that when her flight was discovered on the following day, rafaravavy, carried by strong and willing bearers, and guarded by her devoted ravonino and his faithful friend laihova, was being swiftly borne over mountain and plain to the forest stronghold in betsilio-land. chapter twenty four. flight and pursuit of ravonino and rafaravavy. the fury of the queen when she heard of the flight of rafaravavy was terrible, for this was the second of her favourite ladies-in-waiting who had become christians and deserted her court in fear of their lives-- ra-ruth, the fair little sister of ravonino, having been the first. fortunately ranavalona did not think of connecting the flight of rafaravavy with the recent entertainments, so that suspicion did not attach to mark and his friends. neither did the executioner with the romanised nose suspect them, for in the profound darkness he had not been able to see who it was that knocked the senses out of him; and when afterwards he was told of the explosion that had occurred, he came to the conclusion, (and told his friends), that a big stone, hurled into the air at that time, had descended on his head and felled him. whether the "friends" believed this or not we cannot say, but certain it is that they covertly rejoiced in the accident, for naturally the man of blood was no favourite! as might be supposed, soldiers were at once despatched all over the country in search of the fugitive; and the queen, relapsing into one of her dark fits of cruelty, began to persecute the christians more severely than ever. still, mark breezy strove to influence her towards mercy, and in some measure restrained her. meanwhile ravonino and his party pushed on in hot haste towards their place of refuge in the wild forest. the dangers to which they were exposed and the risks they ran on this adventurous journey were too numerous to be related in detail. we can only touch on a few of them here. laihova, it may be mentioned in passing, failed to join them, certainly not from want of will, but because the place where he had concealed himself was discovered while he lay awaiting the signal to join his friends. two female relations who knew of his hiding-place were caught, convicted, if we may so put it, of christianity! and put to the torture. although true-hearted, these poor girls were so agonised by suffering and terror that, in a moment of weakness, they disclosed the secret. but even among prison authorities there were found followers of jesus-- secretly, however, for fear of the tyrant queen--and one of these sent a swift messenger to laihova to warn him. had the youth been an ordinary man the warning would have been too late, for close on the heels of the messenger came the soldiers with his death-warrant. but laihova was gifted with cool courage and unusual speed of foot. trust, also, in the certainty of god's blessing, whether life or death should be his portion, filled him with that spirit of enthusiastic energy which goes so far, in all circumstances of life, to ensure success. he soon distanced his pursuers, left them out of sight behind, and, finally, found refuge with a christian friend, who hid him over an oven in his house when he had reached the last stage of exhaustion from hard running, and could not have advanced further without rest. the soldiers came up and searched the house while he was asleep, but happily did not observe the oven! they remained there, however, over the night, and thus rendered it impossible for laihova to join his friends at that time. ravonino could not, of course, afford to delay. knowing also that his young friend was well able to take care of himself, and that his soul's anchor was the lord, he felt comparatively little anxiety in starting without him. to let rafaravavy have female companionship on the hazardous journey, her lover induced a christian girl who had been named sarah to accompany them. this faithful creature was the means of saving their lives more than once by giving timely warning of approaching danger. the first place to which the fugitives directed their steps was a village about fifty miles from the capital, where dwelt a christian who, with his wife, offered them hospitality and protection. this man had sent a noble message to the persecuted ones in the city. it ran thus:-- "let all the christians who are compelled to run away for their lives come to me. i will take care of them. as long as i am safe they are safe, and as long as i have food they shall share it." not an hour's rest was taken until the house of their friend was reached. of course they were received with open arms. food was placed before them, and mats were spread in a safe place on which they might rest. but neither food nor repose would the fugitives take until they had joined the christian family in thanking god for their escape and in singing his praise. "sing the hymn of dear ramanisa," said ravonino as he seated himself at the side of rafaravavy, after arranging her mat. the host smiled as he turned over the leaves of a malagasy hymn-book. "all the fugitives like that hymn," he said. "do you wonder?" returned his guest. "before the last great persecution he was one of our most faithful preachers of the gospel, and when trouble came he always forgot himself in his eager desire to help and comfort others. many a time has he guided and strengthened the lord's people when they have been compelled to fly,--to travel weary and footsore by night, to wander in the dark forests, and hide in the gloomy caves. wherever he went there was sunshine, because his heart was very full of the love of jesus; and when he was led out to be speared, was he not faithful to the last? perhaps we may be permitted to sing his own hymn along with him some day before the throne. no wonder that we love the words of ramanisa. they called him josiah when he was baptized, but he was ramanisa when the lord called him, and i think _that_ is the name that is written in the book of life." the hymn composed by this good native, which these christians began to sing--and which is incorporated, as we have said, in the malagasy hymn-book,--is still, and will doubtless continue to be, a great favourite with the christians of madagascar. the following is a translation of three of the verses. _see note _. "loud to the lord your voices raise, extol his name, exalt his praise; publish the wonders of his hand o'er all the earth, in every land. "oh! god, our god, to thee we cry, jesus, the saviour, be thou nigh; oh! sacred spirit, hear our prayer, and save the afflicted from despair. "scarce can we find a place of rest, save dens and caves, with hunger press'd; yet thy compassion is our bliss, pilgrims amidst a wilderness." poor rafaravavy had full proof of the truth embodied in these lines, both as to the affliction and the bliss, before many days were over. the soldiers being strong hardy men, burdened only with their arms, and with little clothing, pushed after the three fugitives with so much vigour that they arrived at the place where the latter had rested on the second day of their flight. while soldiers were thus close to them the utmost caution and close concealment were necessary. they remained where they were, therefore, and every morning, before dawn, ravonino stole out to a neighbouring mountain with rafaravavy and her maid. there they lay hid among the craggy rocks until night-fall, when they returned to their friend's house. but soon this place of concealment became known to the persecuting prime minister, rainiharo, who directed the soldiers to search the mountain before going to the village. this they did, but did not find the fugitives, for, as it was cold that morning, they had agreed to run the risk of remaining in the house! failing to find those they sought for in the mountain, the soldiers entered the village and approached the house where they lay unperceived by human eye, and it seemed as if at last rafaravavy's doom was sealed. other eyes, however,--very black and sharp ones--observed the enemy, and the owners of these eyes--a flock of crows--rose in alarm at their approach. "oh!" exclaimed the handmaiden, sarah, "the crows are at the rice i spread out to dry!" and out she ran to rescue it. one glimpse of the soldiers was enough. sarah was equal to the occasion. without even a backward glance she gave warning to those in the house, but cleverly continued her raid upon the crows, laughingly asking the men when she passed them, "if they had come there to search for run-away christians!" "this way," whispered the host to his two guests when the warning reached him. leading them to an inner room he made them creep under a bed and covered them with a mat. as for the chair-bearers and their burden, such adjuncts to malagasy travel were too numerous and common in the land to attract much attention. fortunately the soldiers were hungry, and, being eager for food, did not search the house with care, but during their stay of an hour poor rafaravavy heard all they said respecting her and the orders that had been issued for her arrest and death. at the same time ravonino became aware that his presence in the neighbourhood was known, though his complicity in the abduction of his companion in distress, he fancied, had not been suspected. that night the fugitives resumed their journey and travelled till dawn, when they again found safe refuge in the house of a sympathising friend. thus they proceeded for several days and nights with the utmost caution, for, wherever they went it was found that soldiers had been sent out in pursuit. one night they approached a village where they knew they would be kindly received, but had scarcely reached it when they learned that a party of soldiers were searching the neighbourhood for some other woman who had recently disappeared. they were compelled, therefore, to return to the place they had left the day before. from this point they changed their intended route, partly to throw the pursuers off the scent, if possible, and partly to seek temporary refuge at the house of an old woman who was an aunt of sarah. "she's a real good christian," said sarah, when advising the visit, "and she fears no one but god. if they ever kill my old aunt she will die singing, or praying for her murderers." sure enough, when they reached the hut of the old woman, they heard her singing hymns at the full pitch of her voice, quite regardless of the fact that she was breaking the law and that persecutors were swarming in the land. "shelter you!" exclaimed this old woman, when her niece had mentioned the cause of their visit, "yes, i will shelter you as long as my dear lord gives me the power to do so." the need for friendly aid was great, for, even while the old woman spoke, a little girl came bounding into the hut saying that a party of soldiers were approaching. "run! meet them, child. then turn and run away as if you were afraid of them. make them chase you if you can. run!" the girl was intelligent. she bounded away, and the old woman, with a degree of activity that was wonderful at her age, led her visitors to the back of her house and hid them in a pit. there they had to spend that night while the aunt entertained their pursuers, but next morning, after the latter had left, their old hostess led them to a plantation close at hand, where they remained concealed for several days, not daring to move, for, at various times, they saw men who were in pursuit of them pass quite near to their hiding-place. here it was decided that the palanquin, or chair-bearers, should proceed no further, as they only increased the danger of discovery, and that ravonino, rafaravavy, and sarah should proceed alone and on foot through the extensive forest which lay just beyond the place. the first night all went well. the moon was clear enough to make travelling easy, and no enemies were encountered, but the next evening, a little after sunset, on gaining the crest of a hill, they met almost face to face a small band of soldiers who were travelling in the opposite direction. to crouch behind some rocks was the work of an instant. there was no thick underwood at the spot to conceal them. as ravonino glanced quickly round, he saw that the only hope was to turn and run. they evidently had not been perceived, but what probability was there that the two trembling girls beside him could escape by such means? "we must fly, dear one," he said, in desperation, putting his arm round rafaravavy's waist. "i cannot run," she said, while a look of resignation settled on her face. "go, _you_ may escape, perhaps, if the lord will, and bring us help. leave us, we are ready to die." "leave you, rafaravavy!" exclaimed the man, with a look almost of triumph. "no--not until my god commands. may he help us now!" while he spoke he observed a patch of rushes growing at the side of the path. as a last resource he ran in among them, leading or rather dragging the two girls. to their joy they found that the rushes grew in a pool of water. it was very shallow, but by lying down and sinking themselves into the mud of the deepest part they managed to cover themselves completely, except their heads, which the rushes effectually concealed. a few minutes later and the soldiers, reaching the crest of the hill, halted to look round and chat. if it had been broad day at the time the fugitives must undoubtedly have been observed, but it was growing dark. for a few terrible minutes the men conversed--always on the same theme-- the capture and death of rafaravavy! then they resumed their march and disappeared among the forest trees. it was a deplorable plight in which the fugitives now found themselves. soaking wet, covered with mud from their necks downwards, and without the prospect of any shelter for the coming night save that afforded by the open forest. poor sarah lost heart entirely for a little time and burst into tears, but rafaravavy, putting her hand on the maid's shoulder, said encouragingly, "`the lord reigneth. we will not fear what man can do unto us.' will you pray for us?" she added, turning to their protector. ravonino at once kneeled; the two girls sank down beside him, and in few but earnest, simple words he prayed for help in the all-prevailing name of jesus. the vigour of body which flowed from the prayer was no fanciful emotion or miraculous effect. the confidence resulting from faith in god, and the joy of soul and consequent flow of warm blood, were not less natural consequences of prayer than direct answers to it would have been. they rose from their knees refreshed, and walked on with renewed energy for a considerable time; but at last rafaravavy was fairly overcome with fatigue, and an irresistible desire to sleep. her maid, being of a more robust physical fibre, was not so much overcome, and declared that she could still go on easily. ravonino at last solved the difficulty by taking his lady-love in his strong arms. she submitted with a sleepy protest, and her little head was no sooner on the man's shoulder than she was fast asleep. and here again the power of joy to give strength became abundantly evident, for when he fairly had rafaravavy in his arms, a glow of enthusiasm and thankfulness pervaded his entire being, so that he felt as if he had scarcely walked any distance at all that day! his endurance, however, was not destined to be further tested that night, for he had not gone far when he came unexpectedly on the hut of a wood-cutter, who received him hospitably, though, being taciturn, it was not easy to ascertain what were his views, as to the religion for which so many people were then suffering. strange to say, during all this trying time, these fugitives found comfort not only from the word of god, but from the _pilgrim's progress_ of bunyan! this work had been translated into the malagasy language by the english missionaries, and many passages in it were found to be singularly appropriate to, and comforting in the circumstances in which the persecuted people were placed. eight copies of the great allegory had been transcribed by the native christians themselves for their common use. these being lent from one household to another the details of the story soon spread. naturally those who possessed strong memories learned much of it by heart, and thus it became a book which the afflicted christians prized next to the bible. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . extracted from _madagascar, its missions and martyrs_, by e. prout, for the london missionary society. chapter twenty five. the forest refuge--voalavo is war-like, ravonino peaceful, and false friends dangerous. we change the scene, now, to the profoundest recesses of the tangled forest. here, in the deep shadow cast by the over-arching trees, two native girls wandered out at an early hour one morning to converse about things that interested them deeply--if the varying aspects of their expressive faces were any index to their thoughts. one was tall, dark, majestic in mien and grave of countenance. the other was comparatively fair, of small stature, and evidently of lively yet timid disposition. need we say that they were ramatoa, the sister of laihova, and ra-ruth, the sister of ravonino? "i fear they will never return to us," said ra-ruth, laying her hand on her friend's arm. "say not so," replied ramatoa, "we know not what blessings our god has in store for us. only this we are sure of, that _all_ things will work together for our good." "but the queen is so cruel!" objected her little friend. "when her anger is roused she will do anything. besides, has not the messenger told us that the soldiers have been sent in hundreds over the country to search for christians, and spies are about everywhere. laihova, too, has been separated from them, he says. perhaps he has been caught." "i like not this messenger," said the other, with a touch of sternness in her look and tone. "he seems to me like a wolf in sheep's clothing. he does not refer all things to god as `our father,' and in his use of the word he does not seem sincere. i trust that he is not one of the spies." as she spoke her companion uttered a quick exclamation. there was a rustling in the bushes, and next moment, laihova, springing out, clasped ra-ruth in his arms. "thank god," he said, in deep earnest tones, as he released her. "i am not too late!" "brother," said ramatoa, anxiously, laying a hand on the man's arm, "are you alone?" "yes. have not ravoninohitriniony and rafaravavy arrived?" "no. and--and what of mamba?" asked ramatoa. an expression of profound sadness crossed the features of laihova. dropping his eyes on the ground he stood silent. for a few moments his sister did not speak, but her breast heaved with suppressed emotion. at last she asked in a low voice-- "has he been martyred?" "no--he is not dead. but--he is condemned to slavery in chains for life." terrible though this fate was, the news of it evidently conveyed a measure of relief to ramatoa, for it assured her that her lover was at all events not dead. where there is life there is hope! "i fear this will kill his mother," she said. "poor reni-mamba is so full of love and gentleness, and her sorrows have been very heavy. strange that her husband and son should share the same fate--perpetual slavery! yet it is not perpetual. death will set them free. come to the cave and let us break the sad news." as they walked through the forest, ramatoa gave her brother a rapid outline of what had occurred since the day he left. "they will be deeply grieved," she said, "that our friends are not with you. we had all hoped that you would arrive together. a messenger who has just come did indeed tell us that you had been separated from them, but all supposed that you would easily overtake them." "true, sister, but i over-shot them. that has been the way of it," returned laihova, regretfully. "still, i feel sure that they will escape," continued the girl, "ravoninohitriniony has such a firm trust in god, and he is so strong and brave and wise. besides, he has the blood of the white man in his veins--he will succeed or die!" this compliment to her brother, whether deserved or not, had the effect of raising a flush of pleasure on ra-ruth's little face. "many things have happened since you left us," resumed ramatoa. "razafil, the poet, has come to stay with us, and voalavo too." "voalavo!" exclaimed laihova in surprise, "is he not the chief of a tribe that does not love jesus? and he was not a christian when i saw him last." "he is a christian _now_," returned the girl, quietly, "if i may judge him by his works. he has been our main stay since you went away. not long after you left us he came, saying that you had told him about jesus delivering men from the power of sin, and he wanted to know about him. you may be sure we were glad to tell him all we knew. he has never said he is a christian, but he has stayed with us ever since, and hunted for us. he is as active as the youngest men in getting and bringing in wild fruits, and the youths are glad to have his wisdom and advice. he listens to us while we sing, and he prays in secret--i know that he does, for i have overheard him. moreover, he has brought some of his people over to our side. he seems to be particularly fond of reni-mamba, and she is fond of him--for he is funny." "yes; he is _very_ funny," responded laihova, with profound gravity. on reaching the cavern which we have described in a former chapter, they found that most of the men were out, and the women were busy with those culinary labours which tend to rejoice the hearts of hunters when they return home. the chief, voalavo, was there, however, deeply engaged in studying--yes, studying--_the pilgrim's progress_! but he could not make much of it, his education--at the hands of ra-ruth--having commenced only a few weeks before. besides teaching the chief his letters, ra-ruth had read to him large portions of the book, which had so fascinated him that he had applied himself to his letters with a will, and, being an able man, had begun to make rapid progress. his desire, also, to be able to read the bible--when he began to understand what it was, and to perceive the significance of some of its soul-stirring words--stimulated his active mind to greater exertions. the unfortunate poet, razafil, also fell in with the wonderful allegory in that cave for the first time, and it helped in no small degree to turn his mind from brooding over the fate of his dear martyred daughter raniva. his mind was quicker than that of the chief to perceive the grand truths which underlie the story, and he was not a little comforted. thus these two men, so very differently constituted, sat at the feet of the fair ra-ruth, who being, as we have said, timid and rather distrustful of herself, was overjoyed to find that even she could help in advancing the cause of her lord. but it rather perplexed the little maiden when these same men, having been gifted with inquiring minds, puzzled themselves over the question why the prince of the country in _the pilgrim's progress_ did not kill apollyon at once and have done with him. "or make him good," suggested voalavo. "true, that would have been better, perhaps, than killing him," assented razafil. like millions of the human race before them, the two men got out of their depth here; but unlike too many thousands of the same race, they did not permit such difficulties to interfere with their unshaken confidence in the love and wisdom of that god, who certainly "doeth all things well," whatever we in our pride and partial ignorance may think of him. voalavo's studies on the day we write of did not however engross him so much as to prevent his starting up in great excitement when he heard the sound of laihova's voice. he hastened to the entrance of the cavern, and received his friend with his wonted effusive heartiness. but he was damped considerably on learning that laihova came alone, that mamba was enslaved, and that ravonino and rafaravavy were still wandering in the forest, pursued by their enemies. "come, my young men!" he shouted, flying into a sudden state of indignation, and clapping his hands together like a pistol-shot, "we will go and rouse our warriors. arm, and make to the rescue! we will dethrone the queen--this ranavalona--usurper! why should such a woman live on, filling the land with blood and misery!" "my friend," said laihova, in a soothing tone, as he laid his hand on the chief's shoulder, "the arms of christians are not the arms of a soldier. we wrestle not against flesh and blood." "that is idle talk," exclaimed the unpacified chief. "did not christian use a sword? did not greatheart fight apollyon with a sword?" "true, but these were spiritual weapons," said laihova. "moreover, if you did rouse your people and march to the capital, what could you do? your whole tribe would appear but as a handful of dust in the eyes of the hova army." "i would that we were a handful of dust!" snorted the chief, "and we'd dash ourselves into the eyes of the hova army and kill them while they wept!" "but there is nothing to prevent us from going forth to meet our friends," rejoined laihova, "and we can take our spears. if they stand in need of help we may give it." this proposition fell in entirely with the war-like voalavo's views, and, a band of the young hunters and fruit-gatherers entering the cave at that moment, he urged them to make haste with their dinner and get ready for the war-path. ever-ready--as young blades usually are--for fighting, these youths threw down their loads quickly. and, truly, judging from the contents of the cavern larder that day, there was no prospect of famine before the persecuted people. in one part of that larder there was abundance of beef and pork, also of game, such as guinea-fowl, pheasants, partridges, peacocks, turkeys, geese, ducks, pigeons, turtle-doves, and snipe. in another place the vegetable and fruit-gatherers had piled up little mounds of bread-fruit, pine-apples, cocoa-nuts, yams, plantains, bananas, manioc-root, melons, etcetera, much of which had been gathered from regions at a considerable distance from their place of abode. thus they had laid up store for many days, and felt somewhat elated. but there were two hearts there which found it impossible to rejoice, and very hard to submit to god. reni and ramatoa retired to a dark recess in the cave, and mingled their tears and prayers together. "oh! it would have been better if he had died!" sobbed reni, "for then he would have been with jesus; but now it is awful to think of the life-long slavery; and we shall never more see him on earth." "nay, mother, do not think thus. whatever god does _must_ be best," returned ramatoa in a tremulous voice. "let us try to say `thy will be--'" she broke down and finished the sentence with prayer for strength and for a submissive spirit. meanwhile the war-like expedition, on which voalavo and his youths were only too ready to enter was rendered needless by the sudden appearance of ravonino himself, with rafaravavy and sarah! after encountering innumerable hardships and dangers those three had at last arrived at their forest stronghold in safety. "so then," remarked laihova to ra-ruth, after the first enthusiastic reception was over, "i have only over-shot them by a few hours after all!" "we were just going to sally forth to look for you--and fight if need be," said voalavo. "there was no need for that," returned ravonino, "the lord was our protector." "where is reni-mamba? have you heard, mother, about your son?" reni and ramatoa, who had pressed forward, looked surprised, for their friend did not speak like a man who had bad news to tell. "laihova has told me, truly," replied reni, still whimpering, "that my dear boy is worse than dead." "not so, mother," said ravonino, taking the poor woman's hand, "be of good cheer; mamba is not dead. i know not indeed where he is at this moment, having been pressed in my own flight, but i know that the queen has set him free--this much i learned from our white friend, mark breezy. more i cannot tell, but is not this cause for joy and gratitude? come, let us return thanks to our father." most of those present were glad to give vent to their feelings in prayer and praise, though some there were who, having been led to join the band by the mere force of circumstances, had little heart in the matter. certainly voalavo was not among these last, for the enthusiasm which inclined him to fight with violence also induced him to pray with vigour. when this appropriate act of worship was over, food was prepared for the wearied travellers, and in a short time the whole party was seated round the cooking-fire, illuminated by the torches on the wall, and listening eagerly to ravonino as he recounted his adventures. "i fear much," he said in conclusion, "that another dark season is about to fall on us. it may be like the last--or worse." ravonino here referred, (and with bated breath), to the terrible outbreak of persecution which had occurred several years previously, when, at the lowest estimate, about two thousand men and women were severely punished, and many tortured and slain, because they professed or favoured the religion of jesus. as, one after another, various members of the party detailed the sad sufferings or deaths of relatives and friends, the feelings of all became deeply affected with grief, those of some with a considerable dash also of indignation. among the latter of course was voalavo. "why," he cried suddenly, giving his hands the accustomed pistol-shot clap that betrayed his inability to contain himself, "why do we suffer all this? why not assemble the tribes, go up at once to antananarivo, take it, cut off the queen's head, and put prince rakota on the throne?" "ay, why not?" demanded several of the more fiery young men. "because the lord tells us to overcome evil with good," answered ravonino, quietly. then, wishing to draw attention from the subject, he inquired for the messenger who had brought news of his own escape. all looked round as if expecting the man to answer for himself, but no one replied. search was made, and then it was discovered that the messenger had hastily taken his departure from the place. chapter twenty six. doctor breezy prescribes for the queen, and attains to temporary and "perfik f'licity." while these events were taking place in the forest, queen ranavalona was keeping her court physician and his comrades in a state of considerable uneasiness, not only with reference to the safety of their own heads, but because of her violent edicts regarding her christian subjects. she renewed her commands as to the necessity of every one coming forward, on pain of instant death in the event of disobedience, and accusing themselves, with the reiterated assurance that if they failed to comply and they were afterwards accused by others they should be subjected to the ordeal of the tangena, and slain or reduced to perpetual slavery if found guilty. the whole city was in a panic. no one felt safe. under the influence of fear some accused themselves, expecting, no doubt, that their punishment would be lightened. others remained quiet, hoping that they might escape detection, while many were accused by false friends as well as by enemies, and fell victims under the poison ordeal. others, again, stood firm, and boldly proclaimed their faith in the lord jesus and their readiness to die if need be for his cause. after the accusations, trials, and investigations, sentences were read which deprived four hundred officers and nobles of their honours, and levied fines on the remainder to the number of about two thousand. one would have thought that the mere necessity for such widespread punishment would have shown the queen how deeply the new religion had taken root, and how hopeless it was to attempt its suppression, but she did not see it in that light. on the contrary, she issued a mandate requiring all books to be delivered up to her officers, and threatening death against any who should keep back or hide even a single leaf. she also commanded her subjects never again even to "think of the christian lessons they had learned, but to blot them from their memories for ever!" among those who boldly held to their opinions was the queen's own son rakota, who, however, as we have seen, did not run quite so much risk as others, owing to his mother's affection for him. the prime minister's son, also, and prince ramonja, made no effort to conceal their opinions, though they were wise enough to refrain from exasperating the angry queen by asserting them openly. one morning the prime minister sent a message to the court physician, requiring his immediate attendance at the palace. mark was seated in his own room at the time, talking with hockins and ebony about the gloomy state of affairs. a slight feeling of dismay fluttered the heart of each when the message came, for death-warrants were much in the air at that time. "oh, massa, p'r'aps dey're a-goin' to kill you!" was the negro's comforting suggestion. "more likely they want him to cure the queen," said hockins. "couldn't you, massa," whispered ebony, with a terribly solemn countenance, "mix a spoonful--a bery small spoonful--ob prussic acid, or creosote, or suffin ob dat sort, wid 'er physic?" mark laughed, and shook his head as he went out. he found rainiharo, with a tremendous frown on his face and deep lines of care on his brow, seated in front of our friend the secretary, who had an open book on his knee. three other officers of the palace sat beside them. these constituted a court of inquiry into the contents of the suspected books, and the secretary, being the only literary character among them, was the appointed reader. "come here. sit down," said rainiharo, sternly pointing to a seat; "we want you to explain your books. the queen commands us to examine them, and, if we find anything contrary to her wishes in them, to condemn them to the flames. but it seems to us that there is nothing in them but rubbish which we cannot understand." strange, is it not, that in barbaric as well as in civilised lands, people are apt to regard as rubbish that which they do not understand? so thought the court physician, but he wisely held his tongue and sat down. "this book," said the prime minister, pointing with a look of mingled contempt and exasperation to the volume on the secretary's knee, "is worse than the last. the one we condemned yesterday was what you call your bible. we began with it because it was the biggest book. being practical men we began at the beginning, intending to go straight through and give it a fair hearing. we began at gen--gen--what was it?" "genesis," answered the secretary. "genzis--yes. well, we found nothing to object to in the first verse, but in the second--the very second--we found the word `darkness.' this was sufficient! queen ranavalona does not like darkness, so we condemned it at once--unanimously--for we could not for a moment tolerate anything with _darkness_ in it." mark felt an almost irresistible desire to laugh outright, but as the gratification of that desire might have cost him his head he did resist it successfully. "now," continued the prime minister, with a darker frown, "we have got to the pil--pil--what is it?" "_pilgrim's progress_," answered the secretary. "just so--the _pilgim's progress_. well, we agreed that we would give the _pil--pilgim's progress_ a better chance, so we opened it, as it were, anyhow, and what do we come on--the very first thing--but a man named obstinate! now, if there is one thing that the queen hates more than another it is an obstinate man. she cannot abide obstinate men. in fact, she has none such about her, for the few men of that sort that have turned up now and then have invariably lost their heads. but we wanted to be fair, so we read on, and what do we find as one of the first things that obstinate says? he says, `tush! away with your book!' now, if the man himself condemns the book, is our queen likely to spare it? but there are some things in the book which we cannot understand, so we have sent for you to explain it. now," added rainiharo, turning to the secretary, "translate all that to the maker of physic and tell me what he has to answer." it was a strange and difficult duty that our young student was thus unexpectedly and suddenly called to perform, and never before had he felt so deeply the difference between knowing a subject and expounding it. there was no escape, however, from the situation. he was not only bound by fear of his life, but by scripture itself, "to give a reason of the hope that was in him," and he rose to the occasion with vigour, praying, mentally, for guidance, and also blessing his mother for having subjected him in childhood--much against his will!--to a pretty stiff and systematic training in the truths of scripture as well as in the story of the _pilgrim's progress_. but no exposition that he could give sufficed to affect the foregone conclusion that both the bible and the pilgrim, containing as they did matter that was offensive to the queen, were worthy of condemnation, and, therefore, doomed to the flames. having settled this knotty point in a statesmanlike manner, rainiharo bade mark and the secretary remain with him, and dismissed his three colleagues. "you see," he said, after some moments of anxious thought, "although i agree with the queen in her desire to stamp out the christian religion, i have no desire that my son and my nephew should be stamped out along with it; therefore i wish to have your assistance, doctor, in turning the mind of ranavalona away from persecution to some extent for in her present mood she is dangerous alike to friend and foe. indeed i would not give much for your own life if she becomes more violent. how is this to be done, think you?" the question was indeed a puzzler, for it amounted to this-- "how are we to manage a furious, blood-thirsty woman with the reins loose on her neck and the bit fast in her teeth?" "i know not," said mark at last, "but i will think the matter over and talk with you again." "if i may be allowed to speak," said the secretary. "you are allowed," returned the premier. "then i would advise that the queen should arrange a grand journey--a procession--all over the country, with thousands of her soldiers. this will let her have plenty of fresh air and exercise, change of scene, and excitement, and will give her something to do till her blood cools. at the same time it will show the people her great power and perhaps induce them to be cautious how they resist her will." "the idea is good," said mark, with animation, "so good that i would advise its being carried out immediately--even before another week passes." rainiharo shook his head. "impossible. there is to be a great bull-fight this week, and you know ranavalona will allow nothing to interfere with that. besides, it takes time to get up such an expedition as you suggest. however, i like the notion well. go. i will think over it and see you again." the bull-fighting to which the premier referred was a favourite amusement with this blood-thirsty woman, and the spectacle usually took place in the royal court-yard. rainiharo was right when he said the queen would not forego it, but she was so pleased with the plan of a royal progress through the country that she gave orders to make ready for it at once in an extensive scale. "you will of course accompany me," she said to mark, when he was summoned to a subsequent audience, "i may be ill, or my bearers may fall and i may be injured." "certainly," he replied, "nothing would afford the court physician greater pleasure than to attend upon her majesty on such an expedition. but i would ask a favour," continued mark. "may my black servant accompany me? he is very useful in assisting me with my medicines, and--" "yes, yes," interrupted the queen, "let him go with you by all means. he shall have bearers if you choose. and take yon other man also--with his music. i love his little pipe!" in some excitement mark went off to tell his comrades the news--which hockins received with a grunt of satisfaction, and the negro with a burst of joy. indeed the anxieties and worries they had recently experienced in the city, coupled with the tyranny and bloodshed which they witnessed, had so depressed the three friends that the mere idea of getting once again into the fresh free open plains and forests afforded them pleasure somewhat akin to that of the school-boy when he obtains an unexpected holiday. great was the excitement all over the country when the queen's intention was made known. the idea was not indeed a novelty. malagasy sovereigns had been in the habit of making such progresses from time to time in former years. the wise king radama the first frequently went on hunting expeditions with more or less of display. but knowing as they did, only too well, the cruel character of ranavalona the first, the people feared that the desire to terrify and suppress had more to do with the event than pleasure or health. at last, everything being complete, the queen left the capital, and directed her course to the south-westward. her enormous retinue consisted of the members of the government, the principal military and civil officers and their wives, six thousand soldiers, and a host of slaves, bearers, and other attendants; the whole numbering about , souls. great preparations had been made for the journey in the way of providing large stores of rice, herds of cattle, and other provisions, but those who knew the difficulties of the proposed route, and the thinly populated character of the country, looked with considerable apprehension on the prospects of the journey. some there were, no doubt, who regarded these prospects with a lively hope that the queen might never more return to her capital! of course such a multitude travelled very slowly, as may well be believed when it is said that they had about palanquins in the host, for there was not a wheeled vehicle in madagascar at that time. the soldiers were formed in five divisions; one carrying the tents, one the cooking apparatus and spears, and one the guns and sleeping-mats. the other two had always to be in readiness for any service required about the queen. the camp was divided into four parts; the queen being in the middle, in a blue tent, surrounded, wherever she halted for the night, by high palisades, and near to this was pitched a tent containing the idols of the royal family. the tent of the prime minister, with the malagasy flag, was pitched to the north of that of the queen. east, west, and south, were occupied by other high officers of state, and among the latter was the tent of our friends, mark, hockins, and ebony. "now," said the first of these, as he sat in the door of the tent one evening after supper, watching the rich glow of sunshine that flooded a wide stretch of beautiful country in front of him, "this would be perfect felicity if only we had freedom to move about at our own pleasure and hunt up the treasures in botany, entomology, etcetera, that are scattered around us." "true, massa," returned ebony, "it would be perfik f'licity if we could forgit de poor christ'ns in chains an' pris'ns." "right, ebony, right. i am selfishly thinking only of myself at the present moment. but let us hope we may manage to do these poor christians good before we leave the land." "i don't think, myself, that we'll get much fun out o' this trip," remarked hockins. "you see the queen's too fond o' your physickin' and of my tootootlin' to part with us even for a day at a time. if we was like ebony, now, we might go where we liked an' no one ud care." "ob course not," replied the negro, promptly, "peepil's nebber anxious about whar wise men goes to; it's on'y child'in an' stoopid folk dey's got to tink about. but why not ax de queen, massa, for leabe ob absence to go a-huntin'?" "because she'd be sure to refuse," said mark. "no, i see no way out of this difficulty. we are too useful to be spared!" but mark was wrong. that very night he was sent for by the prime minister, and as he passed the secretary's tent he called him out to act as interpreter. on reaching the tent on the north side they found rainiharo doubled up on his mat and groaning in agony. "what's wrong?" demanded the doctor. "everything!" replied the patient. "describe your feelings," said the doctor. "i've--i've got a red-hot stone," groaned rainiharo, "somewhere in my inwards! thorny shrubs are revolving in my stomach! young crocodiles are masticating my--oh!" at this point his power of description failed; but that matters little, for, never having met with the disease before, we can neither describe it nor give it a name. the young doctor did not know it, but he knew exactly what to do, and did it. we cannot report what he did, but we can state the result, which was great relief in a few minutes and a perfect cure before morning! most men are grateful under such circumstances--even the cruel rainiharo was so. "what can i do for you?" he asked, affectionately, next day. a sudden inspiration seized the doctor, "beg the queen," he said, "to let me and my two friends wander round the host all day, and every day, for a short time, and i will return to report myself each night." "for what purpose?" asked the premier, in some surprise. "to pluck plants and catch butterflies." "is the young doctor anxious to renew his childhood?" "something of the sort, no doubt. but there is medicine in the plants, and--and--interest, if nothing else, in the butterflies." "medicine in the plants" was a sufficient explanation to the premier. what he said to the queen we know not, but he quickly returned with the required permission, and mark went to his couch that night in a state of what ebony styled "perfik f'licity." behold our trio, then, once more alone in the great forests of madagascar--at least almost alone, for the secretary was with them, for the double purpose of gaining instruction and seeing that the strangers did not lose themselves. as they were able to move about twice as fast as the host, they could wander around, here, there, and everywhere, or rest at pleasure without fear of being left behind. chapter twenty seven. in which a happy change for the better is disastrously interrupted. one very sultry forenoon mark and his party--while out botanising, entomologising, philosophising, etcetera, not far from but out of sight of the great procession--came to the brow of a hill and sat down to rest. their appearance had become somewhat curious and brigand-like by that time, for their original garments having been worn-out were partially replaced by means of the scissors and needle of john hockins--at least in the trousers department. that worthy seaman having, during his travels, torn his original trousers to shreds from the knee downwards, had procured some stout canvas in the capital and made for himself another pair. he was, like most sailors, expert at tailoring, and the result was so good that mark and ebony became envious. the seaman was obliging. he set to work and made a pair of nether garments for both. mark wore his pair stuffed into the legs of a pair of wellington boots procured from a trader. ebony preferred to cut his off short, just below the knee, thus exposing to view those black boots supplied to negroes by nature, which have the advantage of never wearing out. hockins himself stuck to his navy shirt, but the others found striped cotton shirts sufficient. a native straw hat on mark's head and a silk scarf round his waist, with a cavalry pistol in it, enhanced the brigand-like aspect of his costume. this pistol was their only fire-arm, the gun having been broken beyond repair, but each carried a spear in one hand, a gauze butterfly-net in the other, and a basket, in lieu of a specimen-box, on his shoulder. even the secretary, entering into the spirit of the thing; carried a net and pursued the butterflies with the ardour of a boy. "oh! massa," exclaimed ebony, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a bunch of grass, "i _do_ lub science!" "indeed, why so?" asked mark, sitting down on a bank opposite his friend. "why, don't you see, massa, it's not comfortabil for a man what's got any feelin's to go troo de land huntin' an' killin' cattle an' oder brutes for _noting_. you can't eat more nor one hox--p'r'aps not dat. so w'en you've kill 'im an' eaten so much as you can, dar's no more fun, for what fun is dere in slaughterin' hoxes for _noting_? den, if you goes arter bees an' butterflies on'y for fun, w'y you git shamed ob yourself. on'y a chile do dat. but science, dat put 'im all right! away you goes arter de bees and butterflies an' tings like mad--ober de hills an' far away--troo de woods, across de ribbers--sometimes into 'em!--crashin' an' smashin' like de bull in de china-shop, wid de proud feelin' bustin' your buzzum dat you're advancin' de noble cause ob science--dat's what you call 'im, `noble?'--yes. well, den you come home done up, so pleasant like, an' sot down an' fix de critters up wid pins an' gum an' sitch-like, and arter dat you show 'em to your larned friends an' call 'em awrful hard names, (sometimes dey seem like _bad_ names!) an'--oh! i _do_ lub science! it's wot i once heard a captin ob a ribber steamer in de states call a safety-balve wot lets off a deal o' 'uman energy. he was a-sottin on his own safety-balve at de time, so he ought to have know'd suffin about it." "i say, ebony," asked hockins, "where did you pick up so much larnin' about science--eh?" "i pick 'im in texas--was 'sistant to a german nat'ralist dar for two year. stuck to 'im like a limpit till he a-most busted hisself by tumblin' into a swamp, smashin' his spectacles, an' ketchin' fever, w'en he found hisself obleeged to go home to recroot--he called it--though what dat was i nebber rightly understood, unless it was drinkin' brandy an' water; for i noticed that w'en he said he needed to recroot, he allers had a good stiff pull at de brandy bottle." ebony's discourse was here cut short by the sudden appearance of an enormous butterfly, which the excitable negro dashed after at a breakneck pace in the interests of science. the last glimpse they had of him, as he disappeared among the trees, was in a somewhat peculiar attitude, with his head down and his feet in the air! "that's a sign he has missed him," remarked hockins, beginning to fill his pipe--the tobacco, not the musical, one! "i've always observed that when ebony becomes desperate, and knows he can't git hold of the thing he's arter, he makes a reckless plunge, with a horrible yell, goes right down by the head, and disappears like a harpooned whale." "true, but have you not also observed," said mark, "that like the whale he's sure to come to the surface again--sooner or later--and generally with the object of pursuit in possession?" "i b'lieve you're right, doctor," said the seaman, emitting a prolonged puff of smoke. "does he always go mad like that?" asked the secretary, who was much amused. "usually," replied mark, "but he is generally madder than that. he's in comparatively low spirits to-day. perhaps it is the heat that affects him. whew! how hot it is! i think i shall take a bath in the first pool we come to." "that would only make you hotter, sir," said hockins. "i've often tried it. at first, no doubt, when you gits into the water it cools you, but arter you come out you git hotter than before. a _hot_ bath is the thing to cool you comfortably." "but we can't get a hot bath here," returned mark. "you are wrong," said the secretary, "we have many natural hot springs in our land. there is one not far from here." "how far?" asked mark with some interest. "about two rice-cookings off." to dispel the reader's perplexity, we may explain at once that in madagascar they measure distances by the time occupied in cooking a pot of rice. as that operation occupies about half-an-hour, the secretary meant that the hot spring was distant about two half-hours--that is, between three and four miles off. "let's go an' git into it at once," suggested hockins. "better wait for ebony," said mark. then--to the secretary--"yours is a very interesting and wonderful country!" "it is, and i wonder not that european nations wish to get possession of it--but that shall _never_ be." mark replied, "i hope not," and regarded his friend with some surprise, for he had spoken with emphasis, and evidently strong feeling. "have you fear that any of the nations wish to have your country?" "yes, we have fear," returned the secretary, with an unwontedly stern look. "they have tried it before; perhaps they will try it again. but they will fail. has not god given us the land? has not he moved the hearts of engleesh men to send to us the bible? has not his holy spirit inclined our hearts to receive that word? yes--it has come. it is planted. it _must_ grow. the european nations cannot hinder it. ranavalona cannot stamp it out. false friends and open foes cannot crush it. the word of god will civilise us. we will rise among the nations of the earth when the love of jesus spreads among us--for that love cures every evil. it inclines as well as teaches us to deny self and do good. it is not possible for man to reach a higher point than that! deny self! do good! we are slow to learn, but it is _sure_ to come at last, for is it not written that `the knowledge of the lord shall cover the earth as the waters cover the sea'?" "i believe you are right," said mark, much impressed with this outburst and the earnest enthusiasm of his friend's manner. "and," he continued, "you have a noble country to work on--full of earth's riches." "you say noting but the truth," answered the secretary in a gratified tone. "is not our island as big--or more big--as yours--nearly the same as france? and look around! we have thousands of cattle, tame and wild, with which even now we send large supplies to foreign markets, and fowls innumerable, both wild and tame. our soil is rich and prolific. are not our vegetables and fruits innumerable and abundant? do not immense forests traverse our island in all directions, full of trees that are of value to man--trees fit for building his houses and ships and for making his beautiful furniture, as well as those that supply cocoa-nuts, and figs, and fruits, and gums, and dyes? and have we not the silkworm in plenty, and cotton-plants, and sugar-cane, and many spices, and the great food-supply of our people--rice, besides minerals which make nations rich, such as iron and gold? yes, we have everything that is desirable and good for man. but we have a climate which does not suit the white man. yet _some_ white men, like yourself, manage to live here. is not this a voice, from god? he does not speak to us with the tongue of man, but he speaks with a still, small voice, as easy to understand. he has surrounded our island with unhealthy shores. does not that tell the white man not to come here? your london missionary society sent us the bible. god bless them for that! they have done well. but they have done enough. we desire not the interference of england or france in our affairs. we do not want your divisions, your sects. we have the word. god will do the rest. we want no white nations to _protect_ us. we want to be let alone to protect and develop ourselves, with the bible for our guide and the holy spirit as our teacher. you englishmen were savages once, and the word of god came and raised you. you only continue to be great because the bible keeps you still in the right path. what it has done for you it will do for us. all we ask for is to be let alone!" the secretary had become quite excited on this theme, and there is no saying how much longer he might have gone on if ebony had not returned, scratched, bruised, bleeding, panting and perspiring, but jubilant, with an enormous butterfly captive in his net, and the cause of science advanced. having secured the specimen, they set off at once to visit the hot springs, after pricking a traveller's tree with a spear and obtaining a refreshing draught of cool clear water therefrom. fountains of mineral waters have been found in many, parts of madagascar, and among them several which are called rano-mafana, or "warm waters." these vary both in temperature and medicinal properties. the spot when reached was found to be a small cavity in the rocks which was delightfully shaded by the leaves of the wild fig, and by a number of interwoven and overhanging bamboos. the branches of the fig-trees spread directly across the stream. hastening to the fountain, hockins thrust his hand in, but quickly pulled it out again, for the water was only a few degrees below the boiling-point. "too hot to bathe in!" he said. "but not too hot _here_," remarked ebony, going to a pool a little further from the fountain-head, where the water had cooled somewhat. there the negro dropped his simple garments, and was soon rolling like a black porpoise in his warm bath. it was only large enough for one, but close to it was another small pool big enough for several men. there mark and hockins were soon disporting joyously, while the secretary looked on and laughed. evidently he did not in the circumstances deem warm water either a necessity or a luxury. that evening, after returning to camp, mark was summoned to lay the result of his labours before the queen, who was much interested in his collection of plants, and not a little amused with his collection of insects; for she could understand the use of the medicines which her court physician assured her could be extracted from the former, but could see no sense whatever in collecting winged and creeping things, merely to be stuck on pins and looked at and saddled with incomprehensible names! she did indeed except the gorgeous butterflies, and similar creatures, because these were pretty; but on the whole she felt disposed to regard her physician as rather childish in that particular taste. very different was her opinion of john hockins. so fond was she of the flageolet of that musical and stalwart tar that she sent for him almost every evening and made him pipe away to her until he almost fell asleep at his duty, so that at last he began to wish that flageolets had never been invented. "it's nothin' but blow, blow, blow, day arter day," he growled as he returned to his tent one night and flung down the little instrument in disgust. "i wish it had bin blow'd up the time your big roman candle busted, doctor." "if it had been, your influence with the queen would have been gone, john." "well, i dun-know, sir. many a queer gale i've come through in time past, but this blow beats 'em all to sticks an' whistles." "nebber mind, 'ockins," remarked ebony, who was busy preparing supper at the time, "we's habbin good times ob it just now. plenty fun an' lots ob science! come--go at your wittles. we've hard work besides fun before us demorrow." ebony was a true prophet in regard to the hard work, but not as to the fun, of the morrow; for it so happened that two events occurred which threw a dark cloud over the expedition, for some, at least, in the royal procession, and induced the queen to return to the capital sooner than she had intended. the first of these events was the discovery of a party of sixteen fugitives who were of suspicious character and unable to give account of themselves. they had been discovered by the queen's spies hidden in a rice-house. when brought before the officer who examined them, they were at first silent; when pressed, they spoke a little, but nothing of importance could be gathered from them. at last they seemed to make up their minds to acknowledge who they were, for one of them stood forth boldly and said-- "since you ask us again and again, we will tell you. we are not robbers or murderers. we are praying people. if this makes us guilty in the kingdom of the queen, then, whatsoever she does, we must submit to suffer. we are ready to die for the name of the lord jesus." "is this, then," asked the officer, "your final answer, whether for life or death?" "it is our final answer, whether for life or for death." when this was reported to the queen, all her anger was stirred up again. she ordered the captives to be chained and sent off at once to antananarivo. two of the band managed to escape that night, but the other fourteen were safely lodged in prison. the countenance of ranavalona was now changed. she took no pleasure in mark's collections, and sent no more for the musical seaman. to make matters worse, there came in, on the following day, a report that some of her soldiers had captured a large band of fugitives in a distant part of the country, and were then marching them in chains to the capital. as this band was at the time approaching, the queen gave orders to halt on an eminence that overlooked the path along which they had to travel, that she might see them. it was about noon when they drew near-worn, weary, and footsore. the queen was so placed among the bushes that she could see the captives without being herself seen. her chief officers stood near her. mark and his companions had taken up a position much nearer to the forest path. first came a band of weary little ones, driven onwards like a flock of sheep, and apparently too much terrified by what they had undergone to make much noise, although most of them were weeping. next came a group of women. these, like the children, were not bound, but the men, who walked in rear, were chained together--two and two. soldiers guarded them on every side. "it is profoundly sad!" said mark, in a deep sorrowful tone. "god help them!" "massa," whispered ebony, "look dar! sure i knows some ob--" he stopped and opened wide his eyes, for at that moment he recognised rafaravavy and ramatoa among the women. with something like a groan, hockins turned a glance on his comrades and pointed to the men. they required no second glance to enlighten them, for there they plainly saw ravonino heavily ironed by the neck to laihova, and razafil, the poet, chained to the chief, voalavo. many others whom they did not know were also there. these all trudged along with bowed heads and eyes on the ground, like men who, having gone through terrible mental and physical agony, have either become callous or resigned to their fate. as the queen had given orders to her people to keep quiet and out of sight, the poor captives knew nothing of the host that gazed at them. mark and his friends were so horrified that all power to move or speak failed them for a time. as for ranavalona, she sat in rigid silence, like a bronze statue, with compressed lips and frowning brows, until they had passed. then she gave orders to encamp where they stood, and retired in silence to her tent. chapter twenty eight. in which terrible but true martyrdoms are described. matters had now reached a crisis. although suffering from illness-- partly brought on, or aggravated, by her unrestrained passions--the queen gave orders next day for the host to turn homeward. travelling more rapidly than she had yet done, she soon reached the capital. there the arrival of the captives and the news of what had occurred prepared them for the worst. and the worst was not long of coming. the very day following the queen's return, a great assembly, or kabary, of the whole people was called. none were exempted from the meeting. high and low, rich and poor, sick and healthy, were driven to the great place of assembly near the palace--literally driven, for officers were sent as usual to break into the houses of the people, when necessary, and force them to attend. and there was no way of escape, for at the time of the summons being sent out every outlet from the city was guarded by soldiers, and the cannon along the heights thundered a salute by way of striking terror into the hearts of the rebellious. well did the poor people know what all this foreshadowed. one who was an eye-witness of the scene said, "there was a general howling and wailing, a rushing and running through the streets, as if the town had been attacked by a hostile army." at last the great square of the city was crowded, as full as it could hold, with hundreds of thousands of people, who were overawed by the presence of a body of troops fifteen thousand strong as they awaited the announcement of the queen's pleasure. mark breezy was there, along with his comrades, on an elevated spot near to the place where the queen's messenger was to make the proclamation. "we are utterly helpless here," said mark in a low voice, as he gazed in pity on the groaning and swaying multitude. "the queen's countenance is changed to me. i feel sure that either we have been betrayed in the matter of rafaravavy, or we are suspected. indeed, if it were not that she is ill, and needs my aid, she would certainly banish us all from her dominions." "i wish i was well out of 'em," growled hockins. "the country is well enough, no doubt, but a woman like that makes it a hell-upon-earth!" "has you hear, massa, whar dey hab put ravonino an' our oder friends?" asked ebony. "no, i did not dare to ask. and even if we knew we could do nothing!" the youth spoke bitterly, for he had become so much attached to their former guide, and the natives with whom they had sojourned and travelled, that he would have fought for them to the death if that could have availed them. strong and active young men are apt to become bitter when they find that superabundant energy and physical force are in some circumstances utterly useless. to be compelled to stand by inactive and see injustice done--cruelty and death dealt out, while the blood boils, the nerves quiver, and the violated feelings revolt, is a sore trial to manhood! and such was the position of our three adventurers at that time. presently the highest civil and military officers came forth, one of whom, in a loud sonorous voice, delivered the message of his terrible mistress. after a number of complimentary and adulatory phrases to the queen herself, and many ceremonial bowings towards the palace, as if she actually heard him, the messenger spoke as follows-- "i announce to you, o people, that i am not a sovereign that deceives. i find that, in spite of my commands, many of my people revile the idols and treat divination as a trifle, and worship the christians' god, and pray, and baptize, and sing--which things i abhor. they are unlawful. i detest them, and they are not to be done, saith ranavalo-manjaka. i will not suffer it. those who dare to disobey my commands shall die. now, i order that all who are guilty shall come in classes according to their offences, and accuse themselves of being baptized, of being members of the church, of having taught slaves to read, and that all books shall be given up." as on a previous occasion, many came forward at once and accused themselves, or gave up their bibles and testaments; but, as before, others concealed their treasures and held their tongue, although it was evident that on this occasion the queen uttered no vain threat, but was terribly in earnest. the proclamation ended, the people dispersed, and mark and his friends were returning to their quarters when they were arrested by a party of soldiers. as usual, their first impulse was to resist violently, but wisdom was given them in time, and they went quietly along. of course mark protested vehemently both in english and in broken malagasy, but no attention whatever was paid to his words. they were led to a prison which they had not before seen. as they approached the door the sound of singing was heard. another moment and they were thrust into the room whence the sounds issued, and the door was locked upon them. at first they could only see dimly, the place was so dark; but in a few seconds, their eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, they could see that a number of other prisoners--both men and women--were seated round the walls singing a hymn. when the hymn ceased an exclamation from a familiar voice made them turn round, and there they saw their friend ravonino seated on the floor with his back against the wall and chained to laihova and to the floor. beside him were several well-remembered natives, and on the opposite side of the room, also chained, were the women of the party, among whom were ramatoa, ra-ruth, rafaravavy, her maid sarah, and the poor mother of mamba. "ravonino!" exclaimed mark, in tones of profound sorrow, as he sat down beside his old guide, "i little thought to find you in such a strait." "even so, sir," returned the man in a gentle voice, "for so it seems good in his eyes! but still less did i expect to find you in prison-- for the way they thrust you in shows me that you are no mere visitor. i fear me, the cruel woman has found out how kind you were in helping me." "but surely dar some hope for you! dey nebber kill you all!" said the negro, waving his hand round as if to indicate the whole party. "no hope, no hope," returned ravonino, sadly, "not even for you, ebony, because you are only a black man. but they won't kill _you_, sir, or hockins. they know better than to risk the consequences of putting a british subject to death. for the rest of us--our doom is sealed." "if the lord wills it so," remarked laihova, quietly. "how do you know that the lord wills it so?" demanded a voice fiercely, and a man who had hitherto sat still with his face buried in his hands looked up. it was the stout chief voalavo, all whose fun of disposition seemed to have been turned to fury. "you all speak as if you were already dead men! are we not alive? have we not stout hearts and strong limbs? while life remains there is hope!" he leaped up as he spoke and began to wrench at his chain like a maddened tiger, until blood spurted from his wrists and the swollen veins stood out like cords from his neck and forehead. but iron proved tougher than flesh. he sank down, exhausted, with a deep groan--yet even in his agony of rage the strong man murmured as he fell, "lord forgive me!" while the men conversed, and ebony sought to soothe voalavo, with whom he had strong sympathy most of the poor women opposite were seated in a state of quiet resignation. some there were, however, who could not bring their minds to contemplate with calmness the horrible fate that they knew too well awaited them, while others seemed to forget themselves in their desire to comfort their companions. among the timid ones was pretty little ra-ruth. perhaps her vivid imagination enabled her to realise more powerfully the terrors of martyrdom. it may be that her delicately-strung nerves shrank more sensitively from the prospect, but in spite of her utmost efforts to be brave she trembled violently and was pale as death. yet she did not murmur, she only laid her head on the sympathetic bosom of her queen-like friend ramatoa, who seemed to her a miracle of strength and resignation. in a short time the door of the prison opened, and a party of armed men entered with silver spear, or hater of lies, at their head. an involuntary shudder ran through the group of captives as the man advanced and looked round. "which is razafil?" demanded hater of lies. the poet rose promptly. "here i am," he said, looking boldly at the officer. then, glancing upwards, and in a voice of extreme tenderness, he said, "now, my sweet raniva, i will soon join you!" "ramatoa--which is she?" said the officer, as his men removed the fetters from the poet and fastened his wrists with a cord. ramatoa at once rose up. "i am ready," she said, calmly. "now, ra-ruth, the master calls me. fear not what man can do unto thee." "oh! no, no! do not go yet," exclaimed ra-ruth in an agony of grief, as she clung to her friend. "the good lord cannot mean this--oh! take _me_! take _me_! and let her stay!" the sentence ended in a low wail, for at the moment two soldiers forced the girls asunder, and ra-ruth sank upon the floor, while ramatoa was led away. poor laihova had watched every movement of ra-ruth. it was, no doubt, the fiercest part of the fiery trial he had to undergo; and when the soldier grasped her arms to tear her from her friend he could restrain himself no longer. he sprang up and made a wild leap towards her, but the chain arrested him effectually, and three bayonets were quickly pointed at his breast. his head fell forward, and he sank down like one who had been shot. meanwhile hater of lies selected ra-ruth and twelve others from the group of prisoners, but only the three whom we have mentioned are known to the reader. they were led into an outer room, where they were further pinioned. some of them had their feet and hands tied together, so that, by thrusting a pole between the legs and arms of each, they could be suspended and carried by two men. others were allowed to walk to the place of execution. the rage of ranavalona, however, was so great on finding that the christians would not submit to her that she had given orders to the soldiers to torture the martyrs with their spears as they marched along the road. this was done to all except ramatoa and ra-ruth, as the blood-stained road bore witness. the comfort of being together was not allowed to the two ladies. they were placed in different parts of the procession. mats were thrust into the mouths of the suspended victims to prevent them from speaking, but some of them managed to free their mouths and prayed aloud, while others sang hymns or addressed the crowd. thus they passed along the road that led to the place of hurling down. this was a tremendous precipice of granite, feet high. thither the multitude streamed--some influenced by hatred of the christians, some by deep sympathy with them, but the majority, doubtless, prompted by mere excitement and curiosity. and there they crowded as near as they dared venture to the edge of the precipice and gazed into the awful gulf. slowly the procession moved, as if to prolong the agony of the martyrs. suddenly a young man pushed through the crowd, advanced to the side of ramatoa, and grasped one of her hands, exclaiming in a loud voice, "dearest! i will go with you and stay by you to the end." for a moment the calm serenity that had settled on the girl's fine countenance was disturbed. "mamba!" she said, "this is not wise. you cannot save me. it is god's will that i should now glorify the dear name of jesus by laying down my life. but you are not yet condemned, and your mother needs your help." "full well do i know that," returned the youth, fervently. "were it not for my dear mother's love and claim on me, i would now have gone with you to heaven. as it is, i will stay by you, dear one, to the end." "thank you, dear friend," returned the girl, earnestly. "i think it will not be long till we meet where there are no more sufferings or tears." soon the procession reached the brow of the terrible cliff. here the martyrs were ranged in such a way that, while they were cast over one by one, the rest could see their companions fall. the first to perish was the poet razafil. after the queen's messenger had pronounced the sentence of each, the poor man was seized and thrown violently on the ground. a rope was then fastened round his waist, and he was asked if he would cease to pray in the name of jesus. "cease to pray to jesus!" he exclaimed, while the fire of enthusiasm gleamed in his eyes--"to jesus who saved my raniva, and who holds out his blessed hands to me--even me--to take me to himself? _never_!" razafil was instantly slung over the precipice, and held suspended there in the hope that the awful nature of his impending fate might cause his courage to fail, while the executioner knelt, knife in hand, ready to cut the rope. "once more, and for the last time," said the officer in command, "will you cease to pray?" the answer was an emphatic "no!" next moment razafil went shooting down headlong into the abyss. there was a projecting ledge of rock about fifty feet down the precipice. on this the body of the martyr struck, and, bounding off into space, reached the bottom with incredible violence, a shattered and mangled heap. with trembling hearts and straining gaze the other victims watched the descent. it seemed to be more than human nature could endure to voluntarily face such a fate when a word would deliver them. so thought many of the spectators, and they were right; mere human nature could not have endured it, but these christians were strengthened in a way that the ungodly will neither believe nor understand. one by one they were led to the edge of the cliff, suspended over the edge, and had the testing-question put to them, and, one by one, the answer was a decisive "no!" but where was the tyrant queen while this scene of butchery was being enacted? in her chamber in the palace--comparatively, yet not altogether, regardless of the matter. her son rakota stood beside her. our friend the secretary stood at the door. "mother," said the prince, quietly, "they are being hurled down now--and little ra-ruth is among them." the queen looked up, startled. "no, no!" she said, hesitatingly. "ra-ruth must not--but--but--i must not seem to my people to be weak-- yet i would save her." rakota gave a gentle nod to the secretary, who instantly vanished. he reached the place of execution only just in time. the rope was already round the girl's slender waist, and the testing-question had been put-- but her timidity had flown, and was replaced by a calm, almost angelic, expression, as she gazed up to heaven, clasped her hands, and, with a flush of enthusiasm, exclaimed-- "no--jesus--no, i will _never_ cease to worship thee!" a murmur of mingled surprise and pity broke from the crowd. at that moment the secretary came forward. "the queen," he said, "has sent me to ask you, ra-ruth, whether you will not worship our gods and save your life." "no," answered the girl, firmly. "i have been weak--a coward--but now god has sent me strength by his own holy spirit, and my fixed determination is to go this day with my dear brothers and sisters to heaven." "you are a fool! you are _mad_!" exclaimed an officer standing by, as he struck her on the head. "yes, she is _mad_," said the secretary to the officer in command. "send a messenger to tell the queen that ra-ruth has lost her reason. meanwhile, let her be taken away and guarded well till the queen's pleasure regarding her is known." but although this poor girl was thus snatched from death at the last moment, no mercy was extended to the others. all were thrown over the cliff and dashed to pieces at that time except ramatoa. when the question was put to her, last of all, she, as might have been expected, was not less firm in her reply than her companions; but, instead of being thrown over, she was informed that as it was not allowable to shed the blood of one of noble birth she was to be burnt alive! at this dreadful announcement she turned paler than before, but did not flinch. at the same moment poor mamba lost control of himself. he sprang to her side, put an arm round her waist, and shouted-- "this shall not be! i, too, am a praying man. ye shall not touch her!" he glared fiercely round, and, for a moment, the soldiers did not dare to approach him, although he was totally unarmed. but they sprang on him from behind, and he was quickly overpowered by numbers. at the command of their officer, they tore him from ramatoa, carried him to the cliff, and hurled him over. his head struck the ledge, and his brains were dashed out there. next moment he lay dead among the rocks at the bottom. this awful sight ramatoa was spared, for, at the same instant, they had dragged her away to the spot where a pile of wood had been prepared for herself. four stakes were fixed in the midst of the pile, as three other christian nobles were to be burnt along with her, one of whom was a lady. while ramatoa watched the preparations for her death, her fellow-sufferers arrived--singing, as they walked, a hymn which begins with, "when our hearts are troubled," and ends with, "then remember us." ramatoa raised her voice and joined them. there was no wavering or shrinking from the fiery ordeal. when all was ready the martyrs quietly suffered themselves to be bound to the stakes, and, strange to say, when the flames roared around them, the song of praise still went on, and the voices of praise and prayer did not cease until they had culminated in glad shouts of praise and victory before the throne of god! we write facts just now, reader, not fiction! men talk of the cruelty of devils! assuredly there is not a devil in or out of hell who can sink to lower depths of cruelty than fallen man will sink to when left to the unrestrained influence of that hateful thing--_sin_--from which jesus christ came to deliver us, blessed be _his_ name! it is said that while these four martyrs were being fastened to the stakes, an immense triple-arched rainbow stretched across the heavens, one end of which appeared to rest upon them, and that rain fell in torrents. this so terrified many of the spectators, that they fled in consternation from the scene. but the cup of iniquity was not yet filled up. while the martyrs were still in the fire, and praying, "o lord, receive our spirits, and lay not this sin to their charge," a shouting yelling band arrived, dragging after them the corpses of the men and women who had perished at the place of hurling down. these were tossed upon the pile to serve as fuel to the fire. the poor unrecognisable remains of mamba were among them; and thus, even in their death, he and ramatoa were not divided! at this time of terrible suffering and trial--as in the previous persecutions during the reign of this tyrant queen--hundreds of christians willingly submitted to the loss of position, wealth, and liberty for the sake of jesus, besides those who witnessed a good confession, and sealed their testimony with their blood. thirty-seven native preachers, with their wives and families, were consigned to a life of slavery. more than a hundred men and women were flogged and sentenced to work in chains during their lives. some were heavily fined, and many among the "great and noble" were stripped of honours and titles, reduced to the ranks, and forced to labour at the hardest and most menial occupation. among these last was prince ramonja, who had been the means of sheltering, secreting, and saving many christians. fortunately prince rakota retained his influence over his mother, and his power to do good--a circumstance for which our three adventurers had ultimately reason to thank god, though, for a considerable time after that, they remained in prison, in company with their friends ravonino, voalavo, laihova, and others. these last were not delivered from their chains, but lived in hourly expectation of being led out to execution. after ra-ruth's removal, laihova was at first overwhelmed with despair, but when a friendly jailor informed him of her having been spared under the supposition that she was insane, hope revived a little, though he could not help seeing that the prospect ahead was still very black. another prisoner who was inconsolable was poor reni-mamba. from the time that she was told of her son's fate she seemed to sink into a state of quiet imbecility, from which no efforts of her friends could rouse her. she did not murmur or complain. she simply sat silent and callous to everything around her. she, rafaravavy, sarah, and the other females, were removed to another prison, and for a long time their male friends could learn nothing as to their fate. "it is this prolonged uncertainty that's so hard to bear," remarked ravonino to mark one day, lifting his hands high above his head, and letting them fall, with the clanking chains, into his lap. "true, true," replied the youth, shortly--for confinement was beginning to tell unfavourably on himself. "das w'ere it is," remarked ebony, endeavouring to brighten up a little, but with only moderate success, "it's sottin still an' doin' nuffin dat kills. what you tink, 'ockins?" "ay, ay," assented the seaman; and as for a long time nothing more than "ay, ay," had been got out of hockins, ebony relapsed into silence. things had reached this lugubrious pass when an event occurred which materially affected the condition of the prisoners, and considerably altered the history of madagascar. chapter twenty nine. threatened death averted--buried alive--end of the tyrant queen--revolt crushed and radama the second crowned. one morning, shortly after sunrise, mark was awakened by the entrance of their jailor. by that time he had grown so accustomed to clanking chains, shooting bolts, and such-like sounds, that he looked up sleepily and without much interest, but a thrill or qualm passed through him when he observed that the jailor was followed by hater of lies with his silver spear. still more were he and his awakened comrades horrified when the names of ravoninohitriniony and voalavo were sternly called out. both men promptly stood up. "at last!" said the former, quietly, and without a trace of excitement. "well, i am glad, for it is the lord's will. farewell, my friends," he added, looking back as he was led away, "we shall all meet again in great joy--farewell!" evidently voalavo did not take things so quietly. his lips were firmly compressed, his face was deeply flushed, and his brows were sternly contracted, as they led him out. but for his chains the chief would certainly have given his jailors some trouble. the whole thing passed so quickly that it seemed to those left behind like a dream when they found themselves alone. ebony sat down, put his face on his knees, and fairly burst into tears. "oh! lord," he sobbed, "send 'em quick for me, an' let's hab it ober!" it seemed as if the poor fellow's prayer was about to be answered, for again the door opened, and the secretary entered. "be not afraid," he said, observing their alarm, "i come not to summon you to death, but to ask you, doctor, to come and see the queen--she is ill." "oh! massa, pison her! _do_, massa! nobody would call it murder," said the negro, with fervent entreaty. paying no attention to this advice, mark followed the secretary, and the bolts were again drawn on his friends. he found ranavalona suffering severely. indeed, for some time previous to that her health had been failing, and she would gladly have had the advice of her court physician, but seemed to be ashamed to send for him after the way she had caused him to be treated. there is this to be said for her, that she would probably have liberated him long ago, but for the advice of her minister, rainiharo, who was jealous of the young englishman's growing popularity as well as a hater of his religion. after prescribing for the queen and affording her some relief, he gave orders that she should be kept very quiet; that no noise was to be permitted in or near the palace. then he left her apartments with the secretary. as they traversed one of the corridors, the latter told mark that the order had been given for the execution of ravonino and voalavo. "was that order given by the queen?" demanded mark, flushing with indignation, while a gush of anxiety almost choked him. "no, it was given by rainiharo, who takes advantage of his position and the queen's illness." just then a step was heard at the further end of the passage, and hater of lies advanced towards them with his badge of office, the silver spear, in his hand. like a flash of light an idea entered the young englishman's head! he had no time to think or plan--only to act. in the same moment, however, he offered up a silent prayer for help. as the officer was about to pass, mark snatched the spear from his hand and brought the handle of it down on its owner's crown with such good-will that the hater of lies was laid flat upon the floor! thunder-struck, the secretary gazed at his young companion. "you are ruined now!" he said. "true, and _you_ must be ruined along with me! here, take the spear and act the part of the hater of lies." for a moment the secretary hesitated--then, as if suddenly making up his mind, he said-- "come, i am with you heart and soul!" "lead to the place of execution--quick," cried mark. "we will take the prison in passing," said his companion, grasping the spear and hastening onward. the prison was soon reached. the guards were a little surprised at the change of the bearer, but no one dared to think of opposing the passage of the well-known and awful emblem of office! "come, hockins, ebony, laihova, follow us," cried mark, springing in. he did not wait to explain. the secretary, acting his part well, stalked with grand solemnity down the streets towards the western gate of the city. his four friends followed. every one made way. hockins and the negro, not knowing what they might be called on to do, took the first opportunity that presented, each to seize and carry off a garden-stake, as a substitute for cudgel or quarter-staff. the guards, as before, let them pass without question. once outside the town they quickened their pace, and finally ran. "we may be too late!" gasped mark. "it may be so--but we have not far to go." as he spoke they distinguished sounds as of men engaged in a struggle. on turning a point of rock they came in sight of a party of twelve soldiers. they were struggling fiercely with one man, whom they tried to bind. but the man seemed to possess the power of samson. "it's voalavo," cried hockins, and rushed to the rescue. "das so," cried the negro, following suit with blazing eyes. snatching the silver spear from the secretary, mark sprang forward like a wild-cat, and, sweeping it right and left, brought down two of the men. his comrades overturned two others whose muskets they seized, while voalavo, with the power of a giant, hurled two others from him as if they had been boys. he did not stop to speak, but to the surprise of his rescuers, ran straight into a neighbouring coppice, and disappeared. for one moment the remaining soldiers lowered their bayonets as if to charge, but the secretary, grasping the hater of lies, said, in a commanding tone-- "what means this haste? ye shall answer to the queen for what you have done! go! return to your quarters. you are under arrest. carry your comrades with you!" cowed by this speech, for they all knew the secretary to be a man of position and power in the palace, the soldiers humbly picked up their fallen comrades and retired. the victors immediately ran into the coppice in search of voalavo, whom they found on his knees, digging up the earth with both hands as if for very life! just as they came up he had uncovered the face of ravonino, who had been buried alive, and was already as pale as if he were dead. "have they killed him?" gasped laihova, as he dropped on his knees with the others, and began to dig. "no--they do not kill when the sentence is to bury alive," said the secretary, "but no doubt he is half-suffocated." the grave was very shallow--not more than a foot deep, and a living man might without much difficulty have struggled out of it, but the poor man had been bound to a long pole, which was buried along with him, so that he could not move. they soon got him out, and were about to cast him loose when there arose a cry in the city which quickly increased to a mighty roar. "they have found out our trick," said the secretary. "nothing can save us now but flight. come--take him up. this way!" in a moment hockins and ebony had the ends of the pole on their shoulders, and bore their still unconscious friend after the secretary. the noise and shouting in the town increased, and it soon became evident that they were pursued, being led, no doubt, by the soldiers who had been so roughly handled. "this way," cried their guide, turning sharp into a by-path which led them into a small garden, "a friend--a christian--dwells here." the friend turned out to be an old woman who was rather deaf, but she heard enough to understand the situation. "here!" she said, tottering into a back-yard, in which was a quantity of straw and rubbish. "go down there." she pointed to a hole. it was the mouth of a rice-hole. down went the secretary, without a word, and turned to receive the end of the pole which hockins passed carefully in. the rest followed. the old woman put on the cover and threw over it some of the rubbish. being pitch dark, the nature of the place could not be distinguished by the fugitives, but they could hear the shouting of the soldiers who searched the house for them. they could also hear the angry queries that were put to the owner of the place, and they could perceive that the old woman had miraculously become dumb as well as stone deaf! soon the quietness overhead led them to hope that the soldiers had left. in a short time the cover of the rice-hole was removed, and the old woman, putting her head down, informed them that all was safe, at least in the meantime. they now unfastened ravonino from the pole, and found, to their great joy, that he was yet alive, though considerably shaken. a little rice-soup, however, and a night's rest, put him all right again. in that hole, carefully tended by the deaf old woman, these six were compelled to secrete themselves for a week, during which time the soldiers were scouring the country in all directions in search of them. they had to keep so close, and to be so careful, that they did not even dare to let the old woman go near the neighbours to inquire what was going on in the town, though naturally they were very anxious on that point. at the end of that week, while the fugitives were taking a breath of fresh air in the yard, they were surprised by hearing the tramp of approaching soldiers. to dive into their hiding-place and be covered over by the old woman was the work of a few seconds. anxiously they listened while the renewed search was going on. the sounds sometimes showed that the searchers were retiring from the yard, at other times drawing near to it. at last a step was heard on the rubbish heap above them; then a blow resounded on their covering, as if with the butt-end of a musket. this was followed by a shout, a clamour of voices, and a hasty clearing away of the rubbish. "all is lost!" exclaimed the secretary in his native tongue. "not while we have arms," growled voalavo. "you need not count on me to help you," said ravonino, quietly, in the native tongue; "why should we slaughter men uselessly? if we had a chance of making a dash i would fight. but we can get out of this hole only one by one, and no doubt a hundred men await us!" "is we a-goin' to fight, massa?" asked the negro, hopefully. "of coorse we are," said hockins. "no, my friend, we are not," said the secretary, "our only hope, now, is in god." "it seems to me," rejoined ravonino, "that god is our only hope at _all_ times--whether in danger or in safety; but he makes it plain just now that our duty, as well as our wisdom, lies in quiet submission." ebony received this remark with a groan, and hockins with something like a growl. just then the covering of their hiding-place was thrown off, and several bayonet-points appeared. "come out, one at a time, quietly, else we will shoot you where you stand!" exclaimed a stern voice. the secretary translated this. at the same time ravonino clambered out of the rice-hole, and was instantly seized and bound. "it's all over now--may the lord have mercy on us!" exclaimed hockins, dropping his weapon and following his friend. whatever might have been the various feelings of the unfortunate party, the example thus set was accepted, for each one submitted, and when mark looked round on the large band of armed men, by whom they were surrounded, he perceived the wisdom of ravonino's advice, and how hopeless would have been any attempt on the part of himself and his friends to break through and escape. silently, and without a word of explanation, the officer in command led his captives into the town. they were too much overwhelmed by their calamitous circumstances to pay much attention to anything, yet they could not help observing that greater crowds of people than usual were hurrying through the streets, and that every one wore, more or less, an air of excitement. our friends had expected to be cast into their old prison, but they were led straight to the palace, where they were handed over to the officer on duty. in spite of the depression of his spirits, the secretary could not resist his feelings of curiosity, and asked what all the stir meant, but he received no answer. the prisoners were now conducted into a large room, where they found prince rakota standing, surrounded by a crowd of people--male and female. beside the prince was his cousin, ramonja. ravonino and laihova observed--with a gush of feeling which may be understood but not described--that rafaravavy and ra-ruth were among the ladies. poor reni-mamba was also there, her mild face showing unmistakable traces of the suffering caused by the loss of her only son. "welcome, my friends," said rakota, hastening forward to receive the prisoners. "you are now safe and free!" "safe? free?" repeated the secretary, in surprise. "yes. have they not told you the news?" he asked, while an expression, as of pain, passed over his face, "my mother--the queen--is dead! but come," he added quickly, as if he wished to avoid the subject, "i wish to consult with you, for serious dangers threaten us. come." he left the room quickly, followed by the secretary, while ravonino and laihova were drinking in the news from the respective lips that pleased them best. the facts were soon communicated to all the party. the queen, they said, who had been declining in health for a considerable time past, had latterly become much worse. no doubt her failure to stamp out christianity must have aggravated her complaint, for the effect of her extreme severity was rather to advance than hinder the good cause. the persecutions--the banishments--the murders--of twenty-five years, instead of checking, had spread the gospel far and wide over the land, for, as in the first days, `they that were scattered abroad went everywhere preaching the word,' and the amazing constancy, and courage, and tenderness to their enemies, of the noble army of martyrs, had given a depth and power to the christian life which might otherwise have been wanting. at all events, whatever the cause, ranavalona the first sank rapidly, and, on the th of august, , after a reign of thirty-three years, the tyrant queen of madagascar passed away to the tribunal of the king of kings. her son, prince rakota, was her successor; but his succession was not to be unopposed. he had a rival claimant to the throne in his own cousin rambosalama, an able, wary, and unscrupulous man, who, on perceiving that the end was approaching, had laid his plans secretly and extensively for seizing the reins of government. prince rakota, however, was so much beloved that all his cousin's plans were revealed to him by his friends, but the disposition of the prince was too humane to permit of his adopting the usual savage means to foil his foe. "all has been told to me," he said to the secretary. "my cousin has gained many to his side--especially of those who hate the christians. he has even hired men to kill me! i know it, because one of the assassins came last night and warned me. at the same time he confessed that he had intended to commit the crime." "but have you not taken steps to thwart your cousin!" "i have. for some time past every allowable measure for our protection has been taken, but the religion of jesus, as you know, forbids me to resort to poison, the chain, or the spear. my reign shall not begin with bloodshed if i can help it. you know that my good friend the commander-in-chief of the troops, rainiharo's son, is on our side. finding that my cousin went about armed, he recently issued an order that no one should be allowed to carry arms in the palace. as i myself bowed to this order, and submitted to be searched, of course rambosalama had no excuse for refusing. then, as a precaution, we have concealed from all except sure friends the orders which, from day to day, have regulated the movements of the troops. i have met daily in council those on whom i can depend, and our course of action is all arranged. only one point remains unsettled, and it is that which i ask you to undertake--for your will is resolute." "whatever my prince requires of me shall be done--if it be not against the laws of my god," said the secretary. rakota looked pleased with the reply. "i want you," he said, "to stand in the passage here, till rambosalama appears. he is sure to pass, being now in the death-chamber, to which i return speedily. his followers will be in force in the palace-yard--i hear the multitudes assembling even now. when he passes this way it will be to give the signal of revolt. you will stop him. if he resists, use force--you are strong! you understand?" the secretary looked intelligent, and bowed as the prince rose and left him. then he hastily sought for and found his friend ebony, with whom he had struck up a sort of happy-go-lucky friendship. meanwhile the multitudes, who had heard early in the morning that the queen was dying, had crowded every street that led to the palace. some had even pressed into the courts in their anxiety to know the truth. laxity seemed to prevail among the guards, for many people who carried weapons ill-concealed in their lambas, and whose looks as well as movements were suspicious, were allowed to enter. these were the partisans of rambosalama. indeed it is probable that even among the guards themselves there were adherents of the pretender. but the faithful commander-in-chief was on the alert, and had laid his plans. he stood in the chamber of death where the mourners were weeping. he watched with keen eye the movements of rambosalama, and when that prince left the room for the purpose of giving the signal to his followers, he slipped quietly out and gave his counter-signal, which was the waving of a scarf from a window. instantly a trumpet sounded, and more than a thousand trusty soldiers who had been in waiting marched into the palace courts. hearing the trumpet, the pretender hastened along the passage that led to the court. at the end of it a door opened, and the secretary, stepping out, confronted him. "well met, rambosalama," he said, taking his arm in a friendly but firm way, "i have somewhat to say to you." "not now, not now!" exclaimed the other, hastily. "i am wanted outside! another time--" "no time like the present," interrupted the secretary, tightening his grasp, "come this way." rambosalama taking alarm, tried to wrench himself free, but the secretary was strong. at the same moment a powerful black hand grasped the nape of his neck. "come now, sar, you go 'long quiet an' comf'r'able an' nobody hurt you. dis way. das a sweet little chamber for de naughty boys." with a force that there was no resisting ebony pushed the prince into a small room with a very small window. the door was shut, the key turned, and the danger was past! immediately afterwards the commander-in-chief appeared on the balcony of the palace, announced the queen's death to the multitude, and, amid demonstrations of wildest joy, alike from soldiers and people, proclaimed rakota king of madagascar, under the title of radama the second. in the afternoon of the same day the king presented himself to the people, arrayed in royal robes, with a crown on his head, and surrounded by his chief nobles. so overjoyed were the people at the blessed change from the tyranny of a cruel woman to the sway of a gentle prince, that it was some time before they could be quieted. when silence was obtained, the king, in a few and simple words, assured his subjects that his great desire was, and his aim would be, to devote himself to their welfare, and that of the country over which he had been called to reign. chapter thirty. the last. the vigour with which prince rakota put down the attempt at usurpation was followed by characteristic deeds of leniency and kindness. instead of taking the usual method of savage and semi-civilised rulers to crush rebellion, he merely banished rambosalama from the capital, and confined him in a residence of his own in the country; but no fetters were put on his limbs, and his wealth was not forfeited, nor was he forbidden to communicate with his friends. moreover, before the sun of that day in had set, the new king caused it to be proclaimed far and wide that all his subjects might depend upon receiving equal protection; that every man was free to worship god according to the dictates of his own conscience; that the prison-doors should be thrown open to those who had been condemned for conscience sake, and their fetters knocked off. he also sent officers to announce to those who had been banished to the pestilential districts that the day of deliverance had come. to many of these last, of course, the good news came too late for this life. disease, and hard labour and cruel fetters, had done their work; but the deliverance that came to these was grander and more glorious than the mere removal of earthly chains and pains. it was a glad day for madagascar, and the people of the capital were wild with joy, for condemned ones who had long been given up as lost, because enslaved or imprisoned for life, were suddenly restored to family and friends, while others could entertain the hope that those who had been long banished would speedily return to them. many a house in the city resounded that day with hymns of praise and thanksgiving that the tyrant queen was dead, and that the gentle prince was crowned. but the change did not bring equal joy to all. some there were whose smitten hearts could not recover from the crushing blows they had sustained when the news of loved ones having perished in exile had been brought to them--though even these felt an impulse of pleasure from christian sympathy with the joy of their more fortunate friends. among these last was poor reni-mamba. she, being very meek and submissive, had tried hard to join in the prayer and praise; but her voice was choked when she attempted to speak, and it quavered sadly when she tried to sing. "oh! if it had only pleased god to spare thee, mamba--thou crumb of my life!--my dear, my only son!" she broke out thus one day when the sympathetic ra-ruth sought to comfort her. "i was beginning to get over the loss of his father--it was so many years ago that they took him from me! and as my boy grew up, the likeness to my andrianivo was so strong that i used to try to think it was himself; but--now--both--" "are with the lord, which is far better," said ra-ruth, tenderly laying her hand on reni's arm. "you are young to give such comfort," returned reni, with a sad smile. "it is not i who give it, but the lord," returned ra-ruth. "and you forget, mother, that i am old in experience. when i stood on the edge of the rock of hurling, that awful day, and saw the dear ones tossed over one by one, i think that many years passed over my head!" "true--true," returned the other, "i am a selfish old woman--forgetting others when i think so much of myself. come--let us go to the meeting. you know that the congregation assembles to-day for the first time after many, many, years--so many!" "yes, mother, i know it. indeed i came here partly to ask you to go with me. and they say that totosy, the great preacher, is to speak to us." many others besides these two wended their way to the meeting-house that day. among them was a group in which the reader is perhaps interested. it consisted of mark breezy, john hockins, ebony ginger, samuel ravoninohitriniony, laihova, and voalavo. "well now, this is the queerest go-to-meetin' that i've had to do with since i was a babby," remarked hockins, as he looked from side to side upon the varied crowd of men and women, black, brown, and yellow, rich and poor, noble and slave, who were joyfully and noisily thronging to the house of god! "das true,--an' look dar!" said ebony, pointing to a young woman who was standing as if thunder-struck before a worn-out, feeble, white-haired man in tattered garments, with a heavy iron collar on his neck. recovering from her surprise, the young woman uttered the word "father" with a wild shriek, and rushed into the old man's arms. "easy to see that he is a banished one returned unexpectedly," observed mark, as the young woman, after the first wild embrace, seized the old man's arm and hurried him towards the meeting-house, while tears of joy streamed from her eyes. and this was not the only case they witnessed, for constantly, during the days that followed the accession of radama the second, exiles were hastening home,--men and women in rags, worn and wasted with want and suffering--reappearing in the city to the astonishment and joy of friends who had supposed them long since dead. yes, the long-desired jubilee had come at last, and not only was there great rejoicing over those lost and found ones, but also over many who, through the power of sympathy, were brought at that time to the saviour and repentance. referring to that period, one of those returned exiles writes thus:-- "on thursday, th august , we that were in concealment appeared. then all the people were astonished when they saw us, that we were alive and not yet buried or eaten by the dogs. and there were a great many people desiring to see us, for they considered us as dead, and this is what astonished them. on the th of september, those that were in fetters came to antananarivo, but they could not walk on account of the weight of the heavy fetters and their weak and feeble bodies." it was a strange gathering, and there were many surprises in the church that day, and some strange music too, besides that of psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, for, during the service, several exiles who had just arrived, hearing what was going on, had hastened to the scene of reunion without waiting to have their fetters filed off, and entered the house in clanking chains. the preacher's duty was one of unusual difficulty, for, besides these peculiar interruptions and the exclamations of surprised friends, the sympathy of his own heart nearly choked his utterance more than once. but totosy was equal to the occasion. his heart was on fire, his lips were eloquent, and the occasion was one of a thousand, never to be forgotten. despite difficulties, he held his audience spell-bound while he discoursed of the "wonderful words of god" and the shower of blessing which had begun to fall. suddenly, during a momentary pause in the discourse, the clanking of a very heavy chain was heard, and a man was seen to make his way through the crowd. like saul, head and shoulders above his fellows, gaunt, worn, and ragged, he had been standing near the door, not listening, apparently, to the preacher, but intent on scanning the faces of the congregation. discovering at length what he looked for, he forced his way to the side of reni-mamba, sank at her feet, and with a profound sigh--almost a groan--laid his head upon her lap! mamba, grown to a giant, seemed to have come back to her. but it was not her son. it was andrianivo, her long-lost husband! for one moment poor reni seemed terrified and bewildered, then she suddenly grasped the man's prematurely grey head in both hands and covered the face with passionate kisses, uttering every now and then a shriek by way of relieving her feelings. great though the preacher's power was in overcoming the difficulties of his position, reni-mamba's meek spirit, when thus roused, was too much for him. he was obliged to stop. at the same moment the gaunt giant arose, gathered up reni in his great arms as if she had been a mere baby, and, without a word, stalked out of the meeting to the music of his clanking chains. a malagasy cheer burst from the sympathetic people. "praise the lord! let us sing!" shouted the wise totosy, and in a few seconds the congregation was letting off its surplus steam in tremendous and jubilant song, to the ineffable joy of ebony, who must have burst out in some other way had not this safety-valve been provided. but there were more surprises in store for that singular meeting. after the sermon the preacher announced that two marriages were about to be solemnised by him in the simplest manner possible. "my friends," he said, "one of the bridegrooms is only half a malagasy, the other half of him is english. he objects to ceremony, and his friend, the other man to be married, objects to everything that _he_ objects to, and agrees to everything that _he_ agrees to, which is a very satisfactory state of mind in a friend; so they are to be married together." immediately after this speech ravonino led forward rafaravavy, and laihova advanced with ra-ruth, and these two couples were then and there united in matrimony. radama the second, and prince ramonja, who had been recalled and reinstated with the secretary, and soa, and other courtiers, graced the wedding with their presence. from this time, radama the second--or rakota, as we still prefer to call him--began systematically to undo the mischief which his wicked mother had done. he began to build a college; he re-opened the schools throughout the country which had been closed in the previous reign, and acted on principles of civil and religions liberty and universal free trade, while the london missionary society--which had sent out the first protestant missionaries in - --were invited to resume their beneficent labours in the island--an invitation which, of course, they gladly accepted, and at once despatched the veteran mr ellis, and other missionaries, to the re-opened field. _see note _. but all this, and much more historical matter of great interest, we must leave untouched, in order that we may wind up the record of our heroes' fortunes, or misfortunes; as the reader pleases to consider them. the events which we have described occurred in such rapid succession that our trio--mark, hockins, and ebony--had scarce found breathing-time to consider what they should do, now that they were free to do as they pleased. "go home, ob course," said ebony, when the question was mooted. "ain't my black darlin' awaitin' ob me dar?" "i incline to the same course," said mark, "for my--well, i won't say who, is awaiting me there also." "unless she's falled in lub wid some one else, tinkin' you was dead, massa, you know," suggested ebony. "ditto, says i," answered hockins, when appealed to, "for, to the best o' my belief, my old ooman is awaitin' for me, too, over there--he pointed to england with the stem of his pipe--to say nothin' o' three thumpin' boys an' a gal--also an old gran'-mother an' a maiden aunt, etceterer--all awaitin' with great patience, i have no manner o' doubt." "but how's we to git dar? das de question; as hamblit said to his moder's ghost." the question was answered sooner than they expected, for while they were yet speaking, a summons came from the king commanding the immediate attendance of the court physician. the object was to offer mark his appointment permanently, but mark respectfully, yet firmly, declined the honour. "i feared that," said the king, "for i doubt not that you has friends in your native home which draws you. well, you wishes to go. i say, `go with my good-will.' there is breetish ship loading at tamatave now. if you and you's friends mus' go, there be your chance, and i will send you to tamatave in palanquins. we all very sorry you go, for you was useful to us, and you was be kind--to my mother!" of course mark gladly availed himself of the opportunity, thankfully accepted the king's offer, and went off to inform his comrades and make preparation. it was a sad occasion when they met in the house of their old guide ravonino, to spend the last evening with him and rafaravavy, and laihova, and ra-ruth, reni-mamba and her husband, voalavo, soa, totosy, the secretary, and other friends, but it was also a time of pleasant communing about days that seemed so long past, although so recent. they also communed of days to come, and especially of that great day of reunion in the better land. and intensely earnest was the final prayer of the native pastor totosy, as he commended his friends to the loving care of god. next day they set sail for the seaport town of tamatave. and here we might appropriately terminate our narrative, for the bright days that had begun to dawn on madagascar have never since been darkened by persecution--though they have not been altogether cloudless or free from the curse of war; for, with its enormous capacities and important position, the island has long been a morsel, coveted by some of what men style the "great powers." but we may not close our tale without at least touching on one dark spot, the contemplation of which cannot fail to grieve the heart of every sincere christian. rakota, the gentle, humane, courageous prince, who had always favoured, and suffered hardship for, the cause of christ, who had shielded and saved many of the christians at the risk of his own life, and seemed to be--indeed was--a very pillar in the infant church, rakota fell into gross sin and ultimately perished by the assassin's hand. we have no right to judge him. only this we know, that "the blood of jesus christ cleanseth from _all_ sin;" and if his life and death throw light upon any passage of scripture, they seem to bring out in strong relief the words, "let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was a bright breezy morning when our three heroes stood on the deck of a homeward-bound vessel and gazed wistfully over the taffrail at the fast-receding shore. when the island sank like a little cloud into the horizon and disappeared, mark and ebony turned their eager eyes in the direction of old england, as if they half expected that celebrated isle of the west to appear! possibly the one was thinking of a fair one with golden hair and blue eyes and a rosebud mouth. it is not improbable that the other was engaged in mental contemplation of a dark one with "a flat nose, and a coal-scuttle mout', an' such eyes!" as for hockins, he stood with his sea-legs wide apart, his hands in his breeches pockets, and his eyes frowning severely at the deck. evidently his thoughts, whether of past, present, or future, were too deep for utterance, for, like his comrades, he maintained unbroken silence. leaving them thus in pensive meditation, we regretfully bid them--and our readers--farewell! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . those who wish for fuller information will find it in such works as _madagascar and its people_, by james sibree, junior; _madagascar, its missions and its martyrs; the history of madagascar_, etcetera, by reverend william ellis; _madagascar of to-day_, (a threepenny volume), by g.a. shaw, fzs, etcetera. the end. the golden snare by james oliver curwood author of kazan, the danger trail, the courage of marge o'doone, the grizzly king, etc. jtable the golden snare chapter i bram johnson was an unusual man, even for the northland. he was, above all other things, a creature of environment--and necessity, and of that something else which made of him at times a man with a soul, and at others a brute with the heart of a devil. in this story of bram, and the girl, and the other man, bram himself should not be blamed too much. he was pathetic, and yet he was terrible. it is doubtful if he really had what is generally regarded as a soul. if he did, it was hidden--hidden to the forests and the wild things that had made him. bram's story started long before he was born, at least three generations before. that was before the johnsons had gone north of sixty. but they were wandering, and steadily upward. if one puts a canoe in the lower athabasca and travels northward to the great slave and thence up the mackenzie to the arctic he will note a number of remarkable ethnological changes. the racial characteristics of the world he is entering change swiftly. the thin-faced chippewa with his alert movements and high-bowed canoe turns into the slower moving cree, with his broader cheeks, his more slanting eyes, and his racier birchbark. and even the cree changes as he lives farther north; each new tribe is a little different from its southernmost neighbor, until at last the cree looks like a jap, and the chippewyan takes his place. and the chippewyan takes up the story of life where the cree left off. nearer the arctic his canoe becomes a skin kaiak, his face is still broader, ms eyes like a chinaman's, and writers of human history call him eskimo. the johnsons, once they started, did not stop at any particular point. there was probably only one johnson in the beginning of that hundred year story which was to have its finality in bram. but there were more in time. the johnson blood mixed itself first with the chippewa, and then with the cree--and the cree-chippewa johnson blood, when at last it reached the eskimo, had in it also a strain of chippewyan. it is curious how the name itself lived. johnson! one entered a tepee or a cabin expecting to find there a white man, and was startled when he discovered the truth. bram, after nearly a century of this intermixing of bloods, was a throwback--a white man, so far as his skin and his hair and his eyes went. in other physical ways he held to the type of his half-strain eskimo mother, except in size. he was six feet, and a giant in strength. his face was broad, his cheek-bones high, his lips thick, his nose flat. and he was white. that was the shocking thing about it all. even his hair was a reddish blonde, wild and coarse and ragged like a lion's mane, and his eyes were sometimes of a curious blue, and at others--when he was angered--green like a cat's at night-time. no man knew bram for a friend. he was a mystery. he never remained at a post longer than was necessary to exchange his furs for supplies, and it might be months or even years before he returned to that particular post again. he was ceaselessly wandering. more or less the royal northwest mounted police kept track of him, and in many reports of faraway patrols filed at headquarters there are the laconic words, "we saw bram and his wolves traveling northward" or "bram and his wolves passed us"--always bram and his wolves. for two years the police lost track of him. that was when bram was buried in the heart of the sulphur country east of the great bear. after that the police kept an even closer watch on him, waiting, and expecting something to happen. and then--the something came. bram killed a man. he did it so neatly and so easily, breaking him as he might have broken a stick, that he was well off in flight before it was discovered that his victim was dead. the next tragedy followed quickly--a fortnight later, when corporal lee and a private from the fort churchill barracks closed in on him out on the edge of the barren. bram didn't fire a shot. they could hear his great, strange laugh when they were still a quarter of a mile away from him. bram merely set loose his wolves. by a miracle corporal lee lived to drag himself to a half-breed's cabin, where he died a little later, and the half-breed brought the story to fort churchill. after this, bram disappeared from the eyes of the world. what he lived in those four or five years that followed would well be worth his pardon if his experiences could be made to appear between the covers of a book. bram--and his wolves! think of it. alone. in all that time without a voice to talk to him. not once appearing at a post for food. a loup-garou. an animal-man. a companion of wolves. by the end of the third year there was not a drop of dog-blood in his pack. it was wolf, all wolf. from whelps he brought the wolves up, until he had twenty in his pack. they were monsters, for the under-grown ones he killed. perhaps he would have given them freedom in place of death, but these wolf-beasts of bram's would not accept freedom. in him they recognized instinctively the super-beast, and they were his slaves. and bram, monstrous and half animal himself, loved them. to him they were brother, sister, wife--all creation. he slept with them, and ate with them, and starved with them when food was scarce. they were comradeship and protection. when bram wanted meat, and there was meat in the country, he would set his wolf-horde on the trail of a caribou or a moose, and if they drove half a dozen miles ahead of bram himself there would always be plenty of meat left on the bones when he arrived. four years of that! the police would not believe it. they laughed at the occasional rumors that drifted in from the far places; rumors that bram had been seen, and that his great voice had been heard rising above the howl of his pack on still winter nights, and that half-breeds and indians had come upon his trails, here and there--at widely divergent places. it was the french half-breed superstition of the chasse-galere that chiefly made them disbelieve, and the chasse-galere is a thing not to be laughed at in the northland. it is composed of creatures who have sold their souls to the devil for the power of navigating the air, and there were those who swore with their hands on the crucifix of the virgin that they had with their own eyes seen bram and his wolves pursuing the shadowy forms of great beasts through the skies. so the police believed that bram was dead; and bram, meanwhile, keeping himself from all human eyes, was becoming more and more each day like the wolves who were his brothers. but the white blood in a man dies hard, and always there flickered in the heart of bram's huge chest a great yearning. it must at times have been worse than death--that yearning to hear a human voice, to have a human creature to speak to, though never had he loved man or woman. which brings us at last to the final tremendous climax in bram's life--to the girl, and the other man. chapter ii the other man was raine--philip raine. to-night he sat in pierre breault's cabin, with pierre at the opposite side of the table between them, and the cabin's sheet iron stove blazing red just beyond. it was a terrible night outside. pierre, the fox hunter, had built his shack at the end of a long slim forefinger of scrub spruce that reached out into the barren, and to-night the wind was wailing and moaning over the open spaces in a way that made raine shiver. close to the east was hudson's bay--so close that a few moments before when raine had opened the cabin door there came to him the low, never-ceasing thunder of the under-currents fighting their way down through the roes welcome from the arctic ocean, broken now and then by a growling roar as the giant forces sent a crack, like a great knife, through one of the frozen mountains. westward from pierre's cabin there stretched the lifeless barren, illimitable and void, without rock or bush, and overhung at day by a sky that always made raine think of a terrible picture he had once seen of dore's "inferno"--a low, thick sky, like purple and blue granite, always threatening to pitch itself down in terrific avalanches. and at night, when the white foxes yapped, and the wind moaned-- "as i have hope of paradise i swear that i saw him--alive, m'sieu," pierre was saying again over the table. raine, of the fort churchill patrol of the royal northwest mounted police, no longer smiled in disbelief. he knew that pierre breault was a brave man, or he would not have perched himself alone out in the heart of the barren to catch the white foxes; and he was not superstitious, like most of his kind, or the sobbing cries and strife of the everlasting night-winds would have driven him away. "i swear it!" repeated pierre. something that was almost eagerness was burning now in philip's face. he leaned over the table, his hands gripping tightly. he was thirty-five; almost slim as pierre himself, with eyes as steely blue as pierre's were black. there was a time, away back, when he wore a dress suit as no other man in the big western city where he lived; now the sleeves of his caribou skin coat were frayed and torn, his hands were knotted, in his face were the lines of storm and wind. "it is impossible," he said. "bram johnson is dead!" "he is alive, m'sieu." in pierre's voice there was a strange tremble. "if i had only heard, if i had not seen, you might disbelieve, m'sieu," he cried, his eyes glowing with a dark fire. "yes, i heard the cry of the pack first, and i went to the door, and opened it, and stood there listening and looking out into the night. ugh! they went near. i could hear the hoofs of the caribou. and then i heard a great cry, a voice that rose above the howl of the wolves like the voice of ten men, and i knew that bram johnson was on the trail of meat. mon dieu--yes--he is alive. and that is not all. no. no. that is not all--" his fingers were twitching. for the third or fourth time in the last three-quarters of an hour raine saw him fighting back a strange excitement. his own incredulity was gone. he was beginning to believe pierre. "and after that--you saw him?" "yes. i would not do again what i did then for all the foxes between the athabasca and the bay, m'sieu. it must have been--i don't know what. it dragged me out into the night. i followed. i found the trail of the wolves, and i found the snowshoe tracks of a man. oui. i still followed. i came close to the kill, with the wind in my face, and i could hear the snapping of jaws and the rending of flesh--yes--yes--and a man's terrible laugh! if the wind had shifted--if that pack of devils' souls had caught the smell of me--tonnerre de dieu!" he shuddered, and the knuckles of his fingers snapped as he clenched and unclenched his hands. "but i stayed there, m'sieu, half buried in a snow dune. they went on after a long time. it was so dark i could not see them. i went to the kill then, and--yes, he had carried away the two hind quarters of the caribou. it was a bull, too, and heavy. i followed--clean across that strip of barren down to the timber, and it was there that bram built himself the fire. i could see him then, and i swear by the blessed virgin that it was bram! long ago, before he killed the man, he came twice to my cabin--and he had not changed. and around him, in the fire-glow, the wolves huddled. it was then that i came to my reason. i could see him fondling them. i could see their gleaming fangs. yes, i could hear their bodies, and he was talking to them and laughing with them through his great beard--and i turned and fled back to the cabin, running so swiftly that even the wolves would have had trouble in catching me. and that--that--was not all!" again his fingers were clenching and unclenching as he stared at raine. "you believe me, m'sieu?" philip nodded. "it seems impossible. and yet--you could not have been dreaming, pierre." breault drew a deep breath of satisfaction, and half rose to his feet. "and you will believe me if i tell you the rest?" "yes." swiftly pierre went to his bunk and returned with the caribou skin pouch in which he carried his flint and steel and fire material for the trail. "the next day i went back, m'sieu," he said, seating himself again opposite philip. "bram and his wolves were gone. he had slept in a shelter of spruce boughs. and--and--par les mille cornes du diable if he had even brushed the snow out! his great moccasin tracks were all about among the tracks of the wolves, and they were big as the spoor of a monster bear. i searched everywhere for something that he might have left, and i found--at last--a rabbit snare." pierre breault's eyes, and not his words--and the curious twisting and interlocking of his long slim fingers about the caribou-skin bag in his hand stirred philip with the thrill of a tense and mysterious anticipation, and as he waited, uttering no word, pierre's fingers opened the sack, and he said: "a rabbit snare, m'sieu, which had dropped from his pocket into the snow--" in another moment he had given it into philip's hands. the oil lamp was hung straight above them. its light flooded the table between them, and from philip's lips, as he stared at the snare, there broke a gasp of amazement. pierre had expected that cry. he had at first been disbelieved; now his face burned with triumph. it seemed, for a space, as if philip had ceased breathing. he stared--stared--while the light from above him scintillated on the thing he held. it was a snare. there could be no doubt of that. it was almost a yard in length, with the curious chippewyan loop at one end and the double-knot at the other. the amazing thing about it was that it was made of a woman's golden hair. chapter iii the process of mental induction occasionally does not pause to reason its way, but leaps to an immediate and startling finality, which, by reason of its very suddenness, is for a space like the shock of a sudden blow. after that one gasp of amazement philip made no sound. he spoke no word to pierre. in a sudden lull of the wind sweeping over the cabin the ticking of his watch was like the beating of a tiny drum. then, slowly, his eyes rose from the silken thread in his fingers and met pierre's. each knew what the other was thinking. if the hair had been black. if it had been brown. even had it been of the coarse red of the blond eskimo of the upper mackenzie! but it was gold--shimmering gold. still without speaking, philip drew a knife from his pocket and cut the shining thread above the second knot, and worked at the finely wrought weaving of the silken filaments until a tress of hair, crinkled and waving, lay on the table before them. if he had possessed a doubt, it was gone now. he could not remember where he had ever seen just that colored gold in a woman's hair. probably he had, at one time or another. it was not red gold. it possessed no coppery shades and lights as it rippled there in the lamp glow. it was flaxen, and like spun silk--so fine that, as he looked at it, he marveled at the patience that had woven it into a snare. again he looked at pierre. the same question was in their eyes. "it must be--that bram has a woman with him," said pierre. "it must be," said philip. "or--" that final word, its voiceless significance, the inflection which philip gave to it as he gazed at pierre, stood for the one tremendous question which, for a space, possessed the mind of each. pierre shrugged his shoulders. he could not answer it. and as he shrugged his shoulders he shivered, and at a sudden blast of the wind against the cabin door he turned quickly, as though he thought the blow might have been struck by a human hand. "diable!" he cried, recovering himself, his white teeth flashing a smile at philip. "it has made me nervous--what i saw there in the light of the campfire, m'sieu. bram, and his wolves, and that!" he nodded at the shimmering strands. "you have never seen hair the color of this, pierre?" "non. in all my life--not once." "and yet you have seen white women at fort churchill, at york factory, at lac la biche, at cumberland house, and norway house, and at fort albany?" "ah-h-h, and at many other places, m'sieu. at god's lake, at lac seul, and over on the mackenzie--and never have i seen hair on a woman like that." "and bram has never been out of the northland, never farther south than fort chippewyan that we know of," said philip. "it makes one shiver, eh, pierre? it makes one think of--what? can't you answer? isn't it in your mind?" french and cree were mixed half and half in pierre's blood. the pupils of his eyes dilated as he met philip's steady gaze. "it makes one think," he replied uneasily, "of the chasse-galere and the loup-garou, and--and--almost makes one believe. i am not superstitious, m'sieu--non--non--i am not superstitious," he cried still more uneasily. "but many strange things are told about bram and his wolves;--that he has sold his soul to the devil, and can travel through the air, and that he can change himself into the form of a wolf at will. there are those who have heard him singing the chanson de voyageur to the howling of his wolves away up in the sky. i have seen them, and talked with them, and over on the mcleod i saw a whole tribe making incantation because they had seen bram and his wolves building themselves a conjuror's house in the heart of a thunder-cloud. so--is it strange that he should snare rabbits with, a woman's hair?" "and change black into the color of the sun?" added philip, falling purposely into the other's humor. "if the rest is true--" pierre did not finish. he caught himself, swallowing hard, as though a lump had risen in his throat, and for a moment or two philip saw him fighting with himself, struggling with the age-old superstitions which had flared up for an instant like a powder-flash. his jaws tightened, and he threw back his head. "but those stories are not true, m'sieu," he added in a repressed voice. "that is why i showed you the snare. bram johnson is not dead. he is alive. and there is a woman with him, or--" "or--" the same thought was in their eyes again. and again neither gave voice to it. carefully philip was gathering up the strands of hair, winding them about his forefinger, and placing them afterward in a leather wallet which he took from his pocket. then, quite casually, he loaded his pipe and lighted it. he went to the door, opened it, and for a few moments stood listening to the screech of the wind over the barren. pierre, still seated at the table, watched him attentively. philip's mind was made up when he closed the door and faced the half-breed again. "it is three hundred miles from here to fort churchill," he said. "half way, at the lower end of jesuche lake, macveigh and his patrol have made their headquarters. if i go after bram, pierre, i must first make certain of getting a message to macveigh, and he will see that it gets to fort churchill. can you leave your foxes and poison-baits and your deadfalls long enough for that?" a moment pierre hesitated. then he said: "i will take the message." until late that night philip sat up writing his report. he had started out to run down a band of indian thieves. more important business had crossed his trail, and he explained the whole matter to superintendent fitzgerald, commanding "m" division at fort churchill. he told pierre breault's story as he had heard it. he gave his reasons for believing it, and that bram johnson, three times a murderer, was alive. he asked that another man be sent after the indians, and explained, as nearly as he could, the direction he would take in his pursuit of bram. when the report was finished and sealed he had omitted just one thing. not a word had he written about the rabbit snare woven from a woman's hair. chapter iv the next morning the tail of the storm was still sweeping bitterly over the edge of the barren, but philip set out, with pierre breault as his guide, for the place where the half-breed had seen bram johnson and his wolves in camp. three days had passed since that exciting night, and when they arrived at the spot where bram had slept the spruce shelter was half buried in a windrow of the hard, shot like snow that the blizzard had rolled in off the open spaces. from this point pierre marked off accurately the direction bram had taken the morning after the hunt, and philip drew the point of his compass to the now invisible trail. almost instantly he drew his conclusion. "bram is keeping to the scrub timber along the edge of the barren," he said to pierre. "that is where i shall follow. you might add that much to what i have written to macveigh. but about the snare, pierre breault, say not a word. do you understand? if he is a loup-garou man, and weaves golden hairs out of the winds--" "i will say nothing, m'sieu," shuddered pierre. they shook hands, and parted in silence. philip set his face to the west, and a few moments later, looking back, he could no longer see pierre. for an hour after that he was oppressed by the feeling that he was voluntarily taking a desperate chance. for reasons which he had arrived at during the night he had left his dogs and sledge with pierre, and was traveling light. in his forty-pound pack, fitted snugly to his shoulders, were a three pound silk service-tent that was impervious to the fiercest wind, and an equal weight of cooking utensils. the rest of his burden, outside of his rifle, his colt's revolver and his ammunition, was made up of rations, so much of which was scientifically compressed into dehydrated and powder form that he carried on his back, in a matter of thirty pounds, food sufficient for a month if he provided his meat on the trail. the chief article in this provision was fifteen pounds of flour; four dozen eggs he carried in one pound of egg powder; twenty-eight pounds of potatoes in four pounds of the dehydrated article; four pounds of onions in a quarter of a pound of the concentration, and so on through the list. he laughed a little grimly as he thought of this concentrated efficiency in the pack on his shoulders. in a curious sort of way it reminded him of other days, and he wondered what some of his old-time friends would say if he could, by some magic endowment, assemble them here for a feast on the trail. he wondered especially what mignon davenport would say--and do. p-f-f-f! he could see the blue-blooded horror in her aristocratic face! that wind from over the barren would curdle the life in her veins. she would shrivel up and die. he considered himself a fairly good judge in the matter, for once upon a time he thought that he was going to marry her. strange why he should think of her now, he told himself; but for all that he could not get rid of her for a time. and thinking of her, his mind traveled back into the old days, even as he followed over the hidden trail of bram. undoubtedly a great many of his old friends had forgotten him. five years was a long time, and friendship in the set to which he belonged was not famous for its longevity. nor love, for that matter. mignon had convinced him of that. he grimaced, and in the teeth of the wind he chuckled. fate was a playful old chap. it was a good joke he had played on him--first a bit of pneumonia, then a set of bad lungs afflicted with that "galloping" something-or-other that hollows one's cheeks and takes the blood out of one's veins. it was then that the horror had grown larger and larger each day in mignon's big baby-blue eyes, until she came out with childish frankness and said that it was terribly embarrassing to have one's friends know that one was engaged to a consumptive. philip laughed as he thought of that. the laugh came so suddenly and so explosively that bram could have heard it a hundred yards away, even with the wind blowing as it was. a consumptive! philip doubled up his arm until the hard muscles in it snapped. he drew in a deep lungful of air, and forced it out again with a sound like steam escaping from a valve. the north had done that for him; the north with its wonderful forests, its vast skies, its rivers, and its lakes, and its deep snows--the north that makes a man out of the husk of a man if given half a chance. he loved it. and because he loved it, and the adventure of it, he had joined the police two years ago. some day he would go back, just for the fun of it; meet his old friends in his old clubs, and shock baby-eyed mignon to death with his good health. he dropped these meditations as he thought of the mysterious man he was following. during the course of his two years in the service he had picked up a great many odds and ends in the history of bram's life, and in the lives of the johnsons who had preceded him. he had never told any one how deeply interested he was. he had, at times, made efforts to discuss the quality of bram's intelligence, but always he had failed to make others see and understand his point of view. by the indians and half-breeds of the country in which he had lived, bram was regarded as a monster of the first order possessed of the conjuring powers of the devil himself. by the police he was earnestly desired as the most dangerous murderer at large in all the north, and the lucky man who captured him, dead or alive, was sure of a sergeantcy. ambition and hope had run high in many valiant hearts until it was generally conceded that bram was dead. philip was not thinking of the sergeantcy as he kept steadily along the edge of the barren. his service would shortly be up, and he had other plans for the future. from the moment his fingers had touched the golden strand of hair he had been filled with a new and curious emotion. it possessed him even more strongly to-day than it had last night. he had not given voice to that emotion, or to the thoughts it had roused, even to pierre. perhaps he was ridiculous. but he possessed imagination, and along with that a great deal of sympathy for animals--and some human beings. he had, for the time, ceased to be the cool and calculating man-hunter intent on the possession of another's life. he knew that his duty was to get bram and take him back to headquarters, and he also knew that he would perform his duty when the opportunity came--unless he had guessed correctly the significance of the golden snare. and had he guessed correctly? there was a tremendous doubt in his mind, and yet he was strangely thrilled. he tried to argue that there were many ways in which bram might have secured the golden hairs that had gone into the making of his snare; and that the snare itself might long have been carried as a charm against the evils of disease and the devil by the strange creature whose mind and life were undoubtedly directed to a large extent by superstition. in that event it was quite logical that bram had come into possession of his golden talisman years ago. in spite of himself, philip could not believe that this was so. at noon, when he built a small fire to make tea and warm his bannock, he took the golden tress from his wallet and examined it even more closely than last night. it might have come from a woman's head only yesterday, so bright and shimmery was it in the pale light of the midday sun. he was amazed at the length and fineness of it, and the splendid texture of each hair. possibly there were half a hundred hairs, each of an equal and unbroken length. he ate his dinner, and went on. three days of storm had covered utterly every trace of the trail made by bram and his wolves. he was convinced, however, that bram would travel in the scrub timber close to the barren. he had already made up his mind that this barren--the great barren of the unmapped north--was the great snow sea in which bram had so long found safety from the law. beaching five hundred miles east and west, and almost from the sixtieth degree to the arctic ocean, its un-peopled and treeless wastes formed a tramping ground for him as safe as the broad pacific to the pirates of old. he could not repress a shivering exclamation as his mind dwelt on this world of bram's. it was worse than the edge of the arctic, where one might at least have the eskimo for company. he realized the difficulty of his own quest. his one chance lay in fair weather, and the discovery of an old trail made by bram and his pack. an old trail would lead to fresher ones. also he was determined to stick to the edge of the scrub timber, for if the barren was bram's retreat he would sooner or later strike a trail--unless bram had gone straight out into the vast white plain shortly after he had made his camp in the forest near pierre breault's cabin. in that event it might be weeks before bram would return to the scrub timber again. that night the last of the blizzard that had raged for days exhausted itself. for a week clear weather followed. it was intensely cold, but no snow fell. in that week philip traveled a hundred and twenty miles westward. it was on the eighth night, as he sat near his fire in a thick clump of dwarf spruce, that the thing happened which pierre breault, with a fatalism born of superstition, knew would come to pass. and it is curious that on this night, and in the very hour of the strange happening, philip had with infinite care and a great deal of trouble rewoven the fifty hairs back into the form of the golden snare. chapter v the night was so bright that the spruce trees cast vivid shadows on the snow. overhead there were a billion stars in a sky as dear as an open sea, and the great dipper shone like a constellation of tiny suns. the world did not need a moon. at a distance of three hundred yards philip could have seen a caribou if it had passed. he sat close to his fire, with the heat of it reflected from the blackened face of a huge rock, finishing the snare which had taken him an hour to weave. for a long time he had been conscious of the curious, hissing monotone of the aurora, the "music of the skies," reaching out through the space of the earth with a purring sound that was at times like the purr of a cat and at others like the faint hum of a bee. absorbed in his work he did not, for a time, hear the other sound. not until he had finished, and was placing the golden snare in his wallet, did the one sound individualize and separate itself from the other. he straightened himself suddenly, and listened. then he jumped to his feet and ran through fifty feet of low scrub to the edge of the white plain. it was coming from off there, a great distance away. perhaps a mile. it might be two. the howling of wolves! it was not a new or unusual sound to him. he had listened to it many times during the last two years. but never had it thrilled him as it did now, and he felt the blood leap in sudden swiftness through his body as the sound bore straight in his direction. in a flash he remembered all that pierre breault had said. bram and his pack hunted like that. and it was bram who was coming. he knew it. he ran back to his tent and in what remained of the heat of the fire he warmed for a few moments the breech of his rifle. then he smothered the fire by kicking snow over it. returning to the edge of the plain, he posted himself near the largest spruce he could find, up which it would be possible for him to climb a dozen feet or so if necessity drove him to it. and this necessity bore down upon him like the wind. the pack, whether guided by man or beast, was driving straight at him, and it was less than a quarter of a mile away when philip drew himself up in the spruce. his breath came quick, and his heart was thumping like a drum, for as he climbed up the slender refuge that was scarcely larger in diameter than his arm he remembered the time when he had hung up a thousand pounds of moose meat on cedars as thick as his leg, and the wolves had come the next night and gnawed them through as if they had been paper. from his unsteady perch ten feet off the ground he stared out into the starlit barren. then came the other sound. it was the swift chug, chug, chug of galloping feet--of hoofs breaking through the crust of the snow. a shape loomed up, and philip knew it was a caribou running for its life. he drew an easier breath as he saw that the animal was fleeing parallel with the projecting finger of scrub in which he had made his camp, and that it would strike the timber a good mile below him. and now, with a still deeper thrill, he noted the silence of the pursuing wolves. it meant but one thing. they were so close on the heels of their prey that they no longer made a sound. scarcely had the caribou disappeared when philip saw the first of them--gray, swiftly moving shapes, spread out fan-like as they closed in on two sides for attack, so close that he could hear the patter of their feet and the blood-curdling whines that came from between their gaping jaws. there were at least twenty of them, perhaps thirty, and they were gone with the swiftness of shadows driven by a gale. from his uncomfortable position philip lowered himself to the snow again. with its three or four hundred yard lead he figured that the caribou would almost reach the timber a mile away before the end came. concealed in the shadow of the spruce, he waited. he made no effort to analyze the confidence with which he watched for bram. when he at last heard the curious zip--zip--zip of snowshoes approaching his blood ran no faster than it had in the preceding minutes of his expectation, so sure had he been that the man he was after would soon loom up out of the starlight. in the brief interval after the passing of the wolves he had made up his mind what he would do. fate had played a trump card into his hand. from the first he had figured that strategy would have much to do in the taking of bram, who would be practically unassailable when surrounded by the savage horde which, at a word from him, had proved themselves ready to tear his enemies into pieces. now, with the wolves gorging themselves, his plan was to cut bram off and make him, a prisoner. from his knees he rose slowly to his feet, still hidden in the shadow of the spruce. his rifle he discarded. in his un-mittened hand he held his revolver. with staring eyes he looked for bram out where the wolves had passed. and then, all at once, came the shock. it was tremendous. the trickery of sound on the barren had played an unexpected prank with his senses, and while he strained his eyes to pierce the hazy starlight of the plain far out, bram himself loomed up suddenly along the edge of the bush not twenty paces away. philip choked back the cry on his lips, and in that moment bram stopped short, standing full in the starlight, his great lungs taking in and expelling air with a gasping sound as he listened for his wolves. he was a giant of a man. a monster, philip thought. it is probable that the elusive glow of the night added to his size as he stood there. about his shoulders fell a mass of unkempt hair that looked like seaweed. his beard was short and thick, and for a flash philip saw the starlight in his eyes--eyes that were shining like the eyes of a cat. in that same moment he saw the face. it was a terrible, questing face--the face of a creature that was hunting, and yet hunted; of a creature half animal and half man. so long as he lived he knew that he would never forget it; the wild savagery of it, the questing fire that was in the eyes, the loneliness of it there in the night, set apart from all mankind; and with the face he would never forget that other thing that came to him audibly--the throbbing, gasping heartbeat of the man's body. in this moment philip knew that the time to act was at hand. his fingers gripped tighter about the butt of his revolver as he stepped forward out of the shadow. bram would have seen him then, but in that same instant he had flung back his head and from his throat there went forth a cry such as philip had never heard from man or beast before. it began deep in bram's cavernous chest, like the rolling of a great drum, and ended in a wailing shriek that must have carried for miles over the open plain--the call of the master to his pack, of the man-beast to his brothers. it may be that even before the cry was finished some super-instinct had warned bram johnson of a danger which he had not seen. the cry was cut short. it ended in a hissing gasp, as steam is cut off by a valve. before philip's startled senses had adjusted themselves to action bram was off, and as his huge strides carried him swiftly through the starlight the cry that had been on his lips was replaced by the strange, mad laugh that pierre breault had described with a shiver of fear. without moving, philip called after him: "bram--bram johnson--stop! in the name of the king--" it was the old formula, the words that carried with them the majesty and power of law throughout the northland. bram heard them. but he did not stop. he sped on more swiftly, and again philip called his name. "bram--bram johnson--" the laugh came back again. it was weird and chuckling, as though bram was laughing at him. in the starlight philip flung up his revolver. he did not aim to hit. twice he fired over bram's head and shoulders, so close that the fugitive must have heard the whine of the bullets. "bram--bram johnson!" he shouted a third time. his pistol arm relaxed and dropped to his side, and he stood staring after the great figure that was now no more than a shadow in the gloom. and then it was swallowed up entirely. once more he was alone under the stars, encompassed by a world of nothingness. he felt, all at once, that he had been a very great fool. he had played his part like a child; even his voice had trembled as he called out bram's name. and bram--even bram--had laughed at him. very soon he would pay the price of his stupidity--of his slowness to act. it was thought of that which quickened his pulse as he stared out into the white space into which bram had gone. before the night was over bram would return, and with him would come the wolves. with a shudder philip thought of corporal lee as he turned back through the scrub to the big rock where he had made his camp. the picture that flashed into his mind of the fate of the two men from churchill added to the painful realization of his own immediate peril--a danger brought upon himself by an almost inconceivable stupidity. philip was no more than the average human with good red blood in his veins. a certain amount of personal hazard held a fascination for him, but he had also the very great human desire to hold a fairly decent hand in any game of chance he entered. it was the oppressive conviction that he had no chance now that stunned him. for a few minutes he stood over the spot where his fire had been, a film of steam rising into his face, trying to adjust his mind to some sort of logical action. he was not afraid of bram. he would quite cheerfully have gone out and fought open-handedly for his man, even though he had seen that bram was a giant. this, much he told himself, as he fingered the breech of his rifle, and listened. but it was not bram who would fight. the wolves would come. he probably would not see bram again. he would hear only his laugh, or his great voice urging on his pack, as corporal lee and the other man had heard it. that bram would not return for vengeance never for a moment entered his analysis of the situation. by firing after his man philip had too clearly disclosed his identity and his business; and bram, fighting for his own existence, would be a fool not to rid himself of an immediate and dangerous enemy. and then, for the first time since he had returned from the edge of the barren, philip saw the man again as he had seen him standing under the white glow of the stars. and it struck him, all at once, that bram had been unarmed. comprehension of this fact, slow as it had been, worked a swift and sudden hope in him, and his eyes took in quickly the larger trees about him. from a tree he could fight the pack and kill them one by one. he had a rifle and a revolver, and plenty of ammunition. the advantage would lay all with him. but if he was treed, and bram happened to have a rifle-- he put on the heavy coat he had thrown off near the fire, filled his pockets with loose ammunition, and hunted for the tree he wanted. he found it a hundred yards from his camp. it was a gnarled and wind-blown spruce six inches in diameter, standing in an open. in this open philip knew that he could play havoc with the pack. on the other hand, if bram possessed a rifle, the gamble was against him. perched in the tree, silhouetted against the stars that made the night like day, he would be an easy victim. bram could pick him off without showing himself. but it was his one chance, and he took it. chapter vi an hour later philip looked at his watch. it was close to midnight. in that hour his nerves had been keyed to a tension that was almost at the breaking point. not a sound came from off the barren or from out of the scrub timber that did not hold a mental and physical shock for him. he believed that bram and his pack would come up quietly; that he would not hear the man's footsteps or the soft pads of his beasts until they were very near. twice a great snow owl fluttered over his head. a third time it pounced down upon a white hare back in the shrub, and for an instant philip thought the time had come. the little white foxes, curious as children, startled him most. half a dozen times they sent through him the sharp thrill of anticipation, and twice they made him climb his tree. after that hour the reaction came, and with the steadying of his nerves and the quieter pulse of his blood philip began to ask himself if he was going to escape the ordeal which a short time before he had accepted as a certainty. was it possible that his shots had frightened bram? he could not believe that. cowardice was the last thing he would associate with the strange man he had seen in the starlight. vividly he saw bram's face again. and now, after the almost unbearable strain he had been under, a mysterious something that had been in that face impinged itself upon him above all other things. wild and savage as the face had been, he had seen in it the unutterable pathos of a creature without hope. in that moment, even as caution held him listening for the approach of danger, he no longer felt the quickening thrill of man on the hunt for man. he could not have explained the change in himself--the swift reaction of thought and emotion that filled him with a mastering sympathy for bram johnson. he waited, and less and less grew his fear of the wolves. even more clearly he saw bram as the time passed; the hunted look in the man's eyes, even as he hunted--the loneliness of him as he had stood listening for a sound from the only friends he had--the padded beasts ahead. in spite of bram's shrieking cry to his pack, and the strangeness of the laugh that had floated back out of the white night after the shots, philip was convinced that he was not mad. he had heard of men whom loneliness had killed. he had known one--pelletier, up at point fullerton, on the arctic. he could repeat by heart the diary pelletier had left scribbled on his cabin door. it was worse than madness. to pelletier death had come at last as a friend. and bram had been like that--dead to human comradeship for years. and yet-- under it all, in philip's mind, ran the thought of the woman's hair. in pierre breault's cabin he had not given voice to the suspicion that had flashed upon him. he had kept it to himself, and pierre, afraid to speak because of the horror of it, had remained as silent as he. the thought oppressed him now. he knew that human hair retained its life and its gloss indefinitely, and that bram might have had the golden snare for years. it was quite reasonable to suppose that he had bartered for it with some white man in the years before he had become an outlaw, and that some curious fancy or superstition had inspired him in its possession. but philip had ceased to be influenced by reason alone. sharply opposed to reason was that consciousness within him which told him that the hair had been freshly cut from a woman's head. he had no argument with which to drive home the logic of this belief even with himself, and yet he found it impossible not to accept that belief fully and unequivocally. there was, or had been, a woman with bram--and as he thought of the length and beauty and rare texture of the silken strand in his pocket he could not repress a shudder at the possibilities the situation involved. bram--and a woman! and a woman with hair like that! he left his tree after a time. for another hour he paced slowly back and forth at the edge of the barren, his senses still keyed to the highest point of caution. then he rebuilt his fire, pausing every few moments in the operation to listen for a suspicious sound. it was very cold. he noticed, after a little, that the weird sound of the lights over the pole had become only a ghostly whisper. the stars were growing dimmer, and he watched them as they seemed slowly to recede farther and farther away from the world of which he was a part. this dying out of the stars always interested him. it was one of the miracles of the northern world that lay just under the long arctic night which, a few hundred miles beyond the barren, was now at its meridian. it seemed to him as though ten thousand invisible hands were sweeping under the heavens extinguishing the lights first in ones and twos and then in whole constellations. it preceded by perhaps half an hour the utter and chaotic blackness that comes before the northern dawn, and it was this darkness that philip dreaded as he waited beside his fire. in the impenetrable gloom of that hour bram might come. it was possible that he had been waiting for that darkness. philip looked at his watch. it was four o'clock. once more he went to his tree, and waited. in another quarter of an hour he could not see the tree beside which he stood. and bram did not come. with the beginning of the gray dawn philip rebuilt his fire for the third time and prepared to cook his breakfast. he felt the need of coffee--strong coffee--and he boiled himself a double ration. at seven o'clock he was ready to take up the trail. he believed now that some mysterious and potent force had restrained bram johnson from taking advantage of the splendid opportunity of that night to rid himself of an enemy. as he made his way through the scrub timber along the edge of the barren it was with the feeling that he no longer desired bram as a prisoner. a thing more interesting than bram had entered into the adventure. it was the golden snare. not with bram himself, but only at the end of bram's trail, would he find what the golden snare stood for. there he would discover the mystery and the tragedy of it, if it meant anything at all. he appreciated the extreme hazard of following bram to his long hidden retreat. the man he might outwit in pursuit and overcome in fair fight, if it came to a fight, but against the pack he was fighting tremendous odds. what this odds meant had not fully gripped him until he came cautiously out of the timber half an hour later and saw what was left of the caribou the pack had killed. the bull had fallen within fifty yards of the edge of the scrub. for a radius of twenty feet about it the snow was beaten hard by the footprints of beasts, and this arena was stained red with blood and scattered thickly with bits of flesh, broken bones and patches of hide. philip could see where bram had come in on the run, and where he had kicked off his snowshoes. after that his great moccasin tracks mingled with those of the wolves. bram had evidently come in time to save the hind quarters, which had been dragged to a spot well out of the red ring of slaughter. after that the stars must have looked down upon an amazing scene. the hungry horde had left scarcely more than the disemboweled offal. where bram had dragged his meat there was a small circle worn by moccasin tracks, and here, too, were small bits of flesh, scattered about--the discarded remnants of bram's own feast. the snow told as clearly as a printed page what had happened after that. its story amazed philip. from somewhere bram had produced a sledge, and on this sledge he had loaded what remained of the caribou meat. from the marks in the snow philip saw that it had been of the low ootapanask type, but that it was longer and broader than any sledge he had ever seen. he did not have to guess at what had happened. everything was too clear for that. far back on the barren bram had loosed his pack at sight of the caribou, and the pursuit and kill had followed. after that, when beasts and man had gorged themselves, they had returned through the night for the sledge. bram had made a wide detour so that he would not again pass near the finger of scrub timber that concealed his enemy, and with a curious quickening of the blood in his veins philip observed how closely the pack hung at his heels. the man was master--absolutely. later they had returned with the sledge, bram had loaded his meat, and with his pack had struck out straight north over the barren. every wolf was in harness, and bram rode on the sledge. philip drew a deep breath. he was learning new things about bram johnson. first he assured himself that bram was not afraid, and that his disappearance could not be called a flight. if fear of capture had possessed him he would not have returned for his meat. suddenly he recalled pierre breault's story of how bram had carried off the haunches of a bull upon his shoulders as easily as a child might have carried a toy gun, and he wondered why bram--instead of returning for the meat this night--had not carried the meat to his sledge. it would have saved time and distance. he was beginning to give bram credit for a deeply mysterious strategy. there was some definite reason why he had not made an attack with his wolves that night. there was a reason for the wide detour around the point of timber, and there was a still more inexplicable reason why he had come back with his sledge for the meat, instead of carrying his meat to the sledge. the caribou haunch had not weighed more than sixty or seventy pounds, which was scarcely half a burden for bram's powerful shoulders. in the edge of the timber, where he could secure wood for his fire, philip began to prepare. he cooked food for six days. three days he would follow bram out into that unmapped and treeless space--the great barren. beyond that it would be impossible to go without dogs or sledge. three days out, and three days back--and even at that he would be playing a thrilling game with death. in the heart of the barren a menace greater than bram and his wolves would be impending. it was storm. his heart sank a little as he set out straight north, marking the direction by the point of his compass. it was a gray and sunless day. beyond him for a distance the barren was a white plain, and this plain seemed always to be merging not very far ahead into the purple haze of the sky. at the end of an hour he was in the center of a vast amphitheater which was filled with the gloom and the stillness of death. behind him the thin fringe of the forest had disappeared. the rim of the sky was like a leaden thing, widening only as he advanced. under that sky, and imprisoned within its circular walls, he knew that men had gone mad; he felt already the crushing oppression of an appalling loneliness, and for another hour he fought an almost irresistible desire to turn back. not a rock or a shrub rose to break the monotony, and over his head--so low that at times it seemed as though he might have flung a stone up to them--dark clouds rolled sullenly from out of the north and east. half a dozen times in those first two hours he looked at his compass. not once in that time did bram diverge from his steady course into the north. in the gray gloom, without a stone or a tree to mark his way, his sense of orientation was directing him as infallibly as the sensitive needle of the instrument which philip carried. it was in the third hour, seven or eight miles from the scene of slaughter, that philip came upon the first stopping place of the sledge. the wolves had not broken their traveling rank, and for this reason he guessed that bram had paused only long enough to put on his snowshoes. after this philip could measure quite accurately the speed of the outlaw and his pack. bram's snow-shoe strides were from twelve to sixteen inches longer than his own, and there was little doubt that bram was traveling six miles to his four. it was one o'clock when philip stopped to eat his dinner. he figured that he was fifteen miles from the timber-line. as he ate there pressed upon him more and more persistently the feeling that he had entered upon an adventure which was leading toward inevitable disaster for him. for the first time the significance of bram's supply of meat, secured by the outlaw at the last moment before starting out into the barren, appeared to him with a clearness that filled him with uneasiness. it meant that bram required three or four days' rations for himself and his pack in crossing this sea of desolation that reached in places to the arctic. in that time, if necessity was driving him, he could cover a hundred and fifty miles, while philip could make less than a hundred. until three o'clock in the afternoon he followed steadily over bram's trail. he would have pursued for another hour if a huge and dome-shaped snowdrift had not risen in his path. in the big drift he decided to make his house for the night. it was an easy matter--a trick learned of the eskimo. with his belt-ax he broke through the thick crust of the drift, using care that the "door" he thus opened into it was only large enough for the entrance of his body. using a snowshoe as a shovel he then began digging out the soft interior of the drift, burrowing a two foot tunnel until he was well back from the door, where he made himself a chamber large enough for his sleeping-bag. the task employed him less than an hour, and when his bed was made, and he stood in front of the door to his igloo, his spirits began to return. the assurance that he had a home at his back in which neither cold nor storm could reach him inspirited him with an optimism which he had not felt at any time during the day. from the timber he had borne a precious bundle of finely split kindlings of pitch-filled spruce, and with a handful of these he built himself a tiny fire over which, on a longer stick brought for the purpose, he suspended his tea pail, packed with snow. the crackling of the flames set him whistling. darkness was falling swiftly about him. by the time his tea was ready and he had warmed his cold bannock and bacon the gloom was like a black curtain that he might have slit with a knife. not a star was visible in the sky. twenty feet on either side of him he could not see the surface of the snow. now and then he added a bit of his kindling to the dying embers, and in the glow of the last stick he smoked his pipe, and as he smoked he drew from his wallet the golden snare. coiled in the hollow of his hand and catching the red light of the pitch-laden fagot it shone with the rich luster of rare metal. not until the pitch was burning itself out in a final sputter of flame did philip replace it in the wallet. with the going of the fire an utter and chaotic blackness shut him in. feeling his way he crawled through the door of his tunnel, over the inside of which he had fastened as a flap his silk service tent. then he stretched himself out in his sleeping-bag. it was surprisingly comfortable. since he had left breault's cabin he had not enjoyed such a bed. and last night he had not slept at all. he fell into deep sleep. the hours and the night passed over him. he did not hear the wailing of the wind that came with the dawn. when day followed dawn there were other sounds which he did not hear. his inner consciousness, the guardian of his sleep, cried for him to arouse himself. it pounded like a little hand in his brain, and at last he began to move restlessly, and twist in his sleeping-bag. his eyes shot open suddenly. the light of day filled his tunnel. he looked toward the "door" which he had covered with his tent. the tent was gone. in its place was framed a huge shaggy head, and philip found himself staring straight into the eyes of bram johnson. chapter vii philip was not unaccustomed to the occasional mental and physical shock which is an inevitable accompaniment of the business of law in the northland. but never had he felt quite the same stir in his blood as now--when he found himself looking down the short tunnel into the face of the man he was hunting. there come now and then moments in which a curious understanding is impinged upon one without loss of time in reason and surmise--and this was one of those moments for philip. his first thought as he saw the great wild face in the door of his tunnel was that bram had been looking at him for some time--while he was asleep; and that if the desire to kill had been in the outlaw's breast he might have achieved his purpose with very little trouble. equally swift was his observance of the fact that the tent with which he had covered the aperture was gone, and that his rifle, with the weight of which he had held the tent in place, had disappeared. bram had secured possession of them before he had roused himself. it was not the loss of these things, or entirely bram's sudden and unexpected appearance, that sent through him the odd thrill, which he experienced. it was bram's face, his eyes, the tense and mysterious earnestness that was in his gaze. it was not the watchfulness of a victor looking at his victim. in it there was no sign of hatred or of exultation. there was not even unfriendliness there. rather it was the study of one filled with doubt and uneasiness, and confronted by a question which he could not answer. there was not a line of the face which philip could not see now--its high cheek-bones, its wide cheeks, the low forehead, the flat nose, the thick lips. only the eyes kept it from being a terrible face. straight down through the generations bram must have inherited those eyes from some woman of the past. they were strange things in that wild and hunted creature's face--gray eyes, large, beautiful. with the face taken away they would have been wonderful. for a full minute not a sound passed between the two men. philip's hand had slipped to the butt of his revolver, but he had no intention of using it. then he found his voice. it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should say what he did. "hello, bram!" "boo-joo, m'sieu!" only bram's thick lips moved. his voice was low and guttural. almost instantly his head disappeared from the opening. philip dug himself quickly from his sleeping-bag. through the aperture there came to him now another sound, the yearning whine of beasts. he could not hear bram. in spite of the confidence which his first look at bram had given him he felt a sudden shiver run up his spine as he faced the end of the tunnel on his hands and knees, his revolver in his hand. what a rat in a trap he would be if bram loosed his wolves! what sport for the pack--and perhaps for the master himself! he could kill two or three--and that would be all. they would be in on him like a whirlwind, diving through his snow walls as easily as a swimmer might cut through water. had he twice made a fool of himself? should he have winged bram johnson, three times a murderer, in place of offering him a greeting? he began crawling toward the opening, and again he heard the snarl and whine of the beasts. the sound seemed some distance away. he reached the end of the tunnel and peered out through the "door" he had made in the crust. from his position he could see nothing--nothing but the endless sweep of the barren and his old trail leading up to the snow dune. the muzzle of his revolver was at the aperture when he heard bram's voice. "m'sieu--ze revolv'--ze knife--or i mus' keel yon. ze wolve plent' hungr'--" bram was standing just outside of his line of vision. he had not spoken loudly or threateningly, but philip felt in the words a cold and unexcited deadliness of purpose against which he knew that it would be madness for him to fight. bram had more than the bad man's ordinary drop on him. in his wolves he possessed not only an advantage but a certainty. if philip had doubted this, as he waited for another moment with the muzzle of his revolver close to the opening, his uncertainty was swept away by the appearance thirty feet in front of his tunnel of three of bram's wolves. they were giants of their kind, and as the three faced his refuge he could see the snarling gleam of their long fangs. a fourth and a fifth joined them, and after that they came within his vision in twos and threes until a score of them were huddled straight in front of him. they were restless and whining, and the snap of their jaws was like the clicking of castanets. he caught the glare of twenty pairs of eyes fastened on his retreat and involuntarily he shrank back that they might not see him. he knew that it was bram who was holding them back, and yet he had heard no word, no command. even as he stared a long snakelike shadow uncurled itself swiftly in the air and the twenty foot lash of bram's caribou-gut whip cracked viciously over the heads of the pack. at the warning of the whip the horde of beasts scattered, and bram's voice came again. "m'sieu--ze revolv'--ze knife--or i loose ze wolve--" the words were scarcely out of his mouth when philip's revolver flew through the opening and dropped in the snow. "there it is, old man," announced philip. "and here comes the knife." his sheath-knife followed the revolver. "shall i throw out my bed?" he asked. he was making a tremendous effort to appear cheerful. but he could not forget that last night he had shot at bram, and that it was not at all unreasonable to suppose that bram might knock his brains out when he stuck his head out of the hole. the fact that bram made no answer to his question about the bed did not add to his assurance. he repeated the question, louder than before, and still there was no answer. in the face of his perplexity he could not repress a grim chuckle as he rolled up his blankets. what a report he would have for the department--if he lived to make it! on paper there would be a good deal of comedy about it--this burrowing oneself up like a hibernating woodchuck, and then being invited out to breakfast by a man with a club and a pack of brutes with fangs that had gleamed at him like ivory stilettos. he had guessed at the club, and a moment later as he thrust his sleeping-bag out through the opening he saw that it was quite obviously a correct one. bram was possessing himself of the revolver and the knife. in the same hand he held his whip and a club. seizing the opportunity, philip followed his bed quickly, and when bram faced him he was standing on his feet outside the drift. "morning, bram!" his greeting was drowned in a chorus of fierce snarls that made his blood curdle even as he tried to hide from bram any visible betrayal of the fact that every nerve up and down his spine was pricking him, like a pin. from bram's throat there shot forth at the pack a sudden sharp clack of eskimo, and with it the long whip snapped in their faces again. then he looked steadily at his prisoner. for the first time philip saw the look which he dreaded darkening his face. a greenish fire burned in the strange eyes. the thick lips were set tightly, the flat nose seemed flatter, and with a shiver philip noticed bram's huge, naked hand gripping his club until the cords stood out like babiche thongs under the skin. in that moment he was ready to kill. a wrong word, a wrong act, and philip knew that the end was inevitable. in the same thick guttural voice which he used in his half-breed patois he demanded, "why you shoot--las' night!" "because i wanted to talk with you, bram," replied philip calmly. "i didn't shoot to hit you. i fired over your head." "you want--talk," said bram, speaking as if each word cost him a certain amount of effort. "why--talk?" "i wanted to ask you why it was that you killed a man down in the god's lake country." the words were out before philip could stop them. a growl rose in bram's chest. it was like the growl of a beast. the greenish fire in his eyes grew brighter. "ze poleece," he said. "ka, ze poleece--like kam from churchill an' ze wolve keel!" philip's hand was fumbling in his pocket. the wolves were behind him and he dared not turn to look. it was their ominous silence that filled him with dread. they were waiting--watching--their animal instinct telling them that the command for which they yearned was already trembling on the thick lips of their master. the revolver and the knife dropped from bram's hand. he held only the whip and the club. philip drew forth the wallet. "you lost something--when you camped that night near pierre breault's cabin," he said, and his own voice seemed strange and thick to him. "i've followed you--to give it back. i could have killed you if i had wanted to--when i fired over your head. but i wanted to stop you. i wanted to give you--this." he held out to bram the golden snare. chapter viii it must have been fully half a minute that bram stood like a living creature turned suddenly into dead stone. his eyes had left philip's face and were fixed on the woven tress of shining hair. for the first time his thick lips had fallen agape. he did not seem to breathe. at the end of the thirty seconds his hand unclenched from about the whip and the club and they fell into the snow. slowly, his eyes still fixed on the snare as if it held for him an overpowering fascination, he advanced a step, and then another, until he reached out and took from philip the thing which he held. he uttered no word. but from his eyes there disappeared the greenish fire. the lines in his heavy face softened and his thick lips lost some of their cruelty as he held up the snare before his eyes so that the light played on its sheen of gold. it was then that philip saw that which must have meant a smile in bram's face. still this strange man made no spoken sound as he coiled the silken thread around one of his great fingers and then placed it somewhere inside his coat. he seemed, all at once, utterly oblivious of philip's presence. he picked up the revolver, gazed heavily at it for a moment, and with a grunt which must have reflected his mental decision hurled it far out over the plain. instantly the wolves were after it in a mad rush. the knife followed the revolver; and after that, as coolly as though breaking firewood, the giant went to philip's rifle, braced it across his knee, and with a single effort snapped the stock off close to the barrel. "the devil!" growled philip. he felt a surge of anger rise in him, and for an instant the inclination to fling himself at bram in the defense of his property. if he had been helpless a few minutes before, he was utterly so now. in the same breath it flashed upon him that bram's activity in the destruction of his weapons meant that his life was spared, at least for the present. otherwise bram would not be taking these precautions. the futility of speech kept his own lips closed. at last bram looked at him, and pointed to his snowshoes where he had placed them last night against the snow dune. his invitation for philip to prepare himself for travel was accompanied by nothing more than a grunt. the wolves were returning, sneaking in watchfully and alert. bram greeted them with the snap of his whip, and when philip was ready motioned him to lead the way into the north. half a dozen paces behind philip followed bram, and twice that distance behind the outlaw came the pack. now that his senses were readjusting themselves and his pulse beating more evenly philip began to take stock of the situation. it was, first of all, quite evident that bram had not accepted him as a traveling companion, but as a prisoner; and he was equally convinced that the golden snare had at the last moment served in some mysterious way to save his life. it was not long before he saw how bram had out-generaled him. two miles beyond the big drift they came upon the outlaw's huge sledge, from which bram and his wolves had made a wide circle in order to stalk him from behind. the fact puzzled him. evidently bram had expected his unknown enemy to pursue him, and had employed his strategy accordingly. why, then, had he not attacked him the night of the caribou kill? he watched bram as he got the pack into harness. the wolves obeyed him like dogs. he could perceive among them a strange comradeship, even an affection, for the man-monster who was their master. bram spoke to them entirely in eskimo--and the sound of it was like the rapid clack--clack--clack of dry bones striking together. it was weirdly different from the thick and guttural tones bram used in speaking chippewyan and the half-breed patois. again philip made an effort to induce bram to break his oppressive silence. with a suggestive gesture and a hunch of his shoulders he nodded toward the pack, just as they were about to start. "if you thought i tried to kill you night before last why didn't you set your wolves after me, bram--as you did those other two over on the barren north of kasba lake? why did you wait until this morning? and where--where in god's name are we going?" bram stretched out an arm. "there!" it was the one question he answered, and he pointed straight as the needle of a compass into the north. and then, as if his crude sense of humor had been touched by the other thing philip had asked, he burst into a laugh. it made one shudder to see laughter in a face like bram's. it transformed his countenance from mere ugliness into one of the leering gargoyles carven under the cornices of ancient buildings. it was this laugh, heard almost at bram's elbow, that made philip suddenly grip hard at a new understanding--the laugh and the look in bram's eyes. it set him throbbing, and filled him all at once with the desire to seize his companion by his great shoulders and shake speech from his thick lips. in that moment, even before the laughter had gone from bram's face, he thought again of pelletier. pelletier must have been like this--in those terrible days when he scribbled the random thoughts of a half-mad man on his cabin door. bram was not yet mad. and yet he was fighting the thing that had killed pelletier. loneliness. the fate forced upon him by the law because he had killed a man. his face was again heavy and unemotional when with a gesture he made philip understand that he was to ride on the sledge. bram himself went to the head of the pack. at the sharp clack of his eskimo the wolves strained in their traces. another moment and they were off, with bram in the lead. philip was amazed at the pace set by the master of the pack. with head and shoulders hunched low he set off in huge swinging strides that kept the team on a steady trot behind him. they must have traveled eight miles an hour. for a few minutes philip could not keep his eyes from bram and the gray backs of the wolves. they fascinated him, and at the same time the sight of them--straining on ahead of him into a voiceless and empty world--filled him with a strange and overwhelming compassion. he saw in them the brotherhood of man and beast. it was splendid. it was epic. and to this the law had driven them! his eyes began to take in the sledge then. on it was a roll of bear skins--bram's blankets. one was the skin of a polar bear. near these skins were the haunches of caribou meat, and so close to him that he might have reached out and touched it was bram's club. at the side of the club lay a rifle. it was of the old breech-loading, single-shot type, and philip wondered why bram had destroyed his own modern weapon instead of keeping it in place of this ancient company relic. it also made him think of night before last, when he had chosen for his refuge a tree out in the starlight. the club, even more than the rifle, bore marks of use. it was of birch, and three feet in length. where bram's hand gripped it the wood was worn as smooth and dark as mahogany. in many places the striking end of the club was dented as though it had suffered the impact of tremendous blows, and it was discolored by suggestive stains. there was no sign of cooking utensils and no evidence of any other food but the caribou flesh. on the rear of the sledge was a huge bundle of pitch-soaked spruce tied with babiche, and out of this stuck the crude handle of an ax. of these things the gun and the white bear skin impressed philip most. he had only to lean forward a little to reach the rifle, and the thought that he could scarcely miss the broad back of the man ahead of him struck him all at once with a sort of mental shock. bram had evidently forgotten the weapon, or was utterly confident in the protection of the pack. or--had he faith in his prisoner? it was this last question that philip would liked to have answered in the affirmative. he had no desire to harm bram. he had even a less desire to escape him. he had forgotten, so far as his personal intentions were concerned, that he was an agent of the law--under oath to bring in to divisional headquarters bram's body dead or alive. since night before last bram had ceased to be a criminal for him. he was like pelletier, and through him he was entering upon a strange adventure which held for him already the thrill and suspense of an anticipation which he had never experienced in the game of man-hunting. had the golden snare been taken from the equation--had he not felt the thrill of it in his fingers and looked upon the warm fires of it as it lay unbound on pierre breault's table, his present relation with bram johnson he would have considered as a purely physical condition, and he might then have accepted the presence of the rifle there within his reach as a direct invitation from providence. as it was, he knew that the master of the wolves was speeding swiftly to the source of the golden snare. from the moment he had seen the strange transformation it had worked in bram that belief within him had become positive. and now, as his eyes turned from the inspection of the sledge to bram and his wolves, he wondered where the trail was taking him. was it possible that bram was striking straight north for coronation gulf and the eskimo? he had noted that the polar bear skin was only slightly worn--that it had not long been taken from the back of the animal that had worn it. he recalled what he could remember of his geography. their course, if continued in the direction bram was now heading, would take them east of the great slave and the great bear, and they would hit the arctic somewhere between melville sound and the coppermine river. it was a good five hundred miles to the eskimo settlements there. bram and his wolves could make it in ten days, possibly in eight. if his guess was correct, and coronation gulf was bram's goal, he had found at least one possible explanation for the tress of golden hair. the girl or woman to whom it had belonged had come into the north aboard a whaling ship. probably she was the daughter or the wife of the master. the ship had been lost in the ice--she had been saved by the eskimo--and she was among them now, with other white men. philip pictured it all vividly. it was unpleasant--horrible. the theory of other white men being with her he was conscious of forcing upon himself to offset the more reasonable supposition that, as in the case of the golden snare, she belonged to bram. he tried to free himself of that thought, but it clung to him with a tenaciousness that oppressed him with a grim and ugly foreboding. what a monstrous fate for a woman! he shivered. for a few moments every instinct in his body fought to assure him that such a thing could not happen. and yet he knew that it could happen. a woman up there--with bram! a woman with hair like spun gold--and that giant half-mad enormity of a man! he clenched his hands at the picture his excited brain was painting for him. he wanted to jump from the sledge, overtake bram, and demand the truth from him. he was calm enough to realize the absurdity of such action. upon his own strategy depended now whatever answer he might make to the message chance had sent to him through the golden snare. for an hour he marked bram's course by his compass. it was straight north. then bram changed the manner of his progress by riding in a standing position behind philip. with his long whip he urged on the pack until they were galloping over the frozen level of the plain at a speed that must have exceeded ten miles an hour. a dozen times philip made efforts at conversation. not a word did he get from bram in reply. again and again the outlaw shouted to his wolves in eskimo; he cracked his whip, he flung his great arms over his head, and twice there rolled out of his chest deep peals of strange laughter. they had been traveling more than two hours when he gave voice to a sudden command that stopped the pack, and at a second command--a staccato of shrill eskimo accompanied by the lash of his whip--the panting wolves sank upon their bellies in the snow. philip jumped from the sledge, and bram went immediately to the gun. he did not touch it, but dropped on his knees and examined it closely. then he rose to his feet and looked at philip, and there was no sign of madness in his heavy face as he said, "you no touch ze gun, m'sieu. why you no shoot when i am there--at head of pack?" the calmness and directness with which bram put the question after his long and unaccountable silence surprised philip. "for the same reason you didn't kill me when i was asleep, i guess," he said. suddenly he reached out and caught bram's arm. "why the devil don't you come across!" he demanded. "why don't you talk? i'm not after you--now. the police think you are dead, and i don't believe i'd tip them off even if i had a chance. why not be human? where are we going? and what in thunder--" he did not finish. to his amazement bram flung back his head, opened his great mouth, and laughed. it was not a taunting laugh. there was no humor in it. the thing seemed beyond the control of even bram himself, and philip stood like one paralyzed as his companion turned quickly to the sledge and returned in a moment with the gun. under philip's eyes he opened the breech. the chamber was empty. bram had placed in his way a temptation--to test him! there was saneness in that stratagem--and yet as philip looked at the man now his last doubt was gone. bram johnson was hovering on the borderland of madness. replacing the gun on the sledge, bram began hacking off chunks of the caribou flesh with a big knife. evidently he had decided that it was time for himself and his pack to breakfast. to each of the wolves he gave a portion, after which he seated himself on the sledge and began devouring a slice of the raw meat. he had left the blade of his knife buried in the carcass--an invitation for philip to help himself. philip seated himself near bram and opened his pack. purposely he began placing his food between them, so that the other might help himself if he so desired. bram's jaws ceased their crunching. for a moment philip did not look up. when he did he was startled. bram's eyes were blazing with a red fire. he was staring at the cooked food. never had philip seen such a look in a human face before. he reached out and seized a chunk of bannock, and was about to bite into it when with the snarl of a wild beast bram dropped his meat and was at him. before philip could raise an arm in defense his enemy had him by the throat. back over the sledge they went. philip scarcely knew how it happened--but in another moment the giant had hurled him clean over his head and he struck the frozen plain with a shock that stunned him. when he staggered to his feet, expecting a final assault that would end him, bram was kneeling beside his pack. a mumbling and incoherent jargon of sound issued from his thick lips as he took stock of philip's supplies. of philip himself he seemed now utterly oblivious. still mumbling, he dragged the pile of bear skins from the sledge, unrolled them, and revealed a worn and tattered dunnage bag. at first philip thought this bag was empty. then bram drew from it a few small packages, some of them done up in paper and others in bark. only one of these did philip recognize--a half pound package of tea such as the hudson's bay company offers in barter at its stores. into the dunnage bag bram now put philip's supplies, even to the last crumb of bannock, and then returned the articles he had taken out, after which he rolled the bag up in the bear skins and replaced the skins on the sledge. after that, still mumbling, and still paying no attention to philip, he reseated himself on the edge of the sledge and finished his breakfast of raw meat. "the poor devil!" mumbled philip. the words were out of his mouth before he realized that he had spoken them. he was still a little dazed by the shock of bram's assault, but it was impossible for him to bear malice or thought of vengeance. in bram's face, as he had covetously piled up the different articles of food, he had seen the terrible glare of starvation--and yet he had not eaten a mouthful. he had stored the food away, and philip knew it was as much as his life was worth to contend its ownership. again bram seemed to be unconscious of his presence, but when philip went to the meat and began carving himself off a slice the wolf-man's eyes shot in his direction just once. purposely he stood in front of bram as he ate the raw steak, feigning a greater relish than he actually enjoyed in consuming his uncooked meal. bram did not wait for him to finish. no sooner had he swallowed the last of his own breakfast than he was on his feet giving sharp commands to the pack. instantly the wolves were alert in their traces. philip took his former position on the sledge, with bram behind him. never in all the years afterward did he forget that day. as the hours passed it seemed to him that neither man nor beast could very long stand the strain endured by bram and his wolves. at times bram rode on the sledge for short distances, but for the most part he was running behind, or at the head of the pack. for the pack there was no rest. hour after hour it surged steadily onward over the endless plain, and whenever the wolves sagged for a moment in their traces brain's whip snapped over their gray backs and his voice rang out in fierce exhortation. so hard was the frozen crust of the barren that snowshoes were no longer necessary, and half a dozen times philip left the sledge and ran with the wolf-man and his pack until he was winded. twice he ran shoulder to shoulder with bram. it was in the middle of the afternoon that his compass told him they were no longer traveling north--but almost due west. every quarter of an hour after that he looked at his compass. and always the course was west. he was convinced that some unusual excitement was urging bram on, and he was equally certain this excitement had taken possession of him from the moment he had found the food in his pack. again and again he heard the strange giant mumbling incoherently to himself, but not once did bram utter a word that he could understand. the gray world about them was darkening when at last they stopped. and now, strangely as before, bram seemed for a few moments to turn into a sane man. he pointed to the bundle of fuel, and as casually as though he had been conversing with him all the day he said to philip: "a fire, m'sieu." the wolves had dropped in their traces, their great shaggy heads stretched out between their paws in utter exhaustion, and bram went slowly down the line speaking to each one in turn. after that he fell again into his stolid silence. from the bear skins he produced a kettle, filled it with snow, and hung it over the pile of fagots to which philip was touching a match. philip's tea pail he employed in the same way. "how far have we come, bram?" philip asked. "fift' mile, m'sieu," answered bram without hesitation. "and how much farther have we to go?" bram grunted. his face became more stolid. in his hand he was holding the big knife with which he cut the caribou meat. he was staring at it. from the knife he looked at philip. "i keel ze man at god's lake because he steal ze knife--an' call me lie. i keel heem--lak that!"--and he snatched up a stick and broke it into two pieces. his weird laugh followed the words. he went to the meat and began carving off chunks for the pack, and for a long time after that one would have thought that he was dumb. philip made greater effort than ever to rouse him into speech. he laughed, and whistled, and once tried the experiment of singing a snatch of the caribou song which he knew that bram must have heard many times before. as he roasted his steak over the fire he talked about the barren, and the great herd of caribou he had seen farther east; he asked bram questions about the weather, the wolves, and the country farther north and west. more than once he was certain that bram was listening intently, but nothing more than an occasional grunt was his response. for an hour after they had finished their supper they continued to melt snow for drinking water for themselves and the wolves. night shut them in, and in the glow of the fire bram scooped a hollow in the snow for a bed, and tilted the big sledge over it as a roof. philip made himself as comfortable as he could with his sleeping bag, using his tent as an additional protection. the fire went out. bram's heavy breathing told philip that the wolf-man was soon asleep. it was a long time before he felt a drowsiness creeping over himself. later he was awakened by a heavy grasp on his arm, and roused himself to hear bram's voice close over him. "get up, m'sieu." it was so dark he could not see bram when he got on his feet, but he could hear him a moment later among the wolves, and knew that he was making ready to travel. when his sleeping-bag and tent were on the sledge he struck a match and looked at his watch. it was less than a quarter of an hour after midnight. for two hours bram led his pack straight into the west. the night cleared after that, and as the stars grew brighter and more numerous in the sky the plain was lighted up on all sides of them, as on the night when philip had first seen bram. by lighting an occasional match philip continued to keep a record of direction and time. it was three o'clock, and they were still traveling west, when to his surprise they struck a small patch of timber. the clump of stunted and wind-snarled spruce covered no more than half an acre, but it was conclusive evidence they were again approaching a timber-line. from the patch of spruce bram struck due north, and for another hour their trail was over the white barren. soon after this they came to a fringe of scattered timber which grew steadily heavier and deeper as they entered into it. they must have penetrated eight or ten miles into the forest before the dawn came. and in that dawn, gray and gloomy, they came suddenly upon a cabin. philip's heart gave a jump. here, at last, would the mystery of the golden snare be solved. this was his first thought. but as they drew nearer, and stopped at the threshold of the door, he felt sweep over him an utter disappointment. there was no life here. no smoke came from the chimney and the door was almost buried in a huge drift of snow. his thoughts were cut short by the crack of bram's whip. the wolves swept onward and bram's insane laugh sent a weird and shuddering echo through the forest. from the time they left behind them the lifeless and snow-smothered cabin philip lost account of time and direction. he believed that bram was nearing the end of his trail. the wolves were dead tired. the wolf-man himself was lagging, and since midnight had ridden more frequently on the sledge. still he drove on, and philip searched with increasing eagerness the trail ahead of them. it was eight o'clock--two hours after they had passed the cabin--when they came to the edge of a clearing in the center of which was a second cabin. here at a glance philip saw there was life. a thin spiral of smoke was rising from the chimney. he could see only the roof of the log structure, for it was entirely shut in by a circular stockade of saplings six feet high. twenty paces from where bram stopped his team was the gate of the stockade. bram went to it, thrust his arm through a hole even with his shoulders, and a moment later the gate swung inward. for perhaps a space of twenty seconds he looked steadily at philip, and for the first time philip observed the remarkable change that had come into his face. it was no longer a face of almost brutish impassiveness. there was a strange glow in his eyes. his thick lips were parted as if on the point of speech, and he was breathing with a quickness which did not come of physical exertion. philip did not move or speak. behind him he heard the restless whine of the wolves. he kept his eyes on bram, and as he saw the look of joy and anticipation deepening in the wolf-man's face the appalling thought of what it meant sickened him. he clenched his hands. bram did not see the act. he was looking again toward the cabin and at the spiral of smoke rising out of the chimney. then he faced philip, and said, "m'sieu, you go to ze cabin." he held the gate open, and philip entered. he paused to make certain of bram's intention. the wolf-man swept an arm about the enclosure. "in ze pit i loose ze wolve, m'sieu." philip understood. the stockade enclosure was bram's wolf-pit, and bram meant that he should reach the cabin before he gave the pack the freedom of the corral. he tried to conceal the excitement in his face as he turned toward the cabin. from the gate to the door ran a path worn by many footprints, and his heart beat faster as he noted the smallness of the moccasin tracks. even then his mind fought against the possibility of the thing. probably it was an indian woman who lived with bram, or an eskimo girl he had brought down from the north. he made no sound as he approached the door. he did not knock, but opened it and entered, as bram had invited him to do. from the gate bram watched the cabin door as it closed behind him, and then he threw back his head and such a laugh of triumph came from his lips that even the tired beasts behind him pricked up their ears and listened. and philip, in that same moment, had solved the mystery of the golden snare. chapter ix philip had entered bram johnson's cabin from the west. out of the east the pale fire of the winter sun seemed to concentrate itself on the one window of bram's habitation, and flooded the opposite partition. in this partition there was a doorway, and in the doorway stood a girl. she was standing full in the light that came through the window when philip saw her. his first impression was that she was clouded in the same wonderful hair that had gone into the making of the golden snare. it billowed over her arms and breast to her hips, aflame with the living fires of the reflected sun. his second impression was that his entrance had interrupted her while she was dressing and that she was benumbed with astonishment as she stared at him. he caught the white gleam of her bare shoulders under her hair. and then, with a shock, he saw what was in her face. it turned his blood cold. it was the look of a soul that had been tortured. agony and doubt burned in the eyes that were looking at him. he had never seen such eyes. they were like violet amethysts. her face was dead white. it was beautiful. and she was young. she was not over twenty, it flashed upon him--but she had gone through a hell. "don't let me alarm you," he said, speaking gently. "i am philip raine of the royal northwest mounted police." it did not surprise him that she made no answer. as plainly as if she had spoken it he had in those few swift moments read the story in her face. his heart choked him as he waited for her lips to move. it was a mystery to him afterward why he accepted the situation so utterly as he stood there. he had no question to ask, and there was no doubt in his mind. he knew that he would kill bram johnson when the moment arrived. the girl had not seemed to breathe, but now she drew in her breath in a great gasp. he could see the sudden throb of her breast under her hair, but the frightened light did not leave her eyes even when he repeated the words he had spoken. suddenly she ran to the window, and philip saw the grip of her hands at the sill as she looked out. through the gate bram was driving his wolves. when she faced him again, her eyes had in them the look of a creature threatened by a whip. it amazed and startled him. as he advanced a step she cringed back from him. it struck him then that her face was like the face of an angel--filled with a mad horror. she reached out her bare arms to hold him back, and a strange pleading cry came from her lips. the cry stopped him like a shot. he knew that she had spoken to him. and yet he had not understood! he tore open his coat and the sunlight fell on his bronze insignia of the service. its effect on her amazed him even more than had her sudden fear of him. it occurred to him suddenly that with a two weeks' ragged growth of beard on his face he must look something like a beast himself. she had feared him, as she feared bram, until she saw the badge. "i am philip raine, of the royal northwest mounted police," he repeated again. "i have come up here especially to help you, if you need help. i could have got bram farther back, but there was a reason why i didn't want him until i found his cabin. that reason was you. why are you here with a madman and a murderer?" she was watching him intently. her eyes were on his lips, and into her face--white a few moments before--had risen swiftly a flush of color. he saw the dread die out of her eyes in a new and dazzling excitement. outside they could hear bram. the girl turned again and looked through the window. then she began talking, swiftly and eagerly, in a language that was as strange to philip as the mystery of her presence in bram johnson's cabin. she knew that he could not understand, and suddenly she came up close to him and put a finger to his lips, and then to her own, and shook her head. he could fairly feel the throb of her excitement. the astounding truth held him dumb. she was trying to make him comprehend something--in a language which he had never heard before in all his life. he stared at her--like an idiot he told himself afterward. and then the shuffle of bram's heavy feet sounded just outside the door. instantly the old light leapt into the girl's eyes. before the door could open she had darted into the room from which she had first appeared, her hair floating about her in a golden cloud as she ran. the door opened, and bram entered. at his heels, beyond the threshold, philip caught a glimpse of the pack glaring hungrily into the cabin. bram was burdened under the load he had brought from the sledge. he dropped it to the floor, and without looking at philip his eyes fastened themselves on the door to the inner room. they stood there for a full minute, bram as if hypnotized by the door, and philip with his eyes on bram. neither moved, and neither made a sound. a curtain had dropped over the entrance to the inner room, and beyond that they could hear the girl moving about. a dozen emotions were fighting in philip. if he had possessed a weapon he would have ended the matter with bram then, for the light that was burning like a strange flame in the wolf-man's eyes convinced him that he had guessed the truth. bare-handed he was no match for the giant madman. for the first time he let his glance travel cautiously about the room. near the stove was a pile of firewood. a stick of this would do--when the opportunity came. and then, in a way that made him almost cry out, every nerve in his body was startled. the girl appeared in the doorway, a smile on her lips and her eyes shining radiantly--straight at bram! she partly held out her arms, and began talking. she seemed utterly oblivious of philip's presence. not a word that she uttered could he understand. it was not cree or chippewyan or eskimo. it was not french or german or any tongue that he had ever heard. her voice was pure and soft. it trembled a little, and she was breathing quickly. but the look in her face that had at first horrified him was no longer there. she had braided her hair and had coiled the shining strands on the crown of her head, and the coloring in her face was like that of a rare painting. in these astounding moments he knew that such color and such hair did not go with any race that had ever bred in the northland. from her face, even as her lips spoke, he looked at bram. the wolf-man was transfigured. his strange eyes were shining, his heavy face was filled with a dog-like joy, and his thick lips moved as if he was repeating to himself what the girl was saying. was it possible that he understood her? was the strange language in which she was speaking common between them! at first philip thought that it must be so--and all the horrors of the situation that he had built up for himself fell about him in confusing disorder. the girl, as she stood there now, seemed glad that bram had returned; and with a heart choking him with its suspense he waited for bram to speak, and act. when the girl ceased speaking the wolf-man's response came in a guttural cry that was like a paean of triumph. he dropped on his knees beside the dunnage bag and mumbling thickly as he worked he began emptying its contents upon the floor. philip looked at the girl. she was looking at him now. her hands were clutched at her breast, and in her face and attitude there was a wordless entreaty for him to understand. the truth came to him like a flash. for some reason she had forced herself to appear that way to the wolf-man. she had forced herself to smile, forced the look of gladness into her face, and the words from her lips. and now she was trying to tell him what it meant, and pointing to bram as he knelt with his huge head and shoulders bent over the dunnage bag on the floor she exclaimed in a low, tense voice: "tossi--tossi--han er tossi!" it was useless. he could not understand, and it was impossible for him to hide the bewilderment in his face. all at once an inspiration came to him. bram's back was toward him, and he pointed to the sticks of firewood. his pantomime was clear. should he knock the wolf-man's brains out as he knelt there? he could see that his question sent a thrill of alarm through her. she shook her head. her lips formed strange words, and looking again at bram she repeated, "tossi--tossi--han er tossi!" she clasped her hands suddenly to her head then. her slim fingers buried themselves in the thick braids of her hair. her eyes dilated--and suddenly understanding flashed upon him. she was telling him what he already knew--that bram johnson was mad, and he repeated after her the "tossi-tossi," tapping his forehead suggestively, and nodding at bram. yes, that was it. he could see it in the quick intake of her breath and the sudden expression of relief that swept over her face. she had been afraid he would attack the wolf-man. and now she was glad that he understood he was not to harm him. if the situation had seemed fairly clear to him a few minutes before it had become more deeply mysterious than ever now. even as the wolf-man rose from his knees, still mumbling to himself in incoherent exultation, the great and unanswerable question pounded in philip's brain: "who was this girl, and what was she to bram johnson--the crazed outlaw whom she feared and yet whom she did not wish him to harm?" and then he saw her staring at the things which bram had sorted out on the floor. in her eyes was hunger. it was a living, palpitant part of her now as she stared at the things which bram had taken from the dunnage bag--as surely as bram's madness was a part of him. as philip watched her he knew that slowly the curtain was rising on the tragedy of the golden snare. in a way the look that he saw in her face shocked him more than anything that he had seen in bram's. it was as if, in fact, a curtain had lifted before his eyes revealing to him an unbelievable truth, and something of the hell through which she had gone. she was hungry--for something that was not flesh! swiftly the thought flashed upon him why the wolf-man had traveled so far to the south, and why he had attacked him for possession of his food supply. it was that he might bring these things to the girl. he knew that it was sex-pride that restrained the impulse that was pounding in every vein of her body. she wanted to fling herself down on her knees beside that pile of stuff--but she remembered him! her eyes met his, and the shame of her confession swept in a crimson flood into her face. the feminine instinct told her that she had betrayed herself--like an animal, and that he must have seen in her for a moment something that was almost like bram's own madness. chapter x until he felt the warm thrill of the girl's arm under his hand philip did not realize the hazard he had taken. he turned suddenly to confront bram. he would not have known then that the wolf-man was mad, and impulsively he reached out a hand. "bram, she's starving," he cried. "i know now why you wanted that stuff! but why didn't you tell me! why don't you talk, and let me know who she is, and why she is here, and what you want me to do?" he waited, and bram stared at him without a sound. "i tell you i'm a friend," he went on. "i--" he got no farther than that, for suddenly the cabin was filled with the madness of bram's laugh. it was more terrible than out on the open barren, or in the forest, and he felt the shudder of the girl at his side. her face was close to his shoulder, and looking down he saw that it was white as death, but that even then she was trying to smile at bram. and bram continued to laugh--and as he laughed, his eyes blazing a greenish fire, he turned to the stove and began putting fuel into the fire. it was horrible. bram's laugh--the girl's dead white face, and her smile! he no longer asked himself who she was, and why she was there. he was overwhelmed by the one appalling fact that she was here, and that the stricken soul crying out to him from the depths of those eyes that were like wonderful blue amethysts told him that bram had made her pay the price. his muscles hardened as he looked at the huge form bending over the stove. it was a splendid opportunity. a single leap and he would be at the outlaw's throat. with that advantage, in open combat, the struggle would at least be equal. the girl must have guessed what was in his mind, for suddenly her fingers were clutching at his arm and she was pulling him away from the wolf-man, speaking to him in the language which he could not understand. and then bram turned from the stove, picked up a pail, and without looking at them left the cabin. they could hear his laugh as he joined the wolves. again philip's conclusions toppled down about him like a thing made of blocks. during the next few moments he knew that the girl was telling him that bram had not harmed her. she seemed almost hysterically anxious to make him understand this, and at last, seizing him by the hand, she drew him into the room beyond the curtained door. her meaning was quite as plain as words. she was showing him what bram had done for her. he had made her this separate room by running a partition across the cabin, and in addition to this he had built a small lean-to outside the main wall entered through a narrow door made of saplings that were still green. he noticed that the partition was also made of fresh timber. except for the bunk built against the wall, a crude chair, a sapling table and half a dozen bear skins that carpeted the floor the room was empty. a few garments hung on the wall--a hood made of fur, a thick mackinaw coat belted at the waist with a red scarf, and something done up in a small bundle. "i guess--i begin to get your meaning," he said, looking straight into her shining blue eyes. "you want to impress on me that i'm not to wring bram johnson's neck when his back is turned, or at any other time, and you want me to believe that he hasn't done you any harm. and yet you're afraid to the bottom of your soul. i know it. a little while ago your face was as white as chalk, and now--now--it's the prettiest face i've ever seen. now, see here, little girl--" it gave him a pleasant thrill to see the glow in her eyes and the eager poise of her slim, beautiful body as she listened to him. "i'm licked," he went on, smiling frankly at her. "at least for the present. maybe i've gone loony, like bram, and don't realize it yet. i set out for a couple of indians, and find a madman; and at the madman's cabin i find you, looking at first as though you were facing straight up against the door of-of-well, seeing that you can't understand i might as well say it--of hell! now, if you weren't afraid of bram, and if he hasn't hurt you, why did you look like that? i'm stumped. i repeat it--dead stumped. i'd give a million dollars if i could make bram talk. i saw what was in his eyes. you saw it--and that pretty pink went out of your face so quick it seemed as though your heart must have stopped beating. and yet you're trying to tell me he hasn't harmed you. my god--i wish i could believe it!" in her face he saw the reflection of the change that must have come suddenly into his own. "you're a good fifteen hundred miles from any other human being with hair and eyes and color like yours," he continued, as though in speaking his thoughts aloud to her some ray of light might throw itself on the situation. "if you had something black about you. but you haven't. you're all gold--pink and white and gold. if bram has another fit of talking he may tell me you came from the moon--that a chasse-galere crew brought you down out of space to keep house for him. great scott, can't you give me some sort of an idea of who you are and where you same from?" he paused for an answer--and she smiled at him. there was something pathetically sweet in that smile. it brought a queer lump into his throat, and for a space he forgot bram. "you don't understand a cussed word of it, do you?" he said, taking her hand in both his own and holding it closely for a moment. "not a word. but we're getting the drift of things--slowly. i know you've been here quite a while, and that morning, noon and night since the chasse-galere brought you down from the moon you've had nothing to put your little teeth into but meat. probably without salt, too. i saw how you wanted to throw yourself down on that pile of stuff on the floor. let's have breakfast!" he led her into the outer room, and eagerly she set to work helping him gather the things from the floor. he felt that an overwhelming load had been lifted from his heart, and he continued to tell her about it while he hurried the preparation of the breakfast for which he knew she was hungering. he did not look at her too closely. all at once it had dawned upon him that her situation must be tremendously more embarrassing than his own. he felt, too, the tingle of a new excitement in his veins. it was a pleasurable sensation, something which he did not pause to analyze just at present. only he knew that it was because she had told him as plainly as she could that bram had not harmed her. "and if he had i guess you'd have let me smash his brains out when he was bending over the stove, wouldn't you?" he said, stirring the mess of desiccated potato he was warming in one of his kit-pans. he looked up to see her eyes shining at him, and her lips parted. she was delightfully pretty. he knew that every nerve in her body was straining to understand him. her braid had slipped over her shoulder. it was as thick as his wrist, and partly undone. he had never dreamed that a woman's hair could hold such soft warm fires of velvety gold. suddenly he straightened himself and tapped his chest, an inspiring thought leaping into his head. "i am philip raine," he said. "philip raine--philip raine--philip raine--" he repeated the name over and over again, pointing each time to himself. instantly light flashed into her face. it was as if all at once they had broken through the barrier that had separated them. she repeated his name, slowly, clearly, smiling at him, and then with both hands at her breast, she said: "celie armin." he wanted to jump over the stove and shake hands with her, but the potatoes were sizzling. celie armin! he repeated the name as he stirred the potatoes, and each time he spoke it she nodded. it was decidedly a french name--but half a minute's experiment with a few simple sentences of pierre breault's language convinced him that the girl understood no word of it. then he said again: "celie!" almost in the same breath she answered: "philip!" sounds outside the cabin announced the return of bram. following the snarl and whine of the pack came heavy footsteps, and the wolf-man entered. philip did not turn his head toward the door. he did not look at first to see what effect bram's return had on celie armin. he went on casually with his work. he even began to whistle; and then, after a final stir or two at the potatoes, he pointed to the pail in which the coffee was bubbling, and said: "turn the coffee, celie. we're ready!" he caught a glimpse of her face then. the excitement and color had partly died out of it. she took the pail of coffee and went with it to the table. then philip faced bram. the wolf-man was standing with his back to the door. he had not moved since entering, and he was staring at the scene before him in a dull, stupid sort of way. in one hand he carried a pail filled with water; in the other a frozen fish. "too late with the fish, bram," said philip. "we couldn't make the little lady wait. besides, i think you've fed her on fish and meat until she is just about ready to die. come to breakfast!" he loaded a tin plate with hot potatoes, bannock-bread and rice that he had cooked before setting out on the barren, and placed it before the girl. a second plate he prepared for bram, and a third for himself. bram had not moved. he still held the pail and the fish in his hands. suddenly he lowered both to the floor with a growl that seemed to come from the bottom of his great chest, and came to the table. with one huge hand he seized philip's arm. it was not a man's grip. there was apparently no effort in it, and yet it was a vise-like clutch that threatened to snap the bone. and all the time bram's eyes were on the girl. he drew philip back, released the terrible grip on his arm, and shoved the two extra plates of food to the girl. then he faced philip. "we eat ze meat, m'sieu!" quietly and sanely he uttered the words. in his eyes and face there was no trace of madness. and then, even as philip stared, the change came. the giant flung back his head and his wild, mad laugh rocked the cabin. out in the corral the snarl and cry of the wolves gave a savage response to it. it took a tremendous effort for philip to keep a grip on himself. in that momentary flash of sanity bram had shown a chivalry which must have struck deep home in the heart of the girl. there was a sort of triumph in her eyes when he looked at her. she knew now that he must understand fully what she had been trying to tell him. bram, in his madness, had been good to her. philip did not hesitate in the impulse of the moment. he caught bram's hand and shook it. and bram, his laugh dying away in a mumbling sound, seemed not to notice it. as philip began preparing the fish the wolf-man took up a position against the farther wall, squatted indian-fashion on his heels. he did not take his eyes from the girl until she had finished, and philip brought him a half of the fried fish. he might as well have offered the fish to a wooden sphinx. bram rose to his feet, mumbling softly, and taking what was left of one of the two caribou quarters he again left the cabin. his mad laugh and the snarling outcry of the wolves came to them a moment later. chapter xi scarcely had the door closed when celie armin ran to philip and pulled him to the table. in the tense half hour of bram's watchfulness she had eaten her own breakfast as if nothing unusual had happened; now she insisted on adding potatoes and bannock to philip's fish, and turned him a cup of coffee. "bless your heart, you don't want to see me beat out of a breakfast, do you?" he smiled up at her, feeling all at once an immense desire to pull her head down to him and kiss her. "but you don't understand the situation, little girl. now i've been eating this confounded bannock"--he picked up a chunk of it to demonstrate his point--"morning, noon and night until the sight of it makes me almost cry for one of mother's green cucumber pickles. i'm tired of it. bram's fish is a treat. and this coffee, seeing that you have turned it in that way--" she sat opposite him while he ate, and he had the chance of observing her closely while his meal progressed. it struck him that she was growing prettier each time that he looked at her, and he was more positive than ever that she was a stranger in the northland. again he told himself that she was not more than twenty. mentally he even went so far as to weigh her and would have gambled that she would not have tipped a scale five pounds one way or the other from a hundred and twenty. some time he might have seen the kind of violet-blue that was in her eyes, but he could not remember it. she was lost--utterly lost at this far-end of the earth. she was no more a part of it than a crepe de chine ball dress or a bit of rose china. and there she was, sitting opposite him, a bewitching mystery for him to solve. and she wanted to be solved! he could see it in her eyes, and in the little beating throb at her throat. she was fighting, with him, to find a way; a way to tell him who she was, and why she was here, and what he must do for her. suddenly he thought of the golden snare. that, after all, he believed to be the real key to the mystery. he rose quickly from the table and drew the girl to the window. at the far end of the corral they could see bram tossing chunks of meat to the horde of beasts that surrounded him. in a moment or two he had the satisfaction of seeing that his companion understood that he was directing her attention to the wolf-man and not the pack. then he began unbraiding her hair. his fingers thrilled at the silken touch of it. he felt his face flushing hot under his beard, and he knew that her eyes were on him wonderingly. a small strand he divided into three parts and began weaving into a silken thread only a little larger than the wolf-man's snare. from, the woven tress he pointed to bram and in an instant her face lighted up with understanding. she answered him in pantomime. either she or bram had cut the tress from her head that had gone into the making of the golden snare. and not only one tress, but several. there had been a number of golden snares. she bowed her head and showed him where strands as large as her little finger had been clipped in several places. philip almost groaned. she was telling him nothing new, except that there had been many snares instead of one. he was on the point of speech when the look in her face held him silent. her eyes glowed with a sudden excitement--a wild inspiration. she held out her hands until they nearly touched his breast. "philip raine--amerika!" she cried. then, pressing her hands to her own breast, she added eagerly: "celie armin--danmark!" "denmark!" exclaimed philip. "is that it, little girl? you're from denmark? denmark!" she nodded. "kobenhavn--danmark!" "copenhagen, denmark," he translated for himself. "great scott, celie--we're talking! celie armin, from copenhagen, denmark! but how in heaven's name did you get here?" he pointed to the floor under their feet and embraced the four walls of the cabin in a wide gesture of his arms. "how did you get here?" her next words thrilled him. "kobenhavn--muskvas--st. petersburg--rusland--sibirien--amerika." "copenhagen--muskvas, whatever that is--st. petersburg--russia--siberia--america," he repeated, staring at her incredulously. "celie, if you love me, be reasonable! do you expect me to believe that you came all the way from denmark to this god-forsaken madman's cabin in the heart of the canada barrens by way of russia and siberia? you! i can't believe it. there's a mistake somewhere. here--" he thought of his pocket atlas, supplied by the department as a part of his service kit, and remembered that in the back of it was a small map of the world. in half a minute he had secured it and was holding the map under her eyes. her little forefinger touched copenhagen. leaning over her shoulder, he felt her hair crumpling against his breast. he felt an insane desire to bury his face in it and hug her up close in his arms--for a single moment the question of whether she came from copenhagen or the moon was irrelevant and of little consequence. he, at least, had found her. he was digging her out of chaos, and he was filled with the joyous exultation of a triumphant discoverer--almost the thrill of ownership. he held his breath as he watched the little forefinger telling him its story on the map. from copenhagen it went to moscow--which must have been muskvas, and from there it trailed slowly to st. petersburg and thence straight across russia and siberia to bering sea. "skunnert," she said softly, and her finger came across to the green patch on the map which was alaska. it hesitated there. evidently it was a question in her own mind where she had gone after that. at least she could not tell him on the map. and now, seeing that he was understanding her, she was becoming visibly excited. she pulled him to the window and pointed to the wolves. alaska--and after that dogs and sledge. he nodded. he was jubilant. she was celie armin, of copenhagen, denmark, and had come to alaska by way of russia and siberia--and after that had traveled by dog-train. but why had she come, and what had happened to make her the companion or prisoner of bram johnson? he knew she was trying to tell him. with her back to the window she talked to him again, gesturing with her hands, and almost sobbing under the stress of the emotion that possessed her. his elation turned swiftly to the old dread as he watched the change in her face. apprehension--a grim certainty--gripped hold of him. something terrible had happened to her--a thing that had racked her soul and that filled her eyes with the blaze of a strange terror as she struggled to make him understand. and then she broke down, and with a sobbing cry covered her face with her hands. out in the corral philip heard bram johnson's laugh. it was a mockery--a challenge. in an instant every drop of blood in his body answered it in a surge of blind rage. he sprang to the stove, snatched up a length of firewood, and in another moment was at the door. as he opened it and ran out he heard celie's wild appeal for him to stop. it was almost a scream. before he had taken a dozen steps from the cabin he realized what the warning meant. the pack had seen him and from the end of the corral came rushing at him in a thick mass. this time bram johnson's voice did not stop them. he saw philip, and from the doorway celie looked upon the scene while the blood froze in her veins. she screamed--and in the same breath came the wolf-man's laugh. philip heard both as he swung the stick of firewood over his head and sent it hurling toward the pack. the chance accuracy of the throw gave him an instant's time in which to turn and make a dash for the cabin. it was celie who slammed the door shut as he sprang through. swift as a flash she shot the bolt, and there came the lunge of heavy bodies outside. they could hear the snapping of jaws and the snarling whine of the beasts. philip had never seen a face whiter than the girl's had gone. she covered it with her hands, and he could see her trembling. a bit of a sob broke hysterically from her lips. he knew of what she was thinking--the horrible thing she was hiding from her eyes. it was plain enough to him now. twenty seconds more and they would have had him. and then-- he drew in a deep breath and gently uncovered her face. her hands shivered in his. and then a great throb of joy repaid him for his venture into the jaws of death as he saw the way in which her beautiful eyes were looking at him. "celie--my little mystery girl--i've discovered something," he cried huskily, holding her hands so tightly that it must have hurt her. "i'm almost glad you can't understand me, for i wouldn't blame you for being afraid of a man who told you he loved you an hour or two after he first saw you. i love you. i've never wanted anything in all my life as i want you. and i must be careful and not let you know it, mustn't i? if i did you'd think i was some kind of an animal-brute--like bram. wouldn't you?" bram's voice came in a sharp rattle of eskimo outside. philip could hear the snarling rebellion of the wolves as they slunk away from the cabin, and he drew celie back from the door. suddenly she freed her hands, ran to the door and slipped back the wooden bolt as the wolf-man's hand fumbled at the latch. in a moment she was back at his side. when bram entered every muscle in philip's body was prepared for action. he was amazed at the wolf-man's unconcern. he was mumbling and chuckling to himself, as if amused at what he had seen. celie's little fingers dug into philip's arm and he saw in her eyes a tense, staring look that had not been there before. it was as if in bram's face and his queer mumbling she had recognized something which was not apparent to him. suddenly she left him and hurried into her room. during the few moments she was gone bram did not look once at philip. his mumbling was incessant. perhaps a minute passed before the girl reappeared. she went straight to bram and before the wolf-man's eyes held a long, shining tress of hair! instantly the mumbling in bram's throat ceased and he thrust out slowly a huge misshapen hand toward the golden strand. philip felt his nerves stretching to the breaking point. with bram the girl's hair was a fetich. a look of strange exultation crept over the giant's heavy features as his fingers clutched the golden offering. it almost drew a cry of warning from philip. he saw the girl smiling in the face of a deadly peril--a danger of which she was apparently unconscious. her hair still fell loose about her in a thick and shimmering glory. and bram's eyes were on it as he took the tress from her fingers! was it conceivable that this mad-man did not comprehend his power! had the thought not yet burned its way into his thick brain that a treasure many times greater than, that which she had doled out to him lay within the reach of his brute hands at any time he cared to reach out for it? and was it possible that the girl did not guess her danger as she stood there? what she could see of his face must have been as pale as her own when she looked at him. she smiled, and nodded at bram. the giant was turning slowly toward the window, and after a moment or two in which they could hear him mumbling softly he sat down cross-legged against the wall, divided the tress into three silken threads and began weaving them into a snare. the color was returning to celie's face when philip looked at her again. she told him with a gesture of her head and hands that she was going into her room for a time. he didn't blame her. the excitement had been rather unusual. after she had gone he dug his shaving outfit out of his kit-bag. it included a mirror and the reflection he saw in this mirror fairly shocked him. no wonder the girl had been frightened at his first appearance. it took him half an hour to shave his face clean, and all that time bram paid no attention to him but went on steadily at his task of weaving the golden snare. celie did not reappear until the wolf-man had finished and was leaving the cabin. the first thing she noticed was the change in philip's face. he saw the pleasure in her eyes and felt himself blushing. from the window they watched bram. he had called his wolves and was going with them to the gate. he carried his snowshoes and his long whip. he went through the gate first and one by one let his beasts out until ten of the twenty had followed him. the gate was closed then. celie turned to the table and philip saw that she had brought from her room a pencil and a bit of paper. in a moment she held the paper out to him, a light of triumph in her face. at last they had found a way to talk. on the paper was a crude sketch of a caribou head. it meant that bram had gone hunting. and in going bram had left a half of his blood-thirsty pack in the corral. there was no longer a doubt in philip's mind. they were not the chance guests of this madman. they were prisoners. chapter xii for a few minutes after the wolf-man and his hunters had gone from the corral philip did not move from the window. he almost forgot that the girl was standing behind him. at no time since pierre breault had revealed the golden snare had the situation been more of an enigma to him than now. was bram johnson actually mad--or was he playing a colossal sham? the question had unleashed itself in his brain with a suddenness that had startled him. out of the past a voice came to him distinctly, and it said, "a madman never forgets!" it was the voice of a great alienist, a good friend of his, with whom he had discussed the sanity of a man whose crime had shocked the country. he knew that the words were true. once possessed by an idea the madman will not forget it. it becomes an obsession with him--a part of his existence. in his warped brain a suspicion never dies. a fear will smolder everlastingly. a hatred lives steadily on. if bram johnson was mad would he play the game as he was playing it now! he had almost killed philip for possession of the food, that the girl might have the last crumb of it. now, without a sign of the madman's caution, he had left it all within his reach again. a dozen times the flaming suspicion in his eyes had been replaced by a calm and stupid indifference. was the suspicion real and the stupidity a clever dissimulation? and if dissimulation--why? he was positive now that bram had not harmed the girl in the way he had dreaded. physical desire had played no part in the wolf-man's possession of her. celie had made him understand that;--and yet in bram's eyes he had caught a look now and then that was like the dumb worship of a beast. only once had that look been anything different--and that was when celie had given him a tress of her hair. even the suspicion roused in him then was gone now, for if passion and desire were smoldering in the wolf-man's breast he would not have brought a possible rival to the cabin, nor would he have left them alone together. his mind worked swiftly as he stared unseeing out into the corral. he would no longer play the part of a pawn. thus far bram had held the whip hand. now he would take it from him no matter what mysterious protestation the girl might make! the wolf-man had given him a dozen opportunities to deliver the blow that would make him a prisoner. he would not miss the next. he faced celie with the gleam of this determination in his eyes. she had been watching him intently and he believed that she had guessed a part of his thoughts. his first business was to take advantage of brain's absence to search the cabin. he tried to make celie understand what his intentions were as he began. "you may have done this yourself," he told her. "no doubt you have. there probably isn't a corner you haven't looked into. but i have a hunch i may find something you missed--something interesting." she followed him closely. he began at each wall and went over it carefully, looking for possible hiding places. then he examined the floor for a loose sapling. at the end of half an hour his discoveries amounted to nothing. he gave an exclamation of satisfaction when under an old blanket in a dusty corner he found a colt army revolver. but it was empty, and he found no cartridges. at last there was nothing left to search but the wolf-man's bunk. at the bottom of this he found what gave him his first real thrill--three of the silken snares made from celie armin's hair. "we won't touch them," he said after a moment, replacing the bear skin that had covered them. "it's good etiquette up here not to disturb another man's cache and that's bram's. i can't imagine any one but a madman doing that. and yet--" he looked suddenly at celie. "do you suppose he was afraid of you?" he asked her. "is that why he doesn't leave even the butcher-knife in this shack? was he afraid you might shoot him in his sleep if he left the temptation in your way?" a commotion among the wolves drew him to the window. two of the beasts were fighting. while his back was turned celie entered her room and returned a moment or two later with a handful of loose bits of paper. the pack held philip's attention. he wondered what chance he would have in an encounter with the beasts which bram had left behind as a guard. even if he killed bram or made him a prisoner he would still have that horde of murderous brutes to deal with. if he could in some way induce the wolf-man to bring his rifle into the cabin the matter would be easy. with bram out of the way he could shoot the wolves one by one from the window. without a weapon their situation would be hopeless. the pack--with the exception of one huge, gaunt beast directly under the window--had swung around the end of the cabin out of his vision. the remaining wolf in spite of the excitement of battle was gnawing hungrily at a bone. philip could hear the savage grind of its powerful jaws, and all at once the thought of how they might work out their salvation flashed upon him. they could starve the wolves! it would take a week, perhaps ten days, but with bram out of the way and the pack helplessly imprisoned within the corral it could be done. his first impulse now was to impress on celie the necessity of taking physical action against bram. the sound of his own name turned him from the window with a sudden thrill. if the last few minutes had inspired an eagerness for action in his own mind he saw at a glance that something equally exciting had possessed celie armin. spread out on the table were the bits of paper she had brought from her room, and, pointing to them, she again called him by name. that she was laboring under a new and unusual emotion impressed him immediately. he could see that she was fighting to restrain an impulse to pour out in words what would have been meaningless to him, and that she was telling him the bits of paper were to take the place of voice. for one swift moment as he advanced to the table the papers meant less to him than the fact that she had twice spoken his name. her soft lips seemed to whisper it again as she pointed, and the look in her eyes and the poise of her body recalled to him vividly the picture of her as he had first seen her in the cabin. he looked at the bits of paper. there were fifteen or twenty pieces, and on each was sketched a picture. he heard a low catch in celie's breath as he bent over them, and his own pulse quickened. a glance was sufficient to show him that with the pictures celie was trying to tell him what he wanted to know. they told her own story--who she was, why she was at bram johnson's cabin, and how she had come. this, at least, was the first thought that impressed him. he observed then that the bits of paper were soiled and worn as though they had been handled a great deal. he made no effort to restrain the exclamation that followed this discovery. "you drew these pictures for bram," he scanning them more carefully. "that settles one thing. bram doesn't know much more about you than, i do. ships, and dogs, and men--and fighting--a lot of fighting--and--" his eyes stopped at one of the pictures and his heart gave a sudden excited thump. he picked up the bit of paper which had evidently been part of a small sack. slowly he turned to the girl and met her eyes. she was trembling in her eagerness for him to understand. "that is you," he said, tapping the central figure in the sketch, and nodding at her. "you--with your hair down, and fighting a bunch of men who look as though they were about to beat your brains out with clubs! now--what in god's name does it mean? and here's a ship up in the corner. that evidently came first. you landed from that ship, didn't you? from the ship--the ship--the ship--" "skunnert!" she cried softly, touching the ship with her finger. "skunnert--sibirien!" "schooner-siberia," translated philip. "it sounds mightily like that, celie. look here--" he opened his pocket atlas again at the map of the world. "where did you start from, and where did you come ashore? if we can get at the beginning of the thing--" she had bent her head over the crook of his arm, so that in her eager scrutiny of the map his lips for a moment or two touched the velvety softness of her hair. again he felt the exquisite thrill of her touch, the throb of her body against him, the desire to take her in his arms and hold her there. and then she drew back a little, and her finger was once more tracing out its story on the map. the ship had started from the mouth of the lena river, in siberia, and had followed the coast to the blue space that marked the ocean above alaska. and there the little finger paused, and with a hopeless gesture celie intimated that was all she knew. from somewhere out of that blue patch the ship had touched the american shore. one after another she took up from the table the pieces of paper that carried on the picture-story from that point. it was, of course, a broken and disjointed story. but as it progressed every drop of blood in philip's body was stirred by the thrill and mystery of it. celie armin had traveled from denmark through russia to the lena river in siberia, and from there a ship had brought her to the coast of north america. there had been a lot of fighting, the significance of which he could only guess at; and now, at the end, the girl drew for philip another sketch in which a giant and a horde of beasts appeared. it was a picture of bram and his wolves, and at last philip understood why she did not want him to harm the wolf-man. bram had saved her from the fate which the pictures only partly portrayed for him. he had brought her far south to his hidden stronghold, and for some reason which the pictures failed to disclose was keeping her a prisoner there. beyond these things celie armin was still a mystery. why had she gone to siberia? what had brought her to the barren arctic coast of america? who were the mysterious enemies from whom bram the madman had saved her? and who--who-- he looked again at one of the pictures which he had partly crumpled in his hand. on it were sketched two people. one was a figure with her hair streaming down--celie herself. the other was a man. the girl had pictured herself close in the embrace of this man's arms. her own arms encircled the man's neck. from the picture philip had looked at celie, and the look he had seen in her eyes and face filled his heart with a leaden chill. it was more than hope that had flared up in his breast since he had entered bram johnson's cabin. and now that hope went suddenly out, and with its extinguishment he was oppressed by a deep and gloomy foreboding. he went slowly to the window and looked out. the next moment celie was startled by the sudden sharp cry that burst from his lips. swiftly she ran to his side. he had dropped the paper. his hands were gripping the edge of the sill, and he was staring like one who could not believe his own eyes. "good god--look! look at that!" they had heard no sound outside the cabin during the last few minutes. yet under their eyes, stretched out in the soiled and trampled snow, lay the wolf that a short time before had been gnawing a bone. the animal was stark dead. not a muscle of its body moved. its lips were drawn back, its jaws agape, and under the head was a growing smear of blood. it was not these things--not the fact but the instrument of death that held philip's eyes. the huge wolf had been completely transfixed by a spear. instantly philip recognized it--the long, slender, javelin-like narwhal harpoon used by only one people in the world, the murderous little black-visaged kogmollocks of coronation gulf and wollaston land. he sprang suddenly back from the window, dragging celie with him. chapter xiii "kogmollocks--the blackest-hearted little devils alive when it comes to trading wives and fighting," said philip, a little ashamed of the suddenness with which he had jumped back from the window. "excuse my abruptness, dear. but i'd recognize that death-thing on the other side of the earth. i've seen them throw it like an arrow for a hundred yards--and i have a notion they're watching that window!" at sight of the dead wolf and the protruding javelin celie's face had gone as white as ash. snatching up one of the pictures from the table, she thrust it into philip's hand. it was one of the fighting pictures. "so it's you?" he said, smiling at her and trying to keep the tremble of excitement out of his voice. "it's you they want, eh? and they must want you bad. i've never heard of those little devils coming within a hundred miles of this far south. they must want you bad. now--i wonder why?" his voice was calm again. it thrilled him to see how utterly she was judging the situation by the movement of his lips and the sound of his voice. with him unafraid she would be unafraid. he judged that quickly. her eyes bared her faith in him, and suddenly he reached out and took her face between his two hands, and laughed softly, while each instant he feared the smash of a javelin through the window. "i like to see that look in your eyes," he went on. "and i'm almost glad you can't understand me, for i couldn't lie to you worth a cent. i understand those pictures now--and i think we're in a hell of a fix. the eskimos have followed you and bram down from the north, and i'm laying a wager with myself that bram won't return from the caribou hunt. if they were nunatalmutes or any other tribe i wouldn't be so sure. but they're kogmollocks. they're worse than the little brown head-hunters of the philippines when it comes to ambush, and if bram hasn't got a spear through him this minute i'll never guess again!" he withdrew his hands from her face, still smiling at her as he talked. the color was returning into her face. suddenly she made a movement as if to approach the window. he detained her, and in the same moment there came a fierce and snarling outcry from the wolves in the corral. making celie understand that she was to remain where he almost forcibly placed her near the table, philip went again to the window. the pack had gathered close to the gate and two or three of the wolves were leaping excitedly against the sapling bars of their prison. between the cabin and the gate a second body lay in the snow. philip's mind leapt to a swift conclusion. the eskimos had ambushed bram, and they believed that only the girl was in the cabin. intuitively he guessed how the superstitious little brown men of the north feared the madman's wolves. one by one they were picking them off with their javelins from outside the corral. as he looked a head and pair of shoulders rose suddenly above the top of the sapling barrier, an arm shot out and he caught the swift gleam of a javelin as it buried itself in the thick of the pack. in a flash the head and shoulders of the javelin-thrower had disappeared, and in that same moment philip heard a low cry behind him. celie had returned to the window. she had seen what he had seen, and her breath came suddenly in a swift and sobbing excitement. in amazement he saw that she was no longer pale. a vivid flush had gathered in each of her cheeks and her eyes blazed with a dark fire. one of her hands caught his arm and her fingers pinched his flesh. he stared dumbly for a moment at the strange transformation in her. he almost believed that she wanted to fight--that she was ready to rush out shoulder to shoulder with him against their enemies. scarcely had the cry fallen from her lips when she turned and ran swiftly into her room. it seemed to philip that she was not gone ten seconds. when she returned she thrust into his hand a revolver. it was a toy affair. the weight and size of the weapon told him that before he broke it and looked at the caliber. it was a "stocking" gun as they called those things in the service, fully loaded with . caliber shots and good for a possible partridge at fifteen or twenty paces. under other conditions it would have furnished him with considerable amusement. but the present was not yesterday or the day before. it was a moment of grim necessity--and the tiny weapon gave him the satisfaction of knowing that he was not entirely helpless against the javelins. it would shoot as far as the stockade, and it might topple a man over if he hit him just right. anyway, it would make a noise. a noise! the grin that had come into his face died out suddenly as he looked at celie. he wondered if to her had come the thought that now flashed upon him--if it was that thought that had made her place the revolver in his hand. the blaze of excitement in her wonderful eyes almost told him that it was. with bram gone, the eskimos believed she was alone and at their mercy as soon as the wolves were out of the way. two or three shots from the revolver--and philip's appearance in the corral--would shake their confidence. it would at least warn them that celie was not alone, and that her protector was armed. for that reason philip thanked the lord that a "stocking" gun had a bark like the explosion of a toy cannon even if its bite was like that of an insect. cautiously he took another look at bram's wolves. the last javelin had transfixed another of their number and the animal was dragging itself toward the center of the corral. the remaining seven were a dozen yards on the other side of the gate now, leaping and snarling at the stockade, and he knew that the next attack would come from there. he sprang to the door. celie was only a step behind him as he ran out, and was close at his side when he peered around the end of the cabin. "they must not see you," he made her understand. "it won't do any good and when they see another man they may possibly get the idea in their heads that you're not here. there can't be many of them or they'd make quicker work of the wolves. i should say not more than--" "se! se!" the warning came in a low cry from celie's lips. a dark head was appearing slowly above the top of the stockade, and philip darted suddenly out into the open. the eskimo did not see him, and philip waited until he was on the point of hurling his javelin before he made a sound. then he gave a roar that almost split his throat. in the same instant he began firing. the crack of his pistol and the ferocious outcry he made sent the eskimo off the stockade like a ball hit by a club. the pack, maddened by their inability to reach their enemies, turned like a flash. warned by one experience, philip hustled celie into the cabin. they were scarcely over the threshold when the wolves were at the door. "we're sure up against a nice bunch," he laughed, standing for a moment with his arm still about celie's waist. "a regular hell of a bunch, little girl! now if those wolves only had sense enough to know that we're a little brother and sister to bram, we'd be able to put up a fight that would be some circus. did you see that fellow topple off the fence? don't believe i hit him. at least i hope i didn't. if they ever find out the size of this pea-shooter's sting they'll sit up there like a row of crows and laugh at us. but--what a bully noise it made!" he was blissfully unmindful of danger as he held her in the crook of his arm, looking straight into her lovely face as he talked. it was a moment of splendid hypocrisy. he knew that in her excitement and the tremendous effort she was making to understand something of what he was saying that she was unconscious of his embrace. that, and the joyous thrill of the situation, sent the hot blood into his face. "i'm dangerously near to going the limit," he told her, speaking with a seriousness that would impress her. "i'd fight twenty of those little devils single-handed to know just how you'd take it, and i'd fight another dozen to know who that fellow is in the picture. i'm tempted right now to hug you up close, and kiss you, and let you know how i feel. i'd like to do that--before--anything happens. but would you understand? that's it--would you understand that i love every inch of you from the ground up or would you think i was just beast? that's what i'm afraid of. but i'd like to let you know before i have to put up the big fight for you. and it's coming--if they've got bram. they'll break down the gate to-night, or burn it, and with the wolves out of the way they'll rush the cabin. and then--" slowly he drew his arm from her, and something of the reaction of his thoughts must have betrayed itself in the look that came into his face. "i guess i've already pulled off a rotten deal on the other fellow," he said, turning to the window. "that is, if you belong to him. and if you didn't why would you stand there with your arms about his neck and he hugging you up like that!" a few minutes before he had crumpled the picture in his hand and dropped it on the floor. he picked it up now and mechanically smoothed it out as he made his observation, through the window. the pack had returned to the stockade. by the aimless manner in which they had scattered he concluded that for the time at least their mysterious enemies had drawn away from the corral. celie had not moved. she was watching him earnestly. it seemed to him, as he went to her with the picture, that a new and anxious questioning had come into her eyes. it was as if she had discovered something in him which she had not observed before, something which she was trying to analyze even as he approached her. he felt for the first time a sense of embarrassment. was it possible that she had comprehended some word or thought of what he had expressed to her? he could not believe it and yet, a woman's intuition-- he held out the picture. celie took it and for a space looked at it steadily without raising her eyes to meet his. when she did look at him the blue in her eyes was so wonderful and deep and the soul that looked out of them was so clear to his own vision that the shame of that moment's hypocrisy when he had stood with his arm about her submerged him completely. if she had not understood him she at least had guessed. "min fader," she said quietly, with the tip of her little forefinger on the man in the picture. "min fader." for a moment he thought she had spoken in english. "your--your father?" he cried. she nodded. "oo-ee-min fader!" "thank the lord," gasped philip. and then he suddenly added, "celie, have you any more cartridges for this pop-gun? i feel like licking the world!" chapter xiv he tried to hide his jubilation as he talked of more cartridges. he forgot bram, and the eskimos waiting outside the corral, and the apparent hopelessness of their situation. her father! he wanted to shout, or dance around the cabin with celie in his arms. but the change that he had seen come over her made him understand that he must keep hold of himself. he dreaded to see another light come into those glorious blue eyes that had looked at him with such a strange and questioning earnestness a few moments before--the fire of suspicion, perhaps even of fear if he went too far. he realized that he had betrayed his joy when she had said that the man in the picture was her father. she could not have missed that. and he was not sorry. for him. there was an unspeakable thrill in the thought that to a woman, no matter under what sun she is born, there is at least one emotion whose understanding needs no words of speech. and as he had talked to her, sublimely confident that she could not understand him, she had read the betrayal in his face. he was sure of it. and so he talked about cartridges. he talked, he told himself afterwards, like an excited imbecile. there were no more cartridges. celie made him understand that. all they possessed were the four that remained in the revolver. as a matter of fact this discovery did not disturb him greatly. at close quarters he would prefer a good club to the pop-gun. such a club, in the event of a rush attack by the eskimos, was an important necessity, and he began looking about the cabin to see what he could lay his hands on. he thought of the sapling cross-pieces in bram's bunk against the wall and tore one out. it was four feet in length and as big around as his fist at one end while at the other it tapered down so that he could grip it easily with his hands. "now we're ready for them," he said, testing the poise and swing of the club as he stood in the center of the room. "unless they burn us out they'll never get through that door. i'm promising you that--s'elp me god i am, celie!" as she looked at him a flush burned in her cheeks. he was eager to fight--it seemed to her that he was almost hoping for the attack at the door. it made her splendidly unafraid, and suddenly she laughed softly--a nervous, unexpected little laugh which she could not hold back, and he turned quickly to catch the warm glow in her eyes. something went up into his throat as she stood there looking at him like that. he had never seen any one quite so beautiful. he dropped his club, and held out his hand. "let's shake, celie," he said. "i'm mighty glad you understand--we're pals." unhesitatingly she gave him her hand, and in spite of the fact that death lurked outside they smiled into each other's eyes. after that she went into her room. for half an hour philip did not see her again. during that half hour he measured up the situation more calmly. he realized that the exigency was tremendously serious, and that until now he had not viewed it with the dispassionate coolness that characterized the service of the uniform he wore. celie was accountable for that. he confessed the fact to himself, not without a certain pleasurable satisfaction. he had allowed her presence, and his thoughts of her, to fill the adventure completely for him, and as a result they were now facing an appalling danger. if he had followed his own judgment, and had made bram johnson a prisoner, as he should have done in his line of duty, matters would have stood differently. for several minutes after celie had disappeared into her room he studied the actions of the wolves in the corral. a short time before he had considered a method of ridding himself of bram's watchful beasts. now he regarded them as the one greatest protection they possessed. there were seven left. he was confident they would give warning the moment the eskimos approached the stockade again. but would their enemies return? the fact that only one man had attacked the wolves at a time was almost convincing evidence that they were very few in number--perhaps only a scouting party of three or four. otherwise, if they had come in force, they would have made short work of the pack. the thought became a positive conviction as he looked through the window. bram had fallen a victim to a single javelin, and the scouting party of kogmollocks had attempted to complete their triumph by carrying celie back with them to the main body. foiled in this attempt, and with the knowledge that a new and armed enemy opposed them, they were possibly already on their way for re-enforcements. if this were so there could be but one hope--and that was an immediate escape from the cabin. and between the cabin door and the freedom of the forest were bram's seven wolves! a feeling of disgust, almost of anger, swept over him as he drew celie's little revolver from his pocket and held it in the palm of his hand. there were four cartridges left. but what would they avail against that horde of beasts! they would stop them no more than so many pin-pricks. and what even would the club avail? against two or three he might put up a fight. but against seven-- he cursed bram under his breath. it was curious that in that same instant the thought flashed upon him that the wolf-man might not have fallen a victim to the eskimos. was it not possible that the spying kogmollocks had seen him go away on the hunt, and had taken advantage of the opportunity to attack the cabin? they had evidently thought their task would be an easy one. what philip saw through the window set his pulse beating quickly with the belief that this last conjecture was the true one. the world outside was turning dark. the sky was growing thick and low. in half an hour a storm would break. the eskimos had foreseen that storm. they knew that the trail taken in their flight, after they had possessed themselves of the girl, would very soon be hidden from the eyes of bram and the keen scent of his wolves. so they had taken the chance--the chance to make celie their prisoner before bram returned. and why, philip asked himself, did these savage little barbarians of the north want her? the fighting she had pictured for him had not startled him. for a long time the kogmollocks had been making trouble. in the last year they had killed a dozen white men along the upper coast, including two american explorers and a missionary. three patrols had been sent to coronation gulf and bathurst inlet since august. with the first of those patrols, headed by olaf anderson, the swede, he had come within an ace of going himself. a rumor had come down to churchill just before he left for the barrens that olaf's party of five men had been wiped out. it was not difficult to understand why the eskimos had attacked celie armin's father and those who had come ashore with him from the ship. it was merely a question of lust for white men's blood and white men's plunder, and strangers in their country would naturally be regarded as easy victims. the mysterious and inexplicable part of the affair was their pursuit of the girl. in this pursuit the kogmollocks had come far beyond the southernmost boundary of their hunting grounds. philip was sufficiently acquainted with the eskimos to know that in their veins ran very little of the red-blooded passion of the white man. matehood was more of a necessity imposed by nature than a joy in their existence, and it was impossible for him to believe that even celie armin's beauty had roused the desire for possession among them. his attention turned to the gathering of the storm. the amazing swiftness with which the gray day was turning into the dark gloom of night fascinated him and he almost called to celie that she might look upon the phenomenon with him. it was piling in from the vast barrens to the north and east and for a time it was accompanied by a stillness that was oppressive. he could no longer distinguish a movement in the tops of the cedars and banskian pine beyond the corral. in the corral itself he caught now and then the shadowy, flitting movement of the wolves. he did not hear celie when she came out of her room. so intently was he straining his eyes to penetrate the thickening pall of gloom that he was unconscious of her presence until she stood close at his side. there was something in the awesome darkening of the world that brought them closer in that moment, and without speaking philip found her hand and held it in his own. they heard then a low whispering sound--a sound that came creeping up out of the end of the world like a living thing; a whisper so vast that, after a little, it seemed to fill the universe, growing louder and louder until it was no longer a whisper but a moaning, shrieking wail. it was appalling as the first blast of it swept over the cabin. no other place in the world is there storm like the storm that sweeps over the great barren; no other place in the world where storm is filled with such a moaning, shrieking tumult of voice. it was not new to philip. he had heard it when it seemed to him that ten thousand little children were crying under the rolling and twisting onrush of the clouds; he had heard it when it seemed to him the darkness was filled with an army of laughing, shrieking madmen--storm out of which rose piercing human shrieks and the sobbing grief of women's voices. it had driven people mad. through the long dark night of winter, when for five months they caught no glimpse of the sun, even the little brown eskimos went keskwao and destroyed themselves because of the madness that was in that storm. and now it swept over the cabin, and in celie's throat there rose a little sob. so swiftly had darkness gathered that philip could no longer see her, except where her face made a pale shadow in the gloom, but he could feel the tremble of her body against him. was it only this morning that he had first seen her, he asked himself? was it not a long, long time ago, and had she not in that time become, flesh and soul, a part of him? he put out his arms. warm and trembling and unresisting in that thick gloom she lay within them. his soul rose in a wild ecstasy and rode on the wings of the storm. closer he held her against his breast, and he said: "nothing can hurt you, dear. nothing--nothing--" it was a simple and meaningless thing to say--that, and only that. and yet he repeated it over and over again, holding her closer and closer until her heart was throbbing against his own. "nothing can hurt you. nothing--nothing--" he bent his head. her face was turned up to him, and suddenly he was thrilled by the warm sweet touch of her lips. he kissed her. she did not strain away from him. he felt--in that darkness--the wild fire in her face. "nothing can hurt you, nothing--nothing--" he cried almost sobbingly in his happiness. suddenly there came a blast of the storm that rocked the cabin like the butt of a battering-ram, and in that same moment there came from just outside the window a shrieking cry such as philip had never heard in all his life before. and following the cry there rose above the tumult of the storm the howling of bram johnson's wolves. chapter xv for a space philip thought that the cry must have come from bram johnson himself--that the wolf-man had returned in the pit of the storm. against his breast celie had apparently ceased to breathe. both listened for a repetition of the sound, or for a signal at the barred door. it was strange that in that moment the wind should die down until they could hear the throbbing of their own hearts. celie's was pounding like a little hammer, and all at once he pressed his face down against hers and laughed with sudden and joyous understanding. "it was only the wind, dear," he said. "i never heard anything like it before--never! it even fooled the wolves. bless your dear little heart how it frightened you! and it was enough, too. shall we light some of bram's candles?" he held her hand as he groped his way to where he had seen bram's supply of bear-dips. she held two of the candles while he lighted them and their yellow flare illumined her face while his own was still in shadow. what he saw in its soft glow and the shine of her eyes made him almost take her in his arms again, candles and all. and then she turned with them and went to the table. he continued to light candles until the sputtering glow of half a dozen of them filled the room. it was a wretched wastefulness, but it was also a moment in which he felt himself fighting to get hold of himself properly. and he felt also the desire to be prodigal about something. when he had lighted his sixth candle, and then faced celie, she was standing near the table looking at him so quietly and so calmly and with such a wonderful faith in her eyes that he thanked god devoutly he had kissed her only once--just that once! it was a thrilling thought to know that she knew he loved her. there was no doubt of it now. and the thought of what he might have done in that darkness and in the moment of her helplessness sickened him. he could look her straight in the eyes now--unashamed and glad. and she was unashamed, even if a little flushed at what had happened. the same thought was in their minds--and he knew that she was not sorry. her eyes and the quivering tremble of a smile on her lips told him that. she had braided her hair in that interval when she had gone to her room, and the braid had fallen over her breast and lay there shimmering softly in the candle-glow. he wanted to take her in his arms again. he wanted to kiss her on the mouth and eyes. but instead of that he took the silken braid gently in his two hands and crushed it against his lips. "i love you," he cried softly. "i love you." he stood for a moment or two with his head bowed, the thrill of her hair against his face. it was as if he was receiving some kind of a wonderful benediction. and then in a voice that trembled a little she spoke to him. before he could see fully what was in her eyes she turned suddenly to the wall, took down his coat, and hung it over the window. when he saw her face again it was gloriously flushed. she pointed to the candles. "no danger of that," he said, comprehending her. "they won't throw any javelins in this storm. listen!" it was the wolves again. in a moment their cry was drowned in a crash of the storm that smote the cabin like a huge hand. again it was wailing over them in a wild orgy of almost human tumult. he could see its swift effect on celie in spite of her splendid courage. it was not like the surge of mere wind or the roll of thunder. again he was inspired by thought of his pocket atlas, and opened it at the large insert map of canada. "i'll show you why the wind does that," he explained to her, drawing her to the table and spreading out the map. "see, here is the cabin." he made a little black dot with her pencil, and turning to the four walls of bram's stronghold made her understand what it meant. "and there's the big barren," he went on, tracing it out with the pencil-point. "up here, you see, is the arctic ocean, and away over there the roes welcome and hudson's bay. that's where the storm starts, and when it gets out on the barren, without a tree or a rock to break its way for five hundred miles--" he told of the twisting air-currents there and how the storm-clouds sometimes swept so low that they almost smothered one. for a few moments he did not look at celie or he would have seen something in her face which could not have been because of what he was telling her, and which she could at best only partly understand. she had fixed her eyes on the little black dot. that was the cabin. for the first time the map told her where she was, and possibly how she had arrived there. straight down to that dot from the blue space of the ocean far to the north the map-makers had trailed the course of the coppermine river. celie gave an excited little cry and caught philip's arm, stopping him short in his explanation of the human wailings in the storm. then she placed a forefinger on the river. "there--there it is!" she told him, as plainly as though her voice was speaking to him in his own language. "we came down that river. the skunnert landed us there," and she pointed to the mouth of the coppermine where it emptied into coronation gulf. "and then we came down, down, down--" he repeated the name of the river. "the coppermine." she nodded, her breath breaking a little in an increasing excitement. she seized the pencil and two-thirds of the distance down the coppermine made a cross. it was wonderful, he thought, how easily she made him understand. in a low, eager voice she was telling him that where she had put the cross the treacherous kogmollocks had first attacked them. she described with the pencil their flight away from the river, and after that their return--and a second fight. it was then bram johnson had come into the scene. and back there, at the point from which the wolf-man had fled with her, was her father. that was the chief thing she was striving to drive home in his comprehension of the situation. her father! and she believed he was alive, for it was an excitement instead of hopelessness or grief that possessed her as she talked to him. it gave him a sort of shock. he wanted to tell her, with his arms about her, that it was impossible, and that it was his duty to make her realize the truth. her father was dead now, even if she had last seen him alive. the little brown men had got him, and had undoubtedly hacked him into small pieces, as was their custom when inspired by war-madness. it was inconceivable to think of him as still being alive even if there had been armed friends with him. there was olaf anderson and his five men, for instance. fighters every one of them. and now they were dead. what chance could this other man have? her joy when she saw that he understood her added to the uncertainty which was beginning to grip him in spite of all that the day had meant for him. her faith in him, since that thrilling moment in the darkness, was more than ever like that of a child. she was unafraid of bram now. she was unafraid of the wolves and the storm and the mysterious pursuers from out of the north. into his keeping she had placed herself utterly, and while this knowledge filled him with a great happiness he was now disturbed by the fact that, if they escaped from the cabin and the eskimos, she believed he would return with her down the coppermine in an effort to find her father. he had already made the plans for their escape and they were sufficiently hazardous. their one chance was to strike south across the thin arm of the barren for pierre breault's cabin. to go in the opposite direction--farther north without dogs or sledge--would be deliberate suicide. several times during the afternoon he tried to bring himself to the point of urging on her the naked truth--that her father was dead. there was no doubt of that--not the slightest. but each time he fell a little short. her confidence in the belief that her father was alive, and that he was where she had marked the cross on the map, puzzled him. was it conceivable, he asked himself, that the eskimos had some reason for not killing paul armin, and that celie was aware of the fact? if so he failed to discover it. again and again he made celie understand that he wanted to know why the eskimos wanted her, and each time she answered him with a hopeless little gesture, signifying that she did not know. he did learn that there were two other white men with paul armin. only by looking at his watch did he know when the night closed in. it was seven o'clock when he led celie to her room and urged her to go to bed. an hour later, listening at her door, he believed that she was asleep. he had waited for that, and quietly he prepared for the hazardous undertaking he had set for himself. he put on his cap and coat and seized the club he had taken from bram's bed. then very cautiously he opened the outer door. a moment later he stood outside, the door closed behind him, with the storm pounding in his face. fifty yards away he could not have heard the shout of a man. and yet he listened, gripping his club hard, every nerve in his body strained to a snapping tension. somewhere within that small circle of the corral were bram johnson's wolves, and as he hesitated with his back to the door he prayed that there would come no lull in the storm during the next few minutes. it was possible that he might evade them with the crash and thunder of the gale about him. they could not see him, or hear him, or even smell him in that tumult of wind unless on his way to the gate he ran into them. in that moment he would have given a year of life to have known where they were. still listening, still fighting to hear some sound of them in the shriek of the storm, he took his first step out into the pit of darkness. he did not run, but went as cautiously as though the night was a dead calm, the club half poised in his hands. he had measured the distance and the direction of the gate and when at last he touched the saplings of the stockade he knew that he could not be far off in his reckoning. ten paces to the right he found the gate and his heart gave a sudden jump of relief. half a minute more and it was open. he propped it securely against the beat of the storm with the club he had taken from bram johnson's bed. then he turned back to the cabin, with the little revolver clutched in his hand, and his face was strained and haggard when he found the door and returned again into the glow of the candle-light. in the center of the room, her face as white as his own, stood celie. a great fear must have gripped her, for she stood there in her sleeping gown with her hands clutched at her breast, her eyes staring at him in speechless questioning. he explained by opening the door a bit and pantomiming to the gate outside the cabin. "the wolves will be gone in the morning," he said, a ring of triumph in his voice. "i have opened the gate. there is nothing in our way now." she understood. her eyes were a glory to look into then. her fingers unclenched at her breast, she gave a short, quick breath and a little cry--and her arms almost reached out to him. he was afraid of himself as he went to her and led her again to the door of her room. and there for a moment they paused, and she looked up into his face. her hand crept from his and went softly to his shoulder. she said something to him, almost in a whisper, and he could no longer fight against the pride and the joy and the faith he saw in her eyes. he bent down, slowly so that she might draw away from him if she desired, and kissed her upturned lips. and then, with a strange little cry that was like the soft note of a bird, she turned from him and disappeared into the darkness of her room. a great deal of that night's storm passed over his head unheard after that. it was late when he went to bed. he crowded bram's long box-stove with wood before he extinguished the last candle. and for an hour after that he lay awake, thinking of celie and of the great happiness that had come into his life all in one day. during that hour he made the plans of a lifetime. then he, too, fell into sleep--a restless, uneasy slumber filled with many visions. for a time there had come a lull in the gale, but now it broke over the cabin in increased fury. a hand seemed slapping at the window, threatening to break it, and a volley of wind and snow shot suddenly down the chimney, forcing open the stove door, so that a shaft of ruddy light cut like a red knife through the dense gloom of the cabin. in varying ways the sounds played a part in philip's dreams. in all those dreams, and segments of dreams, the girl was present. it was strange that in all of them she should be his wife. and it was strange that the big woods and the deep snows played no part in them. he was back home. and celie was with him. once they went for wildflowers and were caught in a thunderstorm, and ran to an old and disused barn in the center of a field for shelter. he could feel celie trembling against him, and he was stroking her hair as the thunder crashed over them and the lightning filled her eyes with fear. after that there came to him a vision of early autumn nights when they went corn-roasting, with other young people. he had always been afflicted with a slight nasal trouble, and smoke irritated him. it set him sneezing, and kept him dodging about the fire, and celie was laughing as the smoke persisted in following him about, like a young scamp of a boy bent on tormenting him. the smoke was unusually persistent on this particular night, until at last the laughter went out of the girl's face, and she ran into his arms and covered his eyes with her soft hands. restlessly he tossed in his bunk, and buried his face in the blanket that answered for a pillow. the smoke reached him; even there, and he sneezed chokingly. in that instant celie's face disappeared. he sneezed again--and awoke. in that moment his dazed senses adjusted themselves. the cabin was full of smoke. it partly blinded him, but through it he could see tongues of fire shooting toward the ceiling. he heard then the crackling of burning pitch--a dull and consuming roar, and with a stifled cry he leaped from his bunk and stood on his feet. dazed by the smoke and flame, he saw that there was not the hundredth part of a second to lose. shouting celie's name he ran to her door, where the fire was already beginning to shut him out. his first cry had awakened her and she was facing the lurid glow of the flame as he rushed in. almost before she could comprehend what was happening he had wrapped one of the heavy bear skins about her and had swept her into his arms. with her face crushed against his breast he lowered his head and dashed back into the fiery holocaust of the outer room. the cabin, with its pitch-filled logs, was like a box made of tinder, and a score of men could not have beat out the fire that was raging now. the wind beating from the west had kept it from reaching the door opening into the corral, but the pitch was hissing and smoking at the threshold as philip plunged through the blinding pall and fumbled for the latch. not ten seconds too soon did he stagger with his burden out into the night. as the wind drove in through the open door the flames seemed to burst in a sudden explosion and the cabin was a seething snarl of flame. it burst through the window and out of the chimney and philip's path to the open gate was illumined by a fiery glow. not until he had passed beyond the stockade to the edge of the forest did he stop and look back. over their heads the wind wailed and moaned in the spruce tops, but even above that sound came the roar of the fire. against his breast philip heard a sobbing cry, and suddenly he held the girl closer, and crushed his face down against hers, fighting to keep back the horror that was gripping at his heart. even as he felt her arms creeping up out of the bearskin and clinging about his neck he felt upon him like a weight of lead the hopelessness of a despair as black as the night itself. the cabin was now a pillar of flame, and in it was everything that had made life possible for them. food, shelter, clothing--all were gone. in this moment he did not think of himself, but of the girl he held in his arms, and he strained her closer and kissed her lips and her eyes and her tumbled hair there in the storm-swept darkness, telling her what he knew was now a lie--that she was safe, that nothing could harm her. against him he felt the tremble and throb of her soft body, and it was this that filled him with the horror of the thing--the terror of the thought that her one garment was a bearskin. he had felt, a moment before, the chill touch of a naked little foot. and yet he kept saying, with his face against hers: "it's all right, little sweetheart. we'll come out all right--we sure will!" chapter xvi his first impulse, after those few appalling seconds following their escape from the fire, was to save something from the cabin. still talking to celie he dropped on his knees and tucked her up warmly in the bearskin, with her back to a tree. he thanked god that it was a big skin and that it enveloped her completely. leaving her there he ran back through the gate. he no longer feared the wolves. if they had not already escaped into the forest he knew they would not attack him in that hot glare of the one thing above all others they feared--fire. for a space thought of the eskimos, and the probability of the fire bringing them from wherever they had sought shelter from the storm, was secondary to the alarming necessity which faced him. because of his restlessness and his desire to be ready for any emergency he had not undressed when he threw himself on his bunk that night, but he was without a coat or cap. and celie! he cried out aloud in his anguish when he stopped just outside the deadline of the furnace of flame that was once the cabin, and standing there with clenched hands he cursed himself for the carelessness that had brought her face to face with a peril deadlier than the menace of the eskimos or bram johnson's wolves. he alone was responsible. his indiscretion in overfilling the stove had caused the fire, and in that other moment--when he might have snatched up more than the bearskin--his mind had failed to act. in the short space he stood there helplessly in the red heat of the fire the desperateness of the situation seared itself like the hot flame itself in his brain. as prisoners in bram's cabin, guarded by the wolves and attacked by the eskimos, they still had shelter, food, clothing--a chance to live, at least the chance to fight. and now-- he put a hand to his bare head and faced the direction of the storm. with the dying away of the wind snow had begun to fall, and with this snow he knew there would come a rising temperature. it was probably twenty degrees below zero, and unless the wind went down completely his ears would freeze in an hour or two. then he thought of the thick german socks he wore. one of them would do for a cap. his mind worked swiftly after that. there was, after all, a tremendous thrill in the thought of fighting the odds against him, and in the thought of the girl waiting for him in the bearskin, her life depending upon him utterly now. without him she could not move from the tree where he had left her unless her naked feet buried themselves in the snow. if something happened to him--she would die. her helplessness filled him suddenly with a wild exultation, the joy of absolute possession that leapt for an instant or two above his fears. she was something more--now--than the woman he loved. she was a little child, to be carried in his arms, to be sheltered from the wind and the cold until the last drop of blood had ceased to flow in his veins. his was the mighty privilege now to mother her until the end came for them both--or some miracle saved them. the last barrier was gone from between them. that he had met her only yesterday was an unimportant incident now. the world had changed, life had changed, a long time had passed. she belonged to him as utterly as the stars belonged to the skies. in his arms she would find life--or death. he was braced for the fight. his mind, riding over its first fears, began to shape itself for action even as he turned back toward the edge of the forest. until then he had not thought of the other cabin--the cabin which bram and he had passed on their way in from the barren. his heart rose up suddenly in his throat and he wanted to shout. that cabin was their salvation! it was not more than eight or ten miles away, and he was positive that he could find it. he ran swiftly through the increasing circle of light made by the burning logs. if the eskimos had not gone far some one of them would surely see the red glow of the fire, and discovery now meant death. in the edge of the trees, where the shadows were deep, he paused and looked back. his hand fumbled where the left-pocket of his coat would have been, and as he listened to the crackling of the flames and stared into the heart of the red glow there smote him with sudden and sickening force a realization of their deadliest peril. in that twisting inferno of burning pitch was his coat, and in the left-hand pocket of that coat were his matches! fire! out there in the open a seething, twisting mass of it, taunting him with its power, mocking him as pitiless as the mirage mocks a thirst-crazed creature of the desert. in an hour or two it would be gone. he might keep up its embers for a time--until the eskimos, or starvation, or still greater storm put an end to it. the effort, in any event, would be futile in the end. their one chance lay in finding the other cabin, and reaching it quickly. when it came to the point of absolute necessity he could at least try to make fire as he had seen an indian make it once, though at the time he had regarded the achievement as a miracle born of unnumbered generations of practice. he heard the glad note of welcome in celie's throat when he returned to her. she spoke his name. it seemed to him that there was no note of fear in her voice, but just gladness that he had come back to her in that pit of darkness. he bent down and tucked her snugly in the big bear-skin before he took her up in his arms again. he held her so that her face was snuggled close against his neck, and he kissed her soft mouth again, and whispered to her as he began picking his way through the forest. his voice, whispering, made her understand that they must make no sound. she was tightly imprisoned in the skin, but all at once he felt one of her hands work its way out of the warmth of it and lay against his cheek. it did not move away from his face. out of her soul and body there passed through that contact of her hand the confession that made him equal to fighting the world. for many minutes after that neither of them spoke. the moan of the wind was growing less and less in the treetops, and once philip saw a pale break where the clouds had split asunder in the sky. the storm was at an end--and it was almost dawn. in a quarter of an hour the shot like snow of the blizzard had changed to big soft flakes that dropped straight out of the clouds in a white deluge. by the time day came their trail would be completely hidden from the eyes of the eskimos. because of that philip traveled as swiftly as the darkness and the roughness of the forest would allow him. as nearly as he could judge he kept due east. for a considerable time he did not feel the weight of the precious burden in his arms. he believed that they were at least half a mile from the burned cabin before he paused to rest. even then he spoke to celie in a low voice. he had stopped where the trunk of a fallen tree lay as high as his waist, and on this he seated the girl, holding her there in the crook of his arm. with his other hand he fumbled to see if the bearskin protected her fully, and in the investigation his hand came in contact again with one of her bare feet. celie gave a little jump. then she laughed, and he made sure that the foot was snug and warm before he went on. twice in the nest half mile he stopped. the third time, a full mile from the cabin, was in a dense growth of spruce through the tops of which snow and wind did not penetrate. here he made a nest of spruce-boughs for celie, and they waited for the day. in the black interval that precedes arctic dawn they listened for sounds that might come to them. just once came the wailing howl of one of bram's wolves, and twice philip fancied that he heard the distant cry of a human voice. the second time celie's fingers tightened about his own to tell him that she, too, had heard. a little later, leaving celie alone, philip went back to the edge of the spruce thicket and examined closely their trail where it had crossed a bit of open. it was not half an hour old, yet the deluge of snow had almost obliterated the signs of their passing. his one hope was that the snowfall would continue for another hour. by that time there would not be a visible track of man or beast, except in the heart of the thickets. but he knew that he was not dealing with white men or indians now. the eskimos were night-trackers and night-hunters. for five months out of every twelve their existence depended upon their ability to stalk and kill in darkness. if they had returned to the burning cabin it was possible, even probable, that they were close on their heels now. for a second time he found himself a stout club. he waited, listening, and straining his eyes to penetrate the thick gloom; and then, as his own heart-beats came to him audibly, he felt creeping over him a slow and irresistible foreboding--a premonition of something impending, of a great danger close at hand. his muscles grew tense, and he clutched the club, ready for action. chapter xvii it seemed to philip, as he stood with the club ready in his hand, that the world had ceased to breathe in its anticipation of the thing for which he was waiting--and listening. the wind had dropped dead. there was not a rustle in the tree-tops, not a sound to break the stillness. the silence, so close after storm, was an arctic phenomenon which did not astonish him, and yet the effect of it was almost painfully gripping. minor sounds began to impress themselves on his senses--the soft murmur of the falling snow, his own breath, the pounding of his heart. he tried to throw off the strange feeling that oppressed him, but it was impossible. out there in the darkness he would have sworn that there were eyes and ears strained as his own were strained. and the darkness was lifting. shadows began to disentangle themselves from the gray chaos. trees and bushes took form, and over his head the last heavy windrows of clouds shouldered their way out of the sky. still, as the twilight of dawn took the place of night, he did not move, except to draw himself a little closer into the shelter of the scrub spruce behind which he had hidden himself. he wondered if celie would be frightened at his absence. but he could not compel himself to go on--or back. something was coming! he was as positive of it as he was of the fact that night was giving place to day. yet he could see nothing--hear nothing. it was light enough now for him to see movement fifty yards away, and he kept his eyes fastened on the little open across which their trail had come. if olaf anderson the swede had been there he might have told him of another night like this, and another vigil. for olaf had learned that the eskimos, like the wolves, trail two by two and four by four, and that--again like the wolves--they pursue not on the trail but with the trail between them. but it was the trail that philip watched; and as he kept his vigil--that inexplicable mental undercurrent telling him that his enemies were coming--his mind went back sharply to the girl a hundred yards behind him. the acuteness of the situation sent question after question rushing through his mind, even as he gripped his club, for her he was about to fight. for her he was ready to kill, and not afraid to die. he loved her. and yet--she was a mystery. he had held her in his arms, had felt her heart beating against his breast, had kissed her lips and her eyes and her hair, and her response had been to place herself utterly within the shelter of his arms. she had given herself to him and he was possessed of the strength of one about to fight for his own. and with that strength the questions pounded again in his head. who was she? and for what reason were mysterious enemies coming after her through the gray dawn? in that moment he heard a sound. his heart stood suddenly still. he held his breath. it was a sound almost indistinguishable from the whisper of the air and the trees and yet it smote upon his senses like the detonation of a thunder-clap. it was more of a presence than a sound. the trail was clear. he could see to the far side of the open now, and there was no movement. he turned his head--slowly and without movement of his body, and in that instant a gasp rose to his lips, and died there. scarcely a dozen paces from him stood a poised and hooded figure, a squat, fire-eyed apparition that looked more like monster than man in that first glance. something acted within him that was swifter than reason--a sub-conscious instinct that works for self-preservation like the flash of powder in a pan. it was this sub-conscious self that received the first photographic impression--the strange poise of the hooded creature, the uplifted arm, the cold, streaky gleam of something in the dawn-light, and in response to that impression philip's physical self crumpled down in the snow as a javelin hissed through the space where his head and shoulders had been. so infinitesimal was the space of time between the throwing of the javelin and philip's movement that the eskimo believed he had transfixed his victim. a scream of triumph rose in his throat. it was the kogmollock sakootwow--the blood-cry, a single shriek that split the air for a mile. it died in another sort of cry. from where he had dropped philip was up like a shot. his club swung through the air and before the amazed hooded creature could dart either to one side or the other it had fallen with crushing force. that one blow must have smashed his shoulder to a pulp. as the body lurched downward another blow caught the hooded head squarely and the beginning of a second cry ended in a sickening grunt. the force of the blow carried philip half off his feet, and before he could recover himself two other figures had rushed upon him from out of the gloom. their cries as they came at him were like the cries of beasts. philip had no time to use his club. from his unbalanced position he flung himself upward and at the nearest of his enemies, saving himself from the upraised javelin by clinching. his fist shot out and caught the eskimo squarely in the mouth. he struck again--and the javelin dropped from the kogmollock's hand. in that moment, every vein in his body pounding with the rage and excitement of battle, philip let out a yell. the end of it was stifled by a pair of furry arms. his head snapped back--and he was down. a thrill of horror shot through him. it was the one unconquerable fighting trick of the eskimos--that neck hold. caught from behind there was no escape from it. it was the age-old sasaki-wechikun, or sacrifice-hold, an inheritance that came down from father to son--the arctic jiu-jitsu by which one kogmollock holds the victim helpless while a second cuts out his heart. flat on his back, with his head and shoulders bent under him, philip lay still for a single instant. he heard the shrill command of the eskimo over him--an exhortation for the other to hurry up with the knife. and then, even as he heard a grunting reply, his hand came in contact with the pocket which held celie's little revolver. he drew it quickly, cocked it under his back, and twisting his arm until the elbow-joint cracked, he fired. it was a chance shot. the powder-flash burned the murderous, thick-lipped face in the sealskin hood. there was no cry, no sound that philip heard. but the arms relaxed about his neck. he rolled over and sprang to his feet. three or four paces from him was the eskimo he had struck, crawling toward him on his hands and knees, still dazed by the blows he had received. in the snow philip saw his club. he picked it up and replaced the revolver in his pocket. a single blow as the groggy eskimo staggered to his feet and the fight was over. it had taken perhaps three or four minutes--no longer than that. his enemies lay in three dark and motionless heaps in the snow. fate had played a strong hand with him. almost by a miracle he had escaped and at least two of the eskimos were dead. he was still watchful, still guarding against a further attack, and suddenly he whirled to face a figure that brought from him a cry of astonishment and alarm. it was celie. she was standing ten paces from him, and in the wild terror that had brought her to him she had left the bearskin behind. her naked feet were buried in the snow. her arms, partly bared, were reaching out to him in the gray arctic dawn, and then wildly and moaningly there came to him-- "philip--philip--" he sprang to her, a choking cry on his own lips. this, after all, was the last proof--when she had thought that their enemies were killing him she had come to him. he was sobbing her name like a boy as he ran back with her in his arms. almost fiercely he wrapped the bearskin about her again, and then crushed her so closely in his arms that he could hear her gasping faintly for breath. in that wild and glorious moment he listened. a cold and leaden day was breaking over the world and as they listened their hearts throbbing against each other, the same sound came to them both. it was the sakootwow--the savage, shrieking blood-cry of the kogmollocks, a scream that demanded an answer of the three hooded creatures who, a few minutes before, had attacked philip in the edge of the open. the cry came from perhaps a mile away. and then, faintly, it was answered far to the west. for a moment philip pressed his face down to celie's. in his heart was a prayer, for he knew that the fight had only begun. chapter xviii that the eskimos both to the east and the west were more than likely to come their way, converging toward the central cry that was now silent, philip was sure. in the brief interval in which he had to act he determined to make use of his fallen enemies. this he impressed on celie's alert mind before he ran back to the scene of the fight. he made no more than a swift observation of the field in these first moments--did not even look for weapons. his thought was entirely of celie. the smallest of the three forms on the snow was the kogmollock he had struck down with his club. he dropped on his knees and took off first the sealskin bashlyk, or hood. then he began stripping the dead man of his other garments. from the fur coat to the caribou-skin moccasins they were comparatively new. with them in his arms he hurried back to the girl. it was not a time for fine distinctions. the clothes were a godsend, though they had come from a dead man's back, and an eskimo's at that. celie's eyes shone with joy. it amazed him more than ever to see how unafraid she was in this hour of great danger. she was busy with the clothes almost before his back was turned. he returned to the eskimos. the three were dead. it made him shudder--one with a tiny bullet hole squarely between the eyes, and the others crushed by the blows of the club. his hand fondled celie's little revolver--the pea-shooter he had laughed at. after all it had saved his life. and the club-- he did not examine too closely there. from the man he had struck with his naked fist he outfitted himself with a hood and temiak, or coat. in the temiak there were no pockets, but at the waist of each of the dead men a narwhal skin pouch which answered for all pockets. he tossed the three pouches in a little heap on the snow before he searched for weapons. he found two knives and half a dozen of the murderous little javelins. one of the knives was still clutched in the hand of the eskimo who was creeping up to disembowel him when celie's revolver saved him. he took this knife because it was longer and sharper than the other. on his knees he began to examine the contents of the three pouches. in each was the inevitable roll of babiche, or caribou-skin cord, and a second and smaller waterproof narwhal bag in which were the kogmollock fire materials. there was no food. this fact was evident proof that the eskimos were in camp somewhere in the vicinity. he had finished his investigation of the pouches when, looking up from his kneeling posture, he saw celie approaching. in spite of the grimness of the situation he could not repress a smile as he rose to greet her. at fifty paces, even with her face toward him, one would easily make the error of mistaking her for an eskimo, as the sealskin bashlyk was so large that it almost entirely concealed her face except when one was very close to her. philip's first assistance was to roll back the front of the hood. then he pulled her thick braid out from under the coat and loosed the shining glory of her hair until it enveloped her in a wonderful shimmering mantle. their enemies could not mistake her for a man now, even at a hundred yards. if they ran into an ambuscade she would at least be saved from the javelins. celie scarcely realized what he was doing. she was staring at the dead men--silent proof of the deadly menace that had threatened them and of the terrific fight philip must have made. a strange note rose in her throat, and turning toward him suddenly she flung herself into his arms. her own arms encircled his neck, and for a space she lay shudderingly against his breast, as if sobbing. how many times he kissed her in those moments philip could not have told. it must have been a great many. he knew only that her arms were clinging tighter and tighter about his neck, and that she was whispering his name, and that his hands were buried in her soft hair. he forgot time, forgot the possible cost of precious seconds lost. it was a small thing that recalled him to his senses. from out of a spruce top a handful of snow fell on his shoulder. it startled him like the touch of a strange hand, and in another moment he was explaining swiftly to celie that there were other enemies near and that they must lose no time in flight. he fastened one of the pouches at his waist, picked up his club, and--on second thought--one of the kogmollock javelins. he had no very definite idea of how he might use the latter weapon, as it was too slender to be of much avail as a spear at close quarters. at a dozen paces he might possibly throw it with some degree of accuracy. in a kogmollock's hand it was a deadly weapon at a hundred paces. with the determination to be at his side when the next fight came celie possessed herself of a second javelin. with her hand in his philip set out then due north through the forest. it was in that direction he knew the cabin must lay. after striking the edge of the timber after crossing the barren bram johnson had turned almost directly south, and as he remembered the last lap of the journey philip was confident that not more than eight or ten miles had separated the two cabins. he regretted now his carelessness in not watching brain's trail more closely in that last hour or two. his chief hope of finding the cabin was in the discovery of some landmark at the edge of the barren. he recalled distinctly where they had turned into the forest, and in less than half an hour after that they had come upon the first cabin. their immediate necessity was not so much the finding of the cabin as escape from the eskimos. within half an hour, perhaps even less, he believed that other eyes would know of the fight at the edge of the open. it was inevitable. if the kogmollocks on either side of them struck the trail before it reached the open they would very soon run upon the dead, and if they came upon footprints in the snow this side of the open they would back-trail swiftly to learn the source and meaning of the cry of triumph that had not repeated itself. celie's little feet, clad in moccasins twice too big for her, dragged in the snow in a way that would leave no doubt in the eskimo mind. as philip saw the situation there was one chance for them, and only one. they could not escape by means of strategy. they could not hide from their pursuers. hope depended entirely upon the number of their enemies. if there were only three or four of them left they would not attack in the open. in that event he must watch for ambuscade, and dread the night. he looked down at celie, buried in her furry coat and hood and plodding along courageously at his side with her hand in his. this was not a time in which to question him, and she was obeying his guidance with the faith of a child. it was tremendous, he thought--the most wonderful moment that had ever entered into his life. it is this dependence, this sublime faith and confidence in him of the woman he loves that gives to a man the strength of a giant in the face of a great crisis and makes him put up a tiger's fight for her. for such a woman a man must win. and then philip noticed how tightly celie's other hand was gripping the javelin with which she had armed herself. she was ready to fight, too. the thrill of it all made him laugh, and her eyes shot up to him suddenly, filled with a moment's wonder that he should be laughing now. she must have understood, for the big hood hid her face again almost instantly, and her fingers tightened the smallest bit about his. for a matter of a quarter of an hour they traveled as swiftly as celie could walk. philip was confident that the eskimo whose cries they had heard would strike directly for the point whence the first cry had come, and it was his purpose to cover as much distance as possible in the first few minutes that their enemies might be behind them. it was easier to watch the back trail than to guard against ambuscades ahead. twice in that time he stopped where they would be unseen and looked back, and in advancing he picked out the thinnest timber and evaded whatever might have afforded a hiding place to a javelin-thrower. they had progressed another half mile when suddenly they came upon a snowshoe trail in the snow. it had crossed at right angles to their own course, and as philip bent over it a sudden lump rose into his throat. the other eskimos had not worn snowshoes. that in itself had not surprised him, for the snow was hard and easily traveled in moccasins. the fact that amazed him now was that the trail under his eyes had not been made by eskimo usamuks. the tracks were long and narrow. the web imprint in the snow was not that of the broad narwhal strip, but the finer mesh of babiche. it was possible that an eskimo was wearing them, but they were a white man's shoes! and then he made another discovery. for a dozen paces he followed in the trail, allowing six inches with each step he took as the snowshoe handicap. even at that he could not easily cover the tracks. the man who had made them had taken a longer snowshoe stride than his own by at least nine inches. he could no longer keep the excitement of his discovery from celie. "the eskimo never lived who could make that track," he exclaimed. "they can travel fast enough but they're a bunch of runts when it comes to leg-swing. it's a white man--or bram!" the announcement of the wolf-man's name and philip's gesture toward the trail drew a quick little cry of understanding from celie. in a flash she had darted to the snowshoe tracks and was examining them with eager intensity. then she looked up and shook her head. it wasn't bram! she pointed to the tail of the shoe and catching up a twig broke it under philip's eyes. he remembered now. the end of bram's shoes was snubbed short off. there was no evidence of that defect in the snow. it was not bram who had passed that way. for a space he stood undecided. he knew that celie was watching him--that she was trying to learn something of the tremendous significance of that moment from his face. the same unseen force that had compelled him to wait and watch for his foes a short time before seemed urging him now to follow the strange snowshoe trail. enemy or friend the maker of those tracks would at least be armed. the thought of what a rifle and a few cartridges would mean to him and celie now brought a low cry of decision from him. he turned quickly to celie. "he's going east--and we ought to go north to find the cabin," he told her, pointing to the trail. "but we'll follow him. i want his rifle. i want it more than anything else in this world, now that i've got you. we'll follow--" if there had been a shadow of hesitation in his mind it was ended in that moment. from behind them there came a strange hooting cry. it was not a yell such as they had heard before. it was a booming far-reaching note that had in it the intonation of a drum--a sound that made one shiver because of its very strangeness. and then, from farther west, it came-- "hoom--hoom--ho-o-o-o-o-m-m-m-m--" in the next half minute it seemed to philip that the cry was answered from half a dozen different quarters. then again it came from directly behind them. celie uttered a little gasp as she clung to his hand again. she understood as well as he. one of the eskimos had discovered the dead and their foes were gathering in behind them. chapter xix before the last of the cries had died away philip flung far to one side of the trail the javelin he carried, and followed it up with celie's, impressing on her that every ounce of additional weight meant a handicap for them now. after the javelins went his club. "it's going to be the biggest race i've ever run," he smiled at her. "and we've got to win. if we don't--" celie's eyes were aglow as she looked at him, he was splendidly calm. there was no longer a trace of excitement in his face, and he was smiling at her even as he picked her up suddenly in his arms. the movement was so unexpected that she gave a little gasp. then she found herself borne swiftly over the trail. for a distance of a hundred yards philip ran with her before he placed her on her feet again. in no better way could he have impressed on her that they were partners in a race against death and that every energy must be expended in that race. scarcely had her feet touched the snow than she was running at his side, her hand clasped in his. barely a second was lost. with the swift directness of the trained man-hunter philip had measured his chances of winning. the eskimos, first of all, would gather about their dead. after one or two formalities they would join in a chattering council, all of which meant precious time for them. the pursuit would be more or less cautious because of the bullet hole in the kogmollock's forehead. if it had been possible for celie to ask him just what he expected to gain by following the strange snowshoe trail he would have had difficulty in answering. it was, like his single shot with celie's little revolver, a chance gamble against big odds. a number of possibilities had suggested themselves to him. it even occurred to him that the man who was hurrying toward the east might be a member of the royal northwest mounted police. of one thing, however, he was confident. the maker of the tracks would not be armed with javelins. he would have a rifle. friend or foe, he was after that rifle. the trick was to catch sight of him at the earliest possible moment. how much of a lead the stranger had was a matter at which he could guess with considerable accuracy. the freshness of the trail was only slightly dimmed by snow, which was ample proof that it had been made at the very tail-end of the storm. he believed that it was not more than an hour old. for a good two hundred yards philip set a dog-trot pace for celie, who ran courageously at his side. at the end of that distance he stopped. celie was panting for breath. her hood had slipped back and her face was flushed like a wildflower by her exertion. her eyes shone like stars, and her lips were parted a little. she was temptingly lovely, but again philip lost not a second of unnecessary time. he picked her up in his arms again and continued the race. by using every ounce of his own strength and endurance in this way he figured that their progress would be at least a third faster than the eskimos would follow. the important question was how long he could keep up the pace. against his breast celie was beginning to understand his scheme as plainly as if he had explained it to her in words. at the end of the fourth hundred yards she let him know that she was ready to run another lap. he carried her on fifty yards more before he placed her on her feet. in this way they had gone three-quarters of a mile when the trail turned abruptly from its easterly course to a point of the compass due north. so sharp was the turn that philip paused to investigate the sudden change in direction. the stranger had evidently stood for several minutes at this point, which was close to the blasted stub of a dead spruce. in the snow philip observed for the first time a number of dark brown spots. "here is where he took a new bearing--and a chew of tobacco," said philip, more to himself than to celie. "and there's no snow in his tracks. by george, i don't believe he's got more than half an hour's start of us this minute!" it was his turn to carry celie again, and in spite of her protest that she was still good for another run he resumed their pursuit of the stranger with her in his arms. by her quick breathing and the bit of tenseness that had gathered about her mouth he knew that the exertion she had already been put to was having its effect on her. for her little feet and slender body the big moccasins and cumbersome fur garments she wore were a burden in themselves, even at a walk. he found that by holding her higher in his arms, with her own arms encircling his shoulders, it was easier to run with her at the pace he had set for himself. and when he held her in this way her hair covered his breast and shoulders so that now and then his face was smothered in the velvety sweetness of it. the caress of it and the thrill of her arms about him spurred him on. once he made three hundred yards. but he was gulping for breath when he stopped. that time celie compelled him to let her run a little farther, and when they paused she was swaying on her feet, and panting. he carried her only a hundred and fifty yards in the interval after that. both realized what it meant. the pace was telling on them. the strain of it was in celie's eyes. the flower-like flush of her first exertion was gone from her face. it was pale and a little haggard, and in philip's face she saw the beginning of the things which she did not realize was betraying itself so plainly in her own. she put her hands up to his cheeks, and smiled. it was tremendous--that moment;--her courage, her splendid pride in him, her manner of telling him that she was not afraid as her little hands lay against his face. for the first time he gave way to his desire to hold her close to him, and kiss the sweet mouth she held up to his as her head nestled on his breast. after a moment or two he looked at his watch. since striking the strange trail they had traveled forty minutes. in that tine they had covered at least three miles, and were a good four miles from the scene of the fight. it was a big start. the eskimos were undoubtedly a half that distance behind them, and the stranger whom they were following could not be far ahead. they went on at a walk. for the third time they came to a point in the trail where the stranger had stopped to make observations. it was apparent to philip that the man he was after was not quite sure of himself. yet he did not hesitate in the course due north. for half an hour they continued in that direction. not for an instant now did philip allow; his caution to lag. eyes and ears were alert for sound or movement either behind or ahead of them, and more and more frequently he turned to scan the back trail. they were at least five miles from the edge of the open where the fight had occurred when they came to the foot of a ridge, and philip's heart gave a sudden thump of hope. he remembered that ridge. it was a curiously formed "hog-back"--like a great windrow of snow piled up and frozen. probably it was miles in length. somewhere he and bram had crossed it soon after passing the first cabin. he had not tried to tell celie of this cabin. time had been too precious. but now, in the short interval of rest he allowed themselves, he drew a picture of it in the snow and made her understand that it was somewhere close to the ridge and that it looked as though the stranger was making for it. he half carried celie up the ridge after that. she could not hide from him that her feet were dragging even at a walk. exhaustion showed in her face, and once when she tried to speak to him her voice broke in a little gasping sob. on the far side of the ridge he took her in his arms and carried her again. "it can't be much farther," he encouraged her. "we've got to overtake him pretty soon, dear. mighty soon." her hand pressed gently against his cheek, and he swallowed a thickness that in spite of his effort gathered in his throat. during that last half hour a different look had come into her eyes. it was there now as she lay limply with her head on his breast--a look of unutterable tenderness, and of something else. it was that which brought the thickness into his throat. it was not fear. it was the soft glow of a great love--and of understanding. she knew that even he was almost at the end of his fight. his endurance was giving out. one of two things must happen very soon. she continued to stroke his cheek gently until he placed her on her feet again, and then she held one of his hands close to her breast as they looked behind them, and listened. he could feel the soft throbbing of her heart. if he needed greater courage then it was given to him. they went on. and then, so suddenly that it brought a stifled cry from the girl's lips, they came upon the cabin. it was not a hundred yards from them when they first saw it. it was no longer abandoned. a thin spiral of smoke was rising from the chimney. there was no sign of life other than that. for half a minute philip stared at it. here, at last, was the final hope. life or death, all that the world might hold for him and the girl at his side, was in that cabin. gently he drew her so that she would be unseen. and then, still looking at the cabin, he drew off his coat and dropped it in the snow. it was the preparation of a man about to fight. the look of it was in his face and the stiffening of his muscles, and when he turned to his little companion she was as white as the snow under her feet. "we're in time," he breathed. "you--you stay here." she understood. her hands clutched at him as he left her. a gulp rose in her throat. she wanted to call out. she wanted to hold him back--or go with him. yet she obeyed. she stood with a heart that choked her and watched him go. for she knew, after all, that it was the thing to do. sobbingly she breathed his name. it was a prayer. for she knew what would happen in the cabin. chapter xx philip came up behind the windowless end of the cabin. he noticed in passing with bram that on the opposite side was a trap-window of saplings, and toward this he moved swiftly but with caution. it was still closed when he came where he could see. but with his ear close to the chinks he heard a sound--the movement of some one inside. for an instant he looked over his shoulder. celia was standing where he had left her. he could almost feel the terrible suspense that was in her eyes as she watched him. he moved around toward the door. there was in him an intense desire to have it over with quickly. his pulse quickened as the thought grew in him that the maker of the strange snowshoe trail might be a friend after all. but how was he to discover that fact? he had decided to take no chances in the matter. ten seconds of misplaced faith in the stranger might prove fatal. once he held a gun in his hands he would be in a position to wait for introductions and explanations. but until then, with their eskimo enemies close at their heels-- his mind did not finish that final argument. the end of it smashed upon him in another way. the door came within his vision. as it swung inward he could not at first see whether it was open or closed. leaning against the logs close to the door was a pair of long snowshoes and a bundle of javelins. a sickening disappointment swept over him as he stared at the javelins. a giant eskimo and not a white man had made the trail they had followed. their race against time had brought them straight to the rendezvous of their foes--and there would be no guns. in that moment when all the hopes he had built up seemed slipping away from under him he could see no other possible significance in the presence of the javelins. then, for an instant, he held his breath and sniffed the air like a dog getting the wind. the cabin door was open. and out through that door came the mingling aroma of coffee and tobacco! an eskimo might have tobacco, or even tea. but coffee--never! every drop of blood in his body pounded like tiny beating fists as he crossed silently and swiftly the short space between the corner of the cabin and the open door. for perhaps half a dozen seconds he closed his eyes to give his snow-strained vision an even chance with the man in the cabin. then he looked in. it was a small cabin. it was possibly not more than ten feet square inside, and at the far end of it was a fireplace from which rose the chimney through the roof. at first philip saw nothing except the dim outlines of things. it was a moment or two before he made out the figure of a man stooping over the fire. he stepped over the threshold, making no sound. the occupant of the cabin straightened himself slowly, lifting with, extreme care a pot of coffee from the embers. a glance at his broad back and his giant stature told philip that he was not an eskimo. he turned. even then for an infinitesimal space he did not see philip as he stood fronting the door with the light in his face. it was a white man's face--a face almost hidden in a thick growth of beard and a tangle of hair that fell to the shoulders. another instant and he had seen the intruder and stood like one turned suddenly into stone. philip had leveled celie's little revolver. "i am philip raine of his majesty's service, the royal mounted," he said. "throw, up your hands!" the moment's tableau was one of rigid amazement on one side, of waiting tenseness on the other. philip believed that the shadow of his body concealed the size of the tiny revolver in his hand. anyway it would be effective at that distance, and he expected to see the mysterious stranger's hands go over his head the moment he recovered from the shock that had apparently gone with the command. what did happen he expected least of all. the arm holding the pot of steaming coffee shot out and the boiling deluge hissed straight at philip's face. he ducked to escape it, and fired. before he could throw back the hammer of the little single-action weapon for a second shot the stranger was at him. the force of the attack sent them both crashing back against the wall of the cabin, and in the few moments that followed philip blessed the providential forethought that had made him throw off his fur coat and strip for action. his antagonist was not an ordinary man. a growl like that of a beast rose in his throat as they went to the floor, and in that death-grip philip thought of bram. more than once in watching the wolf-man he had planned how he would pit himself against the giant if it came to a fight, and how he would evade the close arm-to-arm grapple that would mean defeat for him. and this man was bram's equal in size and strength. he realized with the swift judgment of the trained boxer that open fighting and the evasion of the other's crushing brute strength was his one hope. on his knees he flung himself backward, and struck out. the blow caught his antagonist squarely in the face before he had succeeded in getting a firm clinch, and as he bent backward under the force of the blow philip exerted every ounce of his strength, broke the other's hold, and sprang to his feet. he felt like uttering a shout of triumph. never had the thrill of mastery and of confidence surged through him more hotly than it did now. on his feet in open fighting he had the agility of a cat. the stranger was scarcely on his feet before he was at him with a straight shoulder blow that landed on the giant's jaw with crushing force. it would have put an ordinary man down in a limp heap. the other's weight saved him. a second blow sent him reeling against the log wall like a sack of grain. and then in the half-gloom of the cabin philip missed. he put all his effort in that third blow and as his clenched fist shot over the other's shoulder he was carried off his balance and found himself again in the clutch of his enemy's arms. this time a huge hand found his throat. the other he blocked with his left arm, while with his right he drove in short-arm jabs against neck and jaw. their ineffectiveness amazed him. his guard-arm was broken upward, and to escape the certain result of two hands gripping at his throat he took a sudden foot-lock on his adversary, flung all his weight forward, and again they went to the floor of the cabin. neither caught a glimpse of the girl standing wide-eyed and terrified in the door. they rolled almost to her feet. full in the light she saw the battered, bleeding face of the strange giant, and philip's fist striking it again and again. then she saw the giant's two hands, and why he was suffering that punishment. they were at philip's throat--huge hairy hands stained with his own blood. a cry rose to her lips and the blue in her eyes darkened with the fighting fire of her ancestors. she darted across the room to the fire. in an instant she was back with a stick of wood in her hands. philip saw her then--her streaming hair and white face above them, and the club fell. the hands at his throat relaxed. he swayed to his feet and with dazed eyes and a weird sort of laugh opened his arms. celie ran into them. he felt her sobbing and panting against him. then, looking down, he saw that for the present the man who had made the strange snowshoe trail was as good as dead. the air he was taking into his half strangled lungs cleared his head and he drew away from celie to begin the search of the room. his eyes were more accustomed to the gloom, and suddenly he gave a cry of exultation. against the end of the mud and stone fireplace stood a rifle and over the muzzle of this hung a belt and holster. in the holster was a revolver. in his excitement and joy his breath was almost a sob as he snatched it from the holster and broke it in the light of the door. it was a big colt forty-five--and loaded to the brim. he showed it to celie, and thrust her to the door. "watch!" he cried, sweeping his arm to the open. "just two minutes more. that's all i want--two minutes--and then--" he was counting the cartridges in the belt as he fastened it about his waist. there were at least forty, two-thirds of them soft-nosed rifle. the caliber was . and the gun was a savage. it was modern up to the minute, and as he threw down the lever enough to let him glimpse inside the breech he caught the glisten of cartridges ready for action. he wanted nothing more. the cabin might have held his weight in gold and he would not have turned toward it. with the rifle in his hands he ran past celie out into the day. for the moment the excitement pounding in his body had got beyond his power of control. his brain was running riot with the joyous knowledge of the might that lay in his hands now and he felt an overmastering desire to shout his triumph in the face of their enemies. "come on, you devils! come on, come on," he cried. and then, powerless to restrain what was in him, he let out a yell. from the door celie was staring at him. a few moments before her face had been dead white. now a blaze of color was surging back into her cheeks and lips and her eyes shone with the glory of one who was looking on more than triumph. from her own heart welled up a cry, a revelation of that wonderful thing throbbing in her breast which must have reached philip's ears had there not in that same instant come another sound to startle them both into listening silence. it was not far distant. and it was unmistakably an answer to philip's challenge. chapter xxi as they listened the cry came again. this time philip caught in it a note that he had not detected before. it was not a challenge but the long-drawn ma-too-ee of an eskimo who answers the inquiring hail of a comrade. "he thinks it is the man in the cabin," exclaimed philip, turning to survey the fringe of forest through which their trail had come. "if the others don't warn him there's going to be one less eskimo on earth in less than three minutes!" another sound had drawn celie back to the door. "when she looked in the man she had stunned with the club was moving. her call brought philip, and placing her in the open door to keep watch he set swiftly to work to make sure of their prisoner. with the babiche thong he had taken from his enemies he bound him hand and foot. a shaft of light fell full on the giant's face and naked chest where it had been laid bare in the struggle and philip was about to rise when a purplish patch, of tattooing caught his eyes. he made out first the crude picture of a shark with huge gaping jaws struggling under the weight of a ship's anchor, and then, directly under this pigment colored tatu, the almost invisible letters of a name. he made them out one by one--b-l-a-k-e. before the surname was the letter g. "blake," he repeated, rising to his feet. "george blake--a sailor--and a white man!" blake, returning to consciousness, mumbled incoherently. in the same instant celie cried out excitedly at the door. "oo-ee, philip--philip! se det! se! se!" she drew back with, a sudden movement and pointed out the door. concealing himself as much as possible from outside observation philip peered forth. not more than a hundred and fifty yards away a dog team was approaching. there were eight dogs and instantly he recognized them as the small fox-faced eskimo breed from the coast. they were dragging a heavily laden sledge and behind them came the driver, a furred and hooded figure squat of stature and with a voice that came now in the sharp clacking commands that philip had heard in the company of bram johnson. from the floor came a groan, and for an instant philip turned to find blake's bloodshot eyes wide open and staring at him. the giant's bleeding lips were gathered in a snarl and he was straining at the babiche thongs that bound him. in that same moment philip caught a glimpse of celie. she, too, was staring--and at blake. her lips were parted, her eyes were big with amazement and as she looked she clutched her hands convulsively at her breast and uttered a low, strange cry. for the first time she saw blake's face with the light full upon it. at the sound of her cry blake's eyes went to her, and for the space of a second the imprisoned beast on the floor and the girl looking down on him made up a tableau that held philip spellbound. between them was recognition--an amazed and stone like horror on the girl's part, a sudden and growing glare of bestial exultation in the eyes of the man. suddenly there came the eskimo's voice and the yapping of dogs. it was the first blake had heard. he swung his head toward the door with a great gasp and the babiche cut like whipcord under the strain of his muscles. swift as a flash philip thrust the muzzle of the big colt against his prisoner's head. "make a sound and you're a dead man, blake!" he warned. "we need that team, and if you so much as whisper during the next ten seconds i'll scatter your brains over the floor!" they could hear the cold creak of the sledge-runners now, and a moment later the patter of many feet outside the door. in a single leap philip was at the door. another and he was outside, and an amazed eskimo was looking into the round black eye of his revolver. it required no common language to make him understand what was required of him. he backed into the cabin with the revolver within two feet of his breast. celie had caught up the rifle and was standing guard over blake as though fearful that he might snap his bonds. philip laughed joyously when he saw how quickly she understood that she was to level the rifle at the kogmollock's breast and hold it there until he had made him a prisoner. she was wonderful. she was panting in her excitement. from the floor blake had noticed that her little white finger was pressing gently against the trigger of the rifle. it had made him shudder. it made the eskimo cringe a bit now as philip tied his hands behind him. and philip saw it, and his heart thumped. celie was gloriously careless. it was over inside of two minutes, and with an audible sigh of relief she lowered her rifle. then she leaned it against the wall and ran to blake. she was tremendously excited as she pointed down into the bloodstained face and tried to explain to philip the reason for that strange and thrilling recognition he had seen between them. from her he looked at blake. the look in the prisoner's face sent a cold shiver through him. there was no fear in it. it was filled with a deep and undisguised exultation. then blake looked at philip, and laughed outright. "can't understand her, eh?" he chuckled. "well, neither can i. but i know what she's trying to tell you. damned funny, ain't it?" it was impossible for him to keep his eyes from shifting to the door. there was expectancy in that glance. then his glance shot almost fiercely at philip. "so you're philip raine, of the r. n. m. p., eh? well, you've got me guessed out. my name is blake, but the g don't stand for george. if you'll cut the cord off'n my legs so i can stand up or sit down i'll tell you something. i can't do very much damage with my hands hitched the way they are, and i can't talk layin' down cause of my adam's apple chokin' me." philip seized the rifle and placed it again in celie's hands, stationing her once more at the door. "watch--and listen," he said. he cut the thongs that bound his prisoner's ankles and blake struggled to his feet. when he fronted philip the big colt was covering his heart. "now--talk!" commanded philip. "i'm going to give you half a minute to begin telling me what i want to know, blake. you've brought the eskimos down. there's no doubt of that. what do you want of this girl, and what have you done with her people?" he had never looked into the eyes of a cooler man than blake, whose blood-stained lips curled in a sneering smile even as he finished. "i ain't built to be frightened," he said, taking his time about it. "i know your little games an' i've throwed a good many bluffs of my own in my time. you're lyin' when you say you'll shoot, an' you know you are. i may talk and i may not. before i make up my mind i'm going to give you a bit of brotherly advice. take that team out there and hit across the barren--alone. understand? alone. leave the girl here. it's your one chance of missing what happened to--" he grinned and shrugged his huge shoulders. "you mean anderson--olaf anderson--and the others up at bathurst inlet?" questioned philip chokingly. blake nodded. philip wondered if the other could hear the pounding of his heart. he had discovered in this moment what the department had been trying to learn for two years. it was this man--blake--who was the mysterious white leader of the kogmollocks, and responsible for the growing criminal record of the natives along coronation gulf. and he had just confessed himself the murderer of olaf anderson! his finger trembled for an instant against the trigger of his revolver. then, staring into blake's face, he slowly lowered the weapon until it hung at his side. blake's eyes gleamed as he saw what he thought was his triumph. "it's your one chance," he urged. "and there ain't no time to lose." philip had judged his man, and now he prayed for the precious minutes in which to play out his game. the kogmollocks who had taken up their trail could not be far from the cabin now. "maybe you're right, blake," he said hesitatingly. "i think, after her experience with bram johnson that she is about willing to return to her father. where is he?" blake made no effort to disguise his eagerness. in the droop of philip's shoulder, the laxness of the hand that held the revolver and the change in his voice blake saw in his captor an apparent desire to get out of the mess he was in. a glimpse of celie's frightened face turned for an instant from the door gave weight to his conviction. "he's down the coppermine--about a hundred miles. so, bram johnson--" his eyes were a sudden blaze of fire. "took care of her until your little rats waylaid him on the trail and murdered him," interrupted philip. "see here, blake. you be square with me and i'll be square with you. i haven't been able to understand a word of her lingo and i'm curious to know a thing or two before i go. tell me who she is, and why you haven't killed her father, and what you're going to do with her and i won't waste another minute." blake leaned forward until philip felt the heat of his breath. "what do i want of her?" he demanded slowly. "why, if you'd been five years without sight of a white woman, an' then you woke up one morning to meet an angel like her on the trail two thousand miles up in nowhere what would you want of her? i was stunned, plumb stunned, or i'd had her then. and after that, if it hadn't been for that devil with his wolves--" "bram ran away with her just as you were about to get her into your hands," supplied philip, fighting to save time. "she didn't even know that you wanted her, blake, so far as i can find out. it's all a mystery to her. i don't believe she's guessed the truth even now. how the devil did you do it? playing the friend stunt, eh! and keeping yourself in the background while your kogmollocks did the work? was that it?" blake nodded. his face was darkening as he looked at philip and the light in his eyes was changing to a deep and steady glare. in that moment philip had failed to keep the exultation out of his voice. it shone in his face. and blake saw it. a throaty sound rose out of his thick chest and his lips parted in a snarl as there surged through him a realization that he had been tricked. in that interval philip spoke. "if i never sent up a real prayer to god before i'm sending it now, blake," he said. "i'm thanking him that you didn't have time to harm celie armin, an' i'm thanking him that bram johnson had a soul in his body in spite of his warped brain and his misshapen carcass. and now i'm going to keep my word. i'm not going to lose another minute. come!" "you--you mean--" "no, you haven't guessed it. we're not going over the barren. we're going back to that cabin on the coppermine, and you're going with us. and listen to this, blake--listen hard! there may be fighting. if there is i want you to sort of harden yourself to the fact that the first shot fired is going straight through your gizzard. do i make myself clear? i'll shoot you deader than a salt mackerel the instant one of your little murderers shows up on the trail. so tell this owl-faced heathen here to spread the glad tidings when his brothers come in--and spread it good. quick about it! i'm not bluffing now." chapter xxii in philip's eyes blake saw his match now. and more. for three-quarters of a minute he talked swiftly to the eskimo. philip knew that he was giving the kogmollock definite instructions as to the manner in which his rescue must be accomplished. but he knew also that blake would emphasize the fact that it must not be in open attack, no matter how numerous his followers might be. he hurried blake through the door to the sledge and team. the sledge was heavily laden with the meat of a fresh caribou kill and from the quantity of flesh he dragged off into the snow philip surmised that the cabin would very soon be the rendezvous of a small army of eskimo. there was probably a thousand pounds of it, retaining only a single quarter of this he made celie comfortable and turned his attention to blake. with babiche cord he re-secured his prisoner with the "manacle-hitch," which gave him free play of one hand and arm--his left. then he secured the eskimo's whip and gave it to blake. "now--drive!" he commanded. "straight for the coppermine, and by the shortest cut. this is as much your race as mine now, blake. the moment i see a sign of anything wrong you're a dead man!" "and you--are a fool!" gritted blake. "good god, what a fool!" "drive--and shut up!" blake snapped his whip and gave a short, angry command in eskimo. the dogs sprang from their bellies to their feet and at another command were off over the trail. from the door of the cabin the eskimo's little eyes shone with a watery eagerness as he watched them go. celie caught a last glimpse of him as she looked back and her hands gripped more firmly the rifle which lay across her lap. philip had given her the rifle and it had piled upon her a mighty responsibility. he had meant that she should use it if the emergency called for action, and that she was to especially watch blake. her eyes did not leave the outlaw's broad back as he ran on a dozen paces ahead of the dogs. she was ready for him if he tried to escape, and she would surely fire. running close to her side philip observed the tight grip of her hands on the weapon, and saw one little thumb pinched up against the safety ready for instant action. he laughed, and for a moment she looked up at him, flushing suddenly when she saw the adoration in his face. "blake's right--i'm a fool," he cried down at her in a low voice that thrilled with his worship of her. "i'm a fool for risking you, sweetheart. by going the other way i'd have you forever. they wouldn't follow far into the south, if at all. mebby you don't realize what we're doing by hitting back to that father of yours. do you?" she smiled. "and mebby when we get there we'll find him dead," he added. "dead or alive, everything is up to blake now and you must help me watch him." he pantomimed this caution by pointing to blake and the rifle. then he dropped behind. over the length of sledge and team he was thirty paces from blake. at that distance he could drop him with a single shot from the colt. they were following the trail already made by the meat-laden sledge, and the direction was northwest. it was evident that blake was heading at least in the right direction and philip believed that it would be but a short time before they would strike the coppermine. once on the frozen surface of the big stream that flowed into the arctic and their immediate peril of an ambuscade would be over. blake was surely aware of that. if he had in mind a plan for escaping it must of necessity take form before they reached the river. "where the forest thinned out and the edge of the barren crept in philip ran at celie's side, but when the timber thickened and possible hiding places for their enemies appeared in the trail ahead he was always close to blake, with the big colt held openly in his hand. at these times celie watched the back trail. from her vantage on the sledge her alert eyes took in every bush and thicket to right and left of them, and when philip was near or behind her she was looking at least a rifle-shot ahead of blake. for three-quarters of an hour they had followed the single sledge trail when blake suddenly gave a command that stopped the dogs. they had reached a crest which overlooked a narrow finger of the treeless barren on the far side of which, possibly a third of a mile distant, was a dark fringe of spruce timber. blake pointed toward this timber. out of it was rising a dark column of resinous smoke. "it's up to you," he said coolly to philip. "our trail crosses through that timber--and you see the smoke. i imagine there are about twenty of upi's men there feeding on caribou. the herd was close beyond when they made the kill. now if we go on they're most likely to see us, or their dogs get wind of us--and upi is a bloodthirsty old cutthroat. i don't want that bullet through my gizzard, so i'm tellin' you." far back in blake's eyes there lurked a gleam which philip did not like. blake was not a man easily frightened, and yet he had given what appeared to be fair warning to his enemy. he came a step nearer, and said in a lower voice: "raine, that's just one of upi's crowds. if you go on to the cabin we're heading for there'll be two hundred fighting men after you before the day is over, and they'll get you whether you kill me or not. you've still got the chance i gave you back there. take it--if you ain't tired of life. give me the girl--an' you hit out across the barren with the team." "we're going on," replied philip, meeting the other's gaze steadily. "you know your little murderers, blake. if any one can get past them without being seen it's you. and you've got to do it. i'll kill you if you don't. the eskimos may get us after that, but they won't harm her in your way. understand? we're going the limit in this game. and i figure you're putting up the biggest stake. i've got a funny sort of feeling that you're going to cash in before we reach the cabin." for barely an instant the mysterious gleam far back in blake's eyes died out. there was the hard, low note in philip's voice which carried conviction and blake knew he was ready to play the hand which he held. with a grunt and a shrug of his shoulders he stirred up the dogs with a crack of his whip and struck out at their head due west. during the next half hour philip's eyes and ears were ceaselessly on the alert. he traveled close to blake, with the big colt in his hand, watching every hummock and bit of cover as they came to it. he also watched blake and in the end was convinced that in the back of the outlaw's head was a sinister scheme in which he had the utmost confidence in spite of his threats and the fact that they had successfully got around upi's camp. once or twice when their eyes happened to meet he caught in blake's face a contemptuous coolness, almost a sneering exultation which the other could not quite conceal. it filled him with a scarcely definable uneasiness. he was positive that blake realized he would carry out his threat at the least sign of treachery or the appearance of an enemy, and yet he could not free himself from the uncomfortable oppression that was beginning to take hold of him. he concealed it from blake. he tried to fight it out of himself. yet it persisted. it was something which seemed to hover in the air about him--the feel of a danger which he could not see. and then blake suddenly pointed ahead over an open plain and said: "there is the coppermine." chapter xxiii a cry from celie turned his gaze from the broad white trail of ice that was the coppermine, and as he looked she pointed eagerly toward a huge pinnacle of rock that rose like an oddly placed cenotaph out of the unbroken surface of the plain. blake grunted out a laugh in his beard and his eyes lit up with an unpleasant fire as they rested on her flushed face. "she's tellin' you that bram johnson brought her this way," he chuckled. "bram was a fool--like you!" he seemed not to expect a reply from philip, but urged the dogs down the slope into the plain. fifteen minutes later they were on the surface of the river. philip drew a deep breath of relief, and he found that same relief in celie's face when he dropped back to her side. as far as they could see ahead of them there was no forest. the coppermine itself seemed to be swallowed up in the vast white emptiness of the barren. there could be no surprise attack here, even at night. and yet there was something in blake's face which kept alive within him the strange premonition of a near and unseen danger. again and again he tried to shake off the feeling. he argued with himself against the unreasonableness of the thing that had begun to oppress him. blake was in his power. it was impossible for him to escape, and the outlaw's life depended utterly upon his success in getting them safely to the cabin. it was not conceivable to suppose that blake would sacrifice his life merely that they might fall into the hands of the eskimos. and yet-- he watched blake--watched him more and more closely as they buried themselves deeper in that unending chaos of the north. and blake, it seemed to him, was conscious of that increasing watchfulness. he increased his speed. now and then philip heard a curious chuckling sound smothered in his beard, and after an hour's travel on the snow-covered ice of the river he could no longer dull his vision to the fact that the farther they progressed into the open country, the more confident blake was becoming. he did not question him. he realized the futility of attempting to force his prisoner into conversation. in that respect it was blake who held the whip hand. he could lie or tell the truth, according to the humor of his desire. blake must have guessed this thought in philip's mind. they were traveling side by side when he suddenly laughed. there was an unmistakable irony in his voice when he said: "it's funny, raine, that i should like you, ain't it? a man who's mauled you, an' threatened to kill you! i guess it's because i'm so cussed sorry for you. you're heading straight for the gates of hell, an' they're open--wide open." "and you?" this time blake's laugh was harsher. "i don't count--now," he said. "since you've made up your mind not to trade me the girl for your life i've sort of dropped out of the game. i guess you're thinking i can hold upi's tribe back. well, i can't--not when you're getting this far up in their country. if we split the difference, and you gave me her, upi would meet me half way. god, but you've spoiled a nice dream!" "a dream?" blake uttered a command to the dogs. "yes--more'n that. i've got an igloo up there even finer than upi's--all built of whalebone and ships' timbers. think of her in that, raine--with me! that's the dream you smashed!" "and her father--and the others--" this time there was a ferocious undercurrent in blake's guttural laugh, as though philip had by accident reminded him of something that both amused and enraged him. "don't you know how these kogmollock heathen look on a father-in-law?" he asked. "he's sort of walkin' delegate over the whole bloomin' family. a god with two legs. the others? why, we killed them. but upi and his heathen wouldn't see anything happen to the old man when they found i was going to take the girl. that's why he's alive up there in the cabin now. lord, what a mess you're heading into, raine! and i'm wondering, after you kill me, and they kill you, who'll have the girl? there's a half-breed in the tribe an' she'll probably go to him. the heathen themselves don't give a flip for women, you know. so it's certain to be the half-breed." he surged on ahead, cracking his whip, and crying out to the dogs. philip believed that in those few moments he had spoken much that was truth. he had, without hesitation and of his own volition, confessed the murder of the companions of celie's father, and he had explained in a reasonable way why armin himself had been spared. these facts alone increased his apprehension. unless blake was utterly confident of the final outcome he would not so openly expose himself. he was even more on his guard after this. for several hours after his brief fit of talking blake made no effort to resume the conversation nor any desire to answer philip when the latter spoke to him. a number of times it struck philip that he was going the pace that would tire out both man and beast before night. he knew that in blake's shaggy head there was a brain keenly and dangerously alive, and he noted the extreme effort he was making to cover distance with a satisfaction that was not unmixed of suspicion. by three o'clock in the afternoon they were thirty-five miles from the cabin in which blake had become a prisoner. all that distance they had traveled through a treeless barren without a sign of life. it was between three and four when they began to strike timber once more, and philip asked himself if it had been blake's scheme to reach this timber before dusk. in places the spruce and banskian pine thickened until they formed dark walls of forest and whenever they approached these patches philip commanded blake to take the middle of the river. the width of the stream was a comforting protection. it was seldom less than two hundred yards from shore to shore and frequently twice that distance. from the possible ambuscades they passed only a rifle could be used effectively, and whenever there appeared to be the possibility of that danger philip traveled close to blake, with the revolver in his hand. the crack of a rifle even if the bullet should find its way home, meant blake's life. of that fact the outlaw could no longer have a doubt. for an hour before the gray dusk of arctic night began to gather about them philip began to feel the effect of their strenuous pace. hours of cramped inactivity on the sledge had brought into celie's face lines of exhaustion. since middle-afternoon the dogs had dragged at times in their traces. now they were dead-tired. blake, and blake alone, seemed tireless. it was six o'clock when they entered a country that was mostly plain, with a thin fringe of timber along the shores. they had raced for nine hours, and had traveled fifty miles. it was here, in a wide reach of river, that philip gave the command to halt. his first caution was to secure blake hand and foot, with his back resting against a frozen snow-hummock a dozen paces from the sledge. the outlaw accepted the situation with an indifference which seemed to philip more forced than philosophical. after that, while celie was walking back and forth to produce a warmer circulation in her numbed body, he hurried to the scrub timber that grew along the shore and returned with a small armful of dry wood. the fire he built was small, and concealed as much as possible by the sledge. ten minutes sufficed to cook the meat for their supper. then he stamped out the fire, fed the dogs, and made a comfortable nest of bear skins for himself and celie, facing blake. the night had thickened until he could make out only dimly the form of the outlaw against the snow-hummock. his revolver lay ready at his side. in that darkness he drew celie close up into his arms. her head lay on his breast. he buried his lips in the smothering sweetness of her hair, and her arms crept gently about his neck. even then he did not take his eyes from blake, nor for an instant did he cease to listen for other sounds than the deep breathing of the exhausted dogs. it was only a little while before the stars began to fill the sky. the gloom lifted slowly, and out of darkness rose the white world in a cold, shimmering glory. in that starlight he could see the glisten of celie's hair as it covered them like a golden veil, and once or twice through the space that separated them he caught the flash of a strange fire in the outlaw's eyes. both shores were visible. he could have seen the approach of a man two hundred yards away. after a little he observed that blake's head was drooping upon his chest, and that his breathing had become deeper. his prisoner, he believed, was asleep. and celie, nestling on his breast, was soon in slumber. he alone was awake,--and watching. the dogs, flat on their bellies, were dead to the world. for an hour he kept his vigil. in that time he could not see that blake moved. he heard nothing suspicious. and the night grew steadily brighter with the white glow of the stars. he held the revolver in his hand now. the starlight played on it in a steely glitter that could not fail to catch blake's eyes should he awake. and then philip found himself fighting--fighting desperately to keep awake. again and again his eyes closed, and he forced them open with an effort. he had planned that they would rest for two or three hours. the two hours were gone when for the twentieth time his eyes shot open, and he looked at blake. the outlaw had not moved. his head hung still lower on his breast, and again--slowly--irresistibly--exhaustion closed philip's eyes. even then philip was conscious of fighting against the overmastering desire to sleep. it seemed to him that he was struggling for hours, and all that time his subconsciousness was crying out for him to awake, struggling to rouse him to the nearness of a great danger. it succeeded at last. his eyes opened, and he stared in a dazed and half blinded tray toward blake. his first sensation was one of vast relief that he had awakened. the stars were brighter. the night was still. and there, a dozen paces from him was the snow-hummock. but blake--blake-- his heart leapt into his throat. blake was gone! chapter xxiv the shock of the discovery that blake had escaped brought philip half to his knees before he thought of celie. in an instant the girl was awake. his arm had tightened almost fiercely about her. she caught the gleam of his revolver, and in another moment she saw the empty space where their prisoner had been. swiftly philip's eyes traveled over the moonlit spaces about them. blake had utterly disappeared. then he saw the rifle, and breathed easier. for some reason the outlaw had not taken that, and it was a moment or two before the significance of the fact broke upon him. blake must have escaped just as he was making that last tremendous fight to rouse himself. he had had no more than time to slink away into the shadows of the night, and had not paused to hazard a chance of securing the weapon that lay on the snow close to celie. he had evidently believed that philip was only half asleep, and in the moonlight he must have seen the gleam of the big revolver leveled over his captor's knee. leaving celie huddled in her furs, philip rose to his feet and slowly approached the snow hummock against which he had left his prisoner. the girl heard the startled exclamation that fell from his lips when he saw what had happened. blake had not escaped alone. running straight out from behind the hummock was a furrow in the snow like the trail made by an otter. he had seen such furrows before, where eskimos had wormed their way foot by foot within striking distance of dozing seals. assistance had come to blake in that manner, and he could see where--on their hands and knees--two men instead of one had stolen back through the moonlight. celie came to his side now, gripping the rifle in her hands. her eyes were wide and filled with frightened inquiry as she looked from the tell-tale trails in the snow into philip's face. he was glad that she could not question him in words. he slipped the colt into its holster and took the rifle from her hands. in the emergency which he anticipated the rifle would be more effective. that something would happen very soon he was positive. if one eskimo had succeeded in getting ahead of his comrades to blake's relief others of upi's tribe must be close behind. and yet he wondered, as he thought of this, why blake and the kogmollock had not killed him instead of running away. the truth he told frankly to celie, thankful that she could not understand. "it was the gun," he said. "they thought i had only closed my eyes, and wasn't asleep. if something hadn't kept that gun leveled over my knee--" he tried to smile, knowing that with every second the end might come for them from out of the gray mist of moonlight and shadow that shrouded the shore. "it was a one-man job, sneaking out like that, and there's sure a bunch of them coming up fast to take a hand in the game. it's up to us to hit the high spots, my dear--an' you might pray god to give us time for a start." if he had hoped to keep from her the full horror of their situation, he knew, as he placed her on the sledge, that he had failed. her eyes told him that. intuitively she had guessed at the heart of the thing, and suddenly her arms reached up about his neck as he bent over her and against his breast he heard the sobbing cry that she was trying hard to choke back. under the cloud of her hair her warm, parted lips lay for a thrilling moment against his own, and then he sprang to the dogs. they had already roused themselves and at his command began sullenly to drag their lame and exhausted bodies into trace formation. as the sledge began to move he sent the long lash of the driving whip curling viciously over the backs of the pack and the pace increased. straight ahead of them ran the white trail of the coppermine, and they were soon following this with the eagerness of a team on the homeward stretch. as philip ran behind he made a fumbling inventory of the loose rifle cartridges in the pocket of his coat, and under his breath prayed to god that the day would come before the eskimos closed in. only one thing did he see ahead of him now--a last tremendous fight for celie, and he wanted the light of dawn to give him accuracy. he had thirty cartridges, and it was possible that he could put up a successful running fight until they reached armin's cabin. after that fate would decide. he was already hatching a scheme in his brain. if he failed to get blake early in the fight which he anticipated he would show the white flag, demand a parley with the outlaw under pretense of surrendering celie, and shoot him dead the moment they stood face to face. with blake out of the way there might be another way of dealing with upi and his kogmollocks. it was blake who wanted celie. in upi's eyes there were other things more precious than a woman. the thought revived in him a new thrill of hope. it recalled to him the incident of father breault and the white woman nurse who, farther west, had been held for ransom by the nanamalutes three years ago. not a hair of the woman's head had been harmed in nine months of captivity. olaf anderson had told him the whole story. there had been no white man there--only the eskimos, and with the eskimos he believed that he could deal now if he succeeded in killing blake. back at the cabin he could easily have settled the matter, and he felt like cursing himself for his shortsightedness. in spite of the fact that he had missed his main chance he began now to see more than hope in a situation that five minutes before had been one of appalling gloom. if he could keep ahead of his enemies until daybreak he had a ninety percent chance of getting blake. at some spot where he could keep the kogmollocks at bay and scatter death among them if they attacked he would barricade himself and celie behind the sledge and call out his acceptance of blake's proposition to give up celie as the price of his own safety. he would demand an interview with blake, and it was then that his opportunity would come. but ahead of him were the leaden hours of the gray night! out of that ghostly mist of pale moonlight through which the dogs were traveling like sinuous shadows upi and his tribe could close in on him silently and swiftly, unseen until they were within striking distance. in that event all would be lost. he urged the dogs on, calling them by the names which he had heard blake use, and occasionally he sent the long lash of his whip curling over their backs. the surface of the coppermine was smooth and hard. now and then they came to stretches of glare ice and at these intervals philip rode behind celie, staring back into the white mystery of the night out of which they had come. it was so still that the click, dick, click of the dogs' claws sounded like the swift beat of tiny castanets on the ice. he could hear the panting breath of the beasts. the whalebone runners of the sledge creaked with the shrill protest of steel traveling over frozen snow. beyond these sounds there were no others, with, the exception of his own breath and the beating of his own heart. mile after mile of the coppermine dropped behind them. the last tree and the last fringe of bushes disappeared, and to the east, the north, and the west there was no break in the vast emptiness of the great arctic plain. ever afterward the memory of that night seemed like a grotesque and horrible dream to him. looking back, he could remember how the moon sank out of the sky and utter darkness closed them in and how through that darkness he urged on the tired dogs, tugging with them at the lead-trace, and stopping now and then in his own exhaustion to put his arms about celie and repeat over and over again that everything was all right. after an eternity the dawn came. what there was to be of day followed swiftly, like the arctic night. the shadows faded away, the shores loomed up and the illimitable sweep of the plain lifted itself into vision as if from out of a great sea of receding fog. in the quarter hour's phenomenon between the last of darkness and wide day philip stood straining his eyes southward over the white path of the coppermine. it was celie, huddled close at his side, who turned her eyes first from the trail their enemies would follow. she faced the north, and the cry that came from her lips brought philip about like a shot. his first sensation was one of amazement that they had not yet passed beyond the last line of timber. not more than a third of a mile distant the river ran into a dark strip of forest that reached in from the western plain like a great finger. then he saw what celie had seen. close up against the timber a spiral of smoke was rising into the air. he made out in another moment the form of a cabin, and the look in celie's staring face told him the rest. she was sobbing breathless words which he could not understand, but he knew that they had won their race, and that it was armin's place. and armin was not dead. he was alive, as blake had said--and it was about breakfast time. he had held up under the tremendous strain of the night until now--and now he was filled with an uncontrollable desire to laugh. the curious thing about it was that in spite of this desire no sound came from his throat. he continued to stare until celie turned to him and swayed into his arms. in the moment of their triumph her strength was utterly gone. and then the thing happened which brought the life back into him again with a shock. from far up the black finger of timber where it bellied over the horizon of the plain there floated down to them a chorus of sound. it was a human sound--the yapping, wolfish cry of an eskimo horde closing in on man or beast. they had heard that same cry close on the heels of the fight in the clearing. now it was made by many voices instead of two or three. it was accompanied almost instantly by the clear, sharp report of a rifle, and a moment later the single shot was followed by a scattering fusillade. after that there was silence. quickly philip bundled celie on the sledge and drove the dogs ahead, his eyes on a wide opening in the timber three or four hundred yards above the river. five minutes later the sledge drew up in front of the cabin. in that time they heard no further outcry or sound of gunfire, and from the cabin itself there came no sign of life, unless the smoke meant life. scarcely had the sledge stopped before celie was on her feet and running to the door. it was locked, and she beat against it excitedly with her little fists, calling a strange name. standing close behind her, philip heard a shuffling movement beyond the log walls, the scraping of a bar, and a man's voice so deep that it had in it the booming note of a drum. to it celie replied with almost a shriek. the door swung inward, and philip saw a man's arms open and celie run into them. he was an old man. his hair and beard were white. this much philip observed before he turned with a sudden, thrill toward the open in the forest. only he had heard the cry that had come from that direction, and now, looking back, he saw a figure running swiftly over the plain toward the cabin. instantly he knew that it was a white man. with his revolver in his hand he advanced to meet him and in a brief space they stood face to face. the stranger was a giant of a man. his long, reddish hair fell to his shoulders. he was bare-headed, and panting as if hard run, and his face was streaming with blood. his eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets as he stared at philip. and philip, almost dropping his revolver in his amazement, gasped incredulously: "my god, is it you--olaf anderson!" chapter xxv following that first wild stare of uncertainty and disbelief in the big swede's eyes came a look of sudden and joyous recognition. he was clutching at philip's hand like a drowning man before he made an effort to speak, still with his eyes on the other's face as if he was not quite sure they had not betrayed him. then he grinned. there was only one man in the world who could grin like olaf anderson. in spite of blood and swollen features it transformed him. men loved the red-headed swede because of that grin. not a man in the service who knew him but swore that olaf would die with the grin on his face, because the tighter the hole he was in the more surely would the grin be there. it was the grin that answered philip's question. "just in time--to the dot," said olaf, still pumping philip's hand, and grinning hard. "all dead but me--calkins, harris, and that little dutchman, o'flynn, cold and stiff, phil, every one of them. i knew an investigating patrol would be coming up pretty soon. been looking for it every day. how many men you got?" he looked beyond philip to the cabin and the sledge. the grin slowly went out of his face, and philip heard the sudden catch in his breath. a swift glance revealed the amazing truth to olaf. he dropped philip's hand and stepped back, taking him in suddenly from head to foot. "alone!" "yes, alone," nodded philip. "with the exception of celie armin. i brought her back to her father. a fellow named blake is back there a little way with upi's tribe. we beat them out, but i'm figuring it won't be long before they show up." the grin was fixed in olaf's face again. "lord bless us, but it's funny," he grunted. "they're coming on the next train, so to speak, and right over in that neck of woods is the other half of upi's tribe chasing their short legs off to get me. and the comical part of it is you're alone!" his eyes were fixed suddenly on the revolver. "ammunition?" he demanded eagerly. "and--grub?" "thirty or forty rounds of rifle, a dozen colt, and plenty of meat--" "then into the cabin, and the dogs with us," almost shouted the swede. from the edge of the forest came the report of a rifle and over their heads went the humming drone of a bullet. they were back at the cabin in a dozen seconds, tugging at the dogs. it cost an effort to get them through the door, with the sledge after them. half a dozen shots came from the forest. a bullet spattered against the log wall, found a crevice, and something metallic jingled inside. as olaf swung the door shut and dropped the wooden bar in place philip turned for a moment toward celie. she went to him, her eyes shining in the semi-gloom of the cabin, and put her arms up about his shoulders. the swede, looking on, stood transfixed, and the white-bearded armin stared incredulously. on her tip-toes celie kissed philip, and then turning with her arms still about him said something to the older man that brought an audible gasp from olaf. in another moment she had slipped away from philip and back to her father. the swede was flattening his face against a two inch crevice between the logs when philip went to his side. "what did she say, olaf?" he entreated. "that she's going to marry you if we ever get out of this hell of a fix we're in," grunted olaf. "pretty lucky dog, i say, if it's true. imagine celie armin marrying a dub like you! but it will never happen. if you don't believe it fill your eyes with that out there!" philip glued his eyes to the long crevice between the logs and found the forest and the little finger of plain between straight in his vision. the edge of the timber was alive with men. there must have been half a hundred of them, and they were making no effort to conceal themselves. for the first time olaf began to give him an understanding of the situation. "this is the fortieth day we've held them off," he said, in the quick-cut, business-like voice he might have used in rendering a report to a superior. "eighty cartridges to begin with and a month's ration of grub for two. all but the three last cartridges went day before yesterday. yesterday everything quiet. on the edge of starvation this morning when i went out on scout duty and to take a chance at game. surprised a couple of them carrying meat and had a tall fight. others hove into action and i had to use two of my cartridges. one left--and they're showing themselves because they know we don't dare to use ammunition at long range. my caliber is thirty-five. what's yours?" "the same," replied philip quickly, his blood beginning to thrill with the anticipation of battle. "i'll give you half. i'm on duty from fort churchill, off on a tangent of my own." he did not take his eyes from the slit in the wall as he told anderson in a hundred words what had happened since his meeting with bram johnson. "and with forty cartridges we'll give 'em a taste of hell," he added. he caught his breath, and the last word half choked itself from his lips. he knew that anderson was staring as hard as he. up from the river and over the level sweep of plain between it and the timber came a sledge, followed by a second, a third, and a fourth. in the trail behind the sledges trotted a score and a half of fur-clad figures. "it's blake!" exclaimed philip. anderson drew himself away from the wall. in his eyes burned a curious greenish flame, and his face was set with the hardness of iron. in that iron was molded indistinctly the terrible smile with which he always went into battle or fronted "his man." slowly he turned, pointing a long arm at each of the four walls of the cabin. "that's the lay of the fight," he said, making his words short and to the point. "they can come at us on all sides, and so i've made a six-foot gun-crevice in each wall. we can't count on armin for anything but the use of a club if it comes to close quarters. the walls are built of saplings and they've got guns out there that get through. outside of that we've got one big advantage. the little devils are superstitious about fighting at night, and even blake can't force them into it. blake is the man i was after when i ran across armin and his people. gad!" there was an unpleasant snap in his voice as he peered through the gun-hole again. philip looked across the room to celie and her father as he divided the cartridges. they were both listening, yet he knew they did not understand what he and olaf were saying. he dropped a half of the cartridges into the right hand pocket of the swede's service coat, and advanced then toward armin with both his hands held out in greeting. even in that tense moment he saw the sudden flash of pleasure in celie's eyes. her lips trembled, and she spoke softly and swiftly to her father, looking at philip. armin advanced a step, and their hands met. at first philip had taken him for an old man. hair and beard were white, his shoulders were bent, his hands were long and thin. but his eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, had not aged with the rest of him. they were filled with the piercing scrutiny of a hawk's as they looked into his own, measuring him in that moment so far as man can measure man. then he spoke, and it was the light in celie's eyes, her parted lips, and the flush that came swiftly into her face that gave him an understanding of what armin was saying. from the end of the cabin olaf's voice broke in. with it came the metallic working of his rifle as he filled the chamber with cartridges. he spoke first to celie and armin in their own language, then to philip. "it's a pretty safe gamble we'd better get ready for them," he said. "they'll soon begin. did you split even on the cartridges?" "seventeen apiece." philip examined his rifle, and looked through the gun-crevice toward the forest. he heard olaf tugging at the dogs as he tied them to the bunk posts; he heard armin say something in a strained voice, and the swede's unintelligible reply, followed by a quick, low-voiced interrogation from celie. in the same moment his heart gave a sudden jump. in the fringe of the forest he saw a long, thin line of moving figures--advancing. he did not call out a warning instantly. for a space in which he might have taken a long breath or two his eyes and brain were centered on the moving figures and the significance of their drawn-out formation. like a camera-flash his eyes ran over the battleground. half way between the cabin and that fringe of forest four hundred yards away was a "hogback" in the snow, running a curving parallel with the plain. it formed scarcely more than a three or four foot rise in the surface, and he had given it no special significance until now. his lips formed words as the thrill of understanding leapt upon him. "they're moving!" he called to olaf. "they're going to make a rush for the little ridge between us and the timber. good god, anderson, there's an army of them!" "not more'n a hundred," replied the swede calmly, taking his place at the gun-crevice. "take it easy, phil. this will be good target practice. we've got to make an eighty percent kill as they come across the open. this is mighty comfortable compared with the trick they turned on us when they got calkins, harris and o'flynn. i got away in the night." the moving line had paused just within the last straggling growth of trees, as if inviting the fire of the defenders. olaf grunted as he looked along the barrel of his rifle. "strategy," he mumbled. "they know we're shy of ammunition." in the moments of tense waiting philip found his first opportunity to question the man at his side. first, he said: "i guess mebby you understand, olaf. we've gone through a hell together, and i love her. if we get out of this she's going to be my wife. she's promised me that, and yet i swear to heaven i don't know more than a dozen words of her language. what has happened? who is she? why was she with bram johnson? you know their language, and have been with them--" "they're taking final orders," interrupted olaf, as if he had not heard. "there's something more on foot than a rush to the ridge. it's blake's scheming. see those little groups forming? they're going to bring battering-rams, and make a second rush from the ridge." he drew in a deep breath, and without a change in the even tone of his voice, went on: "calkins, harris and o'flynn went down in a good fight. tell you about that later. hit seven days' west, and run on the camp of armin, his girl, and two white men--russians--guided by two kogmollocks from coronation gulf. you can guess some of the rest. the little devils had blake and his gang about us two days after i struck them. bram johnson and his wolves came along then--from nowhere--going nowhere. the kogmollocks think bram is a great devil, and that each of his wolves is a devil. if it hadn't been for that they would have murdered us in a hurry, and blake would have taken the girl. they were queered by the way bram would squat on his haunches, and stare at her. the second day i saw him mumbling over something, and looked sharp. he had one of celie's long hairs, and when he saw me he snarled like an animal, as though he feared i would take it from him. i knew what was coming. i knew blake was only waiting for bram to get away from his kogmollocks--so i told celie to give bram a strand of her hair. she did--with her own hands, and from that minute the madman watched her like a dog. i tried to talk with him, but couldn't. i didn't seem to be able to make him understand. and then--" the swede cut himself short. "they're moving, phil! take the men with the battering rams--and let them get half way before you fire! ... you see, bram and his wolves had to have meat. blake attacked while he was gone. russians killed--armin and i cornered, fighting for the girl behind us, when bram came back like a burst of thunder. he didn't fight. he grabbed the girl, and was off with her like the wind with his wolf-team. armin and i got into this cabin, and here--forty days and nights--" his voice stopped ominously. a fraction of a second later it was followed by the roar of his rifle, and at the first shot one of blake's kogmollocks crumpled up with a grunt half way between the snow-ridge and the forest. chapter xxvi the eskimos were advancing at a trot now over the open space. philip was amazed at their number. there were at least a hundred, and his heart choked with a feeling of despair even as he pulled the trigger for his first shot. he had seen the effect of olaf's shot, and following the swede's instructions aimed for his man in the nearest group behind the main line. he did not instantly see the result, as a puff of smoke shut out his vision, but a moment later, aiming again, he saw a dark blotch left in the snow. from his end of the crevice olaf had seen the man go down, and he grunted his approbation. there were five of the groups bearing tree trunks for battering-rams, and on one of these philip concentrated the six shots in his rifle. four of the tree-bearers went down, and the two that were left dropped their burden and joined those ahead of them. until philip stepped back to reload his gun he had not noticed celie. she was close at his side, peering through the gun-hole at the tragedy out on the plain. once before he had been astounded by the look in her face when they had been confronted by great danger, and as his fingers worked swiftly in refilling the magazine of his rifle he saw it there again. it was not fear, even now. it was a more wonderful thing than that. her wide-open eyes glowed with a strange, dark luster; in the center of each of her cheeks was a vivid spot of color, and her lips were parted slightly, so that he caught the faintest gleam of her teeth. wonderful as a fragile flower she stood there with her eyes upon him, her splendid courage and her faith in him flaming within her like a fire. and then he heard anderson's voice: "they're behind the ridge. we got eight of them." in half a dozen places philip had seen where bullets had bored the way through the cabin, and leaning his gun against the wall, he sprang to celie and almost carried her behind the bunk that was built against the logs. "you must stay here," he cried. "do you understand! here!" she nodded, and smiled. it was a wonderful smile--a flash of tenderness telling him that she knew what he was saying, and that she would obey him. she made no effort to detain him with her hands, but in that moment--if life had been the forfeit--philip would have stolen the precious time in which to take her in his arms. for a space he held her close to him, his lips crushed to hers, and faced the wall again with the throb of her soft breast still beating against his heart. he noticed armin standing near the door, his hand resting on a huge club which, in turn, rested on the floor. calmly he was waiting for the final rush. olaf was peering through the gun-hole again. and then came what he had expected--a rattle of fire from the snow-ridge. the pit-pit-pit of bullets rained against the cabin in a dull tattoo. through the door came a bullet, sending a splinter close to armin's face. almost in the same instant a second followed it, and a third came through the crevice so close to philip that he felt the hissing breath of it in his face. one of the dogs emitted a wailing howl and flopped among its comrades in uncanny convulsions. olaf staggered back, and faced philip. there was no trace of the fighting grin in his face now. it was set like an iron mask. "get down!" he shouted. "do you hear, get down!" he dropped on his knees, crying out the warning to armin in the other's language. "they've got enough guns to make a sieve of this kennel if their ammunition holds out--and the lower logs are heaviest. flatten yourself out until they stop firing, with your feet toward 'em, like this," and he stretched himself out on the floor, parallel with the direction of fire. in place of following the swede's example philip ran to celie. half way a bullet almost got him, flipping the collar of his shirt. he dropped beside her and gathered her up completely in his arms, with his own body between her and the fire. a moment later he thanked god for the protection of the bunk. he heard the ripping of a bullet through the saplings and caught distinctly the thud of it as the spent lead dropped to the floor. celie's head was close on his breast, her eyes were on his face, her soft lips so near he could feel their breath. he kissed her, unbelieving even then that the end was near for her. it was monstrous--impossible. lead was finding its way into the cabin like raindrops. he heard the swede's voice again, crying thickly from the floor: "hug below the lower log. you've got eight inches. if you rise above that they'll get you." he repeated the warning to armin. as if to emphasize his words there came a howl of agony from another of the dogs. still closer philip held the girl to him. her hands had crept convulsively to his neck. he crushed his face down against hers, and waited. it came to him suddenly that blake must be reckoning on this very protection which he was giving celie. he was gambling on the chance that while the male defenders of the cabin would be wounded or killed celie would be sheltered until the last moment from their fire. if that was so, the firing would soon cease until blake learned results. scarcely had he made this guess when the fusillade ended. instead of rifle-fire there came a sudden strange howl of voices and olaf sprang to his feet. philip had risen, when the swede's voice came to him in a choking cry. prepared for the rush he had expected, olaf was making an observation through the gun-crevice. suddenly, without turning his head, he yelled back at them: "good god--it's bram--bram johnson!" even celie realized the thrilling import of the swede's excited words. bram johnson! she was only a step behind philip when he reached the wall. with him she looked out. out of that finger of forest they were coming--bram and his wolves! the pack was free, spreading out fan-shape, coming like the wind! behind them was bram--a wild and monstrous figure against the whiteness of the plain, bearing in his hand a giant club. his yell came to them. it rose above all other sound, like the cry of a great beast. the wolves came faster, and then-- the truth fell upon those in the cabin with a suddenness that stopped the beating of their hearts. bram johnson and his wolves were attacking the eskimos! from the thrilling spectacle of the giant mad-man charging over the plain behind his ravenous beasts philip shifted his amazed gaze to the eskimos. they were no longer concealing themselves. palsied by a strange terror, they were staring at the onrushing horde and the shrieking wolf-man. in those first appalling moments of horror and stupefaction not a gun was raised or a shot fired. then there rose from the ranks of the kogmollocks a strange and terrible cry, and in another moment the plain between the forest and the snow-ridge was alive with fleeing creatures in whose heavy brains surged the monstrous thought that they were attacked not by man and beast, but by devils. and in that same moment it seemed that bram johnson and his wolves were among them. from man to man the beasts leapt, driven on by the shrieking voice of their master; and now philip saw the giant mad-man overtake one after another of the running figures, and saw the crushing force of his club as it fell. celie swayed back from the wall and stood with her hands to her face. the swede sprang past her, flung back the bar to the door, and opened it. philip was a step behind him. prom the front of the cabin they began firing, and man after man crumpled down under their shots. if bram and his wolves sensed the shooting in the ferocity of their blood-lust they paid no more attention to it than to the cries for mercy that rose chokingly out of the throats of their enemies. in another sixty seconds the visible part of it was over. the last of the kogmollocks disappeared into the edge of the forest. after them went the wolf-man and his pack. philip faced his companion. his gun was hot--and empty. the old grin was in olaf's face. in spite of it he shuddered. "we won't follow," he said. "bram and his wolves will attend to the trimmings, and he'll come back when the job is finished. meanwhile we'll get a little start for home, eh? i'm tired of this cabin. forty days and nights--ugh! it was hell. have you a spare pipeful of tobacco, phil? if you have--let's see, where did i leave off in that story about princess celie and the duke of rugni?" "the--the--what?" "your tobaeco, phil!" in a dazed fashion philip handed his tobacco pouch to the swede. "you said--princess celie--the duke of rugni--" olaf nodded as he stuffed his pipe bowl. "that's it. armin is the duke of rugni, whatever rugni is. he was chased off to siberia a good many years ago, when celie was a kid, that somebody else could get hold of the dukedom. understand? millions in it, i suppose. he says some of rasputin's old friends were behind it, and that for a long time he was kept in the dungeons of the fortress of st. peter and st. paul, with the neva river running over his head. the friends he had, most of them in exile or chased out of the country, thought he was dead, and some of these friends were caring for celie. just after rasputin was killed, and before the revolution broke out, they learned armin was alive and dying by inches somewhere up on the siberian coast. celie's mother was danish--died almost before celie could remember; but some of her relatives and a bunch of russian exiles in london framed up a scheme to get armin back, chartered a ship, sailed with celie on board, and--" olaf paused to light his pipe. "and they found the duke," he added. "they escaped with him before they learned of the revolution, or armin could have gone home with the rest of the siberian exiles and claimed his rights. for a lot of reasons they put him aboard an american whaler, and the whaler missed its plans by getting stuck in the ice for the winter up in coronation gulf. after that they started out with dogs and sledge and guides. there's a lot more, but that's the meat of it, phil. i'm going to leave it to you to learn celie's language and get the details first-hand from her. but she's a right enough princess, old man. and her dad's a duke. it's up to you to americanize 'em. eh, what's that?" celie had come from the cabin and was standing at philip's side, looking up into his face, and the light which olaf saw unhidden in her eyes made him laugh softly: "and you've got the job half done, phil. the duke may go back and raise the devil with the people who put him in cold storage, but lady celie is going to like america. yessir, she's going to like it better'n any other place on the face of the earth!" it was late that afternoon, traveling slowly southward over the trail of the coppermine, when they heard far behind them the wailing cry of bram johnson's wolves. the sound came only once, like the swelling surge of a sudden sweep of wind, yet when they camped at the beginning of darkness philip was confident the madman and his pack were close behind them. utter exhaustion blotted out the hours for celie and himself, while olaf, buried in two heavy eskimo coats he had foraged from the field of battle, sat on guard through the night. twice in the stillness of his long vigil he heard strange cries. once it was the cry of a beast. the second time it was that of a man. the second day, with dogs refreshed, they traveled faster, and it was this night that they camped in the edge of timber and built a huge fire. it was such a fire as illumined the space about them for fifty paces or more, and it was into this light that bram johnson stalked, so suddenly and so noiselessly that a sharp little cry sprang from celie's lips, and olaf and philip and the duke of rugni stared in wide-eyed amazement. in his right hand the wolf-man bore a strange object. it was an eskimo coat, tied into the form of a bag, and in the bottom of this improvision was a lump half the size of a water pail. bram seemed oblivious of all presence but that of celie. his eyes were on her alone as he advanced and with a weird sound in his throat deposited the bundle at her feet. in another moment he was gone. the swede rose slowly from where he was sitting, and speaking casually to celie, took the wolf-man's gift up in his hands. philip observed the strange look in his face as he turned his back to celie in the firelight and opened the bag sufficiently to get a look inside. then he walked out into the darkness, and a moment later returned without the bundle, and with a laugh apologized to celie for his action. "no need of telling her what it was," he said to philip then. "i explained that it was foul meat bram had brought in as a present. as a matter of fact it was blake's head. you know the kogmollocks have a pretty habit of pleasing a friend by presenting him with the head of a dead enemy. nice little package for her to have opened, eh?" after all, there are some very strange happenings in life, and the adventurers of the royal northwest mounted police come upon their share. the case of bram johnson, the mad wolf-man of the upper country, happened to be one of them, and filed away in the archives of the department is a big envelope filled with official and personal documents, signed and sworn to by various people. there is, for instance, the brief and straightforward deposition of corporal olaf anderson, of the fort churchill division, and there is the longer and more detailed testimony of mr. and mrs. philip raine and the duke of rugni; and attached to these depositions is a copy of an official decision pardoning bram johnson and making of him a ward of the great dominion instead of a criminal. he is no longer hunted. "let bram johnson alone" is the word that had gone forth to the man-hunters of the service. it is a wise and human judgment. bram's country is big and wild. and he and his wolves still hunt there under the light of the moon and the stars. the end cobwebs and cables. by hesba stretton, author of "through a needle's eye," "in prison and out," "bede's charity," etc. new york: dodd, mead & company, publishers. _author's card._ _it is my wish that messrs. dodd, mead & company alone should publish this story in the united states, and i appeal to the generosity and courtesy of other publishers, to allow me to gain some benefit from my work on the american as well as english side of the atlantic._ _hesba stretton._ contents. part i. chapter i. absconded ii. phebe marlowe iii. felicita iv. upfold farm v. a confession vi. the old bank vii. an interrupted day-dream viii. the senior partner ix. fast bound x. leaving riversborough xi. old marlowe xii. reckless of life xiii. suspense xiv. on the altar steps xv. a second fraud xvi. parting words xvii. waiting for the news xviii. the dead are forgiven xix. author and publisher xx. a dumb man's grief xxi. plato and paul xxii. a rejected suitor xxiii. another offer xxiv. at home in london xxv. dead to the world part ii. chapter i. after many years ii. canon pascal iii. felicita's refusal iv. taking orders v. a london curacy vi. other people's sins vii. an old man's pardon viii. the grave at engelberg ix. the lowest deeps x. alice pascal xi. coming to himself xii. a glimpse into paradise xiii. a london garret xiv. his father's sin xv. haunting memories xvi. the voice of the dead xvii. no place for repentance xviii. within and without xix. in his father's house xx. as a hired servant xxi. phebe's secret xxii. near the end xxiii. the most miserable xxiv. for one moment xxv. the final resolve xxvi. in lucerne xxvii. his own children xxviii. an emigration scheme xxix. farewell xxx. quite alone xxxi. last words cobwebs and cables part i. chapter i. absconded. late as it was, though the handsome office-clock on the chimney-piece had already struck eleven, roland sefton did not move. he had not stirred hand or foot for a long while now; no more than if he had been bound fast by many strong cords, which no effort could break or untie. his confidential clerk had left him two hours ago, and the undisturbed stillness of night had surrounded him ever since he had listened to his retreating footsteps. "poor acton!" he had said half aloud, and with a heavy sigh. as he sat there, his clasped hands resting on his desk and his face hidden on them, all his life seemed to unfold itself before him; not in painful memories of the past only, but in terrified prevision of the black future. how dear his native town was to him! he had always loved it from his very babyhood. the wide old streets, with ancient houses still standing here and there, rising or falling in gentle slopes, and called by quaint old names such as he never heard elsewhere; the fine old churches crowning the hills, and lifting up delicate tall spires, visible a score of miles away; the grammar school where he had spent the happiest days of his boyhood; the rapid river, brown and swirling, which swept past the town, and came back again as if it could not leave it; the ancient bridges spanning it, and the sharp-cornered recesses on them where he had spent many an idle hour, watching the boats row in and out under the arches; he saw every familiar nook and corner of his native town vividly and suddenly, as if he caught glimpses of them by the capricious play of lightning. and this pleasant home of his; these walls which inclosed his birth-place, and the birth-place of his children! he could not imagine himself finding true rest and a peaceful shelter elsewhere. the spacious old rooms, with brown wainscoted walls and carved ceilings; the tall and narrow windows, with deep window-sills, where as a child he had so often knelt, gazing out on the wide green landscape and the far distant, almost level line of the horizon. his boy, felix, had knelt in one of them a few hours ago, looking out with grave childish eyes on the sunset. the broad, shallow steps of the oaken staircase, trodden so many years by the feet of all who were dearest to him; the quiet chambers above where his mother, his wife, and his children were at this moment sleeping peacefully. how unutterably and painfully sweet all his home was to him! very prosperous his life had been; hardly overshadowed by a single cloud. his father, who had been the third partner in the oldest bank in riversborough, had lived until he was old enough to step into his place. the bank had been established in the last century, and was looked upon as being as safe as the bank of england. the second partner was dead; and the eldest, mr. clifford, had left everything in his hands for the last five years. no man in riversborough had led a more prosperous life than he had. his wife was from one of the county families; without fortune, indeed, but with all the advantages of high connections, which lifted him above the rank of mere business men, and admitted him into society hitherto closed even to the head partner in the old bank; in spite even of the fact that he still occupied the fine old house adjoining the bank premises. there was scarcely a townsman who was held to be his equal; not one who was considered his superior. though he was little over thirty yet, he was at the head of all municipal affairs. he had already held the office of mayor for one year, and might have been re-elected, if his wife had not somewhat scorned the homely bourgeois dignity. there was no more popular man in the whole town than he was. but he had been building on the sands, and the storm was rising. he could hear the moan of the winds growing louder, and the rush of the on-coming floods drawing nearer. he must make good his escape now, or never. if he put off flight till to-morrow, he would be crushed with the falling of his house. he lifted himself up heavily, and looked round the room. it was his private office, at the back of the bank, handsomely furnished as a bank parlor should be. over the fire-place hung the portrait of old clifford, the senior partner, faithfully painted by a local artist, who had not attempted to soften the hard, stern face, and the fixed stare of the cold blue eyes, which seemed fastened pitilessly upon him. he had never seen the likeness before as he saw it now. would such a man overlook a fault, or have any mercy for an offender? never! he turned away from it, feeling cold and sick at heart; and with a heavy, and very bitter sigh he locked the door upon the room where he had spent so large a portion of his life. the place which had known him would know him no more. as noiselessly and warily as if he was a thief breaking into the quiet house, he stole up the dimly-lighted staircase, and paused for a minute or two before a door, listening intently. then he crept in. a low shaded lamp was burning, giving light enough to guide him to the cot where felix was sleeping. it would be his birthday to-morrow, and the child must not lose his birthday gift, though the relentless floods were rushing on toward him also. close by was the cot where his baby daughter, hilda, was at rest. he stood between them, and could lay a hand on each. how soundly the children slept while his heart was breaking! dear as they had been to him, he had never realized till now how priceless beyond all words such little tender creatures could be. he had called them into existence; and now the greatest good that could befall them was his death. it was unutterable agony to him. his gift was a bible, the boy's own choice; and he laid it on the pillow where felix would find it as soon as his eyes opened. he bent over him, and kissed him with trembling lips. hilda stirred a little when his lips touched her soft, rosy face, and she half opened her eyes, whispering "father," and then fell asleep again smiling. he dared not linger another moment, but passing stealthily away, he paused listening at another door, his face white with anguish. "i dare not see felicita," he murmured to himself, "but i must look on my mother's face once again." the door made no sound as he opened it, and his feet fell noiselessly on the thick carpet; but as he drew near his mother's bed, her eyes opened with a clear steady gaze as if she had been awaiting his coming. there was a light burning here as well as in the night-nursery adjoining, for it was his mother who had charge of the children, and who would be the first the nurse would call if anything was the matter. she awoke as one who expects to be called upon at any hour; but the light was too dim to betray the misery on her son's face. "roland!" she said, in a slightly foreign accent. "were you calling, mother?" he asked. "i was passing by, and i came in here to see if you wanted anything." "i did not call, my son," she answered, "but what have you the matter? is felicita ill? or the babies? your voice is sad, roland." "no, no," he said, forcing himself to speak in a cheerful voice, "felicita is asleep, i hope, and the babies are all right. but i have been late at bank-work; and i turned in just to have a look at you, mother, before i go to bed." "that's my good son," she said, smiling, and taking his hand between her own in a fond clasp. "am i a good son?" he asked. his mother's face was a fair, sweet face still, the soft brown hair scarcely touched with white, and with clear, dark gray eyes gazing up frankly into his own. they were eyes like these, with their truthful light shining through them, inherited from her, which in himself had won the unquestioning trust and confidence of those who were brought into contact with him. there was no warning signal of disloyalty in his face to set others on their guard. his mother looked up at him tenderly. "always a good son, the best of sons, roland," she replied, "and a good husband, and a good father. only one little fault in my good son: too spendthrift, too lavish. you are not a fine, rich lord, with large lands, and much, very much money, my boy. i do my best in the house; but women can only save pennies, while men fling about pounds." "but you love me with all my faults, mother?" he said. "as my own soul," she answered. there was a profound solemnity in her voice and look, which penetrated to his very heart. she was not speaking lightly. it was in the same spirit with which. paul wrote, after saying, "for i am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature shall be able to separate us from the love of god, which is in christ jesus our lord;" "i could wish that myself were separate from christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh." his mother had reached that sublime height of love for him. he stood silent, looking down on her with dull, aching eyes, as he said to himself it was perhaps for the last time. it was the last time she would ever see him as her good son. with her, in her heart and memory, all his life dwelt; she knew the whole of it, with no break or interruption. only this one hidden thread, which had been woven into the web in secret, and which was about to stand out with such clear and open disclosure; of this she had no faint suspicion. for a minute or two he felt as if he must tell her of it; that he must roll off this horrible weight from himself, and crush her faithful heart with it. but what could his mother do? her love could not stay the storm; she had no power to bid the winds and waves be still. it would be best for all of them if he could make his escape secretly, and be altogether lost in impenetrable darkness. at that moment a clock in the hall below struck one. "well," he said wearily, "if i'm to get any sleep to-night i must be off to bed. good-by, mother." "good-by?" she repeated with a smile. "good-night, of course," he replied, bending over her and kissing her tenderly. "god bless you, my son," she said, putting both her hands upon his head, and pressing his face close to her own. he could not break away from her fond embrace; but in a few moments she let him go, bidding him get some rest before the night was passed. once more he stood in the dimly-lighted passage, listening at his wife's door, with his fingers involuntarily clasping the handle. but he dared not go in. if he looked upon felicita again he could not leave her, even to escape from ruin and disgrace. an agony of love and of terror took possession of him. never to see her again was horrible; but to see her shrink from him as a base and dishonest man, his name an infamy to her, would be worse than death. did she love him enough to forgive a sin committed chiefly for her sake? in the depths of his own soul the answer was no. he stole down stairs again, and passed out by a side door into the streets. it was raining heavily, and the wind was moaning through the deserted thoroughfares, where no sound of footsteps could be heard. behind him lay his pleasant home, never so precious as at this moment. he looked up at the windows, the two faintly lit up, and that other darkened window of the chamber he had not dared to enter. in a few hours those women, so unutterably dear to him, would be overwhelmed by the great sorrow he had prepared for them; those children would become the inheritors of his sin. he looked back longingly and despairingly, as if there only was life for him; and then hurrying on swiftly he lost sight of the old home, and felt as a drowning wretch at sea feels when the heaving billows hide from him the glimmering light of the beacon, which, however, can offer no harbor of refuge to him. chapter ii. phebe marlowe. though the night had been stormy, the sun rose brightly on the rain-washed streets, and the roofs and walls stood out with a peculiar clearness, and with a more vivid color than usual, against the deep blue of the sky. it was may-day, and most hearts were stirred with a pleasant feeling as of a holiday; not altogether a common day, though the shops were all open, and business was going on as usual. the old be-thought themselves of the days when they had gone a-maying; and the young felt less disposed to work, and were inclined to wander out in search of may-flowers in the green meadows, or along the sunny banks of the river, which surrounded the town. early, very early considering the ten miles she had ridden on her rough hill-pony, came a young country girl across one of the ancient bridges, with a large market-basket on her arm, brimful of golden may-flowers, set off well by their own glossy leaves, and by the dark blue of her dress. she checked her pony and lingered for a few minutes, looking over the parapet at the swift rushing of the current through the narrow arches. a thin line of alders grew along the margin of the river, with their pale green leaves half unfolded; and in the midst of the swirling waters, parting them into two streams, lay a narrow islet on which tall willow wands were springing, with soft, white buds on every rod, and glistening in the sunshine. not far away a lofty avenue of lime-trees stretched along the banks, casting wavering shadows on the brown river; while beyond it, on the summit of one of the hills on which the town was built, there rose the spires of two churches built close together, with the gilded crosses on their tapering points glittering more brightly than anything else in the joyous light. for a little while the girl gazed dreamily at the landscape, her color coming and going quickly, and then with a deep-drawn sigh of delight she roused herself and her pony, and passed on into the town. the church clocks struck nine as she turned into whitefriars road, the street where the old bank of riversborough stood. the houses on each side of the broad and quiet street were handsome, old-fashioned dwelling-places, not one of which had as yet been turned into a shop. the most eminent lawyers and doctors lived in it; and there was more than one frontage which displayed a hatchment, left to grow faded and discolored long after the year of mourning was ended. here too was the judge's residence, set apart for his occupation during the assizes. but the old bank was the most handsome and most ancient of all those urban mansions. it had originally stood alone on the brow of the hill overlooking the river and the whitefriars abbey. toward the street, when ronald sefton's forefathers had realized a fortune by banking, now a hundred years ago, there had been a new frontage built to it, with the massive red brick workmanship and tall narrow windows of the eighteenth century. but on the river side it was still an old elizabethan mansion, with gabled roofs standing boldly up against the sky; and low broad casements, latticed and filled with lozenge-shaped panes; and half-timber walls, with black beams fashioned into many forms: and with one story jutting out beyond that below, until the attic window under the gable seemed to hang in mid-air, without visible support, over the garden sloping down a steep bank to the river-side. phebe marlowe, in her coarse dark blue merino dress, and with her market-basket of golden blossoms on her arm, walked with a quick step along the quiet street, having left her pony at a stable near the entrance to the town. there were few persons about; but those whom she met she looked at with a pleasant, shy, slight smile on her face, as if she almost claimed acquaintance with them, and was ready, even wishful, to bid them good-morning on a day so fine and bright. two or three responded to this inarticulate greeting, and then her lips parted gladly, and her voice, clear though low, answered them with a sweet good-humor that had something at once peculiar and pathetic in it. she passed under a broad archway at one side of the bank offices, leading to the house entrance, and to the sloping garden beyond. a private door into the bank was ajar, and a dark, sombre face was peering out of it into the semi-darkness. phebe's feet paused for an instant. "good-morning, mr. acton," she said, with a little rustic courtesy. but he drew back quickly, and she heard him draw the bolt inside the door, as if he had neither seen nor heard her. yet the face, with its eager and scared expression, had been too quickly seen by her, and too vividly impressed upon her keen perception; and she went on, chilled a little, as if some cloud had come over the clear brightness of the morning. phebe was so much at home in the house, that when she found the housemaid on her knees cleaning the hall floor, she passed on unceremoniously to the dining-room, where she felt sure of finding some of the family. it was a spacious room, with a low ceiling where black beams crossed and recrossed each other; with wainscoted walls, and a carved chimney-piece of almost black oak. a sombre place in gloomy weather, yet so decorated with old china vases, and great brass salvers, and silver cups and tankards catching every ray of light, that the whole room glistened in this bright may-day. in the broad cushioned seat formed by the sill of the oriel window, which was almost as large as a room itself, there sat the elder mrs. sefton, roland sefton's foreign mother, with his two children standing before her. they had their hands clasped behind them, and their faces were turned toward her with the grave earnestness children's faces often wear. she was giving them their daily bible lesson, and she held up her small brown hand as a signal to phebe to keep silence, and to wait a moment until the lesson was ended. "and so," she said, "those who know the will of god, and do not keep it, will be beaten with many stripes. remember that, my little felix." "i shall always try to do it," answered the boy solemnly. "i'm nine years old to-day; and when i'm a man i'm going to be a pastor, like your father, grandmamma; my great-grandfather, you know, in the jura. tell us how he used to go about the snow mountains seeing his poor people, and how he met with wolves sometimes, and was never frightened." "ah! my little children," she answered, "you have had a good father, and a good grandfather, and a good great-grandfather. how very good you ought to be." "we will," cried both the children, clinging round her as she rose from her chair, until they caught sight of phebe standing in the doorway. then with cries of delight they flew to her, and threw themselves upon her with almost rough caresses, as if they knew she could well bear it. she received them with merry laughter, and knelt down that their arms might be thrown more easily round her neck. "see," she said, "i was up so early, while you were all in bed, finding may-roses for you, with the may-dew on them. and if your father and mother will let us go, i'll take you up the river to the osier island; or you shall ride my ruby, and we'll go off a long, long way into the country, us three, and have dinner in a new place, where you have never been. because it's felix's birthday." she was still kneeling on the floor, with the children about her, when the door opened, and the same troubled and haggard face, which had peered out upon her under the archway, looked into the room with restless and bloodshot eyes. phebe felt a sudden chill again, and rising to her feet put the children behind her, as if she feared some danger for them. "where is mr. sefton?" he asked in a deep, hoarse voice; "is he at home, madame?" ever since the elder mr. sefton had brought his young foreign wife home, now more than thirty years ago, the people of riversborough had called her madame, giving to her no other title or surname. it had always seemed to set her apart, and at a distance, as a foreigner, and so quiet had she been, so homely and domesticated, that she had remained a stranger, keeping her old habits of life and thought, and often yearning for the old pastor's home among the jura mountains. "but yes," she answered, "my son is late this morning; but all the world is early, i think. it is not much beyond nine o'clock, mr. acton. the bank is not open yet." "no, no," he answered hurriedly, while his eyes wandered restlessly about the room; "he is not ill, madame?" "i hope so not," she replied, with some vague uneasiness stirring in her heart. "nor dead?" he muttered. "dead!" exclaimed both madame and phebe in one breath; "dead!" "all men die," he went on, "and it is a pleasant thing to lie down quietly in one's own grave, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. he could rest soundly in the grave." "i will go and see," cried madame, catching phebe by the arm. "pray god you may find him dead," he answered, with a low, miserable laugh, ending in a sob. he was mad; neither madame nor phebe had a doubt of it. they put the children before them, and bade them run away to the nursery, while they followed up the broad old staircase. madame went into her son's bedroom; but in a few seconds she returned to phebe with an anxious face. "he is not there," she said, "nor felicita. she is in her own sitting-room, where she likes not to be followed. it is her sacred place, and i go there never, phebe." "but she knows where mr. sefton is," answered phebe, "and we must ask her. we cannot leave poor mr. acton alone. if nobody else dare disturb her, i will." "she will not be vexed with you," said madame sefton. "knock at this door, phebe; knock till she answers. i am miserable about my son." several times phebe knocked, more loudly each time, until at last a low voice, sounding far away, bade them go in. very quietly, as if indeed they were stepping into some holy place barefooted, they crossed the threshold. chapter iii. felicita. the room was a small one, with a dim, many-colored light pervading it; for the upper part of the mullioned casement was filled with painted glass, and even the panes of the lower part were of faintly tinted green. like all the rest of the old house, the walls were wainscoted, but here there was no piece of china or silver to sparkle; the only glitter was that of the gilding on the handsomely bound books arranged in two bookcases. in this green gloom sat felicita sefton, leaning back in her chair, with her head resting languidly on the cushions, and her dark eyes turned dimly and dreamily toward the quietly opening door. "phebe marlowe!" she said, her eyes brightening a little, as the fresh, sweet face of the young country girl met her gaze. phebe stepped softly forward into the dim room, and laid the finest of the golden flowers she had gathered that morning upon felicita's lap. it brought a gleam of spring sunshine into the gloom which caught felicita's eye, and she uttered a low cry of delight as she took it up in her small, delicate hand. phebe stooped down shyly and kissed the small hand, her face all aglow with smiles and blushes. "felicita," said madame, her voice altering a little, "where is my son this morning?" "roland!" she repeated absently; "roland? didn't he say last night he was going to london?" "to london!" exclaimed his mother. "yes," she answered, "he bade me good-by last night; i remember now. he said he would not disturb me again; he was going by the mail-train. he was sorry to be away on poor little felix's birthday. i recollect quite distinctly now." "he said not one word to me," said madame. "it is strange." "very strange," asserted felicita languidly, as if she were wandering away again into the reverie they had broken in upon. "did he say when he would be back?" asked his mother. "in a few days, of course," she answered. "but he has not told acton," resumed madame. "who did you say?" inquired felicita. "the head clerk, the manager when roland is away," she said. "he has not said anything to him." "very strange," said felicita again. it was plainly irksome to her to be disturbed by questions like these, and she was withdrawing herself into the remote and unapproachable distance where no one could follow her. her finely-chiselled features and colorless skin gave her a singular resemblance to marble; and they might almost as well have addressed themselves to a marble image. "come," said madame, "we must see acton again." they found him in the bank parlor, where roland was usually to be met with at this hour. there was an unspoken hope in their hearts that he would be there, and so deliver them from the undefined trouble and terror they were suffering. but only acton was there, seated at roland's desk, and turning over the papers in it with a rapid and reckless hand. his face was hidden behind the great flap of the desk, and though he glanced over it for an instant as the door opened he concealed himself again, as if feigning unconsciousness of any one's presence. "my son is gone to london," said madame, keeping at a safe distance from him, with the door open behind her and phebe to secure a speedy retreat. the flap of the desk fell with a loud crash, and acton flung his arms above his head with a gesture of despair. "i knew it," he exclaimed. "oh, my dear young master! god grant he may get away safe. all is lost!" "what do you mean?" cried madame, forgetting one terror in another, and catching him by the arm; "what is lost?" "he is gone!" he answered, "and it was more my fault than his--mine and mrs. sefton's. whatever wrong he has done it was for her. remember that, madame, and you, phebe marlowe. if anything happens, remember it's my fault more than his, and mrs. sefton's fault more than mine." "tell me what you mean," urged madame breathlessly. "you'll know when mr. sefton returns, madame," he answered, with a sudden return to his usually calm tone and manner, which was as startling as his former vehemence had been; "he'll explain all when he comes home. we must open the bank now; it is striking ten." he locked the desk and passed out of the comfortably-furnished parlor into the office beyond, leaving them nothing to do but to return into the house with their curiosity unsatisfied, and the mother's vague trouble unsoothed. "phebe, phebe!" cried felix, as they slowly re-entered the pleasant home, "my mother says we may go up the river to the osier island; and, oh, phebe, she will go with us her own self!" he had run down the broad staircase to meet them, almost breathless with delight, and with eyes shining with almost serious rapture. he clasped phebe's arm, and, leaning toward her, whispered into her ear, "she took me in her arms, and said, 'i love you, felix,' and then she kissed me as if she meant it, phebe. it was better than all my birthday presents put together. my father said to me one day he adored her; and i adore her. she is my mother, you know--the mother of me, felix; and i lie down on the floor and kiss her feet every day, only she does not know it. when she looks at me her eyes seem to go through me; but, oh, she does not look at me often." "she is so different; not like most people," answered phebe, with her arms round the boy. madame had gone on sadly enough up-stairs to see if she could find out anything about her son; and phebe and felix had turned into the terraced garden where the boat-house was built close under the bank of the river. "i should be sorry for my mother to be like other people," said felix proudly. "she is like the evening star, my father says, and i always look out at night to see if it is shining. you know, phebe, when we row her up the river, my father and me, we keep quite quiet, only nodding at one another which way to pull, and she sits silent with eyes that shine like stars. we would not speak for anything, not one little word, lest we should disturb her. my father says she is a great genius; not at all like other people, and worth thousands and thousands of common women. but i don't think you are a common woman, phebe," he added, lifting up his eager face to hers, as if afraid of hurting her feelings, "and my father does not think so, i know." "your father has known me all my life, and has always been my best friend," said phebe, with a pleasant smile. "but i am a working-woman, felix, and your mother is a lady and a great genius. it is god who has ordered it so." she would have laughed if she had been less simple-hearted than she was, at the anxious care with which the boy arranged the boat for his mother. no cushions were soft enough and no shawls warm enough for the precious guest. when at length all was ready, and he fetched her himself from the house, it was not until she was comfortably seated in the low seat, with a well-padded sloping back, against which she could recline at ease, and with a soft, warm shawl wrapped round her--not till then did the slight cloud of care pass away from his face, and the little pucker of anxiety which knitted his brows grow smooth. the little girl of five, hilda, nestled down by her mother, and felix took his post at the helm. in unbroken silence they pushed off into the middle of the stream, the boat rowed easily by phebe's strong young arms. so silent were they all that they could hear the rustling of the young leaves on the trees, under whose shadows they passed, and the joyous singing of the larks in the meadows on each side of the sunny reaches of water, down which they floated. it was not until they landed the children on the osier island, and bade them run about to play, and not then until they were some distance away, that their merry young voices were heard. "phebe," said felicita, in her low-toned, softly-modulated voice, always languid and deliberate, "talk to me. tell me how you spend your life." phebe was sitting face to face with her, balancing the boat with the oars against the swift flowing of the river, with smiles coming and going on her face as rapidly as the shadows and the sunshine chasing each other over the fields this may morning. "you know," she answered simply, "we live a mile away from the nearest house, and that is only a cottage where an old farm laborer lives with his wife. it's very lonesome up there on the hills. days and days go by, and i never hear a voice speaking, and i feel as if i could not bear the sound of my own voice when i call the cattle home, or the fowls to come for their corn. if it wasn't for the living things around me, that know me as well as they know one another, and love me more, i should feel sometimes as if i was dead. and i long so to hear somebody speak--to be near more of my fellow-creatures. why, when i touch the hand of any one i love--yours, or mr. sefton's, or madame's--it's almost a pain to me; it seems to bring me so close to you. i always feel as if i became a part of father when i touch him. oh, you do not know what it is to be alone!" "no," said felicita, sighing; "never have i been alone, and i would give worlds to be as free as you are. you cannot imagine what it is," she went on, speaking rapidly and with intense eagerness, "never to belong to yourself, or to be alone; for it is not being alone to have only four thin walls separating you from a husband and children and a large busy household. 'what are you thinking, my darling?' roland is always asking me; and the children break in upon me. body, soul, and spirit, i am held down a captive; i have been in bondage all my life. i have never even thought as i should think if i could be free." "but i cannot understand that," cried phebe. "i could never be too near those i love. i should like to live in a large house, with many people all smiling and talking around me. and everybody worships you." she uttered the last words shyly, partly afraid of bringing a frown on the lovely face opposite to her, which was quickly losing its vivid expression and sinking back into statuesque coldness. "it is simply weariness to me and vexation of spirit," she answered. "if i could be quite alone, as you are, with only a father like yours, i think i could get free; but i have never been left alone from my babyhood; just as felix and hilda are never left alone. oh, phebe, you do not know how happy you are." "no," she said cheerfully, "sometimes when i stand at our garden-gate, and look round me for miles and miles away, and the sweet air blows past me, and the bees are humming, and the birds calling to one another, and everything is so peaceful, with father happy over his work not far off, i think i don't know how happy i am. i try to catch hold of the feeling and keep it, but it slips away somehow. only i thank god i am happy." "i was never happy enough to thank god," felicita murmured, lying back in her seat and shutting her eyes. presently the children returned, and, after another silent row, slower and more toilsome, as it was up the river, they drew near home again, and saw madame's anxious face watching for them over the low garden wall. her heart had been too heavy for her to join them in their pleasure-taking, and it was no lighter now. chapter iv. upfold farm. phebe rode slowly homeward in the dusk of the evening, her brain too busy with the varied events of the day for her to be in any haste to reach the end. for the last four miles her road lay in long by-lanes, shady with high hedgerows and trees which grew less frequent and more stunted as she rose gradually higher up the long spurs of the hills, whose rounded outlines showed dark against the clear orange tint of the western sky. she could hear the brown cattle chewing the cud, and the bleating of some solitary sheep on the open moor, calling to the flock from which it had strayed during the daytime, with the angry yelping of a dog in answer to its cry from some distant farm-yard. the air was fresh and chilly with dew, and the low wind, which only lifted the branches of the trees a little in the lower land she had left, was growing keener, and would blow sharply enough across the unsheltered table-land she was reaching. but still she loitered, letting her rough pony snatch tufts of fresh grass from the banks, and shamble leisurely along as he strayed from one side of the road to another. phebe was not so much thinking as pondering in a confused and unconnected manner over all the circumstances of the day, when suddenly the tall figure of a man rose from under the black hedgerow, and laid his arm across the pony's neck, with his face turned up to her. her heart throbbed quickly, but not altogether with terror. "mr. roland!" she cried. "you know me in the dark then," he answered. "i have been watching for you all day, phebe. you come from home?" she knew he meant his home, not hers. "yes, it was felix's birthday, and we have been down the river," she said. "is anything known yet?" he asked. though it was so solitary a spot that phebe had passed no one for the last three miles, and he had been haunting the hills all day without seeing a soul, yet he spoke in a whisper, as if fearful of betraying himself. "only that you are away," she replied; "and they think you are in london." "is not mr. clifford come?" he asked. "no, sir, he comes to-morrow," she answered. "thank god!" he exclaimed, in a louder tone. when he spoke again he did so without looking into her face, which indeed was scarcely visible in the deepening dusk. "phebe," he said, "we have known each other for many years." "all my life, sir," she responded eagerly; "father and me, we are proud of knowing you." before speaking again he led her pony up the steep lane to a gate which opened on the moorland. it was not so dark here, from under the hedgerows and trees, and a little pool beside the gate caught the last lingering light in the west, and reflected it like a dim and dusty mirror. they could see one another's faces; his was working with strong excitement, and hers, earnest and friendly, looked frankly down upon him. he clasped her hand with the strong, desperate grip of a sinking man, and her fingers responded with a warm clasp. "can i trust you, phebe?" he cried. "i have no other chance." "i will help you, even to dying for you and yours," she answered. the girlish fervor of her manner struck him mournfully. why should he burden her with his crime? what right had he to demand any sacrifice from her? yet he felt she spoke the truth. phebe marlowe would rejoice in helping, even unto death, not only him, but any other fellow-creature who was sinking under sorrow or sin. "come on home," she said, "it is bitterly cold here; and you can tell me what to do." he placed himself at the pony's head again, and trudged on speechlessly along the rough road, which was now nothing more than the tracks made by cart-wheels across the moor, with deep ruts over which he stumbled like a man who is worn out with fatigue. in a quarter of an hour the low cottage was reached, surrounded by a little belt of fields and a few storm-beaten fir-trees. there was a dull glow of red to be seen through the lattice window, telling phebe of a smouldering fire, made up for her by her father before going back to his workshop at the end of the field behind the house. she stirred up the wood-ashes and threw upon them some dry, light fagots of gorse, and in a few seconds a dazzling light filled the little room from end to end. it was a familiar place to roland sefton, and he took no notice of it. but it was a curious interior. every niche of the walls was covered with carved oak; no wainscoted hall in the country could be more richly or more fancifully decorated. the chimney-piece over the open hearth-stone, a wide chimney-piece, was deeply carved with curious devices. the doors and window-frames, the cupboards and the shelves for the crockery, were all of dark oak, fashioned into leaves and ferns, with birds on their nests, and timid rabbits, and still more timid wood-mice peeping out of their coverts, cocks crowing with uplifted crest, and chickens nestling under the hen-mother's wings, sheaves of corn, and tall, club-headed bulrushes--all the objects familiar to a country life. the dancing light played upon them, and shone also upon roland sefton's sad and weary face. phebe drew her father's carved arm-chair close to the fire. "sit down," she said, "and let me get you something to eat." "yes," he answered, sinking down wearily in the chair, "i am nearly dying of hunger. good heavens! is it possible i can be hungry?" he spoke with an indescribable expression of mingled astonishment and dread. suddenly there broke upon him the possibility of suffering want in many forms in the future, and yet he felt ashamed of foreseeing them in this, the first day of his great calamity. until this moment he had been too absorbed in dwelling upon the moral and social consequences of his crime, to realize how utterly worn out he was; but all his physical strength appeared to collapse in an instant. and now for the first time phebe beheld the change in him, and stood gazing at him in mute surprise and sorrow. he had always been careful of his personal appearance, with a refinement and daintiness which had grown especially fastidious since his marriage. but now his coat, wet through during the night, and dried only by the keen air of the hills, was creased and soiled, and his boots were thickly covered with mud and clay. his face and hands were unwashed, and his hair hung unbrushed over his forehead. phebe's whole heart was stirred at this pitiful change, and she laid her hand on his shoulder with a timid but affectionate touch. "mr. roland," she said, "go up-stairs and put yourself to rights a little; and give me your clothes and your boots to brush. you'll feel better when you are more like yourself." he smiled faintly as he looked up at her quivering lips and eyes full of unshed tears. but her homely advice was good, and he was glad to follow it. her little room above was lined with richly carved oak panels like the kitchen below, and a bookcase contained her books, many of which he had himself given to her. there was an easel standing under the highest part of the shelving roof, where a sky-light was let into the thatch, and a half-finished painting rested on it. but he did not give a glance toward it. there was very little interest to him just now in phebe's pursuits, though she owed most of them to him. by the time he was ready to go down, supper was waiting for him on the warm and bright hearth, and he fell upon it almost ravenously. it was twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. phebe sat almost out of sight in the shadow of a large settle, with her knitting in her hand, and her eyes only seeking his face when any movement seemed to indicate that she could serve him in some way. but in these brief glances she noticed the color coming back to his face, and new vigor and resolution changing his whole aspect. "and now," he said, when his hunger was satisfied, "i can talk to you, phebe." chapter v. a confession. but roland sefton sat silent, with his shapely hands resting on his knees, and his handsome face turned toward the hearth, where the logs had burned down and emitted only a low and fitful flame. the little room was scarcely lighted by it, and looked all the darker for the blackness of the small uncurtained window, through which the ebony face of night was peering in. this bare, uncovered casement troubled him, and from time to time he turned his eyes uneasily toward it. but what need could there be of a curtain, when they were a mile away from any habitation, and where no road crossed the moor, except the rugged green pathway, worn into deep ruts by old marlowe's own wagon? yet as if touched by some vague sympathy with him, phebe rose, and pinned one of her large rough working-aprons across it. "phebe," he said, as she stepped softly back to her seat, "you and i have been friends a long time; and your father and i have been friends all my life. do you recollect me staying here a whole week when i was a school-boy?" "yes," she answered, her eyes glistening in the dusky light; "but for you i should have known nothing, only what work had to be done for father. you taught me my alphabet that week, and the hymns i have said every night since then before i go to sleep. you helped me to teach myself painting; and if i ever paint a picture worth looking at it will be your doing." "no, no; you are a born artist, phebe marlowe," he said, "though perhaps the world may never know it. but being such friends as you say, i will trust you. do you think me worthy of trust, true and honest as a man should be, phebe?" "as true and honest as the day," she cried, with eager emphasis. "and a christian?" he added, in a lower voice. "yes," she answered, "i do not know a christian if you are not one." "that is the sting of it," he groaned; "true, and honest, and a christian! and yet, phebe, if i were taken by the police to-night, or if i be taken by them to-morrow, i shall be lodged in riversborough jail, and tried before a jury of my towns-people at the assizes next month." "no, it is impossible!" she cried, stretching out her brown, hard-working hand, and laying it on his white and shapely one, which had never known toil. "you would not send me to jail," he said, "i know that well enough. but i deserve it, my poor girl. they would find me guilty and sentence me to a convict prison. i saw dartmoor prison on my wedding journey with felicita, heaven help me! she liked the wild, solitary moor, with its great tors and its desolate stillness, and one day we went near to the prison. those grim walls seemed to take possession of me; i felt oppressed and crushed by them. i could not forget them for days after, even with felicita by my side." his voice trembled as he spoke, and a quiver ran through his whole frame, which seemed to thrill through phebe's; but she only pressed her pitiful hand more closely on his. "i might have escaped last night," he went on, "but i stumbled over a poor girl in the street, dying. a young girl, no older than you, without a penny or a friend; a sinner too like myself; and i could not leave her there alone. only in finding help for her i lost my chance. the train to london was gone, and there was no other till ten this morning. i expected mr. clifford to be at the bank to-day; if i had only known he would not be there i could have got away then. but i came here, why i hardly know. you could not hide me for long if you would; but there was no one else to help me." "but what have you done, sir?" she asked, with a tremulous, long-drawn sigh. "done?" he repeated; "ay! there's the question. i wonder if i can be honest and true now with only phebe marlowe listening. i could have told my mother, perhaps, if it had been of any use; but i would die rather than tell felicita. done, phebe! i've appropriated securities trusted to my keeping, pledging some and selling others for my own use. i've stolen £ , ." "and you could be sent to prison for it?" she said, in a low voice, glancing uneasily round as if she fancied she would be overheard. "for i don't know how many years," he answered. "it would kill mrs. sefton," she said. "oh! how could you do it?" "it was for felicita i did it," he replied absently; "for my felicita only." for a few minutes phebe's brain was busy, but not yet with the most sorrowful thoughts. there could be no shadow of doubt in her mind that this dearest friend of hers, sitting beside her in the twilight, was guilty of the crime he had confessed. but she could not as yet dwell upon the crime. he was in imminent peril; and his peril threatened the welfare of nearly all whom she loved. ruin and infamy for him meant ruin and infamy for them all. she must save him if possible. "phebe," he said, breaking the dreary silence, "i ought to tell you one thing more. the money your father left with me--the savings of his life--six hundred pounds--it is all gone. he intrusted it to me, and made his will, appointing me your guardian; such confidence he had in me. i have made both him and you penniless." "i think nothing of that," she answered. "what should i ever have been but for you? a dull, ignorant country girl, living a life little higher than my sheep and cattle. we are rich enough, my father and me. this cottage, and the fields about it, are our own. but i must go and tell father." "must he be told?" asked roland sefton anxiously. "we've no secrets," she replied; "and there's no fear of him, you know. he would see if i was in trouble; and i shall be in trouble," she added, in a sorrowful voice. she opened the cottage door, and going out left him alone. it was a familiar place to him; but hitherto it had been only the haunt of happy holidays, from the time when he had been a school-boy until his last autumn's shooting of grouse and woodcock on the wide moors. old marlowe had been one of his earliest friends, and phebe had been something like a humble younger sister to him. if any one in the world could be depended upon to help him, outside his own family, it must be old marlowe and his daughter. and yet, when she left him, his first impulse was to rise and flee while yet there was time--before old marlowe knew his secret. phebe was a girl, living as girls do, in a region of sentiment and feeling, hardly understanding a crime against property. a girl like her had no idea of what his responsibility and his guilt were, money ranking so low in her estimate of life. but old marlowe would look at it quite differently. his own careful earnings, scraped together by untiring industry and ceaseless self-denial, were lost--stolen by the man he had trusted implicitly. for roland sefton did not spare himself any reproaches; he did not attempt to hide or palliate his sin. there were other securities for small sums, like old marlowe's, gone like his, and ruin would overtake half a dozen poor families, though the bulk of the loss would fall upon his senior partner, who was a hard man, of unbending sternness and integrity. if old marlowe proved a man of the same inflexible stamp, he was lost. but he sat still, waiting and listening. round that lonely cottage, as he well knew, the wind swept from whatever quarter it was blowing; sighing softly, or wailing, moaning, or roaring past it, as ceaselessly as the sound of waves against a fisherman's hut on the sea-coast. it was crying and sobbing now, rising at intervals into a shriek, as if to warn him of coming peril. he went to the window and met the black face of the night, hiding everything from his eye. neither moon nor star gleamed in the sky. but even if old marlowe was merciful he could not stay there, but must go out, as he had done last night from his own home, lashed like a dog from every familiar hearth by an unseen hand and a heavy scourge. phebe had not lingered, though she seemed long away. as she drew near the little workshop she saw the wagon half-laden with some church furniture her father had been carving, and with which he and she were to start at daybreak for a village about twenty miles off. she heard the light tap of his carving tools as she opened the door, and found him finishing the wings of a spread-eagle. he had pushed back the paper cap he wore from his forehead, which was deeply furrowed, and shaded by a few straggling tufts of gray hair. he took no notice of her entrance until she touched his arm with her hand; and then he looked at her with eyes, blue like her own, but growing dim with age, and full of the pitiful, uncomplaining gaze of one who is deaf and dumb. but his face brightened and his smile was cheerful, as he began to talk eagerly with his fingers, throwing in many gestures to aid his slow speech. phebe, too, smiled and gesticulated in silent answer, before she told him her errand. "the carving is finished, father," she said. "could we not start at once, and be at upchurch before five to-morrow morning?" "twenty miles; eight hours; easily," he answered; "but why?" "to help mr. sefton," she said. "he wants to get down to southampton, and upchurch is in the way. father, it must be done; you would never see a smile upon my face again if we did not do it." the keen, wistful eyes of her father were fastened alternately upon her troubled face and her moving hands, as slowly and silently she spelt out on her fingers the sad story she had just listened to. his own face changed rapidly from astonishment to dismay, and from dismay to a passionate rage. if roland sefton could have seen it he would have made good his escape. but still phebe's fingers went on pleading for him; and the smile, which she said her father would never see again--a pale, wan smile--met his eyes as he watched her. "he has been so good to you and me," she went on, with a sob in her throat; and unconsciously she spoke out the words aloud and slowly as she told them off on her fingers; "he learned to talk with you as i do, and he is the only person almost in the world who can talk to you without your slate and pencil, father. it was good of him to take that trouble. and his father was your best friend, wasn't he? how good madame used to be when i was a little girl, and you were carving all that woodwork at the old bank, and she let me stay there with you! all our happiest days have come through them. and now we can deliver them from great misery." "but my money?" he interposed. "money is nothing between friends," she said eagerly. "will you make my life miserable, father? i shall be thinking of them always, night and day; and they will never see me again if he is sent to jail through our fault. there never was a kinder man than he is; and i always thought him a good man till now." "a thief; worse than a common thief," said her father. "what will become of my little daughter when i am dead?" phebe made no answer except by tears. for a few minutes old marlowe watched her bowed head and face hidden in her hands, till a gray hue came upon his withered face, and the angry gleam died away from his eyes. hitherto her slightest wish had been a law to him, and to see her weeping was anguish to him. to have a child who could hear and speak had been a joy that had redeemed his life from wretchedness, and crowned it with an inexhaustible delight. if he never saw her smile again, what would become of him? she was hiding her face from him even now, and there was no medium of communication between them save by touch. he must call her attention to what he had to say by making her look at him. almost timidly he stretched out his withered and cramped hand to lay it upon her head. "i must do whatever you please," he said, when she lifted up her face and looked at him with tearful eyes; "if it killed me i must do it. but it is a hard thing you bid me do, phebe." he turned away to brush the last speck of dust from the eagle's wings, and lifting it up carefully carried it away to pack in his wagon, phebe holding the lantern for him till all was done. then hand in hand they walked down the foot-worn path across the field to the house, as they had done ever since she had been a tottering little child, hardly able to clasp his one finger with her baby hand. roland sefton was crouching over the dying embers on the hearth, more in the utter misery of soul than in bodily chilliness, though he felt cold and shivering, as if stripped of all that made life desirable to him. there is no icy chill like that. he did not look round when the door opened, though phebe spoke to him; for he could not face old marlowe, or force himself to read the silent yet eloquent fingers, which only could utter words of reproach. the dumb old man stood on the threshold, gazing at his averted face and downcast head, and an inarticulate cry of mingled rage and grief broke from his silent lips, such as phebe herself had never heard before, and which, years afterward, sounded at times in roland sefton's ears. it was nearly ten o'clock before they were on the road, old marlowe marching at the head of his horse, and phebe mounted on her wiry little pony, while roland sefton rode in front of the wagon at times. their progress was slow, for the oak furniture was heavy and the roads were rough, leading across the moor and down steep hills into valleys, with equally steep hills on the other side. the sky was covered with a thin mist drifting slowly before the wind, and when the moon shone through it, about two o'clock in the morning, it was the waning-moon looking sad and forlorn amid the floating vapor. the houses they passed were few and far between, showing no light or sign of life. all the land lay around them dark and desolate under the midnight sky; and the slow creaking of the wheels and sluggish hoof-beats of the horse dragging the wagon were the only sounds that broke the stillness. in this gloom old marlowe could hold no conversation either with phebe or roland sefton, but from time to time they could hear him sob aloud as he trudged on in his speechless isolation. it was a sad sound, which pierced them to the heart. from time to time roland sefton walked up the long hills beside phebe's pony, pouring out his whole heart to her. they could hardly see each other's faces in the dimness, and words came the more readily to him. all the burden of his confession was that he had fallen through seeking felicita's happiness. for her sake he had longed for more wealth, and speculated in the hope of gaining it, and tampered with the securities intrusted to him in the hope of retrieving losses. it was for her, and her only, he maintained; and now he had brought infamy and wretchedness and poverty upon her and his innocent children. "would to god i could die to-night!" he exclaimed; "my death would save them from some portion of their trouble." phebe listened to him almost as heart-broken as himself. in her singularly solitary life, so far apart from ordinary human society, she had never been brought into contact with sin, and its profound, fathomless misery; and now it was the one friend, whom she had loved the longest and the best, who was walking beside her a guilty man, fleeing through the night from all he himself cared for, to seek a refuge from the consequences of his crime in an uncertain exile. in years afterward it seemed to her as if that night had been rather a terrible dream than a reality. at length the pale dawn broke, and the utter separation caused by the darkness between them and old marlowe passed away with it. he stopped his horse and came to them, turning a gray, despairing face upon roland sefton. "it is time to leave you," he said; "over these fields lies the nearest station, where you can escape from a just punishment. you have made us beggars to keep up your own grandeur. god will see that you do not go unpunished." "hush, hush!" cried phebe aloud, stretching out her hand to roland sefton; "he will forgive you by and by. tell me: have you no message to send by me, sir? when shall we hear from you?" "if i get away safe," he answered, in a broken voice, "and if nothing is heard of me before, tell felicita i will be in the place where i saw her first, this day six months. do not tell her till the time is near. it will be best for her to know nothing of me at present." they were standing at the stile over which his road lay. the sun was not yet risen, but the gray clouds overhead were taking rosy and golden tints. here and there in the quiet farmsteads around them the cocks were beginning to crow lazily; and there were low, drowsy twitterings in the hedges, where the nests were still new little homes. it was a more peaceful hour than sunset can ever be with its memories of the day's toils and troubles. all the world seemed bathed in rest and quietness except themselves. their dark journey through the silent night had been almost a crime. "your father turns his back upon me, as all honest men will do," said roland sefton. old marlowe had gone back to his horse, and stood there without looking round. the tears ran down phebe's face; but she did not touch her father, and ask him to bid his old friend's son good-by. "some day no man will turn his back upon you, sir," she answered; "i would die now rather than do it. you will regain your good name some day." "never!" he exclaimed; "it is past recall. there is no place of repentance for me, phebe. i have staked all, and lost all." chapter vi. the old bank. about the same hour that roland sefton set off under shelter of old marlowe's wagon to attempt his escape, mr. clifford, the senior partner in the firm, reached riversborough by the last train from london. it was too late for him to intrude on the household of his young partner, and he spent the night at a hotel. the old bank at riversborough had been flourishing for the last hundred years. it had the power of issuing its own notes; and until lately these notes, bearing the familiar names of clifford and sefton, had been preferred by the country people round to those of the bank of england itself. for nobody knew who were the managers of the bank of england; while one of the seftons, either father or son, could be seen at any time for the last fifty years. on ordinary days there were but few customers to be seen in its handsome office, and a single clerk might easily have transacted all the business. but on market-days and fair-days the place was crowded by loud-voiced, red-faced country gentlemen, and by awkward and burly farmers, from the moment its doors were opened until they were closed at the last stroke of four sounding from the church clock near at hand. the strong room of the old bank was filled full with chests containing valuable securities and heirlooms, belonging to most of the county families in the neighborhood. for the last twenty years mr. clifford had left the management of the bank entirely to the elder sefton, and upon his death to his son, who was already a partner. he had lived abroad, and had not visited england for more than ten years. there was a report, somewhat more circumstantial than a rumor, but the truth of which none but the elder sefton had ever known, that mr. clifford, offended by his only son, had let him die of absolute starvation in paris. added to this rumor was a vague story of some crime committed by the younger clifford, which his father would not overlook or forgive. that he was a hard man, austere to utter pitilessness, everybody averred. no transgressor need look to him for pardon. when roland sefton had laid his hands upon the private personal securities belonging to his senior partner, it was with no idea that he would escape the most rigorous prosecution, should his proceedings ever come to the light. but it was with the fixed conviction that mr. clifford would never return to england, or certainly not to riversborough, where this hard report had been circulated and partly accepted concerning him. the very bonds he had dealt with, first borrowing money upon them, and at last selling them, had been bequeathed to him in mr. clifford's will, of which he was himself the executor. he had, as he persuaded himself, only forestalled the possession of them. but a letter he had received from mr. clifford, informing him that he was on his way home, with the purpose of thoroughly investigating the affairs of the bank, had fallen like a thunderbolt upon him, and upon acton, through whose agency he had managed to dispose of the securities without arousing any suspicion. early the next morning mr. clifford arrived at the bank, and heard to his great surprise that his partner had started for london, and had been away the day before; possibly, madame sefton suggested with some anxiety, in the hope of meeting him there. no doubt he would be back early, for it was the day of the may fair, when there was always an unusual stir of business. mr. clifford took his place in the vacant bank parlor, and waited somewhat grimly for the arrival of the head clerk, acton. there was a not unpleasant excitement among the clerks, as they whispered to each other on arrival that old clifford was come and roland sefton was still absent. but this excitement deepened into agitation and misgiving as the hour for opening the bank drew near and acton did not arrive. such a circumstance had never occurred before, for acton had made himself unpopular with those beneath him by expecting devotion equal to his own to the interests of the firm. when ten o'clock was close at hand a clerk ran round to acton's lodgings; but before he could return a breathless messenger rushed into the bank as the doors were thrown open, with the tidings that the head clerk had been found by his landlady lying dead in his bed. more quickly than if the town-crier had been sent round the streets with his bell to announce the news, it was known that roland sefton was missing and the managing clerk had committed suicide. the populace from all the country round was flocking into the town for the fair, three fourths of whom did business with the old bank. no wonder that a panic took possession of them. in an hour's time the tranquil street was thronged with a dense mass of town's-people and country-people, numbers of whom were fighting their way to the bank as if for dear life. there was not room within for the crowds who struggled to get to the counters and present their checks and bank-notes, and demand instant settlement of their accounts. in vain mr. clifford assured them there was no fear of the firm being unable to meet its liabilities. in cases like these the panic cannot be allayed by words. as long as the funds held out the checks and notes were paid over the counter; but this could not go on. mr. clifford himself was in the dark as to the state of affairs, and did not know how his credit stood. soon after midday the funds were exhausted, and with the utmost difficulty the bank was cleared and the doors closed. but the crowd did not disperse; rather it grew denser as the news spread like wildfire that the old bank had stopped! it was at the moment that the bank doors were closed that phebe turned into whitefriars road. she had taken a train from upchurch, leaving her father to return home alone with the empty wagon. it was a strange sight which met her. the usually quiet street was thronged from end to end, and the babble of many voices made all sounds indistinct. even on the outskirts of the crowd there were men, some pale and some red with anxiety, struggling with elbows and shoulders to make their way through to the bank, in the vain hope that it would not be too late. a strongly-built, robust farmer fainted quietly away beside her, like a delicate woman, when he heard that the doors were shut; and his wife and son, who were following him, bore him out of the crush as well as they could. phebe, pressing gently forward, and gliding in wherever a chance movement gave her an opportunity, at last reached the archway at the side of the house, and rapped urgently for admittance. a scared-looking man-servant, who opened the door with the chain upon it, let her in as soon as he recognized who she was. "it's a fearsome day," he said; "master's away, gone nobody knows where; and old acton's poisoned himself. nobody dare tell mrs. sefton; but madame knows. she is in the dining-room, miss marlowe." phebe found her, as she had done the day before, sitting in the oriel window; but the usually placid-looking little woman was in a state of nervous agitation. as soon as she caught sight of phebe's pitiful face she ran to her, and clasping her in her arms, burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "my son!" she cried; "what can have become of him, phebe? where can he be gone? if he would only come home, all these people would be satisfied, and go away. they don't know mr. clifford, but they know roland; he is so popular. the servants say the bank is broken; what does that mean, phebe? and poor acton! they say he is dead--he did kill himself by poison. is it not true, phebe? tell me it is not true!" but phebe could say nothing to comfort her; she knew better than any one else the whole truth of the calamity. but she held the weeping little woman in her strong young arms, and there was something consoling in her loving clasp. "and where are the children?" she asked, after a while. "i sent them to play in the garden," answered madame; "their own little plots are far away, out of sight of the dreadful street. what good is it that they should know all this trouble?" "no good at all," replied phebe. "and where is mrs. sefton?" "alas, my phebe!" she exclaimed, "who dare tell her? not me; no, no! she is shut up in her little chamber, and she forgets all the world--her children even, and roland himself. it is as if she went away into another life, far away from ours; and when she comes home again she is like one in a dream. will you dare to tell her?" "yes, i will go," she said. yet with very slow and reluctant steps phebe climbed the staircase, pausing long at the window midway, which overlooked the wide and sunny landscape in the distance, and the garden just below. she watched the children busy at their little plots of ground, utterly unconscious of the utter ruin that had befallen them. how lovely and how happy they looked! she could have cried out aloud, a bitter and lamentable cry. but as yet she must not yield to the flood of her own grief; she must keep it back until she was at home again, in her solitary home, where nobody could hear her sobs and cries. just now she must think for, and comfort, if comfort were possible, these others, who stood even nearer than she did to the sin and the sinner. gathering up all her courage, she quickened her footsteps and ran hurriedly up the remaining steps. but at the drawing-room door, which was partly open, her feet were arrested. within, standing behind the rose-colored curtains, stood the tall, slender figure of felicita, with her clear and colorless face catching a delicate flush from the tint of the hangings that concealed her from the street. she was looking down on the crowd below, with the perplexity of a foreigner gazing on some unfamiliar scene in a strange land. there was a half-smile playing about her lips; but her whole attention was so absorbed by the spectacle beneath her that she did not see or hear phebe until she was standing beside her, looking down also on the excited crowd. "phebe!" she exclaimed, "you here again? then you can tell me, are the good people of riversborough gone mad? or is it possible there is an election going on, of which i have heard nothing? nothing less than an election could rouse them to such a pitch of excitement." "have you heard nothing of what they say?" asked phebe. "there is such a babel," she answered; "of course i hear my husband's name. it would be just like him if he got himself elected member for riversborough without telling me anything about it till it was over. he loves surprises; and i--why i hate to be surprised." "but he is gone!" said phebe. "yes, he told me he was going to london," she went on; "but if it is no election scene, what is it, phebe? why are all the people gathered here in such excitement?" "shall i tell you plainly?" asked phebe, looking steadily into felicita's dark, inscrutable eyes. "tell me the simple truth," she replied, somewhat haughtily; "if any human being can tell it." "then the bank has stopped payment," answered phebe. "poor mr. acton has been found dead in bed this morning; and mr. sefton is gone away, nobody knows where. it is the may fair to-day, and all the people are coming in from the country. there's been a run on the bank till they are forced to stop payment. that is what brings the crowd here." felicita dropped the curtain which she had been holding back with her hand, and stepped back a pace or two from the window. but her face scarcely changed; she listened calmly and collectedly, as if phebe was speaking of some persons she hardly knew. "my husband will come back immediately," she said. "is not mr. clifford there?" "yes," said phebe. "are you telling me all?" asked felicita. "no," she answered; "mr. clifford says he has been robbed. securities worth nearly ten thousand pounds are missing. he must have found it out already." "who does he suspect?" she asked again imperiously; "he does not dare suspect my husband?" phebe replied only by a mute gesture. she had never had any secret to conceal before, and she did not see that she had betrayed herself by the words she had uttered. the deep gloom on her bright young face struck felicita for the first time. "do you think it was roland?" she asked. again the same dumb, hopeless gesture answered the question. phebe could not bring her lips to shape a word of accusation against him. it was agony to her to feel her idol disgraced and cast down from his high pedestal; yet she had not learned any way of concealing or misrepresenting the truth. "you know he did it?" said felicita. "yes, i know it," she whispered. for a minute or two felicita stood, with her white hands resting on phebe's shoulders, gazing into her mournful face with keen, questioning eyes. then, with a rapid flush of crimson, betraying a strong and painful heart-throb, which suffused her face for an instant and left it paler than before, she pressed her lips on the girl's sunburnt forehead. "tell nobody else," she murmured; "keep the secret for his sake and mine." before phebe could reply she turned away, and, with a steady, unfaltering step, went back to her study and locked herself in. chapter vii. an interrupted day-dream. felicita's study was so quiet a room, quite remote from the street, that it was almost a wonder the noise of the crowd had reached her. but this morning there had been a pleasant tumult of excitement in her own brain, which had prevented her from falling into an absorbed reverie, such as she usually indulged in, and rendered her peculiarly susceptible to outward influences. all her senses had been awake to-day. on her desk lay the two volumes of a new book, handsomely got up, with pages yet uncut as it had come from the publishers. a dozen times she had looked at the title-page, as if unable to convince herself of the reality, and read her own name--felicita riversdale sefton. it was the first time her name as an author had been published, though for the last three years she had from time to time written anonymously for magazines. this was her own book; thought out, written, revised, and completed in her chosen solitude and secrecy. no one knew of it; possibly roland suspected something, but he had not ventured to make any inquiries, and she had no reason to believe that he even suspected its existence. it was simply altogether her own; no other mind had any part or share in it. there was something like rapture in her delight. the book was a good book, she was sure of it. she had not succeeded in making it as perfect as her ideal, but she had not signally failed. it did in a fair degree represent her inmost thoughts and fancies. yet she could not feel quite sure that the two volumes were real, and the letter from the publisher, a friendly and pleasant letter enough, seemed necessary to vouch for them. she read and re-read it. the little room seemed too small and close for her. she opened the window to let in the white daylight, undisguised by the faint green tint of the glass, and she leaned out to breathe the fresh sweet air of the spring morning. life was very pleasurable to her to-day. there were golden gleams too upon the future. she would no longer be the unknown wife of a country banker, moving in a narrow sphere, which was altogether painful to her in its provincial philistinism. it was a sphere to which she had descended in girlish ignorance. her uncle, lord riversdale, had been willing to let his portionless niece marry this prosperous young banker, who was madly in love with her, and a little gentle pressure had been brought to bear on the girl of eighteen, who had been placed by her father's death in a position of dependence. since then a smouldering fire of ambition and of dissatisfaction with her lot had been lurking unsuspected under her cold and self-absorbed manner. but her thoughts turned with more tenderness than usual toward her husband. she had aroused in him also a restless spirit of ambition, though in him it was for her sake, not his own. he wished to restore her if possible to the position she had sacrificed for him; and felicita knew it. her heart beating faster with her success was softened toward him; and tears suffused her dark eyes for an instant as she thought of his astonishment and exultation. the children were at play in the garden below her, and their merry voices greeted her ear pleasantly. the one human being who really dwelt in her inmost heart was her boy felix, her first-born child. hilda was an unnecessary supplement to the page of her maternal love. but for felix she dreamed day-dreams of extravagant aspiration; no lot on earth seemed too high or too good for him. he was a handsome boy, the very image of her father, the late lord riversdale, and now as she gazed down on him, her eyes slightly dewed with tears, he looked up to her window. she kissed her hand to him, and the boy waved his little cap toward her with almost passionate gesticulations of delight. felix would be a great man some day; this book of hers was a stone in the foundation of his fame as well as of her own. it was upon this mood of exultation, a rare mood for felicita, that the cry and roar from the street had broken. with a half-smile at herself, the thought flashed across her mind that it was like a shout of applause and admiration, such as might greet felix some day when he had proved himself a leader of men. but it aroused her dormant curiosity, and she had condescended to be drawn by it to the window of the drawing-room overlooking whitefriars road, in order to ascertain its cause. the crowd filling the street was deeply in earnest, and the aim of those who were fighting their way through it was plainly the bank offices in the floor below her. the sole idea that occurred to her, for she was utterly ignorant of her husband's business, was that some unexpected crisis in the borough had arisen, and its people were coming to roland sefton as their leading townsman. when phebe found her she was quietly studying the crowd and its various features, that she might describe a throng from memory, whenever a need should arise for it. felicita regained her luxurious little study, and sat down before her desk, on which the new volumes lay, with more outward calm than her face and movements had manifested before she left it. the transient glow of triumph had died away from her face, and the happy tears from her eyes. she closed the casement to shut out the bright, clear sunlight, and the merry voices of her children, before she sat down to think. for a little while she had been burning incense to herself; but the treacherous fire was gone out, and the sweet, bewildering, intoxicating vapors were scattered to the winds. the recollection of her short-lived folly made her shiver as if a cold breath had passed over her. not for a moment did she doubt roland's guilt. there was such a certainty of it lying behind phebe's sorrowful eyes as she whispered "i know it," that felicita had not cared to ask how she knew it. she did not trouble herself with details. the one fact was there: her husband had absconded. a dreamy panorama of their past life flitted across her brain--his passionate love for her, which had never cooled, though it had failed to meet with a response from her; his insatiable desire to make her life more full of pomp and luxury and display than that of her cousins at riversdale; his constant thraldom to her, which had ministered only to her pride and coldness. his queen he had called her. it was all over now. his extraordinary absence was against any hope that he could clear himself. her husband had brought fatal and indelible disgrace upon his name, the name he had given to her and their children. her name! this morning, and for many days to come, it would be advertised as the author of the new book, which was to have been one of her stepping-stones to fame. she had grasped at fame, and her hand had closed upon infamy. there was no fear now that she would remain among the crowd of the unknown. as the wife of a fraudulent banker she would be only too well and too widely talked of. why had she let her own full name be published? she had yielded, though with some reluctance, to the business-like policy of her publisher, who had sought to catch the public eye by it; for her father, lord riversdale, was hardly yet forgotten as an author. a vague sentiment of loyalty to her husband had caused her to add her married name. she hated to see the two blazoned together on the title-page. sick at heart, she sat for hours brooding over what would happen if roland was arrested. the assizes held twice a year at riversborough had been to her, as to many people of her position, an occasion of pleasurable excitement. the judges' lodgings were in the next house to the old bank, and for the few days the judges were roland sefton's neighbors there had been a friendly interchange of civilities. an assize ball was still held, though it was falling into some neglect and disrepute. whenever any cause of special local interest took place she had commanded the best seat in the court, and had obsequious attention paid to her. she had learned well the aspect of the place, and the mode of procedure. but hitherto her recollections of a court of justice were all agreeable, and her impressions those of a superior being looking down from above on the miseries and crimes of another race. how different was the vision that branded itself on her brain this morning! she saw her husband standing at the dock, instead of some coarse, ignorant, brutish criminal; the stern gravity of the judge; the flippant curiosity of the barristers not connected with the case, and the cruel eagerness of his fellow-townsmen to get good places to hear and see him. it would make a holiday for all who could get within the walls. she could have written almost word for word the report of the trial as it would appear in the two papers published in riversborough. she could foretell how lavish would be the use of the words "felon" and "convict;" and she would be that felon and convict's wife. oh, this intolerable burden of disgrace! to be borne through the long, long years of life; and not by herself alone, but by her children. they had come into a miserable heritage. what became of the families of notorious criminals? she could believe that the poor did not suffer from so cruel a notoriety, being quickly lost in the oblivious waters of poverty and distress, amid refuges and workhouses. but what would become of her? she must go away into endless exile, with her two little children, and live where there was no chance of being recognized. this was what her husband's sin had done for her. "god help me! god deliver me!" she moaned with white lips. but she did not pray for him. in the first moments of anguish the spirit flies to that which lies at the very core. while roland's mother and phebe were weeping together and praying for him, felicita was crying for help and deliverance for herself. chapter viii. the senior partner. long as the daylight lasts in may it was after nightfall when felicita left her study and went down to the drawing-room, more elegantly and expensively furnished for her than the drawing-room at riversdale had been. its extravagant display seemed to strike upon her suddenly as she entered it. phebe was gone home, and madame had retired to her own room, having given up the expectation of seeing felicita that day. mr. clifford, the servant told her, was still in the bank, with his lawyer, for whom he had telegraphed to london. felicita sent him a message that if he was not too busy she wished to see him for a few minutes. mr. clifford almost immediately appeared, and felicita saw him for the first time. she had always heard him called old; but he was a strong, erect, stern-looking man of sixty, with keen, cold eyes that could not be avoided. felicita did not seek to avoid them. she looked as steadily at him as he did at her. there were traces of tears on her face, but there was no tremor or weakness about her. they exchanged a few civil words as calmly as if they were ordinary acquaintances. "tell me briefly what has happened," she said to him, when he had taken a seat near to her. "briefly," he repeated. "well! i find myself robbed of securities worth nearly £ ; private securities, bond and scrip, left in custody only, not belonging to the firm. no one but acton or roland could have access to them. acton has eluded me; but if roland is found he must take the consequences." "and what are those?" asked felicita. "i shall prosecute him as i would prosecute a common thief or burglar," answered mr. clifford. "his crime is more dishonorable and cowardly." "is it not cruel to say this to me?" she asked, yet in a tranquil tone which startled him. "cruel!" he repeated again; "i have not been in the habit of choosing words. you asked me a question, and i gave you the answer that was in my mind. i never forgive. those who pass over crimes make themselves partakers in those crimes. roland has robbed not only me, but half a dozen poor persons, to whom such a loss is ruin. would it be right to let such a man escape justice?" "you think he has gone away on purpose?" she said. "he has absconded," answered mr. clifford, "and the matter is already in the hands of the police. a description of him has been telegraphed to every police station in the kingdom. if he is not out of it he can barely escape now." felicita's pale face could not grow paler, but she shivered perceptibly. "i am telling you bluntly," he said, "because i believe it is best to know the worst at once. it is terrible to have it falling drop by drop. you have courage and strength; i see it. take an old man's word for it, it is better to know all in its naked ugliness, than have it brought to light bit by bit. there is not the shadow of a doubt of roland's crime. you do not believe him innocent yourself?" "no," she replied in a low, yet steady voice; "no. i must tell the truth. i cannot comfort myself with the belief that he is innocent." mr. clifford's keen eyes were fastened upon felicita with admiration. here was a woman, young and pallid with grief and dread, who neither tried to move him by prayers and floods of tears, nor shrank from acknowledging a truth, however painful. he had never seen her before, though the costly set of jewels she was wearing had been his own gift to her on her wedding. he recognized them with pleasure, and looked more attentively at her beautiful but gloomy face. when he spoke again it was in a manner less harsh and abrupt than it had been before. "i am not going to ask you any questions about roland," he said; "you have a right, the best right in the world, to screen him, and aid him in escaping from the just consequences of his folly and crime." "you might ask me," she interrupted, "and i should tell you the simple truth. i do so now, when i say i know nothing about him. he told me he was going to london. but is it not possible that poor acton alone was guilty?" mr. clifford shook his head in reply. for a few minutes he paced up and down the floor, and then placed himself at the back of felicita, with his hand upon her chair, as if to support him. in a glass opposite she could see the reflection of his face, gray and agitated, with closed eyes and quivering lips--a face that looked ten years older than that which she had seen when he entered the room. she felt the chair shaken by his trembling hand. "i will tell you," he said in a voice which he strove to render steady. "i did not spare my own son when he had defrauded roland's father. though sefton would not prosecute him, i left him to reap the harvest of his deed to the full; and it was worse than the penalty the law would have exacted. he perished, disgraced and forsaken, of starvation in paris, the city of pleasures and of crimes. they told me that my son was little more than a living skeleton when he was found, so slowly had the end come. if i did not spare him, can i relent toward roland? the justice i demand is, in comparison, mercy for him." as he finished speaking he opened his eyes, and saw those of felicita fastened on the reflection of his face in the mirror. he turned away, and in a minute or two resumed his seat, and spoke again in his ordinary abrupt tone. "what will you do?" he asked. "i cannot tell yet," she answered; "i must wait till suspense is over. if roland comes back, or is brought back," she faltered, "then i must decide what to do. i shall keep to myself till then. is there anything i can do?" "could you go to your uncle, lord riversdale?" suggested mr. clifford. "no, no," she cried; "i will not ask any help from him. he arranged my marriage for me, and he will feel this disgrace keenly. i will keep out of their way; they shall not be compelled to forbid me their society." "but to-morrow you had better go away for the day," he answered; "there will be people coming and going, who will disturb you. there will be a rigorous search made. there is a detective now with my lawyer, who is looking through the papers in the bank. the police have taken possession of acton's lodgings." "i have nowhere to go," she replied, "and i cannot show my face out of doors. madame and the children shall go to phebe marlowe, but i must bear it as well as i can." "well," he said after a brief pause, "i will make it as easy as i can for you. you are thinking me a hard man? yes, i have grown hard. i was soft enough once. but if i forgave any sinner now i should do my boy, who is dead, an awful injustice. i would not pass over his sin, and i dare not pass over any other. i know i shall pursue roland until his death or mine; my son's fate cries out for it. but i'm not a hard man toward innocent sufferers, like you and his poor mother. try to think of me as your friend; nay, even roland's friend, for what would a few years' penal servitude be compared with my boy's death? shake hands with me before i go." the small, delicate hand she offered him was icy cold, though her face was still calm and her eyes clear and dry. he was himself more moved and agitated than she appeared to be. the mention of his son always shook him to the very centre of his soul; yet he had not been able to resist uttering the words that had passed his lips during this painful interview with roland's young wife. unshed tears were burning under his eyelids. but if it had not been for that death-like hand he might have imagined her almost unmoved. felicita was down-stairs before madame the next morning, and had ordered the carriage to be ready to take her and the children to upfold farm directly after breakfast. it was so rare an incident for their mother to be present at the breakfast-table that felix and hilda felt as if it were a holiday. madame was pale and sad, and for the first time felicita thought of her as being a sufferer by roland's crime. her husband's mother had been little more to her than a superior housekeeper, who had been faithfully attached to her and her children. the homely, gentle, domestic foreigner, from a humble swiss home, had looked up to her young aristocratic daughter-in-law as a being from a higher sphere. but now the downcast, sorrowful face of the elder woman touched felicita's sympathy. "mother!" she said, as soon as the children had run away to get ready for their drive. she had never before called madame "mother," and a startled look, almost of delight, crossed madame's sad face. "my daughter!" she cried, running to felicita's side, and throwing her arms timidly about her, "he is sure to come back soon--to-day, i think. oh, yes, he will be here when we return! you do well to stay to meet him; and i should be glad to be here, but for the children. yes, the little ones must be out of the way. they must not see their father's house searched; they must never know how he is suspect. acton did say it was all his fault; his fault and--" but here madame paused for an instant, for had not acton said it was felicita's fault more than any one's? "phebe heard him," she went on hastily; "and if it is not his fault, why did he kill himself? oh, it is an ill-fortune that my son went to london that day! it would all be right if he were here; but he is sure to come to-day and explain it all; and the bank will be opened again. so be of good comfort, my daughter; for god is present with us, and with my son also." it was a sorrowful day at the upfold farm in spite of the children's unconscious mirthfulness. old marlowe locked himself into his workshop, and would see none of them, taking his meals there in sullen anger. phebe's heart was almost broken with listening to madame's earnest asseverations of her son's perfect innocence, and her eager hopes to find him when she reached home. it was nearly impossible to her to keep the oppressive secret, which seemed crushing her into deception and misery, and her own muteness appeared to herself more condemnatory than any words could be. but madame did not notice her silence, and her grief was only natural. phebe's tears fell like balm on madame's aching heart. felicita had not wept; but this young girl, and her abandonment to passionate bursts of tears, who needed consoling herself, was a consolation to the poor mother. they knelt together in phebe's little bedroom, while the children were playing on the wide uplands around them, and they prayed silently, if heavy sobs and sighs could be called silence; but they prayed together, and for her son; and madame returned home comforted and hopeful. it had been a day of fierce trial to felicita. she had not formed any idea of how searching would be the investigation of the places where any of her husband's papers might be found. her own study was not exempt from the prying eyes of the detectives. this room, sacred to her, which roland himself never entered without permission was ransacked, and forever desecrated in her eyes. this official meddling with her books and her papers could never be forgotten. the pleasant place was made an abomination to her. the bank was reopened the next morning at the accustomed hour, for a very short investigation by mr. clifford and the experienced advisers summoned from london to assist him proved that the revenues of the firm were almost as good as ever. the panic had been caused by the vague rumor afloat of some mysterious complicity in crime between the absent partner and the clerk who had committed suicide. it was, therefore, considered necessary for the prosperous re-establishment of the bank to put forth a cautiously worded circular, in which mr. clifford's return was made the reason for the absence on a long journey of roland sefton, whose disappearance had to be accounted for. by the time he was arrested and brought to trial the confidence of the bank's customers in its stability would in some measure be regained. there was thus a good deal of conjecture and of contradictory opinion abroad in riversborough concerning roland sefton, which continued to be the town's-talk for some weeks. even madame began to believe in a half-bewildered manner that her son had gone on a journey of business connected with the bank, though she could not account for his total silence. sometimes she wondered if he and felicita could have had some fatal quarrel, which had driven him away from home in a paroxysm of passionate disappointment and bitterness. felicita's coldness and indifference might have done it. with this thought, and the hope of his return some day, she turned for relief to the discharge of her household duties, and to the companionship of the children, who knew nothing except that their father was gone away on a journey, and might come back any day. neither madame nor the children knew that whenever they left the house they were followed by a detective, and every movement was closely watched. but felicita was conscious of it by some delicate sensitiveness of her imaginative temperament. she refused to quit the house except in the evening, when she rambled about the garden, and felt the fresh air from the river breathing against her often aching temples. even then she fancied an eye upon her--an unsleeping, unblinking eye; the unwearying vigilance of justice on the watch for a criminal. night and day she felt herself living under its stony gaze. it was a positive pain to her when reviews of her book appeared in various papers, and were forwarded to her with congratulatory letters from her publishers. she was living far enough from london to be easily persuaded, without much vanity, that her name was upon everybody's lips there. she read the reviews, but with a sick heart, and the words were forgotten as soon as she put them away; but the riversborough papers, which had been very guarded in their statements about the death of acton and the events at the old bank, took up the book with what appeared to her fulsome and offensive enthusiasm. it had never occurred to her that local criticism was certain to follow the appearance of a local writer; and she shrank from it with morbid and exaggerated disgust. even if all had been well, if roland had been beside her, their notices would have been well-nigh intolerable to her. she could not have endured being stared at and pointed out in the streets of her own little town. but now fame had come to her with broken wings and a cracked trumpet, and she shuddered at the sound of her own name harshly proclaimed through it. it soon became evident that roland sefton had succeeded in getting away out of the country. the police were at fault; and as no one in his own home knew how to communicate with him, no clew had been discovered by close surveillance of their movements. such vigilance could be kept up only for a few months at longest, and as the summer drew toward the end it ceased. chapter ix. fast bound. roland sefton had met with but few difficulties in getting clear away out of england, and there was little chance of his being identified, from description merely, by any of the foreign police, or by any english detective on the continent who was not as familiar with his personal appearance as the riversborough force were. in his boyhood he had spent many months, years even, in his mother's native village with her father, m. roland merle, the pastor of a parish among the jura mountains. it was as easy for him to assume the character of a swiss mountaineer as to sustain that of a prosperous english banker. the dress, the patois, the habits of the peasant were all familiar to him, and his disguise in them was as complete as disguise ever can be. the keen eye either of love or hate can pierce through all disguises. switzerland was all fatherland to him, as much so as his native country, and the county in which riversborough was situated. there was no ignorance in him of any little town, or the least known of the alps, which might betray the stranger. he would never need to attract notice by asking a question. he had become a member of an alpine club as soon as his boyish thews and sinews were strong enough for stiff and perilous climbing. he had crossed the most difficult passes and scaled some of the worst peaks. and there had been within him that passionate love of the country common to the swiss which an english alpine climber can never feel. his mother's land had filled him with an ardent flame, smouldering at times amid the absorbing interests of his somewhat prominent place in english life, but every now and then breaking out into an irrepressible longing for the sight of its white mountains and swift, strong streams. it was at once the safest and the most dangerous of refuges. he would be certainly sought for there; but there he could most effectually conceal himself. he flew thither with his burden of sin and shame. roland adopted at once the dress of a decent artisan of the jura--such a man as he had known in his boyhood as a watchmaker of locle or the doubs. for a few days he stayed in geneva, lodging in such a street as a locle artisan would have chosen; but he could not feel secure there, in spite of his own certainty that his transformation was complete. a restless dread haunted him. he knew well that there are in every one little personal traits, tricks of gesture, and certain tones of voice always ready to betray us. it was yet too early in the year for many travellers to be journeying to switzerland; but already a few straggling pioneers of the summer flight were appearing in the larger towns, and what would be his fate if any one of them recognized him? he quitted geneva, and wandered away into the mountain villages. it was may-time, and the snow-line was still lingering low down on the steep slopes, though the flowers were springing into life up to its very margin, seeming to drive it higher and higher every day. the high alps were still fast locked in midwinter, and with untrodden wastes and plains of snow lying all around them. the deserted mountain farms and great solitary hotels, so thronged last summer, were empty. but in the valleys and the little villages lying on the warm southern slopes, or sheltered by precipitous rocks from the biting winds, there was everywhere a joyous stir of awakening from the deep sleep of winter. the frozen streams were thawed and ran bubbling and gurgling along their channels, turning water-wheels and filling all the quiet places with their merry noise. the air itself was full of sweet exhilaration. in the forests there was the scent of stirring sap and of the up-springing wild-flowers, and the rosy blossoms of the tender young larch-trees shone like jewels in the bright sunshine. the mountain-peaks overhead, gleaming through the mists and clouds, were of dazzling whiteness, for none of the frozen snow had yet fallen from their sharp, lance-like summits. journeying on foot from one village to another, roland roamed about aimlessly, yet as one hunted, seeking for a safe asylum. he bore his troubled conscience and aching heart from one busy spot to another, homesick and self-exiled. oh, what a fool he had been! life had been full to the brim for him with gladness and prosperity, and in trying to make its cup run over he had dashed it away from his lips forever. his money was not yet spent, for a very little went a long way among these simple mountain villages, and in his manner of travelling. he had not yet been forced to try to earn a living, and he felt no anxiety for the future. in his boyhood he had learned wood-carving, both in switzerland and from old marlowe, and he had acquired considerable skill in the art. some of the panels in his home at riversborough were the workmanship of his own hands. it was a craft to turn to in extremity; but he did not think of it yet. labor of any kind would have made the interminable hours pass more quickly. the carving of a piece of wood might have kept him from torturing his own heart perpetually; but he did not turn to this slight solace. there were times when he sat for hours, for a whole age, as it seemed to him, in some lonely spot, hidden behind a great rock or half lost in a forest, thinking. and yet it was not thought, but a vague, mournful longing and remembrance, the past and the absent blended in dim, shadowy reverie, of which nothing was clear but the sharp anguish of having forfeited them. there was a garden of eden still upon earth, and he had been dwelling in it. but he had banished himself from it by his own folly and sin, and when he turned his eyes toward it he could see only the "flaming brand, and the gate with dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms." but even adam had his eve with him, "to drop some natural tears, and wipe them soon." he was utterly alone. if his thoughts, so dazed and bewildered usually, became clear for a little while, it was always felicita whose image stood out most distinctly before him. he had loved her passionately; surely never had any man loved a woman with the same intensity--so he said to himself. even now the very crime he had committed seemed as nothing to him, because he had been guilty of it for her. his love for her covered its heinousness from his eyes. his conscience had become the blind and dumb slave of his passion. so blind and dumb had it been that it had scarcely stirred or murmured until his sin was found out, and it was scarcely aroused to life even yet. in a certain sense he had been religious, having been most sedulously trained in religion from his earliest consciousness. he had accepted the ordinary teachings of our nineteenth-century christianity. his place in church, beside his mother or his wife, had seldom been empty, and several times in the year he had knelt with them at the lord's table, and taken the lord's supper, feeling himself distinctly a more religious man than usual on such occasions. no man had ever heard him utter a profane word, nor had he transgressed any of the outward rules of a religious life. it is true he had never made a vehement and extraordinary profession of piety, such as some men do; but there was not a person in riversborough who would not have spoken of him as a good churchman and a christian. while he had been gradually appropriating mr. clifford's money and the hard-earned savings of poorer men confided to him, he had felt no qualm of conscience in giving liberally to many a religious and philanthropic object, contributing such sums as figure well in a subscription list; though it was generally his wife's name that figured there. he had never taken up a subscription list without glancing first for that beloved name, mrs. roland sefton. in those days he had never doubted that he was a christian. so far as he knew, so far as words could teach him, he was living a christian life. did he not believe in god, the father almighty? yes, as fully as those who lived about him. had he not followed christ? as closely as the mass of people who call themselves christians. nay, more than most of them. not as much as his mother perhaps, in her simple, devout faith. but then religion is always a different thing with women than with men, a fairer and more delicate thing, wearing a finer bloom and gloss, which does not wear well in a work-a-day world such as he did battle in. but if he had not lived a christian life, what man in riversborough had done so, except a few fanatics? but his religion had been powerless to keep him from falling into subtle temptations, and into a crime so heinous in the sight of his fellow-men that it was only to be expiated by the loss of character, the loss of liberty, and the loss of every honorable man's esteem. the web had been closely and cunningly woven, and now he was fast bound in it, with no way of escape. chapter x. leaving riversborough. the weeks passed by in riversborough, and brought no satisfactory conclusion to the guarded investigations of the police. a close search made among acton's private papers produced no discovery. his will was among them, leaving all he had to leave, which was not much, to felix, the son of his friend and employer, roland sefton. there was no memorandum or letter which could throw any light upon the transactions, or give any clew to what had been done with mr. clifford's securities. nor was the watch kept over the movements of the family more successful. the police were certain that no letter was posted by any member of the household, which could be intended for the missing culprit. even phebe marlowe's correspondence was subject to their vigilance. but not a trace could be discovered. he was gone; whether he had fled to america, or concealed himself nearer home on the continent, no one could make a guess. mr. clifford remained in riversborough, and resumed his position as head of the firm. he had returned with the intention of doing so, having heard abroad of the extravagant manner in which his junior partner was living. the bank, though seriously crippled in its credit and resources, was in no danger of insolvency, and there seemed no reason why it should not regain its former prosperity, if only confidence could be restored. he had reserved to himself the power of taking in another partner, if he should deem it advisable; and an eligible one presenting himself, in the person of a manchester man of known wealth, the deeds of partnership were drawn up, and the old bank was once more set up on a firm basis. during the time that elapsed while these arrangements were being made, felicita was visibly suffering, and failing in health. so sensitive had she grown to the dread of seeing any one not in the immediate circle of her household, that it became impossible to her to leave her home. the clear colorlessness of her face had taken on a transparency and delicacy which did not lessen its beauty, but added to it an unearthly grace. she no longer spent hours alone in her desecrated room; it had grown intolerable to her; but she sat speechless, and almost motionless, in the oriel window overlooking the garden and the river; and felix, a child of dreamy and sensitive temperament, would sit hour after hour at her feet, pressing his cheek against her knee, or with his uplifted eyes gazing into her face. "mother," he said one day, when roland had been gone more than a month, "how long will my father be away on his journey? doesn't he ever write to you, and send messages to me? grandmamma says she does not know how soon he will be back. do you know, mother?" felicita looked down on him with her beautiful dark eyes, which seemed larger and sadder than of old, sending a strange thrill through the boy's heart, and for a minute or two she seemed uncertain what to say. "i cannot tell you, felix," she answered; "there are many things in life which children cannot understand. if i told you what was true about your father, your little brain would turn it into an untruth. you could not understand it if i told you." "but i shall understand it some day," he said, lifting his head up proudly; "will you tell me when i am old enough, mother?" how could she promise him to do that? this proud young head, tossed back with the expectant triumph of some day knowing all that his father and mother knew, must be bowed down with grief and shame then, as hers was now. it was a sad knowledge he must inherit. how would she ever be able to tell him that the father who had given him life, and whose name he bore, was a criminal; a convict if he was arrested and brought to judgment; an outlaw and an exile if he made good his escape? roland had never been as dear to her as felix was. she was one of those women who love more deeply and tenderly as mothers than as wives. to see that bright, fond face of his clouded with disgrace would be a ceaseless torment to her. there would be no suffering to compare with it. "but you will tell me all about it some day, mother," urged the boy. "if i ever tell you," she answered, "it will be when you are a man, and can understand the whole truth. you will never hear me tell a falsehood, felix." "i know that, mother," he replied, "but oh! i miss my father! he used to come to my bedside at nights, and kiss me, and say 'god bless you.' i tried always to keep awake till he came; but i was asleep the last time of all, and missed him. sometimes i feel frightened, as if he would never come again. but grandmamma says he is gone on a long journey, and will come home some day, only she doesn't know when. phebe cries when i ask her. would it be too much trouble for you to come in at night sometimes, like my father did?" he asked timidly. "but i am not like your father," she answered. "i could not say 'god bless you' in the same way. you must ask god yourself for his blessing." for felicita's soul had been thrust down into the depths of darkness. her early training had been simply and solely for this world: how to make life here graceful and enjoyable. she could look back upon none but the vaguest aspirations after something higher in her girlhood. it had been almost like a new revelation to her to see her mother-in-law's simple and devout piety, and to witness her husband's cheerful and manly profession of religion. this was the point in his character which had attracted her most, and had been most likely to bind her to him. not his passionate love to herself, but his unselfishness toward others, his apparently happy religion, his energetic interest in all good and charitable schemes--these had reconciled her more than anything else to the step she had taken, the downward step, in marrying him. this unconscious influence of roland's life and character had been working secretly and slowly upon her nature for several years. they were very young when they were married, and her first feeling of resentment toward her own family for pressing on the marriage had at the outset somewhat embittered her against her young husband. but this had gradually worn away, and felicita had never been so near loving him heartily and deeply as during the last year or two, when it was evident that his attachment to her was as loyal and as tender as ever. he had almost won her, when he staked all and lost all. for now, she asked herself, what was the worth of all this religion, which presented so fair a face to her? she had a delicate sense of honor and truthfulness, which never permitted her to swerve into any byways of expediency or convenience. what use was roland's religion without truthfulness and honor? she said to herself that there was no excuse for him even feeling tempted to deal with another man's property. it ought to have been as impossible to him as it was impossible to her to steal goods from a tradesman's counter. was it possible to serve god--and roland professed to serve him--yet cheat his fellow-men? the service of god itself must then be a vanity--a mere bubble, like all the other bubbles of life. it had never been her habit to speak out her thoughts, even to her husband. speech seemed an inefficient and blundering medium of communication, and she found it easier to write than to talk. there was a natural taciturnity about her which sealed her lips, even when her children were prattling to her. only in writing could she give expression to the multitude of her thoughts within her; and her letters were charming, and of exceeding interest. but in this great crisis in her life she could not write. she would sit for hours vainly striving to arouse her languid brain. it seemed to her that she had lost this gift also in the utter ruin that had overtaken her. felicita's white, silent, benumbed grief, accepting the conviction of her husband's guilt with no feminine contradicting or loud lamenting, touched mr. clifford with more pity than he felt for madame, who bore her son's mysterious absence with a more simple and natural sorrow. there was something irritating to him in the fact that roland's mother ignored the accusation he made against him. but when roland had been away three months, and the police authorities had given up all expectation of discovering anything by watching his home and family, mr. clifford felt that it was time something should be arranged which would deliver felicita from her voluntary imprisonment. "why do you not go away?" he asked her; "you cannot continue to live mewed up here all your days. if roland should be found, it would be better for you not to be in riversborough. and i for one have given up the expectation that he will be found; the only chance is that he may return and give himself up. go to some place where you are not known. there is scarborough; take madame and the children there for a few months, and then settle in london for the winter. nobody will know you in london." "but how can we leave this house?" she said, with a gleam of light in her sad eyes. "let me come in just as it is," he answered. "i will pay you a good rent for it, and you can take a part of the furniture to london, to make your new dwelling there more like home. it would be a great convenience to me, and it would be the best thing for you, depend upon it. if roland returns he never will live here again." "no, he could never do that," she said, sighing deeply. "mr. clifford, sometimes i think he must be dead." "i have thought so too," he replied gravely; "and if it were so, it would be the salvation of you and your children. there would be no public trial and conviction, and though suspicion might always rest upon his memory, he would not be remembered for long. justice would be defrauded, yet on the whole i should rejoice for your sake to hear that he was dead." felicita's lips almost echoed the words. her heart did so, though it smote her as she recollected his passionate love for her. but mr. clifford's speech sank deeply into her mind, and she brooded over it incessantly. roland's death meant honor and fair fame for herself and her children; his life was perpetual shame and contempt to them. it was soon settled that they must quit riversborough; but though felicita welcomed the change, and was convinced it would be the best thing to do, madame grieved sorely over leaving the only home which had been hers, except the little manse in the jura, where her girlhood had passed swiftly and happily away. she had brought with her the homely, thrifty ways in which she had been trained, and every spot in her husband's dwelling had been taken under her own care and supervision. her affections had rooted themselves to the place, and she had never dreamed of dying anywhere else than among the familiar scenes which had surrounded her for more than thirty years. the change too could not be made without her consent, for her marriage settlement was secured upon the house, and her husband had left to her the right of accepting or refusing a tenant. to leave the familiar, picturesque old mansion, and to carry away with her only a few of the household treasures, went far to break her heart. "it is where my husband intended for me to live and die," she moaned to phebe marlowe; "and, oh, if i go away i can never fancy i see him sitting in his own chair as he used to do, at the head of the table, or by the fire. i have not altogether lost him, though he's gone, as long as i can think of how he used to come in and go out of this room, always with a smile for me. but if i go where he never was, how can i think i see him there? and my son will be angry if we go; he will come back, and clear up all this mystery, and he will think we went away because we thought he had done evil. ought we not to come home again after we have been to scarborough?" "i think mrs. sefton will die if she stays here," said phebe. "it is necessary for her to make this change; and you'd rather go with her and the children than live here alone without them." "oh, yes, yes!" answered madame; "i cannot leave my little felix and hilda, or felicita: she is my son's dear wife. but he will come home some day, and we can return then; you hope so, don't you, phebe?" "if god pleases!" said phebe, sighing. "in truth, if god pleases!" repeated madame. when the last hour came in which phebe could see roland's wife, she sought for her in her study, where she was choosing the books to be sent after her. in the very words in which roland had sent his message he delivered it to felicita. the cold, sad, marble-like face did not change, though her heart gave a throb of disappointment and anguish as the dread hope that he was no longer alive died out of it. "i will meet him there," she said. but she asked phebe no questions, and did not tell her where she was to meet her husband. chapter xi. old marlowe. life had put on for phebe a very changed aspect. the lonely farmstead on the uplands had been till now a very happy and tranquil home. she had had no sorrow since her mother died when she was eight years of age, too young to grieve very sorely. on the other hand, she was not so young as to require a woman's care, and old marlowe had made her absolute mistress of the little home. his wife, a prudent, timid woman, had always repressed his artistic tendencies, preferring the certainty of daily bread to the vague chances of gaining renown and fortune. old marlowe, so marred and imperfect in his physical powers, had submitted to her shrewd, ignorant authority, and earned his living and hers by working on his little farm and going out occasionally as a carpenter. but when she was gone, and his little girl's eyes only were watching him at his work, and the child's soul delighted in all the beautiful forms his busy hands could fashion, he gave up his out-door toil, and, with all the pent-up ardor of the lost years, he threw himself absorbingly into the pleasant occupation of the present. though he mourned faithfully for his wife, the woman who had given to him phebe, he felt happier and freer without her. phebe's girlhood also had been both free and happy. all the seasons had been sweet to her: dear to her was "the summer, clothing the general earth with greenness," and the winter, when "the redbreast sits and sings be-twixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of the mossy apple-tree." she had listened to "the eave-drops falling in the trances of the blast," and seen them "hang in silent icicles, quietly shining to the quiet moon." there had been no change in nature unnoticed or unbeloved by her. the unbroken silence reigning around her, heightened by the mute speech between herself and her father, which needed eyes only, not lips, had grown so familiar as to be almost dear to her, in spite of her strong delight in fellowship with others. the artistic temperament she had inherited from her father, which very early took vivid pleasure in expressing itself in color as well as in form, had furnished her with an occupation of which she could never tire. as long as there was light in the sky, long after the sun had gone down, in the lingering twilight, loath to forsake the uplands, she was at her canvas catching the soft gray tones, and dim-colored tints, and clearer masses of foliage, which only the evening could show. to supply her need of general companionship there had been so full and satisfying a sense of friendship between herself and the household at the old bank at riversborough that one day spent with them gave her thought for a month. every word uttered by roland and felicita was treasured up in her memory and turned over in her mind for days after. madame's simple and cheerful nature made her almost like a mother to the simple and cheerful country girl; and felix and hilda had been objects of the deepest interest to her from the days of their birth. but it was roland, who had known her best and longest, to whom she owed the direction and cultivation of her tastes and intellect, who had been almost like a god to her in her childhood; it was he who dominated over her simple heart the most. he was to phebe so perfect that she had never imagined that there could be a fault in him. there is one token to us that we are meant for a higher and happier life than this, in the fact that sorrow and sin always come upon us as a surprise. happy days do not astonish us, and the goodness of our beloved ones awakens no amazement. but if a sorrow comes we cry aloud to let our neighbors know something untoward has befallen us; and if one we love has sinned, we feel as if the heavens themselves were darkened. it was so with phebe marlowe. all her earthly luminaries, the greater lights and the lesser lights, were under an eclipse, and a strange darkness had fallen upon her. for the first time in her life she found herself brooding over the sin of one who had been her guide, her dearest friend, her hero. from the time when as a child she had learned to look up to him as the paragon of all perfection, until now, as a girl on the verge of womanhood, she had offered up to him a very pure and maidenly worship. there was no one else whom she could love as much; for her dumb and deaf father she loved in quite a different manner--with more of pity and compassion than of admiration. roland too had sometimes talked with her, especially while she was a child, about god and christ; and she had regarded him as a spiritual director. now her guide was lost in the dense darkness. there was no sure example for her to follow. she had told her father he would never see her smile again if roland sefton was taken to jail. there had been, of course, an implied promise in this, but the promise was broken. old marlowe looked in vain for the sweet and merry smiles that had been used to play upon her face. she was too young and too unversed in human nature to know how jealously her father would watch her, with inward curses on him who had wrought the change. when he saw her stand for an hour or more, listlessly gazing with troubled, absent eyes across the wide-spreading moor, with its broad sweep of deep-purpled bloom, and golden gorse, and rich green fern, yet taking no notice, nor hastening to fix the gorgeous hues upon her canvas while the summer lasted; and when he watched her in the long dusk of the autumn evenings sit motionless in the chimney corner opposite to him, her fingers lying idly on her lap instead of busily prattling some merry nonsense to him, and with a sad preoccupation in her girlish face; then he felt that he had received his own death-blow, and had no more to live for. the loss of his hard-earned money had taken a deeper hold upon him than a girl so young as phebe could imagine. for what is money to a young nature but the merest dross, compared with the love and faith it has lavished upon some fellow-mortal? while she was mourning over the shipwreck of all her best affections, old marlowe was brooding over his six hundred pounds. they represented so much to him, so many years of toil and austere self-denial. he had risen early, and late taken rest, and eaten the bread of carefulness. his grief was not all ignoble, for it was for his girl he grieved most; his wonderful child, so much more gifted than the children of other men, whom nature had treated more kindly than himself, men who could hear and speak, but whose daughters were only commonplace creatures. the money was hers, not his; and it was too late now for him to make up the heavy loss. the blow which had deprived him of the fruits of his labor seemed to have incapacitated him for further work. moreover, phebe was away oftener than usual: gone to the house of the spoiler. nor did she come home, as she had been wont to do, with radiant eyes, and a soft, sweet smile coming and going, and many a pleasant piece of news to tell off on her nimble fingers. she returned with tear-stained eyelids and a downcast air, and was often altogether silent as to the result of the day's absence. he strove, notwithstanding a haunting dread of failure, to resume his old occupation. doggedly every morning he put on his brown paper cap, and went off to his crowded little workshop, but with unequal footsteps, quite unlike his former firm tread. but it would not do. he stood for hours before his half-shaped blocks of oak, with birds and leaves and heads partly traced upon them; but he found himself powerless to complete his own designs. between him and them stood the image of phebe, a poverty-stricken, work-worn woman, toiling with her hands, in all weathers, upon their three or four barren fields, which were now the only property left to him. it had been pleasant to him to see her milk the cows, and help him to fetch in the sheep from the moors; but until now he had been able to pay for the rougher work on the farmstead. his neighbor, samuel nixey, had let his laborers do it for him, since he had kept his own hands and time for his artistic pursuit. but he could afford this no longer, and the thought of the next winter's work which lay before him and phebe harassed him terribly. "father," she said to him one evening, after she had been at riversborough, "they are all going away--mrs. sefton, and madame, and the children. they are going scarborough, and after that to london, never to come back. i shall not see them again." "thank god!" thought the dumb old man, and his eyes gleamed brightly from under their thick gray eyebrows. but he did not utter the words, so much less easy was it for his fingers to betray his thoughts than it would have been for his lips. and phebe did not guess them. "is there any news of him?" he asked. "not a word," she answered. "mr. clifford has almost given it up. he is an unforgiving man, an awful man." "no, no; he is a just man," said old marlowe; "he wants nothing but his own again, like me, and that a scoundrel should not get off scot free. i want my money back; it's not money merely, but my years, and my brain, and my love for thee, and my power to work: that's what he has robbed me of. let me have my money back, and i'll forgive him." "poor father!" said phebe aloud, with a little sob. how easy it seemed to her to forgive a wrong that could be definitely stated at six hundred pounds! all her inward grief was that roland had fallen--he himself. if by a whole sacrifice of herself she could have reinstated him in the place he had forfeited, she would not have hesitated for an instant. but no sacrifice she could make would restore him. "does mrs. sefton know what he has done?" inquired her father. she nodded only in reply. "does she believe him innocent?" he asked. "no," answered phebe. "and madame, his mother?" he pursued. "no, no, no! she cannot believe him guilty," she replied; "she thinks he could free himself, if he would only come home. she is far happier than mrs. sefton or me. i would lay down my life to have him true and honest and good again, as he used to be. i feel as if i was in a miserable dream." they were sitting together outside their cottage-door, with the level rays of the setting sun shining across the uplands upon them, and the fresh air of the evening breathing upon their faces. it was an hour they both loved, but neither of them felt its beauty and tranquillity now. "you love him next to me?" asked old marlowe. "next to you, father," she repeated. but the subtle jealousy in the father's heart whispered that his daughter loved these grand friends of hers more than himself. what could he be to her, deaf mute that he was? what could he do for her? all he had done had been swept away by the wrong-doing of this fine gentleman, for whom she was willing to lay down her life. he looked at her with wistful eyes, longing to hold closer, swifter communication with her than could be held by their slow finger-speech. how could he ever make her know all the love and pride pent up in his voiceless heart? phebe, in her girlish, blind preoccupation, saw nothing of his eager, wistful gaze, did not even notice the nervous trembling of his stammering fingers; and the old man felt thrown back upon himself, in more utter loneliness of spirit than his life had ever experienced before. yet he was not so old a man, for he was little over sixty, but his hard life of incessant toil and his isolation from his fellow-creatures had aged him. this bitter calamity added many years to his actual age, and he began to realize that his right hand was forgetting its cunning, his eye for beauty was growing dim, and his craft failing him. the long, light summer days kept him for a while from utter hopelessness. but as the autumn winds began to moan and mutter round the house he told himself that his work was done, and that soon phebe would be a friendless and penniless orphan. "i ought not to have let roland sefton go," he thought to himself; "if i'd done my duty he would have been paying for his sin now, and maybe there would have been some redress for us that lost by him. none of his people will come to poverty like my phebe. i could have held up my head if i had not helped him to escape from punishment." chapter xii. reckless of life. if old marlowe, or mr. clifford himself, could have followed roland sefton during his homeless wanderings, their rigorous sense of justice would have been satisfied that he was not escaping punishment, though he might elude the arbitrary penalty of the law. as the summer advanced, and the throng of yearly tourists poured into the playground of europe from every country, but especially from england, he was driven away from all the towns and villages where he might by chance be recognized by some fellow-countryman. up into the mountain pastures he retreated, where he rambled from one chalet to another, sleeping on beds of fodder, with its keen night air piercing through the apertures of the roof and walls, yet bringing with it those intolerable stenches which exhale from the manure and mire lying ankle-deep round each picturesque little hut. the yelping of the watch-dogs; the snoring of the tired herdsmen lying within arm's length of him; the shrill tinkling of cow-bells, musical enough by day and in the distance, but driving sleep away too harshly; the sickness and depression produced by unwholesome food, and the utter compulsory abandonment of all his fastidious and dainty personal habits, made his mere bodily life intolerable to him. he had borne something like these discomforts and privations for a day or two at a time, when engaged in alpine climbing, but that he should be forced to live a life compared with which that of an irish bog-trotter was decent and civilized, was a daily torment to him. it is true that during the long hours of daylight he wandered among the most sublime scenery. sometimes he scaled solitary peaks and looked down upon far-stretching landscapes below him, with broad dead rivers of glaciers winding between the high and terrible masses of snow-clad rocks, and creeping down into peaceful valleys, where little living streams of silvery gray wandered among chalets looking no larger than the rocks strewn around them, with a tiny church in their midst lifting up its spire of glittering metal with a kind of childish confidence and exultation. here and there in deep sunken hollows lay small tarns, black as night, and guilty looking, with precipices overhanging them fringed with pointed pine-trees, which sought in vain to mirror themselves in those pitch-dark waters. and above them all, gazing down in silent greatness, rose the snow-mountains, very cold, whiter than any other whiteness on earth, pure and stainless, and apparently as unapproachable in their far-off loveliness as the deep blue of the pure sky behind them. but there was something unutterably awful to roland sefton in this sublimity. a bad man, whose ear has never heard the voice of nature, and whose eye is blind to her ineffable beauty, may dwell in such places and not be crushed by them. the dull herdsmen, thinking only of their cattle and of the milking to be done twice a day, might live their own stupid, commonplace lives there. the chance visitor who spent a few hours in scaling difficult cliffs would perhaps catch a brief and fleeting sense of their awfulness, only too quickly dissipated by the unwonted toil and peril of his situation. but roland sefton felt himself exiled to their ice-bound solitudes, cut off from all companionship, and attended only by an accusing conscience. morning after morning, when his short and feverish night was ended, he went out in the early dawn while all the valleys below were still slumbering in darkness, self-driven into the wilderness of rock and snow rising above the wretched chalets. with coarse food sufficient for the wants of the day he strayed wherever his aimless footsteps led him. it was seldom that he stayed more than a night or two in the same herdsman's hut. when he was well out of the track of tourists he ventured down into the lower villages now and then, seeking a few days of comparative comfort. but some rumor, or the arrival of some chance traveller more enterprising and investigating than the mass, always drove him away again. there was no peace for him, either in the high alps or the most secluded valleys. how could there be peace while memory and conscience were gnawing at his heart? in a dreary round his thoughts went back to the first beginnings of the road that had led him hither; with that vague feeling which all of us have when retracing the irrevocable past, as if by some mighty effort of our will we could place ourselves at the starting-point again and run our race--oh, how differently! roland could almost fix the date when he had first wished that mr. clifford's bonds, bequeathed to him, were already his own. he recollected the very day when old marlowe had asked him to invest his money for him in some safe manner for phebe's benefit, and how he had persuaded himself that nothing could be safer than to use it for his own purposes, and to pay a higher interest than the old man could get elsewhere. what he had done for him had been still easier to do for other clients--ignorant men and women who knew nothing of business, and left it all to him, gratefully pleased with the good interest he paid them. the web had been woven with almost invisible threads at the first, but the finest thread among them was a heavy cable now. but the one thought that haunted him, never leaving him for an instant in these terrible solitudes, was the thought of felicita. his mother he could forget sometimes, or remember her with a dewy tenderness at his heart, as if he could feel her pitiful love clinging to him still; and his children he dreamed of at times in a day-dream, as playing merrily without him, in the blissful ignorance of childhood. but felicita, who did not love him as his mother did, and could not remain in ignorance of his crime! was she not something like these pure, distant snowy pinnacles, inapproachable and repellent, with icy-cold breath which petrified all lips that drew too near to them? and he had set a stain upon that purity as white as the driven snow. the name he had given to her was tarnished, and would be publicly dishonored if he failed in evading the penalty he merited. his death alone could save her from notorious and intolerable disgrace. but though he was reckless of his life, he could not bring himself to be guilty of suicide. death was wooing him in many forms, day by day, to seek refuge with him. when his feet slipped among the yawning crevasses of the glaciers, the smallest wilful negligence would have buried him in their blue depths. the common impulse to cast himself down the precipices along whose margin he crept had only to be yielded to, and all his earthly woe would be over. even to give way to the weary drowsiness that overtook him at times as the sun went down, and the night fell upon him far away from shelter, might have soothed him into the slumber from which there is no awaking. but he dared not. he was willing enough to die, if dying had been all. but he believed in the punishment of sin here, or hereafter; in the dealing out of a righteous judgment to every man, whether he be good or evil. as the autumn passed by, and the mountain chalets were shut up, the cattle and the herdsmen descending to the lower pastures, roland sefton was compelled to descend too. there was little chance of encountering any one who knew him at this late season; yet there were still stragglers lingering among the alps. but when he saw himself again in a looking-glass, his face burned and blistered with the sun, and now almost past recognition, and his ragged hair and beard serving him better than any disguise, he was no longer afraid of being detected. he began to wonder in mingled hope and dread whether felicita would come out to seek him. the message he had sent to her by phebe could be interpreted by her alone. would she avail herself of it to find him out? or would she shrink from the toil and pain and danger of quitting england? a few weeks more would answer the question. sometimes he was overwhelmed with terror lest she should be watched, and her movements tracked, and that behind her would come the pursuers he had so successfully evaded. at other times an unutterable heart-sickness possessed him to see her once more, to hear her voice, to press his lips, if he dared, to her pale cheeks; to discover whether she would suffer him to hold her in his arms for one moment only. he longed to hear from her lips what had happened at home since he fled from it six months ago; what she had done, and was going to do, supposing that he were not arrested and brought to justice. would she forgive him? would she listen to his pleas and explanations? he feared that she would hate him for the shame he had brought upon her. yet there was a possibility that she might pity him, with a pity so much akin to love as that with which the angels look down upon sinful human beings. every day brought the solution of his doubts nearer. the rains of autumn had begun, and fell in torrents, driving him to any shelter he could find, to brood there hour after hour upon these hopes and fears. the fog and thick clouds hid the mountains, and all the valleys lay forlorn and cold under clinging veils of mist, through which the few brown leaves left upon the trees hung limp and dying on the bare branches. the villagers were settling down to their winter life; and though along the frequented routes a few travellers were still passing to and fro, the less known were deserted. it was safe now to go down to engelberg, where, if ever again except as a prisoner in the hands of justice, he would see felicita. impatient to anticipate the day on which he might again see her, he reached engelberg a week before the appointed time. the green meadows and the forests of the little valley were hidden in mist and rain, and the towering dome of the titlis was folded from sight in dense clouds, with only a cold gleam now and then as its snowy summit glanced through them for a minute. the innumerable waterfalls were swollen, and fell with a restless roar through the black depths of the forests. the daylight was short, for the sun rose late behind the encircling mountains, and hastened to sink again below them. but the place where he had first met felicita was dear to him, though dark and gloomy with the cloudy days. he hastened to the church where his eyes had fallen upon the young, silent, absorbed girl so many years ago; and here, where the sun was shining fitfully for a brief half hour, he paced up and down the aisles, wondering what the coming interview would bring. day after day he lingered there, with the loud chanting of the monks ringing in his ears, until the evening came when he said to himself, "to-morrow i shall see her once more." chapter xiii. suspense. roland sefton did not sleep that night. as the time drew near for felicita to act upon his message to her, he grew more desponding of her response to it; yet he could not give up the feeble hope still flickering in his heart. if she did not come he would be a hopeless outcast indeed; yet if she came, what succor could she bring to him? he had not once cherished the idea that mr. clifford would forbear to prosecute him; yet he knew well that if he could be propitiated, the other men and women who had claims upon him would be easily satisfied and appeased. but how many things might have happened during the long six months, which had seemed almost an eternity to him. it was not impossible that mr. clifford might be dead. if so, and if a path was thus open to him to re-enter life, how different should his career be in the future! how warily would he walk; with what earnest penitence and thorough uprightness would he order all his ways! he would be what he had only seemed to be hitherto: a man following christ, as his forefathers had done. he was staying at a quiet inn in the village, and as soon as daybreak came he started down the road along which felicita must come, and waited at the entrance of the valley, four miles from the little village. the road was bad, for the heavy rains had washed much of it away, and it had been roughly repaired by fir-trees laid along the broken edges; but it was not impassable, and a one-horse carriage could run along it safely. the rain had passed away, and the sun was shining. the high mountains and the great rocks were clear from base to summit. if she came to-day there was a splendid scene prepared for her eyes. hour after hour passed by, the short autumnal day faded into the dusk, and the dusk slowly deepened into the blackness of night. still he waited, late on into the night, till the monastery bells chimed for the last time; but there was no sign of her coming. the next day passed as that had done. felicita, then, had deserted him! he felt so sure of phebe that he never doubted that she had not received his message. he had left only one thread of communication between himself and home--a slender thread--and felicita had broken it. there was now no hope for him, no chance of learning what had befallen all his dear ones, unless he ran the risk of discovery, and ventured back to england. but for felicita and his children, he said to himself, it would be better to go back, and pay the utmost penalty he owed to the broken laws of his country. no hardships could be greater than those he had already endured; no separation from companionship could be more complete. the hard labor he would be doomed to perform would be a relief. his conscience might smite him less sharply and less ceaselessly if he was suffering the due punishment for his sin, in the society of his fellow-criminals. dartmoor prison would be better for him than his miserable and degrading freedom. still, as long as he could elude publicity and preserve his name from notoriety, the burden would not fall upon felicita and his children. his mother would not shrink from bearing her share of any burden of his. but he must keep out of the dock, lest their father and husband should be branded as a convict. a dreary round his thoughts ran. but ever in the centre of the circling thoughts lay the conviction that he had lost his wife and children forever. whether he dragged out a wretched life in concealment, or was discovered, or gave himself up to justice, felicita was lost to him. there were some women--phebe marlowe was one--who could have lived through the shame of his conviction and the dreary term of his imprisonment, praying to god for her husband, and pitying him with a kind of heavenly grace, and at the end of the time met him at the prison door, and gone out with him, tenderly and faithfully, to begin a new life in another country. but felicita was not one of these women. he could never think of her as pardoning a transgression like his, though committed for her sake. even now she would not stoop so low as to seek a meeting with one who deserved a penal punishment. night had set in, and he was trudging along the road, still heavy with recent rains, though the sky above was hung with glittering stars, and the crystal snow on titlis shone against the deep blue depths, casting a wan light over the valley. suddenly upon the stillness there came the sound of several voices, and a shrill yodel, pitched in a key that rang through the village, to call attention to the approaching party. it was in advance of him, nearer to engelberg; yet though he had been watching the route from stans all day, and was satisfied that felicita could not have entered the valley unseen by himself, the hope flashed through him that she was before him, belated by the state of the roads. he hurried on, seeing before him a small group of men carrying lanterns. but in their midst they bore a rude litter, made of a gate taken hastily off the hinges. they passed out of sight behind a house as he caught sight of the litter, and for a minute or two he could not follow them, from the mere shock of dread lest the litter held her. then he hurried on, and reached the hotel door as the procession marched into the hall and laid their burden cautiously down. "an accident?" said the landlord. "yes," answered one of the peasants; "we found him under pfaffenwand. he must have been coming from engstlensee alp; how much farther the good god alone knows. the paths are slippery this wet weather, and he had no guide, or there was no guide to be seen." "that must be searched into," said the landlord; "is he dead?" "no, no," replied two or three together. "he has spoken twice," continued the peasant who had answered before, "and groaned much. but none of us knew what he said. he is dying, poor fellow!" "english?" asked the landlord, looking down on the scarred face and eager eyes of the stranger, who lay silent on the litter, glancing round uneasily at the faces about him. "some of us would have known french, or german, or italian," was the reply, "but not one of us knows english." "nor i," said the landlord; "and our english speaker went away last week, over the st. gothard to italy for the winter. send round, marie," he went on, speaking to his wife, "and find out any one in engelberg who knows english. see! the poor fellow is trying to say something now." "i can speak english," said roland, pushing his way in amid the crowd and kneeling down beside the litter, on which a rough bed of fir pine-branches had been made. the unknown face beneath his eyes was drawn with pain, and the gaze that met his was one of earnest entreaty. "i am dying," he murmured; "don't let them torture me. only let me be laid on a bed to die in peace." "i will take care of you," said roland in his pleasant and soothing voice, speaking as tenderly as if he had been saying "god bless you!" to felix in his little cot; "trust yourself to me. they shall do for you only what i think best." the stranger closed his eyes with an expression of relief, and roland, taking up one corner of the litter, helped to carry it gently into the nearest bedroom. he was gifted with something of a woman's softness of touch, and with a woman's delicate sympathy with pain; and presently, though not without some moans and cries, the injured man was resting peacefully on a bed: not unconscious, but looking keenly from face to face on the people surrounding him. "are you english?" he asked, looking at roland's blistered face and his worn peasant's dress. "yes," he answered. "is there any surgeon here?" he inquired. "no english surgeon," replied roland. "i do not know if there is one even at lucerne, and none could come to you for many hours. but there must be some one at the monastery close by, if not in the village--" "no, no!" he interrupted, "i shall not live many hours; but promise me--i am quite helpless as you see--promise me that you will not let any village doctor pull me about." "they are sometimes very skilful," urged roland, "and you do not know that you must really die." "i knew it as i was slipping," he answered; "at the first moment i knew it, though i clutched at the very stones to keep me from falling. why! i was dead when they found me; only the pain of being pulled about brought me back to life. i'm not afraid to die if they will let me die in peace." "i will promise not to leave you," replied roland; "and if you must die, it shall be in peace." that he must die, and was actually dying, was affirmed by all about him. one of the brothers from the monastery, skilled in surgery, came in unrecognized as a doctor by the stranger, and shook his head hopelessly when he saw him, telling roland to let him do whatever he pleased so long as he lived, and to learn all he could from him during the hours of the coming night. there was no hope, he said; and if he had not been found by the peasants he would have been dead now. roland must ask if he was a good catholic or a heretic. when the monk heard that he was a heretic and needed none of the consolations of the church, he bade him farewell kindly, and went his way. roland sefton sat beside the dying man all the night, while he lingered from hour to hour: free from pain at times, at others restless and racked with agony. he wandered a little in delirium, and when his brain was clear he had not much to say. "have you no message to send to your friends?" inquired roland, in one of these lucid intervals. "i have no friends," he answered, "and no money. it makes death easier." "there must be some one who would care to hear of you," said roland. "they'll see it in the papers," he replied. "no, i come from india, and was going to england. i have no near relations, and there is no one to care much. 'poor austin,' they'll say; 'he wasn't a bad fellow.' that's all. you've been kinder to me than anybody i know. there's about fifty pounds in my pocket-book. bury me decently and take the rest." he dozed a little, or was unconscious for a few minutes. his sunburnt face, lying on the white pillow, still looked full of health and the promise of life, except when it was contracted with pain. there was no weakness in his voice or dimness in his eye. it seemed impossible to believe that this strong young man was dying. "i lost my valise when i fell," he said, opening his eyes again and speaking in a tranquil tone; "but there was nothing of value in it. my money and my papers are in my pocket-book. let me see you take possession of it." he watched roland search for the book in the torn coat on the chair beside him, and his eyes followed its transfer to his breast-pocket under his blue blouse. "you are an english gentleman, though you look a swiss peasant," he said; "you are poor, perhaps, and my money will be of use to you. it is the only return i can make to you. i should like you to write down that i give it to you, and let me sign the paper." "presently," said roland; "you must not exert yourself. i shall find your name and address here?" "i have no address; of course i have a name," he answered; "but never mind that now. tell me, what do you think of christ? does he indeed save sinners?" "yes," said roland reluctantly; "he says, 'i came to seek and to save that which was lost.' those are his own words." "kneel down quickly," murmured the dying man. "say 'our father!' so that i can hear every word. my mother used to teach it to me." "and she is dead?" said roland. "years ago," he gasped. roland knelt down. how familiar, with what a touch of bygone days, the attitude came to him; how homely the words sounded! he had uttered them innumerable times; never quite without a feeling of their sacredness and sweetness. but he had not dared to take them into his lips of late. his voice faltered, though he strove to keep it steady and distinct, to reach the dying ears that listened to him. the prayer brought to him the picture of his children kneeling, morning and evening, with the self-same petitions. they had said them only a few hours ago, and would say them again a few hours hence. even the dying man felt there was something more than mere emotion for him expressed in the tremulous tones of roland sefton's voice. he held out his hand to him when he had finished, and grasped his warmly. "god bless you!" he said. but he was weary, and his strength was failing him. he slumbered again fitfully, and his mind wandered. now and then during the rest of the night he looked up with a faint smile, and his lips moved inarticulately. he thought he had spoken, but no sound disturbed the unbroken silence. chapter xiv. on the altar steps. it was as the bells of the abbey rang for matins that the stranger died. for a few minutes roland remained beside him, and then he called in the women to attend to the dead, and went out into the fresh morning air. it was the third day that the mountains had been clear from fog and cloud, and they stood out against the sky in perfect whiteness. the snow-line had come lower down upon the slopes, and the beautiful crystals of frost hung on the tapering boughs of the pine-trees in the forests about engelberg. here and there a few villagers were going toward the church, and almost unconsciously roland followed slowly in their track. the short service was over and the congregation was dispersing when he crossed the well-worn door-sill. but a few women, especially the late comers, were still scattered about praying mechanically, with their eyes wandering around them. the high altar was deserted, but candles burning on it made a light in the dim place, and he listlessly sauntered up the centre aisle. a woman was kneeling on the steps leading up to it, and as the echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet church she rose and looked round. it was felicita! at that moment he was not thinking of her; yet there was no doubt or surprise in the first moment of recognition. the uncontrollable rapture of seeing her again arrested his steps, and he stood looking at her, with a few paces between them. it was plain that she did not know him. how could she know him, he thought bitterly, in the rough blue blouse and coarse clothing and heavy hobnail boots of a swiss peasant? his hair was shaggy and uncut, and the skin of his face was so peeled and blistered and scorched that his disguise was sufficient to conceal him even from his wife. yet as he stood there with downcast head, as a devout peasant might have done before the altar, he saw felicita make a slight but imperious sign to him to advance. she did not take a step toward him, but leaning against the altar rails she waited till he was near to her, within hearing. there roland paused. "felicita," he said, not daring to draw closer to her. "i am here," she answered, not looking toward him; her large, dark, mournful eyes lifted up to the cross above the altar, before which a lamp was burning, whose light was reflected in her unshed tears. neither of them spoke again for a while. it seemed as if there could be nothing said, so great was the anguish of them both. the man who had just died had passed away tranquilly, but they were drinking of a cup more bitter than death. yet the few persons lingering over their morning devotions before the shrines in the side aisles saw nothing but a stranger looking at the painting over the altar, and a peasant kneeling on the lowest step deep in prayer. "i come from watching a fellow-man die," he said at last; "would to god it had been myself!" "yes!" sighed felicita, "that would have been best for us all." "you wish me dead!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. "for the children's sake," she murmured, still looking away from him; "yes! and for the sake of our name, your father's name, and mine. i thought to bring honor to it, and you have brought flagrant dishonor to it." "that can never be wiped away," he added. "never!" she repeated. as if exhausted by these passionate words, they fell again into silence. the murmur of whispered prayers was about them, and the faint scent of incense floated under the arched roof. a gleam of morning light, growing stronger, though the sun was still far below the eastern mountains, glittered through a painted window, and threw a glow of color upon them. roland saw her standing in its many-tinted brightness, but her wan and sorrowful face was not turned to look at him. he had not caught a glance from her yet. how vividly he remembered the first moment his eyes had ever beheld her, standing as she did now on these very altar steps, with uplifted eyes and a sweet seriousness on her young face! it was only a poor village church, but it was the most sacred spot in the whole world to him; for there he had met felicita and received her image into his inmost heart. his ambition as well as his love had centred in her, the penniless daughter of the late lord riversford, an orphan, and dependent upon her father's brother and successor. but to roland his wife felicita was immeasurably dearer than the girl felicita riversford had been. all the happy days since he had won her, all the satisfied desires, all his successes were centred in her and represented by her. all his crime too. "i have loved you," he cried, "better than the whole world." there was no answer by word or look to his passionate words. "i have loved you," he said, more sadly, "better than god." "but you have brought me to shame!" she answered; "if i am tracked here--and who can tell that i am not?--and if you are taken and tried and convicted, i shall be the wife of the fraudulent banker and condemned felon, roland sefton. and felix and hilda will be his children." "it is true," he groaned; "i could not escape conviction." he buried his face in his hands, and rested them on the altar-rails. now his bowed-down head was immediately beneath her eyes, and she looked down upon it with a mournful gaze; it could not have been more mournful if she had been contemplating his dead face lying at rest in his coffin. how was all this shame and misery for him and her to end? "felicita," he said, lifting up his head, and meeting the sorrowful farewell expression in her face, "if i could die it would be best for the children and you." "yes," she answered, in the sweet, too dearly loved voice he had listened to in happy days. "i dare not open that door of escape for myself," he went on, "and god does not send death to me. but i see a way, a possible way. i only see it this moment; but whether it be for good or evil i cannot tell." "will it save us?" she asked eagerly. "all of us," he replied. "this stranger, whose corpse i have just left--nobody knows him, and he has no friends to trouble about him--shall i give to him my name, and bury him as myself? then i shall be dead to all the world, felicita; dead even to you; but you will be saved. i too shall be safe in the grave, for death covers all sins. even old clifford will be satisfied by my death." "could it be done?" she asked breathlessly. "yes," he said; "if you consent it shall be done. for my own sake i would rather go back to england and deliver myself up to the law i have broken. but you shall decide, my darling. if i return you will be known as the wife of the convict sefton. say: shall i be henceforth dead forever to you and my mother and the children? shall it be a living death for me, and deliverance and safety and honor for you all? you must choose between my infamy or my death." "it must be," she answered, slowly yet without hesitation, looking away from him to the cross above the altar, "your death." a shudder ran through her slight frame as she spoke, and thrilled through him as he listened. it seemed to them both as if they stood beside an open grave, on either side one, and parted thus. he stretched out his hand to her, and laid it on her dress, as if appealing for mercy; but she did not turn to him, or look upon him, or open her white lips to utter another word. then there came more stir and noise in the church, footsteps sounded upon the pavement, and an inquisitive face peeped out of the vestry near the altar where they stood. it was no longer prudent to remain as they were, subject to curiosity and scrutiny. roland rose from his knees, and without glancing again toward her, he spoke in a low voice of unutterable grief and supplication. "let me see you and speak to you once more," he said. "once more," she repeated. "this evening," he continued, "at your hotel." "yes," she answered. "i am travelling under phebe marlowe's name. ask for mrs. marlowe." she turned away and walked slowly and feebly down the aisle; and he watched her, as he had watched the light tread of the young girl eleven years ago, passing through alternate sunshine and shadow. there was no sunshine now. was it possible that so long a time had passed since then? could it be true that for ten years she had been his wife, and that the tie between them was forever dissolved? from this day he was to be dead to her and to all the world. he was about to pass voluntarily into a condition of death amid life, as utterly bereft of all that had once been his as if the grave had closed over him. roland sefton was to exist no more. chapter xv. a second fraud. roland sefton went back to the room in which the corpse of the stranger was now lying. the women were gone, and he turned down the sheet to look at the face of the man who was about to bear his name and the disgrace of his crime into the safe asylum of the grave. it was perfectly calm, with no trace of the night's suffering upon it; there was even a faint vestige of a smile about the mouth, as of one who sleeps well, and has pleasant dreams. he was apparently about roland's own age, and a description given by strangers would not be such as would lead to any suspicion that there could have been a mistake as to identity. roland looked long upon it before covering it up again, and then he sat down beside the bed and opened the pocket-book. there were notes in it worth fifty pounds, but not many papers. there was a memorandum made here and there of the places he had visited, and the last entry was dated the day before at engstlenalp. roland knew every step of the road, and for a while he seemed to himself to be this traveller, starting from the little inn, not yet vacated by its peasant landlord, but soon to be left to icy solitude, and taking the narrow path along the engstlensee, toiling up the joch pass under the mighty wendenstöcke and the snowy titlis, clear of clouds from base to summit yesterday. the traveller must have had a guide with him, some peasant or herdsman probably, as far as the trübsee alp; for even in summer the route was difficult to find. the guide had put him on to the path for engelberg, and left him to make his way along the precipitous slopes of the pfaffenwand. all this would be discovered when an official inquiry was made into the accident. in the mean time it was necessary to invest this stranger with his own identity. there were two or three well-worn letters in the pocket-book, but they contained nothing of importance. it seemed true, what the dying man had said, that there was no link of kinship or friendship binding him specially to his fellow-men. roland opened his own pocket-book, and looked over a letter or two which he had carried about with him, one of them a childish note from felix, preferring some simple request. his passport was there also, and his mother's portrait and those of the children, over which his eyes brooded with a hungry sorrow in his heart. he looked at them for the last time. but felicita's portrait he could not bring himself to give up. she would be dead to him, and he to her. in england she would live among her friends as his widow, pitied, and comforted, and beloved. but what would the coming years bring to him? all that would remain to him of the past would be a fading photograph only. so long he lingered over this mournful conflict that he was at last aroused from it by the entrance of the landlord, and the mayor and other officials, who had come to look at the body of the dead. roland's pocket-book lay open on the bed, and he was still gazing at the portraits of his children. he raised his sunburnt face as they came in, and rose to meet them. "this traveller," he said, "gave to me his pocket-book as i watched beside him last night. it is here, containing his passport, a few letters, and fifty pounds in notes, which he told me to keep, but which i wish to give to the commune." "they must be taken charge of," said the mayor; "but we will look over them first. did he tell you who he was?" "the passport discloses that," answered roland; "he desired only a decent funeral." "ah!" said the mayor, taking out the passport, "an english traveller; name roland sefton; and these letters, and these portraits--they will be enough for identification." "he said he had no friends or family in england," pursued roland, "and there is no address among his letters. he told me he came from india." "then there need be no delay about the interment," remarked the mayor, "if he had no family in england, and was just come from india. bah! we could not keep him till any friends came from india. it is enough. we must make an inquiry; but the corpse cannot be kept above ground. the interment may take place as soon as you please, monsieur." "i suppose you will wish for some trifle as payment?" said the landlord, addressing roland. "no," he answered, "i only watched by him through the night; and i am but a passing traveller like himself." "you will assist at the funeral?" he asked. "if it can be to-morrow," replied roland; "if not i must go on to lucerne. but i shall come back to engelberg. if it be necessary for me to stay, and the commune will pay my expenses, i will stay." "not necessary at all," said the mayor; "the accident is too simple, and he has no friends. why should the commune lose by him?" "there are the fifty pounds," suggested roland. "and there are the expenses!" said the mayor. "no, no. it is not necessary for you to stay; not at all. if you are coming back again to engelberg it will be all right. you say you are coming back?" "i am sure to come back to engelberg," he answered, with gloomy emphasis. for already roland began to feel that he, himself, was dead, and a new life, utterly different from the old, was beginning for him. and this new life, beginning here, would often draw him back to its birth-place. there would be an attraction for him here, even in the humble grave where men thought they had buried roland sefton. it would be the only link with his former life, and it would draw him to it irresistibly. "and what is your name and employment, my good fellow?" asked the mayor. "jean merle," he answered promptly. "i am a wood-carver." the deed he had only thought of an hour ago was accomplished, and there could be no undoing it. this passport and these papers would be forwarded to the embassy at berne, where doubtless his name was already known as a fugitive criminal. he could not reclaim them, for with them he took up again the burden of his sin. he had condemned himself to a penalty and sacrifice the most complete that man could think of, or put into execution. roland sefton was dead, and his wife and children were set free from the degradation he had brought upon them. he spent the remaining hours of the day in wandering about the forests in the alpine valley. the autumn fogs and the dense rain-clouds were gathering again. but it was nothing to him that the snowy crests of the surrounding mountains were once more shrouded from view, or that the torrents and waterfalls which he could not see were thundering and roaring along their rocky channels with a vast effluence of waters. he saw and heard no more than the dead man who bore his name. he was insensible to hunger or fatigue. except for felicita's presence in the village behind him he would have felt himself in another world; in a beamless and lifeless abyss, where there was no creature like unto himself; only eternal gloom and solitude. it was quite dark before he passed again through the village on his way to felicita's hotel. the common light of lamps, and the every-day life of ordinary men and women busy over their evening meal, astonished him, as if he had come from another state of existence. he lingered awhile, looking on as at some extraordinary spectacle. then he went on to the hotel standing a little out of and above the village. the place, so crowded in the summer, was quiet enough now. a bright light, however, streamed through the window of the salon, which was uncurtained. he stopped and looked in at felicita, who was sitting alone by the log fire, with her white forehead resting on her small hand, which partly hid her face. how often had he seen her sitting thus by the fireside at home! but though he stood without in the dark and cold for many minutes, she did not stir; neither hand nor foot moved. at last he grew terrified at this utter immobility, and stepping through the hall he told the landlady that the english lady had business with him. he opened the door, and then felicita looked up. chapter xvi. parting words. roland advanced a few paces into the gaudy salon, with its mirrors reflecting his and felicita's figures over and over again, and stood still, at a little distance from her, with his rough cap in his hand. he looked like one of the herdsmen with whom he had been living during the summer. there was no one else in the large room, but the night was peering in through half a dozen great uncurtained windows, which might hold many spectators watching them, as he had watched her a minute ago. she scarcely moved, but the deadly pallor of her face and the dark shining of her tearless eyes fixed upon him made him tremble as if he had been a woman weaker than herself. "it is done," he said. "yes," she answered, "i have been to see him." there was an accent in her voice, of terror and repugnance, as of one who had witnessed some horrifying sight and was compelled to bear a reluctant testimony to it. roland himself felt a shock of antipathy at the thought of his wife seeing this unknown corpse bearing his name. he seemed to see her standing beside the dead, and looking down with those beloved eyes upon the strange face, which would dwell for evermore in her memory as well as his. why had she subjected herself to this needless pang? "you wished it?" he said. "you consented to my plan?" "yes," she answered in the same monotonous tone of reluctant testimony. "and it was best so, felicita," he said tenderly; "we have done the dead man no wrong. remember he was alone, and had no friends to grieve over his strange absence. if it had been otherwise there would have been a terrible sin in our act. but it has set you free; it saves you and my mother and the children. as long as i lived you would have been in peril; but now there is a clear, safe course laid open for you. you will go home to england, where in a few months it will be forgotten that your husband was suspected of crime. only old clifford, and marlowe, and two or three others will remember it. when you have the means, repay those poor people the money i owe them. and take comfort, felicita. it would have done them no good if i had been taken and convicted; that would not have restored their money. my name then will be clear of all but suspicion, and you will make it a name for our children to inherit." "and you?" she breathed with lips that scarcely moved. "i?" he said. "why, i shall be dead! a man's life is not simply the breath he draws: it is his country, his honor, his home. you are my life, felicita: you and my mother and felix and hilda; the old home where my forefathers dwelt; my townsmen's esteem and good-will; the work i could do, and hoped to do. losing those i lost my life. i began to die when i first went wrong. the way seemed right in my own eyes, but the end of it was death. i told old marlowe his money was as safe as in the bank of england, when i was keeping it in my own hands; but i believed it then. that was the first step; this is the last. henceforth i am dead." "but how will you live?" she asked. "never fear; jean merle will earn his living," he answered. "let us think of your future, my darling. nay, let me call you darling once more. my death provides for you, for your marriage-settlement will come into force. you will have to live differently, my felicita; all the splendor and the luxury i would have surrounded you with must be lost. but there will be enough, and my mother will manage your household well for you. be kind to my poor mother, and comfort her. and do not let my children grow up with hard thoughts of their father. it will be a painful task to you." "yes," she said. "oh, roland, we ought not to have done this thing!" "yet you chose," he replied. "yes; and i should choose it again, though i hate the falsehood," she exclaimed vehemently. "i cannot endure shame. but all our future life will be founded on a lie." "let the blame be mine, not yours," he said; "it was my plan, and there is no going back from it now. but tell me about home. how are my children and my mother? they are still at home?" "no," she answered; "the police watched it day and night, till it grew hateful to me. i shall never enter it again. we went away to the sea-side three months ago, and there our mother and the children are still. but when i get back we shall remove to london." "to london!" he repeated. "will you never go home to riversborough?" "never again!" she replied. "i could not live there now; it is a hateful spot to me. your mother grieves bitterly over leaving it; but even she sees that we can never live there again." "i shall not even know how to think of you all!" he cried. "you will be living in some strange house, which i can never picture to myself. and the old home will be empty." "mr. clifford is living in it," she said. he threw up his hands with a gesture of grief and vexation. whenever his thoughts flew to the old home, the only home he had ever known, it would be only to remember that the man he most dreaded, he who was his most implacable enemy, was dwelling in it. and when would he cease to think of his own birth-place and the birth-place of his children, the home where felicita had lived? it would be impossible to blot the vivid memory of it from his brain. "i shall never see it again," he said; "but i should have felt less banished from you if i could have thought of you as still at home. we are about to part forever, felicita--as fully as if i lay dead down yonder, as men will think i do." "yes," she answered, with a mournful stillness. "even if we wished to hold any intercourse with each other," he continued, gazing wistfully at her, "it would be dangerous to us both. it is best for us both to be dead to one another." "it is best," she assented; "only if you were ever in great straits, if you could not earn your living, you might contrive to let me know." "there is no fear of that," he answered bitterly. "felicita, you never loved me as i love you." "no," she said, with the same inexpressible sadness, yet calmness, in her voice and face; "how could i? i was a child when you married me; we were both children. there is such a difference between us. i suppose i should never love any one very much--not as you mean. it is not in my nature. i can live alone, roland. all of you, even the children, seem very far away from me. but i grieve for you in my inmost soul. if i could undo what you have done i would gladly lay down my life. if i could only undo what we did this morning! the shadow of it is growing darker and darker upon me. and yet it seemed so wise; it seems so still. we shall be safe again, all of us, and we have done that dead man no wrong." "none," he said. "but when i think of you," she went on, "how you, still living, will long to know what is befalling us, how the children are growing up, and how your mother is, and how i live, yet never be able to satisfy this longing; how you will have to give us up, and never dare to make a sign; how you will drag on your life from year to year, a poor man among poor, ignorant, stupid men; how i may die, and you not know it, or you may die, and i not know it; i wonder how we could have done what we did this morning." "oh, hush, hush, felicita!" he exclaimed; "i have said all this to myself all this day, until i feel that my punishment is harder than i can bear. tell me, shall we undo it? shall i go to the mayor and deliver myself up as the man whose name i have given to the dead? it can be done still; it is not too late. you shall decide again." "no; i cannot accept disgrace," she answered passionately; "it is an evil thing to do, but it must be done. we must take the consequences. you and i are dead to one another for evermore; but your death is more terrible than mine. i shall grieve over you more than if you were really dead. why does not god send death to those that desire it? good-by now forever, roland. i return to england to act this lie, and you must never, never seek me out as your wife. promise me that. i would repudiate you if i lay on my death-bed." "i will never seek you out and bring you to shame," he said; "i promise it faithfully, by my love for you. as i hope ever to obtain pardon, i promise it." "then leave me," she cried; "i can bear this no longer. good-by, roland." they were still some paces apart, he with his shaggy mountain cap in his hand standing respectfully at a distance, and she, sitting by the low, open hearth with her white, quiet face turned toward him. all the village might have witnessed their interview through the uncurtained windows. slowly, almost mechanically, felicita left her seat and advanced toward him with an outstretched hand. it was cold as ice as he seized it eagerly in his own; the hand of the dead man could not have been colder or more lifeless. he held it fast in a hard, unconscious grip. "good-by, my wife," he said; "god bless and keep you!" "is there any god?" she sobbed. but there was a sound at the door, the handle was being turned, and they fell apart guiltily. a maid entered to tell madame her chamber was prepared, and without another word felicita walked quickly from the salon, leaving him alone. he caught a glimpse of her again the next morning as she came down-stairs and entered the little carriage which was to take her down to stansstad in time to catch the boat to lucerne. she was starting early, before it was fairly dawn, and he saw her only by the dim light of lamps, which burned but feebly in the chilly damp of the autumn atmosphere. for a little distance he followed the sound of the carriage wheels, but he arrested his own footsteps. for what good was it to pursue one whom he must never find again? she was gone from him forever. he was a young man yet, and she still younger. but for his folly and crime a long and prosperous life might have stretched before them, each year knitting their hearts and souls more closely together; and he had forfeited all. he turned back up the valley broken-hearted. later in the day he stood beside the grave of the man who was bearing away his name from disgrace. the funeral had been hurried on, and the stranger was buried in a neglected part of the churchyard, being friendless and a heretic. it was quickly done, and when the few persons who had taken part in it were dispersed, roland sefton lingered alone beside the desolate grave. chapter xvii. waiting for the news. felicita hurried homeward night and day without stopping, as if she had been pursued by a deadly enemy. madame and the children were not at scarborough, but at a quiet little fishing village on the eastern coast; for felicita had found scarborough too gay in the month of august, and her cousins, the riversfords, having appeared there, she retreated to the quietest spot that could be found. to this village she returned, after being absent little more than a week. madame knew nothing of her journey; but the mere fact that felicita was going away alone had aroused in her the hope that it was connected in some way with roland. in some vague manner this idea had been communicated to felix, and both were expecting to see the long-lost father and son come back with her. roland's prolonged and mysterious absence had been a sore trial to his mother, though her placid and trustful nature had borne it patiently. surely, she thought, the trial was coming to an end. felicita reached their lodgings utterly exhausted and worn out. she was a delicate woman, in no way inured to fatigue, and though she had been insensible to the overstrain of the unbroken journey as she was whirled along railways and passed from station to station, a sense of complete prostration seized upon her as soon as she found herself at home. day after day she lay in bed, in a darkened room, unwilling to lift her voice above a whisper, waiting in a kind of torpid dread for the intelligence that she knew must soon come. she had been at home several days, and still there was no news. was it possible, she asked herself, that this unknown traveller, and his calamitous fate, should pass on into perfect oblivion and leave matters as they were before? for a cloud would hang over her and her children as long as roland was the object of pursuit. while he was a fugitive criminal, of interest to the police officers of all countries, there was no security for their future. the lie to which she had given a guilty consent was horrible to her, but her morbid dread of shame was more horrible. she had done evil that good might come; but if the good failed, the evil would still remain as a dark stain upon her soul, visible to herself, if to none else. "i will get up to-day," she said at last, to madame's great delight. she never ventured to exert any authority over her beautiful and clever daughter-in-law--not even the authority of a mildly expressed wish. she was willing to be to felicita anything that felicita pleased--her servant and drudge, her fond mother, or her quiet, attentive companion. since her return from her mysterious journey she had been very tender to her, as tenderly and gently demonstrative as felicita would ever permit her to be. "have you seen any newspapers lately?" asked felicita. "i never read the papers, my love," answered madame. "i should like to see to-day's _times_," said felicita. but it was impossible to get it in this village without ordering it beforehand, and felicita gave up her wish with the listless indifference of an invalid. when the late sun of the november day had risen from behind a heavy bank of clouds she ventured down to the quiet shore. there were no visitors left beside themselves, so there were no curious eyes to scan her white, sad face. for a short time felix and hilda played about her; but by and by madame, thinking she was weary and worried, allured them away to a point where they were still in sight, though out of hearing. the low, cold sun shed its languid and watery rays upon the rocks and creeping tide, and, unnoticed, almost unseen, felicita could sit there in stillness, gazing out over the chilly and mournful sea. there was something so unutterably sad about felicita's condition that it awed the simple, cheerful nature of madame. it was more than illness and exhaustion. the white, unsmiling face, the drooping head, the languor of the thin, long hands, the fathomless sorrow lurking behind her dark eyes--all spoke of a heart-sickness such as madame had never seen or dreamed of. the children did not cheer their mother. when she saw that, madame felt that there was nothing to be done but to leave her in the cold solitude she loved. but as felicita sat alone on the shore, looking listlessly at the fleeting sails which were passing to and fro upon the sea, she saw afar off the figure of a girl coming swiftly toward her from the village, and before many moments had passed she recognized phebe marlowe's face. a great throb of mingled relief and dread made her heart beat violently. nothing could have brought phebe away, so far from home, except the news of roland's death. the rosy color on phebe's face was gone, and the brightness of her blue eyes was faded; but there was the same out-looking of a strong, simple, unselfish soul shining through them. as she drew near to felicita she stretched out her arms with the instinctive gesture of one who was come to comfort and support, and felicita, with a strange, impulsive feeling that she brought consolation and help, threw herself into them. "i know it all," said phebe in a low voice. "oh, what you must have suffered! he was going to engelberg to meet you, and you never saw him alive! oh, why did not god let you meet each other once again? but god loved him. i can never think that god had not forgiven him, for he was grieved because of his sin when i saw him the night he got away. and in all things else he was so good! oh, how good he was!" phebe's tears were falling fast, and her words were choked with sobs. but felicita's face was hidden against her neck, and she could not see if she was weeping. "everybody is talking of him in riversborough," she went on, "and now they all say how good he always was, and how unlikely it is that he was guilty. they will forget it soon. those who remember him will think kindly of him, and be grieved for him. but oh, i would give worlds for him to have lived and made amends! if he could only have proved that he had repented! if he could only have outlived it all, and made everybody know that he was really a good man, one whom god had delivered out of sin!" "it was impossible!" murmured felicita. "no, not impossible!" she cried earnestly; "it was not an unpardonable sin. even if he had gone to prison, as he would, he might have faced the world when he came out again; and if he'd done all the good he could in it, it might have been hard to convince them he was good, but it would never be impossible. if god forgives us, sooner or later our fellow-creatures will forgive us, if we live a true life. i would have stood by him in the face of the world, and you would, and madame and the children. he would not have been left alone, and it would have ended in every one else coming round to us. oh, why should he die when you were just going to see each other again!" felicita had sunk down again into the chair which had been carried for her to the shore, and phebe sat down on the sands at her feet. she looked up tearfully into felicita's wan and shrunken face. "did any one ever win back their good name?" asked felicita with quivering lips. "among us they do sometimes," she answered. "i knew a working-man who had been in jail five years, and he became a christian while he was there, and he came back home to his own village. he was one of the best men i ever knew, and when he died there was such a funeral as had never been seen in the parish church. why should it not be so? if god is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, why shouldn't we forgive? if we are faithful and just, we shall." "it could never be," said felicita; "it cannot be the same as if roland had not been guilty. no one can blot out the past; it is eternal." "yes," she replied, covering felicita's hand with kisses and tears; "but oh, we love him more now than ever. he is gone into the land of thick darkness, and i cannot follow him in my thoughts. it is like a gulf between us and him. even if he had been farthest away from us in the world--anywhere--we could imagine what he was doing; but we cannot see him or call across the gulf to him. it is all unknown. only god knows!" "god!" echoed felicita; "if there is a god, let him help me, for i am the most wretched woman on his earth to-day." "god cannot keep from helping us all," answered phebe. "he cannot rest while we are wretched. i understand it better than i used to do. i cannot rest myself while the poorest creature about me is in pain that i can help. it is impossible that he should not care. that would be an awful thing to think; that would make his love and pity less than ours. this i know, that god loves every creature he has made. and oh, he must have loved him, though he was suffered to fall over that dreadful precipice, and die before you saw him. it happened before you reached engelberg?" "yes," said felicita, shivering. "the papers were sent on to mr. clifford," continued phebe, "and he sent for me to come with him, and see you before the news got into the papers. it will be in to-morrow. but i knew more than he did, and i came on here to speak to you. shall you tell him you went there to meet him?" "oh, no, no!" cried felicita; "it must never be known, dear phebe." "and his mother and the children--they, know nothing?" she said. "not a word, and it is you who must tell them, phebe," she answered. "how could i bear to tell them that he is dead? never let them speak about it to me; never let his name be mentioned." "how can i comfort you?" cried phebe. "i can never be comforted," she replied despairingly; "but it is like death to hear his name." the voices of the children coming nearer reached their ears. they had seen from their distant playground another figure sitting close beside felicita, and their curiosity had led them to approach. now they recognized phebe, and a glad shout rang through the air. she bent down hurriedly to kiss felicita's cold hand once again, and then she rose to meet them, and prevent them from seeing their mother's deep grief. "i will go and tell them, poor little things!" she said, "and madame. oh, what can i do to help you all? mr. clifford is at your lodgings, waiting to see you as soon as you can meet him." she did not stay for an answer, but ran to meet felix and hilda; while slowly, and with much guilty shrinking from the coming interview, felicita went back to the village, where mr. clifford was awaiting her. chapter xviii. the dead are forgiven. roland sefton's pocket-book, containing his passport and the papers and photographs, had reached mr. clifford the day before, with an official intimation of his death from the consulate at berne. the identification was complete, and the inquiry into the fatal accident had resulted in blame to no one, as the traveller had declined the services of a trustworthy guide from meirengen to engelberg. this was precisely what roland would have done, the whole country being as familiar to him as to any native. no doubt crossed mr. clifford's mind that his old friend's son had met his untimely end while a fugitive from his country, from dread chiefly of his own implacable sense of justice. roland was dead, but justice was not satisfied. mr. clifford knew perfectly well that the news of his tragic fate would create an immediate and complete reaction in his favor among his fellow-townsmen. hitherto he had been only vaguely accused of crime, which his absence chiefly had tended to fasten upon him; but as there had been no opportunity of bringing him to public trial, it would soon be believed that there was no evidence against him. many persons thought already that the junior partner was away either on pleasure or business, because the senior had taken his place. only a few, himself and the three or four obscure people who actually suffered from his defalcations, would recollect them. by and by roland sefton would be remembered as the kind, benevolent, even christian man, whose life, so soon cut short, had been full of promise for his native town. mr. clifford himself felt a pang of regret and sorrow when he heard the news. years ago he had loved the frank, warm-hearted boy, his friend's only child, with a very true affection. he had an only boy, too, older than roland by a few years, and these two were to succeed their fathers in the long-established firm. then came the bitter disappointment in his own son. but since he had suffered his son to die in his sins, reaping the full harvest of his transgressions, he had felt that any forgiveness shown to other offenders would be a cruel injustice to him. yet as roland's passport and the children's photographs lay before him on his office desk--the same desk at which roland was sitting but a few months ago, a man in the full vigor of life, with an apparently prosperous and happy future lying before him--mr. clifford for a moment or two yielded to the vain wish that roland had thrown himself on his mercy. yet his conscience told him that he would have refused to show him mercy, and his regret was mingled with a tinge of remorse. his first care was to prevent the intelligence reaching felicita by means of the newspapers, and he sent immediately for phebe marlowe to accompany him to the sea-side, in order to break the news to her. phebe's excessive grief astonished him, though she had so much natural control over herself, in her sympathy for others, as to relieve him of all anxiety on her account, and to keep felicita's secret journey from being suspected. but to phebe, roland's death was fraught with more tragic circumstances than any one else could conceive. he was hastening to meet his wife, possibly with some scheme for their future, which might have hope and deliverance in it, when this calamity hurried him away into the awful, unknown world, on whose threshold we are ever standing. but for her ardent sympathy for felicita, phebe would have been herself overwhelmed. it was the thought of her, with this terrible and secret addition to her sorrow, which bore her through the long journey and helped her to meet felicita with something like calmness. from the bay-window of the lodging-house mr. clifford watched felicita coming slowly and feebly toward the house. so fragile she looked, so unutterably sorrow-stricken, that a rush of compassion and pity opened the floodgates of his heart, and suffused his stern eyes with tears. doubtless phebe had told her all. yet she was coming alone to meet him, her husband's enemy and persecutor, as if he was a friend. he would be a friend such as she had never known before. there would be no vain weeping, no womanish wailing in her; her grief was too deep for that. and he would respect it; he would spare her all the pain he could. at this moment, if roland could have risen from the dead, he would have clasped him in his arms, and wept upon his neck, as the father welcomed his prodigal son. felicita did not speak when she entered the room, but looked at him with a steadfastness in her dark sad eyes which again dimmed his with tears. almost fondly he pressed her hands in his, and led her to a chair, and placed another near enough for him to speak to her in a low and quiet voice, altogether unlike the awful tones he used in the bank, which made the clerks quail before him. his hand trembled as he took the little photographs out of their envelope, so worn and stained, and laid them before her. she looked at them with tearless eyes, and let them fall upon her lap as things of little interest. "phebe has told you?" he said pitifully. "yes," she whispered. "you did not know before?" he said. she shook her head mutely. a long, intricate path of falsehood stretched before her, from which she could not turn aside, a maze in which she was already entangled and lost; but her lips were reluctant to utter the first words of untruth. "these were found on him," he continued, pointing to the children's portraits. "i am afraid we cannot doubt the facts. the description is like him, and his papers and passport place the identity beyond a question. but i have dispatched a trusty messenger to switzerland to make further inquiries, and ascertain every particular." "will he see him?" asked felicita with a start of terror. "no, my poor girl," said the old banker; "it happened ten days ago, and he was buried, so they say, almost immediately. but i wish to have a memorial stone put over his grave, that if any of us, i or you, or the children, should wish to visit it at some future time, it should not be past finding." he spoke tenderly and sorrowfully, as if he imagined himself standing beside the grave of his old friend's son, recalling the past and grieving over it. his own boy was buried in some unknown common _fosse_ in paris. felicita looked up at him with her strange, steady, searching gaze. "you have forgiven him?" she said. "yes," he answered; "men always forgive the dead." "oh, roland! roland!" she cried, wringing her hands for an instant. then, resuming her composure, she gazed quietly into his pitiful face again. "it is kind of you to think of his grave," she said; "but i shall never go there, nor shall the children go, if i can help it." "hush!" he answered imperatively. "you, then, have not forgiven him? yet i forgive him, who have lost most." "you!" she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of passion. "you have lost a few thousand pounds; but what have i lost? my faith and trust in goodness; my husband's love and care. i have lost him, the father of my children, my home--nay, even myself. i am no longer what i thought i was. that is what roland robs me of; and you say it is more for you to forgive than for me!" he had never seen her thus moved and vehement, and he shrank a little from it, as most men shrink from any unusual exhibition of emotion. though she had not wept, he was afraid now of a scene, and hastened to speak of another subject. "well, well," he said soothingly, "that is all true, no doubt. poor roland! but i am your husband's executor and the children's guardian, conjointly with yourself. it will be proved immediately, and i shall take charge of your affairs." "i thought," she answered, in a hesitating manner, "that there was nothing left, that we were ruined and had nothing. why did roland take your bonds if he had money? why did he defraud other people? there cannot be any money coming to me and the children, and why should the will be proved?" "my dear girl," he said, "you know nothing about affairs. your uncle, lord riversford, would never have allowed roland to marry you without a settlement, and a good one too. his death was the best thing for you. it saves you from poverty and dependence, as well as from disgrace. i hardly know yet how matters stand, but you will have little less than a thousand a year. you need not trouble yourself about these matters; leave them to me and lord riversford. he called upon me yesterday, as soon as he heard the sad news, and we arranged everything." felicita did not hear his words distinctly, though her brain caught their meaning vaguely. she was picturing herself free from poverty, surrounded with most of her accustomed luxuries, and shielded from every hardship, while roland was homeless and penniless, cast upon his own resources to earn his daily bread and a shelter for every night, with nothing but a poor handicraft to support him. she had not expected this contrast in their lot. poverty had seemed to lie before her also. but now how often would his image start up before her as she had seen him last, gaunt and haggard, with rough hair and blistered skin serving him as a mask, clad in coarse clothing, already worn and ragged, not at rest in the grave, as every one but herself believed him, but dragging out a miserable and sordid existence year by year, with no hopes for the future, and no happy memories of the past! "mr. clifford," she said, when the sound of his voice humming in her ears had ceased, "i shall not take one farthing of any money settled upon me by my husband. i have no right to it. let it go to pay the sums he appropriated. i will maintain myself and my children." "you cannot do it," he replied; "you do not know what you are talking about. the money is settled upon your children; all that belongs to you is the yearly income from it." "that, at least, i will never touch," she said earnestly; "it shall be set aside to repay those just claims. when all those are paid i will take it, but not before. yours is the largest, and i will take means to find out the others. with my mother's two hundred a year and what i earn myself, we shall keep the children. lord riversford has no control over me. i am a woman, and i will act for myself." "you cannot do it," he repeated; "you have no notion of what you are undertaking to do. mrs. sefton, my dear young lady, i am come, with lord riversford's sanction, to ask you to return to your home again, to madame's old home--your children's birth-place. i think, and lord riversford thinks, you should come back, and bring up felix to take his grandfather's and father's place." "his father's place!" interrupted felicita. "no, my son shall never enter into business. i would rather see him a common soldier or sailor, or day-laborer, earning his bread by any honest toil. he shall have no traffic in money, such as his father had; he shall have no such temptations. whatever my son is, he shall never be a banker." "good heavens, madam!" exclaimed mr. clifford. felicita's stony quietude was gone, and in its place was such a passionate energy as he had never witnessed before in any woman. "it was money that tempted roland to defraud you and dishonor himself," she said; "it drove poor acton to commit suicide, and it hardened your heart against your friend's son. felix shall be free from it. he shall earn his bread and his place in the world in some other way, and till he can do that i will earn it for him. every shilling i spend from henceforth shall be clean, the fruit of my own hands, not roland's--not his, whether he be alive or dead." before mr. clifford could answer, the door was flung open, and felix, breathless with rapid running, rushed into the room and flung himself into his mother's arms. no words could come at first; but he drew long and terrible sobs. the boy's upturned face was pale, and his eyes, tearless as her own had been, were fastened in an agony upon hers. she could not soothe or comfort him, for she knew his grief was wasted on a falsehood; but she looked down on her son's face with a feeling of terror. "oh, my father! my beloved father!" he sobbed at last. "is he dead, mother? you never told me anything that wasn't true. he can't be dead, though phebe says so. is it true, mother?" felicita bent her head till it rested on the boy's uplifted face. his sobs shook her, and the close clasp of his arms was painful; but she neither spoke nor moved. she heard phebe coming in, and knew that roland's mother was there, and hilda came to clasp her little arms about her as felix was doing. but her heart had gone back to the moment when roland had knelt beside her in the quiet little church, and she had said to him deliberately, "i choose your death." he was dead to her. "is it true, mother?" wailed felix. "oh, tell me it isn't true!" "it is true," she answered. but the long, tense strain had been too much for her strength, and she sank fainting on the ground. chapter xix. author and publisher. it was all in vain that mr. clifford tried to turn felicita from her resolution. phebe cordially upheld her, and gave her courage to persist against all arguments. both of them cared little for poverty--phebe because she knew it, felicita because she did not know it. felicita had never known a time when money had to be considered; it had come to her pretty much in the same way as the air she breathed and the food she ate, without any care or prevision of her own. phebe, on the other hand, knew that she could earn her own living at any time by the work of her strong young arms, and her wants were so few that they could easily be supplied. it was decided before phebe went home again, and decided in the face of mr. clifford's opposition, that a small house should be taken in london, and partly furnished from the old house at riversborough, where felicita would be in closer and easier communication with the publishers. mr. clifford laughed to himself at the idea that she could gain a maintenance by literature, as all the literary people he had ever met or heard of bewailed their poverty. but there was madame's little income of two hundred a year: that formed a basis, not altogether an insecure or despicable one. it would pay more than the rent, with the rates and taxes. the yearly income from felicita's marriage settlement, which no representations could persuade her to touch, was to go to the gradual repayment of roland's debts, the poorest men being paid first, and mr. clifford, who reluctantly consented to the scheme, to receive his the last. though madame had never believed in her son's guilt, her just and simple soul was satisfied and set at rest by this arrangement. she had not been able to blame him, but it had been a heavy burden to her to think of others suffering loss through him. it was then almost with cheerfulness that she set herself to keep house for her daughter-in-law and her grand-children under such widely different circumstances. before christmas a house was found for them in cheyne walk. the chelsea embankment was not then thought of, and the streets leading to it, like those now lying behind it, were mean and crowded. it was a narrow house, with rooms so small that when the massive furniture from their old house was set up in it there was no space for moving about freely. madame had known only two houses--the old straggling, picturesque country manse in the jura, with its walnut-trees shading the windows, and tossing up their branches now and then to give glimpses of snow-mountains on the horizon, and her husband's pleasant and luxurious house at riversborough, with every comfort that could be devised gathered into it. there was the river certainly flowing past this new habitation, and bearing on its full and rapid tide a constantly shifting panorama of boats, of which the children never tired, and from felicita's window there was a fair reach of the river in view, while from the dormer windows of the attic above, where felix slept, there was a still wider prospect. but in the close back room, which madame allotted to herself and hilda, there was only a view of back streets and slums, with sights and sounds which filled her with dismay and disgust. but madame made the best of the woeful change. the deep, quiet love she had given to her son she transferred to felicita, who, she well knew, had been his idol. she believed that the sorrows of these last few months had not sprung out of the ground, but had for some reason come down from god, the god of her fathers, in whom she put her trust. her son had been called away by him; but three were left, her daughter and her grand-children, and she could do nothing better in life than devote herself to them. but to felicita her new life was like walking barefoot on a path of thorns. until now she had been so sheltered and guarded, kept from the wind blowing too roughly upon her, that every hour brought a sharp pin-prick to her. to have no carriage at her command, no maid to wait upon, her--not even a skilful servant to discharge ordinary household duties well and quickly--to live in a little room where she felt as if she could hardly breathe, to hear every sound through the walls, to have the smell of cooking pervade the house--these and numberless similar discomforts made her initiation into her new sphere a series of surprises and disappointments. but she must bestir herself if even this small amount of comfort and well-being were to be kept up. madame's income would not maintain their household even on its present humble footing. felicita's first book had done well; it had been fairly reviewed by some papers, and flatteringly reviewed by other critics who had known the late lord riversford. on the whole it had been a good success, and her name was no longer quite unknown. her publishers were willing to take another book as soon as it could be ready: they did more, they condescended to ask for it. but the £ they had paid for the first, though it had seemed a sufficient sum to her when regarded from the stand-point of a woman surrounded by every luxury, and able to spend the whole of it on some trinket, looked small enough--too small--as the result of many weeks of labor, by which she and her children were to be fed. if her work was worth no more than that, she must write at least six such books in the year, and every year! felicita's heart sank at the thought! there seemed to be only one resource, since one of her publishers had offered an advance of £ only, saying they were doing very well for her, and running a risk themselves. she must take her manuscript and offer it as so much merchandise from house to house, selling it to the best bidder. this was against all her instincts as an author, and if she had remained a wealthy woman she would not have borne it. she was too true and original an artist not to feel how sacred a thing earnest and truthful work like hers was. she loved it, and did it conscientiously. she would not let it go out of her hands disgraced with blunders. her thoughts were like children to her, not to be sent out into the world ragged and uncouth, exposed to just ridicule and to shame. felicita and madame set out on their search after a liberal publisher on a gloomy day in january. for the first time in her life felicita found herself in an omnibus, with her feet buried in damp straw, and strange fellow-passengers crushing against her. in no part of london do the omnibuses bear comparison with the well-appointed carriages rich people are accustomed to; and this one, besides other discomforts, was crowded till there was barely room to move hand or foot. "it is very cheap," said madame cheerfully after she had paid the fare when they were set down in trafalgar square "and not so very inconvenient." a fog filled the air and shrouded all the surrounding buildings in dull obscurity; while the fountains, rising and falling with an odd and ghostly movement as of gigantic living creatures, were seen dimly white in the midst of the gray gloom. the ceaseless stream of hurrying passers-by lost itself in darkness only a few paces from them. the chimes of unseen belfries and the roll of carriages visible only for a few seconds fell upon their ears. felicita, in the secret excitement of her mood, felt herself in some impossible world, some phantasmagoria of a dream, which must presently disperse, and she would find herself at home again, in her quiet, dainty study at riversborough, where most of the manuscript, which she held so closely in her hand, had been written. but the dream was dispelled when she found herself entering the publishing-house she had fixed upon as her first scene of venture. it was a quiet place, with two or three clerks busily engaged in some private conversation, too interesting to be abruptly terminated by the entrance of two ladies dressed in mourning, one of whom carried a roll of manuscript. if felicita had been wise the manuscript would not have been there to betray her. it made it exceedingly difficult for her to obtain admission to the publisher, in his private room beyond; and it was only when she turned away to go, with a sudden outflashing of aristocratic haughtiness, that the clerk reluctantly offered to take her card and a message to his employer. in a few moments felicita was entering the dark den where the fate of her book was in the balance. unfortunately for her she presented too close a resemblance to the well-known type of a distressed author. her deep mourning, the thick veil almost concealing her face; a straw clinging to the hem of her dress and telling too plainly of omnibus-riding; her somewhat sad and agitated voice; madame's widow's cap, and unpretending demeanor--all were against her chances of attention. the publisher, who had risen from his desk, did not invite them to be seated. he glanced at felicita's card, which bore the simple inscription, "mrs. sefton." "you know my name?" she asked, faltering a little before his keen-eyed, shrewd, business-like observation. he shook his head slightly. "i am the writer of a book called 'haughmond towers,'" she added, "published by messrs. price and gould. it came out last may." "i never heard of it," he answered solemnly. felicita felt as if he had struck her. this was an unaccountable thing; he was a publisher, and she an author; yet he had never heard of her book. it was impossible that she had understood him, and she spoke again eagerly. "it was noticed in all the reviews," she said, "and my publishers assured me it was quite a success. i could send you the reviews of it." "pray do not trouble yourself," he answered; "i do not doubt it in the least. but there are hundreds of books published every season, and it is impossible for one head, even a publisher's, to retain all the titles and the names of the authors." "but i hope mine was not like hundreds of others," remarked felicita. "every author hopes so," he said; "and besides the mass that is printed, somehow, at some one's expense, there are hundreds of manuscripts submitted to us. pardon me, but may i ask if you write for amusement or for remuneration." "for my living," she replied, with a sorrowful inflection of her voice which alarmed the publisher. how often had he faced a widowed mother and her daughter, in mourning so deep as to suggest the recentness of their loss. there was a slight movement of his hand, unperceived by either of them, and a brisk rap was heard on the door behind them. "in a moment," he said, looking over their heads. "i am afraid," he went on, "if i asked you to leave your manuscript on approbation, it might be months before our readers could look at it. we have scores, if not hundreds, waiting." "could you recommend any publisher to me?" asked felicita. "why not go again to price and gould?" he inquired. "i must get more money than they pay me," she answered ingenuously. the publisher shrugged his shoulders. if her manuscript had contained milton's "paradise lost" or goldsmith's "vicar of wakefield," such an admission would have swamped it. there is no fate swift enough for an unknown author who asks for more money than that which a publisher's sense of justice awards to him. "i am sorry i can do nothing for you," he said, "but my time is very precious. good-morning--no thanks, i beg. it would be a pleasure, i am sure, if i could do anything." felicita's heart sank very low as she turned into the dismal street and trod the muddy pavement. a few illusions shrivelled up that wintry morning under that murky sky. the name she was so fearful of staining; the name she had fondly imagined as noised from mouth to mouth; the name for which she had demanded so great a sacrifice, and had sacrificed so much herself, was not known in those circles where she might most have expected to find it a passport to attention and esteem. it had travelled very little indeed beyond the narrow sphere of riversborough. chapter xx. a dumb man's grief. the winter fogs which made london so gloomy did not leave the country sky clear and bright. all the land lay under a shroud of mist and vapor; and even on the uplands round old marlowe's little farmstead the heavens were gray and cold, and the wide prospect shut out by a curtain of dim clouds. the rude natural tracks leading over the moor to the farm became almost impassable. the thatched roof was sodden with damp, and the deep eaves shed off the water with the sound of a perpetual dropping. behind the house the dark, storm-beaten, distorted firs, and the solitary yew-tree blown all to one side, grew black with the damp. the isolation of the little dwelling-place was as complete as if a flood had covered the face of the earth, leaving its two inmates the sole survivors of the human race. several months had passed since old marlowe had executed his last piece of finished work. the blow that rowland sefton's dishonesty had inflicted upon him had paralyzed his heart--that most miserable of all kinds of paralysis. he could still go about, handle his tools, set his thin old fingers to work; but as soon as he had put a few marks upon his block of oak his heart died with him, and he threw down his useless tools with a sob as bitter as ever broke from an old man's lips. there was no relief for him, as for other men, in speech easily, perhaps hastily uttered, in companionship with his fellows. any solace of this kind was too difficult and too deliberate for him to seek it in writing his lamentations on a slate or spelling them off on his fingers, but his grief and anger struck inward more deeply. phebe saw his sorrow, and would have cheered him if she could; but she, too, was sorely stricken, and she was young. she tried to set him an example of diligent work, and placed her easel beside his carving, painting as long as the gray and fleeting daylight permitted. now and then she attempted to sing some of her old merry songs, knowing that his watchful eyes would see the movement of her lips; but though her lips moved, her face was sad and her heart heavy. sometimes, too, she forgot all about her, and fell into an absorbed reverie, brooding over the past, until a sob or half-articulate cry from her father aroused her. these outcries of his troubled her more than any other change in him. he had been altogether mute in the former tranquil and placid days, satisfied to talk with her in silent signs; but there was something in his mind to express now which quiet and dumb signs could not convey. at intervals, both by day and night, her affection for him was tortured by these hoarse and stifled cries of grief mingled with rage. there was a certain sense of the duties of citizenship in old marlowe's mind which very few women, certainly not a girl as young as phebe, could have shared. many years ago the elder sefton had perceived that the companionless man was groping vaguely after many a dim thought, political and social, which few men of his class would have been troubled with. he had given to him several books, which old marlowe had pondered over. now he felt that, quite apart from his own personal ground of resentment, he had done wrong to the laws of his country by aiding an offender of them to escape and elude the just penalty. he felt almost a contempt for roland sefton that he had not remained to bear the consequences of his crime. the news of roland's death brought something like satisfaction to his mind; there was a chill, dejected sense of justice having been done. he had not prospered in his crime. though he had eluded man's judgment, yet vengeance had not suffered him to live. there was no relenting toward him, as there was in mr. clifford's mind. something like the old heathen conception of a divine righteousness in this arbitrary punishment of the evil-doer gave him a transient content. he did not object therefore to phebe's hasty visit to mrs. sefton at the sea-side, in order to break the news to her. the inward satisfaction he felt sustained him, and he even set about a piece of work long since begun, a hawk swooping down upon his prey. the evening on which phebe reached home again he was more like his former self. he asked her many questions about the sea, which he had never seen, and told her what he had been doing while she was away. an old, well-thumbed translation of plato's dialogues was lying on the carved dresser behind him, in which he had been reading every night. instead of the bible, he said. "it was him, mr. roland, that gave it to me," he continued; "and listen to what i read last night: 'those who have committed crimes, great yet not unpardonable, they are plunged into tartarus, where they go who betray their friends for money, the pains of which they undergo for a year. but at the end of the year they come forth again to a lake, over which the souls of the dead are taken to be judged. and then they lift up their voices, and call upon the souls of them they have wronged to have pity upon them, and to forgive them, and let them come out of their prison. and if they prevail they come forth, and cease from their troubles; but if not they are carried back again into tartarus, until they obtain mercy of them whom they have wronged.' but it seems as if they have to wait until them they have wronged are dead themselves." the brown, crooked fingers ceased spelling out the solemn words, and phebe lifted up her eyes from them to her father's face. she noticed for the first time how sunken and sallow it was, and how dimly and wearily his eyes looked out from under their shaggy eyebrows. she buried her face in her hands, and broke down into a passion of tears. the vivid picture her father's quotation brought before her mind filled it with horror and grief that passed all words. the wind was wailing round the house with a ceaseless moan of pain, in which she could almost distinguish the tones of a human voice lamenting its lost and wretched fate. the cry rose and fell, and passed on, and came back again, muttering and calling, but never dying away altogether. it sounded to her like the cry of a belated wanderer calling for help. she rose hastily and opened the cottage door, as if she could hear roland sefton's voice through the darkness and the distance. but he was dead, and had been in his grave for many days already. was she to hear that lost, forlorn cry ringing in her ears forever? oh, if she could but have known something of him between that night, when he walked beside her through the dark deserted roads, pouring out his whole sorrowful soul to her, and the hour when in the darkness again he had strayed from his path, and been swallowed up of death! was it true that he had gone down into that great gulf of secrecy and silence, without a word of comfort spoken, or a ray of light shed upon its profound mystery? the cold wind blew in through the open door, and she shut it again, going back to her low chair on the hearth. through her blinding tears she saw her father's brown hands stretched out to her, and the withered fingers speaking eagerly. "i shall be there before long," he said; "he will not have to wait very long for me. and if you bid me i will forgive him at once. i cannot bear to see your tears. tell me: must i forgive him? i will do anything, if you will look up at me again and smile." it was a strange smile that gleamed through phebe's tears, but she had never heard an appeal like this from her dumb father without responding to it. "must i forgive him?" he asked. "'if ye forgive men their trespasses,'" she answered, "'your heavenly father will also forgive yours; but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly father forgive yours.' it was our lord jesus christ who said that, not your old socrates, father." "it is a hard saying," he replied. "i don't think so," she said; "it was what jesus christ was doing every day he lived." from that time old marlowe did not mention roland sefton again, or his sin against him. as the dark stormy days passed on he sometimes put a touch or two to the outstretched wings of his swooping hawk, but it did not get on fast. with a pathetic clinging to phebe he seldom let her stay long out of his sight, but followed her about like a child, or sat on the hearth watching her as she went about her house-work. only by those unconscious sobs and outcries, inaudible to himself, did he betray the grief that was gnawing at his heart. very often did phebe put aside her work, and standing before him ask such questions as the following on her swiftly moving fingers. "don't you believe in god, our father in heaven, the father almighty, who made us?" "yes," he would reply by a nod. "and in jesus christ, his son, our lord, who lived, and died for us, and rose again?" "yes, yes," was the silent, emphatic answer. "and yet you grieve and fret over the loss of money!" she would say, with a wistful smile on her young face. "you are a child; you know nothing," he replied. for without a sigh the old man was going forward consciously to meet death. every morning when the dawn awoke him he felt weaker as he rose from his bed; every day his sight was dimmer and his hand less steady; every night the steep flight of stairs seemed steeper, and he ascended them feebly by his hands as well as feet. he could not bring himself to write upon his slate or to spell out upon his fingers the dread words, "i am dying;" and phebe was not old or experienced enough to read the signs of an approaching death. that her father should be taken away from her never crossed her thoughts. it was the vague, mournful prospect of soon leaving her alone in the wide world that made his loss loom more largely and persistently before the dumb old man's mind. certainly he believed all that phebe said to him. god loved her, cared for her, ordered her life; yet he, her father, could not reconcile himself to the idea of her being left penniless and friendless in the cold and cruel world. he could have left her more peacefully in god's hands if she had those six hundred pounds of his earnings to inherit. the sad winter wore slowly away. now and then the table-land around them put on its white familiar livery of snow, and old marlowe's dim eyes gazed at it through his lattice window, recollecting the winters of long years ago, when neither snow nor storm came amiss to him. but the slight sprinkling soon melted away, and the dun-colored fog and cloudy curtain shut them in again, cutting them off from the rest of the world as if their little dwelling was the ark stranded on the hill's summit amid a waste of water. chapter xxi. plato and paul. phebe's nearest neighbor, except the farm-laborer who did an occasional day's labor for her father, was mrs. nixey, the tenant of a farmhouse, which lay at the head of a valley running up into the range of hills. mrs. nixey had given as much supervision to phebe's motherless childhood as her father had permitted, in his jealous determination to be everything to his little daughter. of late years, ever since old marlowe in the triumph of making an investment had communicated that important fact to her on his slate, she had indulged in a day-dream of her own, which had filled her head for hours while sitting beside her kitchen fire busily knitting long worsted stockings for her son simon. simon was thirty years of age, and it was high time she found a wife for him. who could be better than phebe, who had grown up under her own eyes, a good, strong, industrious girl, with six hundred pounds and upfold farm for her fortune? as she brooded over this idea, a second thought grew out of it. how convenient it would be if she herself married the dumb old father, and retired to the little farmstead, changing places with phebe, her daughter-in-law. she would still be near enough to come down to her son's house at harvest-time and pig-killing, and when the milk was abundant and cheese and butter to make. and the little house on the hills was built with walls a yard thick, and well lined with good oak wainscoting; she could keep it warm for herself and the old man. the scheme had as much interest and charm for her as if she had been a peeress looking out for an eligible alliance for her son. but it had always proved difficult to take the first steps toward so delicate a negotiation. she was not a ready writer; and even if she had been, mrs. nixey felt that it would be almost impossible to write her day-dream in bold and plain words upon old marlowe's slate. if marlowe was deaf, phebe was singularly blind and dull. simon nixey had played with her when she was a child, but it had been always as a big, grown-up boy, doing man's work; and it was only of late that she had realized that he was not almost an old man. for the last year or two he had lingered at the church door to walk home with her and her father, but she had thought little of it. he was their nearest neighbor, and made himself useful in giving her father hints about his little farm, besides sparing his laborer to do them an occasional day's work. it seemed perfectly natural that he should walk home with them across the moors from their distant parish church. but as soon as the roads were passable mrs. nixey made her way up to the solitary farmstead. the last time she had seen old marlowe he had been ailing, yet she was quite unprepared for the rapid change that had passed over him. he was cowering in the chimney-corner, his face yellow and shrivelled, and his eyes, once blue as phebe's own, sunken in their sockets, and glowering dimly at her, with the strange intensity of gaze in the deaf and dumb. there was a little oak table before him, with his copy of plato's dialogues and a black leather bible that had belonged to his forefathers, lying upon it; but both of them were closed, and he looked drowsy and listless. "good sakes! phebe," cried mrs. nixey, "whatever ails thy father? he looks more like dust and ashes than a livin' man. hast thou sent for no physic for him?" "i didn't know he was ill," answered phebe. "father always feels the winter long and trying. he'll be all right when the spring comes." "i'll ask him what's the matter with him," said mrs. nixey, drawing his slate to her, and writing in the boldest letters she could form, as if his deafness made it needful to write large. "what's the matter?" she asked. "nothing, save old age," he answered in his small, neat hand-writing. there was a gentle smile on his face as he pushed the slate under the eyes of mrs. nixey and phebe. he had sometimes thought he must tell phebe he would not be long with her, but his hands refused to convey such sad warnings to his young daughter. he had put it off from day to day, though he was not sorry now to give some slight hint of his fears. "old! he's no older nor me," said mrs. nixey. "a pretty thing it'ud be if folks gave up at sixty or so. there's another ten years' work in you," she wrote on the slate. "ten years' work." how earnestly he wished it was true! he might still earn a little fortune for phebe; for he was known all through the county, and beyond, and could get a good price for his carving. he stretched out his hand and took down his unfinished work, looking longingly at it. phebe's fingers were moving fast, so fast that he could not follow them. of late he had been unable to seize the meaning of those swift, glancing finger-tips. he had reached the stage of a man who can no longer catch the lower tones of a familiar voice, and has to guess at the words thus spoken. if he lived long enough to lose his sight he would be cut off from all communion with the outer world, even with his daughter. "come close to me, and speak more slowly," he said to her. "i am growing old and dark. yet i am only sixty, and my father lived to be over seventy. i was over forty when you were born. it was a sunny day, and i kept away from the house, in the shed, till i saw mrs. nixey there beckoning to me. and when i came in the house here she laid you in my arms. god was very good to me that day." "he is always good," answered phebe. "so the parson teaches us," he continued; "but it was very hard for me to lose that money. it struck me a dreadful blow, phebe. if i'd been twenty years younger i could have borne it; but when a man's turned sixty there's no chance. and he robbed me of more than money: he robbed me of love. i loved him next to you." she knew that so well that she did not answer him. her love for roland sefton lived still; but it was altogether changed from the bright, girlish admiration and trustful confidence it had once been. his conduct had altered life itself to her; it was colder and darker, with deeper and longer shadows in it. and now there was coming the darkest shadow of all. "read this," he said, opening the "phædo," and pointing to some words with his crooked and trembling finger. she stooped her head till her soft cheek rested against his with a caressing and soothing touch. "i go to die, you to live; but which is best god alone can know," she read. her arm stole round his neck, and her cheek was pressed more closely against his. mrs. nixey's hard face softened a little as she looked at them; but she could not help thinking of the new turn affairs were taking. if old marlowe died, it might be more convenient, on the whole, than for her to marry him. how snugly she could live up here, with a cow or two, and a little maid from the workhouse to be her companion and drudge! quite unconscious of mrs. nixey's plans, phebe had drawn the old black leather bible toward her, turning over the stained and yellow leaves with one hand, for she would not withdraw her arm from her father's neck. she did not know exactly where to find the words she wanted; but at last she came upon them. the gray shaggy locks of the old man and the rippling glossy waves of phebe's brown hair mingled as they bent their heads again over the same page. "for whether we live, we live unto the lord; and whether we die, we die unto the lord: whether we live therefore or die, we are the lord's. for to this end christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be lord both of the dead and the living." "that is better than your old socrates," said phebe, with tears in her eyes and a faint smile playing about her lips. "our lord has gone on before us, through life and death. there is nothing we can have to bear that he has not borne." "he never had to leave a young girl like you alone in the world," answered her father. for a moment phebe's fingers were still, and old marlowe looked up at her like one who has gained a miserable victory over a messenger of glad tidings. "but he had to leave his mother, who was growing old, when the sword had pierced through her very soul," answered phebe. "that was a hard thing to do." the old man nodded, and his withered hands folded over each other on the open page before him. mrs. nixey, who could understand nothing of their silent speech, was staring at them inquisitively, as if trying to discover what they said by the expression of their faces. "ask thy father if he's made his will," she said. "i've heard say as land canno' go to a woman if there's no will; and it'ud niver do for upfold to go to a far-away stranger. may be he reckons on all he has goin' to you quite natural. but there's law agen' it; the agent told me so years ago. i niver heard of any relations thy father had, but they'll find what's called an heir-at-law, take my word for it, if he doesn't leave iver a will." but, instead of answering, phebe rushed past her up the steep, dark staircase, and mrs. nixey heard her sobbing and crying in the little room above. it was quite natural, thought the hard old woman, with a momentary feeling of pity for the lonely girl; but it was necessary to make sure of upfold farm, and she drew old marlowe's slate to her, and wrote on it, very distinctly, "has thee made thy will?" the dejected, miserable expression came back to his face, as his thoughts were recalled to the loss he had sustained, and he nodded his answer to mrs. nixey. "and left all to phebe?" she wrote again. again he nodded. it was all right so far, and mrs. nixey felt glad she had made sure of the ground. the little farm was worth £ a year, and old marlowe himself had once told her that his money brought him in £ yearly, without a stroke of work on his part. how money could be gained in this way, with simply leaving it alone, she could not understand. but here was phebe marlowe with £ a year for her fortune: a chance not to be lost by her son simon. she hesitated for a few minutes, listening to the soft low sobs overhead, but her sense of judicious forestalling of the future prevailed over her sympathy with the troubled girl. "phebe'll be very lonesome," she wrote, and old marlowe looked sadly into her face with his sunken eyes. there was no need to nod assent to her words. "i've been like a mother to her," wrote mrs. nixey, and she rubbed both the sentences off the slate with her pocket-handkerchief, and sat pondering over the wording of her next communication. it was difficult and embarrassing, this mode of intercourse on a subject which even she felt to be delicate. how much easier it would have been if old marlowe could hear and speak like other men! he watched her closely as she wrote word after word and rubbed them out again, unable to satisfy herself. at last he stretched out his hand and seized the slate, just as she was again about to rub out the sentence. "our simon'd marry her to-morrow," was written upon it. old marlowe sat looking at the words without raising his eyes or making any sign. he had never seen the man yet worthy of being the husband of his daughter, and simon nixey was not much to his mind. still, he was a kind-hearted man, and well-to-do for his station; he kept a servant to wait on his mother, and he would do no less for his wife. phebe would not be left desolate if she could make up her mind to marry him. but with a deep instinctive jealousy, born of his absolute separation from his kind, he could not bear the thought of sharing her love with any one. she must continue to be all his own for the little time he had to live. "if phebe likes to marry him when i'm gone, i've no objection," he wrote, and then, with a feeling of irritation and bitterness, he rubbed out the words with the palm of his hand and turned his back upon mrs. nixey. chapter xxii. a rejected suitor. all the next day phebe remained very near to her father, leaving her house-work and painting to sit beside him on the low chair he had carved for her when she was a child. for the first time she noticed how slowly he caught her meaning when she spoke to him, and how he himself was forgetting how to express his thoughts on his fingers. the time might come when he could no longer hold any intercourse with her or she with him. there was unutterable sadness in this new dread. "you used to laugh and sing," he said, "but you never do it now: never since he robbed me. he robbed me of that too. i'm a poor, helpless, deaf old man; and god never let me hear my child's voice. he used to tell me it was sweet and pleasant to hear; and your laugh made every one merry who heard it. but i could see you laugh, and now i never see it." she could not laugh now, and her smile was sadder than tears; so she bent down her head and laid it against his knee where he could not see her face. by and by he touched her, and she lifted up her tear-dimmed eyes to his fingers. "promise me," he said, "not to sell this old place. it has belonged to the marlowes from generation to generation. who can tell but the dead come back to the place where they've lived so long? if you can, keep it for my sake." "i promise it," she answered. "i will never sell it." "perhaps i shall lose my power to speak to you," he went on, "but don't you fret as if i did not forgive him as robbed me. he learnt to talk on his fingers for my sake, and i'll say 'god bless him' for your sake. if we meet one another in the next world i'll forgive him freely, and if need be i'll ask pardon for him. phebe, i do forgive him." as he spoke there was a brighter light in his sunken eyes, and a smile on his face such as she had not seen since the day he had helped roland sefton to escape. she took both of his hands into hers and kissed them fondly. but by and by, though it was yet clear day, he crept feebly up-stairs to his dark little loft under the thatched roof, and lay down on the bed where his father and grandfather had died before him. at first he was able to talk a little in short, brief sentences; but very soon that which he had dreaded came upon him. his fingers grew too stiff to form the signs, and his eyes too dim to discern even the slowest movement of her dear hands. there was now no communication between them but that of touch, and he could not bear to miss the gentle clasp of phebe's hand. when she moved away from him he tossed wearily from side to side, groping restlessly with his thin fingers. in utter silence and darkness, but hand to hand with her, he at last passed away. the next few days was a strange and bewildering time to phebe. neighbors were coming and going, and taking the arrangements for the funeral into their own hands, with little reference to her. the clergyman of the parish, who lived three miles off, rode over the hills to hold a solemn interview with her. mrs. nixey would not leave her alone, and if she could have had her way would have carried her off to her own house. but this phebe would not submit to; except the two nights she had been away when she went to the sea-side to break the news of roland's death to felicita and her mother, she had never been absent for a night from home. why should she be afraid of that quiet, still form, which even in death was dearer to her than any other upon earth? but mrs. nixey walked beside her, next the coffin, when the small funeral procession wound its way slowly over the uplands to the country churchyard, where the deaf and dumb old wood-carver was laid in a grave beside his wife. it was almost impossible to shake her off on their return, but phebe could bear companionship no longer. she must walk back alone along the familiar fields, where the green corn was springing among the furrows, and under the brown hedgerows where all the buds were swelling, to the open moor lying clear and barren in an unbroken plain before her. how often had she walked along these narrow sheep-tracks with her father pacing on in front, speechless, but so full of silent sympathy with her that words were not missed between them. their little homestead lay like an island in a sea of heather and fern, with no other dwelling in sight; but, oh, how empty and desolate it seemed! the old house-dog crept up quietly to her, and whined softly; and the cow, as she went into the shed to milk her, turned and licked her hand gently, as if these dumb creatures knew her sorrow. there were some evening tasks to be performed, for the laborer, who had been to the funeral, was staying in the village with the other men who had helped to carry her father's coffin, to rest themselves and have some refreshment in the little inn there. she lingered over each duty with a dreary sense of the emptiness of the house haunting her, and of the silence of the hearth where all the long evening must be spent alone. it was late in february, and though the fern and heather and gorse were not yet in bud, there was a purple tinge upon the moor fore-telling the quickly coming spring. the birds that had been silent all winter were chirping under the eaves, or fluttered up from the causeway where she had been scattering corn, at the sound of her footsteps across the little farm-yard. the sun, near its setting, was shining across the uplands, and throwing long shadows from every low bush and brake. phebe mounted the old horse-block by the garden wicket, and looked around her, shading her eyes with her hands. the soft west wind, blowing over many miles of moor and meadows and kissing her cheek, seemed like the touch of a dear old friend, and the thin gray cloud overhead appeared only as a slight veil scarcely hiding a beloved face. it would not have startled her if she had seen her father come to the door, beckoning to her with his quiet smile, or if she had caught sight of roland sefton crossing the moor, with his swift, strong stride, and his face all aglow with the delight of his mountain ramble. "but they are both dead," she said to herself. "if only mr. roland had been living in riversborough he would have told me what to do." she was too young to connect her father's death in any way with roland sefton's crime. they two were the dearest persons in the world to her; and both were now gone into the mysterious darkness of the next world, meeting there perhaps with all earthly discords forgiven and forgotten more perfectly than they could have been here. she remembered how her father's dull, joyless face used to brighten when roland was talking to him--talking with slow, unaccustomed fingers, which the dumb man would watch intently, and catch the meaning of the phrase before it was half finished, flashing back an eager answer by signs and changeful expression of his features. there would be no need of signs and gestures where they had gone. her father, perhaps, was speaking to him now. phebe had passed into a reverie, as full of pleasure as of pain, and she fancied she heard her father's voice--that voice which she had never heard. she started, and awoke herself. it was growing dusk, and she was faint with hunger and fatigue. the wintry sun had sunk some time since behind the brow of the hill, leaving only a few faint lines of clouds running across a clear amber light. she stepped down from the horse-block reluctantly, and with slow steps loitered up the garden-path to the deserted cottage. it might have been better, she thought, if she had let mrs. nixey come home with her; but, oh, how tired she was of her aimless chatter, which seemed to din the ear and drive away all quiet thought from the heart. she had been very weary of all the fuss that had made a babel of the little homestead since her father's death. but now she was absolutely alone, the loneliness seemed awful. it was quite dark before the fire burned up and threw its flickering light over her old home. she sat down on the hearth opposite her father's empty chair, in her own place--the place which had been hers ever since she could remember. how long would it be hers? she knew that one volume of her life was ended and closed; the new volume was all hidden from her. she was not afraid of opening it, for there was a fund of courage and hope in her nature of which she did not know all the wealth. there was also the simple trust of a child in the goodness of god. she had finished her tea and was sitting apparently idle, with her hands lying on her lap, when a sudden knock at the door startled and almost frightened her. until this moment she had never thought of the loneliness of the house as possessing any element of danger; but now she turned her eyes to the uncurtained window, through which she had been so plainly visible, and wished that she had taken the precaution of putting the bar on the door. it was too late, for the latch was already lifted, and she had scarcely time to say with a tremulous voice, "come in." "it's me--simon nixey," said a loud, familiar voice, as the door opened and the tall ungainly figure of the farmer filled up the doorway. he had been at her father's funeral, and was still in his sunday suit, standing sheepishly within the door and stroking the mourning-band round his hat, as he gazed at her with a shamefaced expression, altogether unlike the bluntness of his usual manner. "is there anything the matter, mr. nixey?" asked phebe. "have you time to take a seat?" "oh, ay! i'll sit down," he answered, stepping forward readily and settling himself down in her father's chair, in spite of her hasty movement to prevent it. "mother thought as you'd be lonesome," he continued; "her and me've been talking of nothing else but you all evening. and mother said your heart'ud be sore and tender to-night, and more likely to take to comfort. and i'd my best clothes on, and couldn't go to fodder up, so i said i'd step up here and see if you was as lonesome as we thought. you looked pretty lonesome through the window. you wouldn't mind me staying a half hour or so?" "oh, no," said phebe simply; "you're kindly welcome." "that's what i'd like to be always," he went on, "and there's a deal about me to make me welcome, come to think on it. our house is a good one, and the buildings they're all good; and i got the first prize for my pigs at the last show, and the second prize for my bull the show before that. nobody can call me a poor farmer. you recollect painting my prize-bull for me, don't you, phebe?" "to be sure i do," she answered. "ay! and mother shook like a leaf when i told her you'd gone into his shed, and him not tied up. 'never you mind, mother,' i says, 'there's neither man nor beast'ud hurt little phebe.' you'd enjoy painting my prize-pigs, i know; and there'd be plenty o' time. wouldn't you now?" "very much," she said, "if i have time." "that's something to look forward to," he continued. "i'm always thinking what you'd like to paint, and make a picture of. i should like to be painted myself, and mother; and there'll be plenty o' time. for i'm not a man to see you overdone with work, phebe. i've been thinking about it for the last five year, ever since you were a pretty young lass of fifteen. 'she'll be a good girl,' mother said, 'and if old marlowe dies before you're wed, simon, you'd best marry phebe.' i've put it off, phebe, over and over again, when there's been girls only waiting the asking; and now i'm glad i can bring you comfort. there's a home all ready for you, with cows and poultry for you to manage and get the good of, for mother always has the butter money and the egg money, and you'll have it now. and there's stores of linen, mother says, and everything that any farmer's wife could desire." phebe laughed, a low, gentle, musical laugh, which had surprise in it, but no derision. the sight of the gaunt embarrassed man opposite to her, his face burning red, and his clumsy hands twisting and untwisting as he uttered his persuasive sentences, drove her sadness away for the moment. her pleasant, surprised laugh made him laugh too. "ay! mother was right; she always is," said nixey, rubbing his great hands gleefully. "'there'll be scores of lads after her,' says mother, 'for old marlowe has piles o' money in sefton's old bank, everybody knows that.' but, phebe, there aren't a many houses like mine for you to step right into. i'm glad i came to bring you comfort to-night." "but father lost all his money in the old bank nine months ago," answered phebe. "lost all his money!" repeated nixey slowly and emphatically. there was a deep silence in the little house, while he gazed at her with open mouth and astonished eyes. phebe had covered her face with her hands, forgetting him and everything else in the recollection of that bitter sorrow of hers nine months ago; worse than her sorrow now. nixey spoke again after a few minutes, in a husky and melancholy voice. "it shan't make no difference, phebe," he said; "i came to bring you comfort, and i'll not take it away again. there they all are for you, linen and pigs, and cows and poultry. i don't mind a straw what mother'ill say. only you wipe away those tears and laugh again, my pretty dear. look up at simon and laugh again." "it's very good of you," she answered, looking up into his face with her blue eyes simply and frankly, "and i shall never forget it. but i could not marry you. i could not marry anybody." "but you must," he said imperiously; "a pretty young girl like you can't live alone here in this lonesome place. mother says it wouldn't be decent or safe. you'll want a home, and it had best be mine. come, now. you'll never have a better offer if you've lost all your money. but your land lies nighest to my farm, and it's worth more to me than anybody else. it wouldn't be a bad bargain for me, phebe; and i've waited five years for you besides. if you'll only say yes, i'll go down and face mother, and have it out with her at once." but phebe could not be brought to say yes, though nixey used every argument and persuasion he could think. he went away at last, in dudgeon, leaving her alone, but not so sad as before. the new volume of her life had already been opened. chapter xxiii. another offer. the next day phebe locked up her house and rode down to riversborough. as she descended into the valley and the open plain beyond her sorrowfulness fell away from her. her social instincts were strong, and she delighted in companionship and in the help she could render to any fellow-creature. if she overtook a boy trudging reluctantly to school she would dismount from her rough pony and give him a ride; or if she met with a woman carrying a heavy load, she took the burden from her, and let her pony saunter slowly along, while she listened to the homely gossip of the neighborhood. phebe was a great favorite along these roads, which she had traversed every week during summer to attend riversborough market for the last eight years. her spirits rose as she rode along, receiving many a kindly word, and more invitations to spend a little while in different houses than she could have accepted if she had been willing to give twelve months to visiting. it was market-day at riversborough, and the greetings there were still more numerous, and, if possible, more kindly. everybody had a word for phebe marlowe; especially to-day, when her pretty black dress told of the loss she had suffered. she made her way to whitefriars road. the old bank was not so full as it had formerly been, for immediately after the panic last may a new bank had been opened more in the centre of the town, and a good many of the tradesmen and farmers had transferred their accounts to it. the outer office was fairly busy, but phebe had not long to wait before being summoned to see mr. clifford. the muscles of his stern and careworn features relaxed into something approaching a smile as she entered, and he caught sight of her sweet and frank young face. "sit down, phebe," he said. "i did not hear of your loss before yesterday; and i was just about to send for you to see your father's will. it is in our strong room. you are not one-and-twenty yet?" "not till next december, sir," she replied. "roland sefton is the only executor appointed," he continued, his face contracting for an instant, as if some painful memory flashed across him; "and, since he is dead, i succeed to the charge as his executor. you will be my ward, phebe, till you are of age." "will it be much trouble, sir?" she asked anxiously. "none at all," he answered; "i hope it will be a pleasure; for, phebe, it will not be fit for you to live alone at upfold farm; and i wish you to come here--to make your home with me till you are of age. it would be a great pleasure to me, and i would take care you should have every opportunity for self-improvement. i know you are not a fine young lady, my dear, but you are sensible, modest, and sweet-tempered, and we should get on well together. if you were happy with me i should regard you as my adopted daughter, and provide accordingly for you. think of it for a few minutes while i look over these letters. perhaps i seem a grim and surly old man to you; but i am not naturally so. you would never disappoint me." he turned away to his desk, and appeared to occupy himself with his letters, but he did not take in a single line of them. he had set his heart once more on the hope of winning love and gratitude from some young wayfarer on life's rough road, whose path he could make smooth and bright. he had been bitterly disappointed in his own son and his friend's son. but if this simple, unspoiled, little country maiden would leave her future life in his keeping, how easy and how happy it should be! "it's very good of you," said phebe, in a trembling voice; "and i'm not afraid of you, mr. clifford, not in the least; but i could not keep from fretting in this house. oh, i loved them so, every one of them; but mr. roland most of all. no one was ever so good to me as he was. if it hadn't been for him i should have learned nothing, and father himself would have been a dull, ignorant man. mr. roland learnt to talk to father, and nobody else could talk with him but me. i used to think it was as much like our lord jesus christ as anything any one could do. mr. roland could not open father's ears, but he learned how to talk to him, to make him less lonely. that was the kindest thing any one on earth could do." "do you believe mr. roland was innocent?" asked mr. clifford. "i know he was guilty," answered phebe sadly. "he told me all about it himself, and i saw his sorrow. before that he always seemed to me more like what i think jesus christ was than any one else. he could never think of himself while there were other people to care for. and i know," she went on, with simple sagacity, "that it was not mr. roland's sin that fretted father, but the loss of the money. if he had made six hundred pounds by using it without his consent, and said, 'here, marlowe, are twelve hundred pounds for you instead of six; i did not put your money up as you wanted, but used it instead;' why, father would have praised him up to the skies, and could never have been grateful enough." mr. clifford's conscience smote him as he listened to phebe's unworldly comment on roland sefton's conduct. if roland had met him with the announcement of a gain of ten thousand pounds by a lucky though unauthorized speculation, he knew very well his own feeling would have been utterly different from that with which he had heard of the loss of ten thousand pounds. the world itself would have cried out against him if he had prosecuted a man by whose disregard of the laws he had gained so large a profit. was it, then, a simple love of justice that had actuated him? yet the breach of trust would have been the same. "but if you will not come to live with me, my dear," he said, "what do you propose to do? you cannot live alone in your old home." "may i tell you what i should like to do?" she asked. "certainly," he answered. "i am bound to know it." "those two who are dead," she said, "thought so much of my painting. mr. roland was always wishing i could go to a school of art, and father said when he was gone he should wish it too. but now we have lost our money, the next best thing will be for me to go to live as servant to some great artist, where i could see something of painting till i've saved enough money to go to school. i can let upfold farm for fifteen pounds a year to simon nixey, so i shall soon have money enough. i promised father i would never sell our farm, that has belonged to marlowes ever since it was inclosed from the common. and if i go to london, i shall be near madame and the children, and mrs. roland sefton." the color had come back to phebe's face, and her voice was steady and musical again. there was a clear, frank shining in her blue eyes, looking so pleasantly into his, that mr. clifford sighed regretfully as he thought of his solitary and friendless life--self-chosen partly, but growing more dreary as old age, with its infirmities, crept on. "no, no; you need not go into service," he said; "there is money enough of your own to do what you wish with. mrs. roland refuses to receive the income from her marriage settlement till every claim against her husband is paid off. i shall pay your claim off at the rate of one hundred a year, or more, if you like. you may have a sum sufficient to keep you at an art school as long as you need be there." "why, i shall be very rich!" exclaimed phebe; "and father dreaded i should be poor." "i will run up to london and see what arrangements i can make for you," he continued. "perhaps mrs. roland sefton could find a corner for you in her own house, small as it is, and madame would make you as welcome as a daughter. you are more of a daughter to her than felicita. only i must make a bargain, that you and the children come down often to see me here in the old house. i should have grown very fond of you, phebe; and then you would have married some man whom i detested, and disappointed me bitterly again. it is best as it is, i suppose. but if you will change your mind now, and stay with me as my adopted daughter, i'll run the risk." "if it was anywhere else!" she answered with a wistful look into his face, "but not here. if mrs. roland sefton could find room for me i'd rather live with them than anywhere else in the world. only don't think i'm ungrateful because i can't stay here." "no, no, phebe," he replied; "it was for my own sake i asked it. as you grow older, child, you'll find out that the secret root of nine tenths of the benevolence you see is selfishness." six weeks later all the arrangements for phebe leaving her old home and entering upon an utterly new life were completed. simon nixey, after vainly urging her to accept himself, and to give herself and her little farm and her restored fortune to him, offered to become her tenant at £ a year for the land, leaving the cottage uninhabited; for phebe could not bear the idea of any farm laborer and his family dwelling in it, and destroying or injuring the curious carvings with which her father had lined its walls. the spot was far out of the way of tramps and wandering vagabonds, and there was no danger of damage being done to it by the neighbors. mrs. nixey undertook to see that it was kept from damp and dirt, promising to have a fire lighted there occasionally, and simon would see to the thatch being kept in repair, on condition that phebe would come herself once a year to receive her rent, and see how the place was cared for. there was but a forlorn hope in mrs. nixey's heart that phebe would ever have simon now she was going to london; but it might possibly come about in the long run if he met with no girl to accept him with as much fortune. before leaving upfold farm phebe received the following letter from felicita: "dear phebe: i shall be very glad to have you under my roof. i believe i see in you a freshness and truthfulness of nature on which i can rely for sympathy. i have always felt a sincere regard for you, but of late i have learned to love you, and to think of you as my friend. i love you next to my children. let me be a friend to you. your pursuits will interest me, and you must let me share them as your friend. "but one favor i must ask. never mention my husband's name to me. madame will feel solace in talking of him, but the very sound of his name is intolerable to me. it is my fault; but spare me. you are the dearer to me because you love him, and because he prized your affections so highly; but he must never be mentioned, if possible not thought of, in my presence. if you think of him i shall feel it, and be wounded. i say this before you come that you may spare me as much pain as you can. "this is the only thing i dread. otherwise your coming to us would be the happiest thing that has befallen me for the last year. "yours faithfully, "felicita." if felicita was glad to have her, phebe knew that madame and the children would be enraptured. nor had she judged wrongly. madame received her as if she had been a favorite child, whose presence was the very comfort and help she stood most in need of. though she devoted herself to felicita, there was a distance between them, an impenetrable reserve, that chilled her spirits and threw her love back upon herself. but to phebe she could pour out her heart unrestrainedly, dwelling upon the memory of her lost son, and mourning openly for him. and phebe never spoke a word that could lead roland's mother to think she believed him to be guilty. with a loving tact she avoided all discussion on that point; and, though again and again the pang of her own loss made itself poignantly felt, she knew how to pour consolation into the heart of roland's mother. but to felix and hilda phebe's companionship was an endless delight. she came from her lonely homestead on the hills into the full stream of london life, and it had a ceaseless interest for her. she could not grow weary of the streets with their crowd of passers-by; and the shop windows filled with wealth and curiosities fascinated her. all the stir and tumult were joyous to her, and the faces she met as she walked along the pavement possessed an unceasing influence over her. the love of humanity, scarcely called into existence before, developed rapidly in her. felix and hilda shared in her childish pleasure without understanding the deep springs from which it came. it was an education in itself for the children. a drive in an omnibus, with its frequent stoppages and its constant change of passengers, was delightful to phebe, and never lost its charm for her. she and the children explored london, seeing all its sights, which phebe, in her rustic curiosity, wished to see. from west to east, from north to south, they became acquainted with the great capital as few children, rich or poor, have a chance of doing. they sought out all its public buildings, every museum and picture gallery, the birthplaces of its famous men, the places where they died, and their tombs if they were within london. westminster abbey was as familiar to them as their own home. it seemed as if phebe was compensating herself for her lonely girlhood on the barren and solitary uplands. yet it was not simply sight-seeing, but the outcome of an intelligent and genuine curiosity, which was only satisfied by understanding all she could about the things and places she saw. to the children, as well as to madame, she often talked of roland sefton. felix loved nothing more than to listen to her recollections of his lost father, who had so strangely disappeared out of his life. on a sunday evening when, of course, their wanderings were over, she would sit with them in summer by the attic window, which, overlooked the river, and in winter by the fireside, recounting again and again all she knew of him, especially of how good he always was to her. there were a vividness and vivacity in all she said of him which charmed their imagination and kept the memory of him alive in their hearts. phebe gave dramatic effect to her stories of him. hilda could scarcely remember him, though she believed she did; but to felix he remained the tall, handsome, kindly father, who was his ideal of all a man should be; while phebe, perhaps unconsciously, portrayed him as all that was great and good. for neither madame nor phebe could find it in their hearts to tell the boy, so proud and fond of his father's memory, that any suspicion had ever been attached to his name. madame, who had mourned so bitterly over his premature death in her native land, but so far from his own, had never believed in his guilt; and phebe, who knew him to be guilty, had forgiven him with that forgiveness which possesses an almost sacred forgetfulness. if she had been urged to look back and down into that dark abyss in which he had been lost to her, she must have owned reluctantly that he had once done wrong. but it was hard to remember anything against the dead. chapter xxiv. at home in london. every summer phebe went down to her own home on the uplands, according to her promise to the nixeys. felix and hilda always accompanied her, for a change was necessary for the children, and felicita seldom cared to go far from london, and then only to some sea-side resort near at hand, when madame always went with her. every summer simon nixey repeated his offer the first evening of phebe's residence under her own roof; for, as mrs. nixey said, as long as she was wed to nobody else there was a chance for him. though they could see with sharp and envious eyes the change that was coming over her, transforming her from the simple, untaught country girl into an educated and self-possessed woman, marking out her own path in life, yet the sweetness and the frankness of phebe's nature remained unchanged. "she's growing a notch or two higher every time she comes down," said mrs. nixey regretfully; "she'll be far above thee, lad, next summer." "she's only old dummy's daughter after all," answered simon; "i'll never give her up." to phebe they were always old friends, whom she must care for as long as she lived, however far she might travel from them or rise above them. the free, homely life on the hills was as dear to her and the children as their life in london. the little house, with its beautiful and curious decorations; the small fields and twisted trees surrounding it; the wide, purple moors, and all the associations phebe conjured up for them connected with their father, made the dumb old wood-carver's place a second home to them. the happiest season of the year to mr. clifford was that when phebe and roland sefton's children were in his neighborhood. felicita remained firm to her resolution that felix should have nothing to do with his father's business, and the boy himself had decided in his very childhood that he would follow in the footsteps of his ancestor, felix merle, the brave pastor of the jura. there was no hope of having him to train up for the old bank. but every summer they spent a few days with him, in the very house where their father had lived, and where felix could still associate him with the wainscoted rooms and the terraced garden. when felix talked of his father and asked questions about him, mr. clifford always spoke of him in a regretful and affectionate tone. no hint reached the boy that his father's memory was not revered in his native town. "there is no stone to my father in the church," he said, one sunday, after he had been looking again and again at a tablet to his grandfather on the church walls. "no; but i had a granite cross put over his grave in engelberg," answered mr. clifford; "when you can go to switzerland you'll have no trouble in finding it. perhaps you and i may go there together some day. i have some thoughts of it." "but my mother will not hear a word of any of us ever going to switzerland," said felix. "i've asked her how soon she would think us old enough to go, and she said never! of course we don't expect she would ever bear to go to the place where he was killed; but phebe would love to go, and so would i. we've saved enough money, phebe and i; and my mother will not let me say one word about it. she says i am never, never to think of such a thing." "she is afraid of losing you as well as him," replied mr. clifford; "but when you are more of a man she will let you go. you are all she has." "except hilda," said the boy fondly, "and i know she loves me most of all. i do not wonder she cannot bear to hear about my father. my mother is not like other women." "your mother is a famous woman," rejoined mr. clifford; "you ought to be proud of her." for as years passed on felicita had attained some portion of her ambition. in riversborough it seemed as if she was the first writer of the age; and though in london she had not won one of those extraordinary successes which place an author suddenly at the top of the ladder, she was steadily climbing upward, and was well known for her good and conscientious work. the books she wrote were clever, though cynical and captious; yet here and there they contained passages of pathos and beauty which insured a fair amount of favor. her work was always welcome and well paid, so well that she could live comfortably on the income she made for herself, without falling back on her marriage settlement. without an undue strain upon her mental powers she could earn a thousand a year, which was amply sufficient for her small household. though roland sefton had lavished upon his high-born wife all the pomp and luxury he considered fitting to the position she had left for him, felicita's own tastes and habits were simple. her father, lord riversford, had been but a poor baron with an encumbered estate, and his only child had been brought up in no extravagant ways. now that she had to earn most of the income of the household, for herself she had very few personal expenses to curtail. thanks to madame and phebe, the house was kept in exquisite order, saving felicita the shock of seeing the rooms she dwelt in dingy and shabby. excepting the use of a carriage, there was no luxury that she greatly missed. as she became more widely known, felicita was almost compelled to enter into society, though she did it reluctantly. old friends of her father's, himself a literary man, sought her out; and her cousins from riversford insisted upon visiting her and being visited as her relations. she could not altogether resist their overtures, partly on account of her children, who, as they grew up, ought not to find themselves without friends. but she went from home with unwillingness, and returned to the refuge of her quiet study with alacrity. there was only one house where she visited voluntarily. a distant cousin of hers had married a country clergyman, whose parish was about thirty miles from london, in the flat, green meadows of essex. the pascals had children the same age as felix and hilda; and when they engaged a tutor for their own boys and girls they proposed to felicita that her children should join them. in mr. pascal's quiet country parsonage were to be met some of the clearest and deepest thinkers of the day, who escaped from the conventionalities of london society to the simple and pleasant freedom they found there. mr. pascal himself was a leading spirit among them, with an intellect and a heart large and broad enough to find companionship in every human being who crossed his path. there was no pleasure in life to felicita equal to going down for a few days' rest to this country parsonage. that she was still mourning bitterly for the husband, whose name could never be mentioned to her, all the world believed. it made those who loved her most feel very tenderly toward her. though she never put on a widow's garb she always wore black dresses. the jewels roland had bought for her in profusion lay in their cases, and never saw the light. she could not bring herself to look at them; for she understood better now the temptation that had assailed and conquered him. she knew that it was for her chiefly, to gratify an ambition cherished on her account, that he had fallen into crime. "i worship my mother still," said felix one day to phebe, "but i feel more and more awe of her every day. what is it that separates her from us? it would be different if my father had not died." "yes, it would have been different," answered phebe, thinking of how terrible a change it must have made in their young lives if roland sefton had not died. she, too, understood better what his crime had been, and how the world regarded it; and she thanked god in her secret soul that roland was dead, and his wife and children saved from sharing his punishment. it had all been for the best, sad as it was at the time. madame also was comforted, though she had not forgotten her son. it was the will of god: it was god who had called him, as he would call her some day. there was no bitterness in her grief, and she did not perplex her soul with brooding over the impenetrable mystery of death. chapter xxv. dead to the world. in an hospital at lucerne a peasant had been lying ill for many weeks of a brain fever, which left him so absolutely helpless that it was impossible to turn him out into the streets on his recovery from the fever, as he had no home or friends to go to. when his mind seemed clear enough to give some account of himself, he was incoherent and bewildered in the few statements he made. he did not answer to his own name, jean merle; and he appeared incapable of understanding even a simple question. that his brain had been, perhaps, permanently affected by the fever was highly probable. when at length the authorities of the hospital were obliged to discharge him, a purse was made up for him, containing enough money to keep him in his own station for the next three months. by this time jean merle was no longer confused and unintelligible when he opened his lips, but he very rarely uttered a word beyond what was absolutely necessary. he appeared to the physicians attending him to be bent on recollecting something that had occurred in the past before his brain gave way. his face was always preoccupied and moody, and scarcely any sound would catch his ear and make him lift up his head. there must be mania somewhere, but it could not be discovered. "have you any plans for the future, merle?" he was asked the day he was discharged as cured. "yes, monsieur," he replied; "i am a wood-carver by trade." "and where are you going to now?" was the next question. "i must go to engelberg," answered merle, with a shudder. "ah! to monsieur nicodemus; then," said the doctor, "you must be a good hand at your work to please him, my good fellow." "i am a good hand," replied merle. the valley of engelberg lies high, and is little more than a cleft in the huge mass of mountains; a narrow gap where storms gather, and bring themselves into a focus. in the summer thunder-clouds draw together, and fill up the whole valley, while rain falls in torrents, and the streams war and rage along their stony channels. but when jean merle returned to it in march, after four months' absence, the valley was covered with snow stretching up to the summits of the mountains around it, save only where the rocks were too precipitous for it to lodge. he had come back to engelberg because there was the grave of the friendless man who bore his former name. it had a fascination for him, this grave, where he was supposed to be at rest. the handsome granite cross, bearing only the name of roland sefton and the date of his death, attracted him, and held him by an irresistible spell. at first, in the strange weakness of his mind, he could hardly believe but that he was dead, and this inexplicable second life as jean merle was an illusion. it would not have amazed him if he had been invisible and inaudible to those about him. that which filled him with astonishment and terror was the fact that the people took him to be what he said he was, a swiss peasant, and a wood-carver. he had no difficulty in getting work as soon as he had done a piece as a specimen of his skill. monsieur nicodemus recognized a delicate and cultivated hand, and a faithful delineator of nature. as he acquired more skill with steady practice he surpassed the master's most dexterous helper, and bid fair to rival monsieur nicodemus himself. but jean merle had no ambition; there was no desire to make himself known, or put his productions forward. he was content with receiving liberal wages, such as the master, with the generosity of a true artist, paid to him. but for the unflagging care he expended upon his work, his fellow-craftsmen would have thought him indifferent to it. for nine months in the year jean merle remained in engelberg, giving himself no holiday, no leisure, no breathing time. he lived on the poorest fare, and in the meanest lodging. his clothing was often little better than rags. his wages brought him no relaxation from toil, or delivered him from self-chosen wretchedness. silent and morose, he lived apart from all his fellows, who regarded him as a half-witted miser. when the summer season brought flights of foreign tourists, merle disappeared, and was seen no more till autumn. nobody knew whither he went, but it was believed he acted as a guide to some of the highest and most perilous of the alps. when he came back to his work at the end of the season, his blackened and swarthy face, from which the skin had peeled, and his hands wounded and torn as if from scaling jagged cliffs, bore testimony to these conjectures. he never entered the church when mass was performed, or any congregation assembled; but at rare intervals he might be seen kneeling on the steps before the high altar, his shaggy head bent down, and his frame shaken with repressed sobs which no one could hear. the curé had tried to win his confidence, but had failed. jean merle was a heretic. when he was spoken to he would speak, but he never addressed himself to any one. he was not a native-born swiss, and he did not seek naturalization, or claim any right in the canton. he did not seek permission to marry or to build a house, but as he was skilful and industrious and thrifty, a man in the prime of life, the commune left him alone. he seemed to have taken it as a self-imposed task that he should have the charge of the granite cross, erected over the man whose death he had witnessed. he was recognized in engelberg as the man who had spent the last hours with the buried englishman, but no suspicion attached to him. so careful was he of the monument that it was generally rumored he received a sum of money yearly for keeping it in order. no doubt the friends of the rich englishman, who had erected so handsome a stone to his memory, made it worth the man's while to attend to it. besides this grave, which he could not keep himself from haunting, engelberg attracted him by its double association with felicita. here he had seen her for the first and for the last time. there was no other spot in the world, except the home he had lost forever, so full of memories of her. he could live over again every instant of each interview with her, with all the happy interval that lay between them. the rest of his life was steeped in shadow; the earlier years before he knew felicita were pale and dim; the time since he lost her was unreal and empty, like a confused dream. after a while a dull despondency succeeded to the acute misery of his first winter and summer. his second fraud had been terribly successful; in a certain measure he was duped by it himself. all the world believed him to be dead, and he lived as a shadow among shadows. the wild and solitary ice-peaks he sometimes scaled seemed to him the unsubstantial phantasmagoria of a troubled sleep. he wondered with a dull amazement if the crevasses which yawned before him would swallow him up, or the shuddering violence of an avalanche bury him beneath it. his life had been as a tale that is told, even to its last word, death. part ii. chapter i. after many years. the busy, monotonous years ran through their course tranquilly, marked only by a change of residence from the narrow little house suited to felicita's slender means to a larger, more commodious, and more fashionable dwelling-place in a west end square. both felicita and phebe had won their share of public favor and a fair measure of fame; and the new home was chosen partly on account of an artist's studio with a separate entrance, through which phebe could go in and out, and admit her visitors and sitters, in independence of the rest of the household. never once had felix wavered in his desire to take orders and become a clergyman, from the time his boyish imagination had been fired by the stories of his great-grandfather's perils and labors in the jura. felicita had looked coldly on his resolution, having a quiet contempt for english clergymen, in spite of her friendship for mr. pascal, if friendship it could be called. for each year as it passed over felicita left her in a separation from her fellow-creatures, always growing more chilly and dreary. it seemed to herself as if her lips were even losing the use of language, and that only with her pen could she find vent in expression. and these written thoughts of hers, printed and published for any eye to read, how unutterably empty of all but bitterness she found them. she almost marvelled at the popularity of her own books. how could it be that the cynical, scornful pictures she drew of human nature and human fellowship could be read so eagerly? she felt ashamed of her children seeing them, lest they should learn to distrust all men's truth and honor, and she would not suffer a word to be said about them in her own family. but madame sefton, in her failing old age, was always ready to sympathize with felix, and to help to keep him steady to her own simple faith; and phebe was on the same side. these two women, with their quiet, unquestioning trust in god, and sweet charity toward their fellow-men, did more for felix than all the opposing influences of college life could undo; and when his grandmother's peaceful and happy death set the last seal on her truthful life, felix devoted himself with renewed earnestness to the career he had chosen. to enter the lists in the battle against darkness, and ignorance, and sin, wherever these foes were to be met in close quarters, was his ambition; and the enthusiasm with which he followed it made felicita smile, yet sigh with unutterable bitterness as she looked into the midnight gloom of her own soul. it became quite plain to felicita as the years passed by that her son was no genius. at present there was a freshness and singleness of purpose about him, which, with the charm of his handsome young face and the genial simplicity of his manners, made him everywhere a favorite, and carried him into circles where a graver man and a deeper thinker could not find entrance; but let twenty years pass by, and felix, she said to herself, would be nothing but a commonplace country clergyman, looking after his glebe lands and riding lazily about his parish, talking with old women and consulting farmers about his crops and cattle. she felt disappointed in him; and this disappointment removed him far away from her. the enchanted circle of her own isolation was complete. the subtle influence of felicita's dissatisfaction was vaguely felt by felix. he had done well at oxford, and had satisfied his friend and tutor, mr. pascal; but he knew that his mother wished him to make a great name there, and he had failed to do it. every day, when he spent a few minutes in felicita's library, lined with books which were her only companions, their conversation grew more and more vapid, unless his mother gave utterance to some of her sarcastic sayings, which he only half understood and altogether disliked. but in phebe's studio all was different; he was at home there. though it was separate from the house, it had from the first been the favorite haunt of all the other members of the family. madame had been wont to bring her knitting and sit beside phebe's easel, talking of old times, and of the dear son she had lost so sorrowfully. felix had read his school-boy stories aloud to her whilst she was painting; and hilda flitted in and out restlessly, carrying every bit of news she picked up from her girl friends to phebe. even felicita was used to steal in silently in the dusk, when no one else was there, and talk in her low sad voice as she talked to no one else. as soon as felix was old enough, within a few months of madame's death, he took orders, and accepted a curacy in a poor and densely populated london district. it was not much more than two miles from home, but it was considered advisable that he should take lodgings near his vicar's church, and dwell in the midst of the people with whom he had to do. the separation was not so complete as if he had gone into a country parish, but it brought another blank into the home, which had not yet ceased to miss the tranquil and quiet presence of the old grandmother. "i shall not have to fight with wolves like felix merle, my great-grandfather," said felix, the evening before he left home, as he and phebe were sitting over her studio fire. "i think sometimes i ought to go out as a missionary to some wild country. yet there are dangers to meet here in london, and risks to run; ay! and battles to fight. i shall have a good fist for drunken men beating helpless women in my parish. i couldn't stand by and see a woman ill-used without striking a blow, could i, phebe?" "i hope you'll strike as few blows as you can," she answered, smiling. "how could i help standing up for a woman when i think of my mother, and you, and little hilda, and her who is gone?" asked felix. "is there nobody else?" inquired phebe, with a mischievous tone in her pleasant voice. "when i think of the good women i have known," he answered evasively, "the sweet true, noble women, i feel my blood boil at the thought of any man ill-using any woman. phebe, i can just remember my father speaking of it with the utmost contempt and anger, with a fire in his eyes and a sternness in his voice which made me tremble with fear. he was in a righteous passion; it was the other side of his worship of my mother." "he was always kind and tender toward all women," answered phebe. "all the seftons have been like that; they could never be harsh to any woman. but your father almost worshipped the ground your mother trod upon; nothing on earth was good enough for her. look here, my dear boy, i've been trying to paint a picture for you." she lifted up a stretcher which had been turned with the canvas to the wall, and placed it on her easel in the full light of a shaded lamp. for a moment she stood between him and it, gazing at it with tears in her blue eyes. then she fell back to his side to look at it with him, clasping his hand in hers, and holding it in a warm, fond grasp. it was a portrait of roland sefton, painted from her faithful memory, which had been aided by a photograph taken when he was the same age felix was now. phebe could only see it dimly through her tears, and for a moment or two both of them were silent. "my father?" said felix, his face flushing and his voice faltering; "is it like him, phebe? yes, yes! i recollect him now; only he looked happier or merrier than he does there. there is something sad about his face that i do not remember. what a king he was among men! i'm not worthy to be the son of such a man and such a woman." "no, no; don't say that," she answered eagerly; "you're not as handsome, or as strong, or as clever as he was; but you may be as good a man--yes, a better man." she spoke with a deep, low sigh that was almost a sob, as the memory of how she had seen him last--crushed under a weight of sin and flying from the penalty of crime--flashed across her brain. she knew now why there had lurked a subtle sadness in the face she had been painting, which she had not been able to banish. "i think," she said, as if speaking to herself, "that the sense of sin links us to god almost as closely as love does. i never understood jesus christ until i knew something of the wickedness of the world, and the frailty of our nature at its best. it is when a good man has to cry, 'against thee, thee only, have i sinned, and done this evil in thy sight,' that we feel something of the awful sinfulness of sin." "and have you this sense of sin, phebe?" asked felix in a low voice. "i have thought sometimes that you, and my mother, and men like my father and mr. pascal, felt but little of the inward strength of sin. your lives stand out so clear and true. if there is a stain upon them it is so slight, so plainly a defect of the physical nature, that it often seems to me you do not know what evil is." "we all know it," she answered, "and that shadow of sorrow you see in your father's face must bear witness for him to you that he has passed through the same conflict you may be fighting. the sins of good men are greater than the sins of bad men. one lie from a truthful man is more hurtful than all the lies of a liar. the sins of a man after god's own heart have done more harm than all the crimes of all the pagan emperors." "it is true," he said thoughtfully. "if i told you a falsehood, what would you think of me?" "i believe it would almost break my heart if you or my mother told me a falsehood," he answered. "i could not paint this portrait while your grandmother was living," said phebe, after a short silence; "i tried it once or twice, but i could never succeed. see; here is the photograph your father gave me when i was quite a little girl, because i cried so bitterly at his going away for a few months on his wedding trip. there were only two taken, and your mother has the other. they were both very young; he was only your age, and your mother was not twenty. but lord riversford was dead, and she was not happy with her cousins; and your grandfather, who was living then, was eager for the match. everybody said it was a great match for your father." "they were very happy; they were not too young to be married," answered felix, with a deep flush on his handsome face. "why should not people marry young, if they love one another?" "i would ask canon pascal that question if i were you," she said, smiling significantly. "i have a good mind to ask him to-night," he replied, stooping down to kiss phebe's cheek; "he is at westminster, and alice is there too. bid me good speed, phebe." "god bless you, my felix," she whispered. he turned abruptly away, though he lingered for a minute or two longer, gazing at his father's portrait. how like him, and yet how unlike him, he was in phebe's eyes! then, with a gentle pressure of her hand, he went away in silence; while she took down the painting, and set it again with its face to the wall, lest felicita coming in should catch a sight of it. chapter ii. canon pascal. the massive pile of the old abbey stood darkly against the sky, with not a glimmer of light shining through its many windows; whilst behind it the houses of parliament, now in full session, glittered from roof to basement with innumerable lamps. all about them there was the rush and rattle of busy life, but the abbey seemed inclosed in a magic circle of solitude and stillness. overhead a countless host of little silvery clouds covered the sky, with fine threads and interspaces of dark blue lying between them. the moon, pale and bright, seemed to be drifting slowly among them, sometimes behind them, and faintly veiled by their light vapor; but more often the little clouds made way for her, and clustered round, in a circle of vaguely outlined cherub-heads, golden brown in the halo she shed about her. these child-like angel-heads, floating over the greater part of the sky, seemed pressing forward, one behind the other, and hastening into the narrow ring of light, with a gentle eagerness; and fading softly away as the moon passed by. felix stood still for a minute or two looking up from the dark and silent front of the abbey to the silent and silvery clouds above it. almost every stone of the venerable old walls was familiar and dear to him. for phebe, when she came from the broad, grand solitude of her native moors, had fixed at once upon the abbey as the one spot in london where she could find something of the repose she had been accustomed to meet with in the sight of the far-stretching horizon, and the unbroken vault of heaven overarching it. felicita, too, had attended the cathedral service every sunday morning, since she had been wealthy enough to set up a carriage, which was the first luxury she had allowed herself. the music, the chants, the dim light of the colored windows, the long aisle of lofty arches, and the many persistent and dominant associations taking possession of her memory and imagination, made the abbey almost as dear to felicita as it was through its mysterious and sacred repose to phebe. felix had paced along the streets with rapid and headlong haste, but now he hesitated before turning into dean's yard. when he did so, he sauntered round the inclosure two or three times, wondering in what words he could best move the canon, and framing half a dozen speeches in his mind, which seemed ridiculous to himself when he whispered them half aloud. at last, with a sudden determination to trust to the inspiration of the moment, he turned his steps hurriedly into the dark, low arches of the cloisters. but he had not many steps to take. the tall, somewhat stooping figure of canon pascal, so familiar to him, was leaving through one of the archways, with head upturned to the little field of sky above the quadrangle, where the moon was to be seen with her attendant clouds. felix could read every line in his strongly marked features, and the deep furrows which lay between his thick brows. the tinge of gray in his dark hair was visible in the moonlight, or rather the pale gleam caused all his hair to seem silvery. his eyes were glistening with delight, and as he heard steps pausing at his side, he turned, and at the sight of felix his harsh face melted into almost a womanly smile of greeting. "welcome, my son," he said, in a pleasant and deep voice; "you are just in time to share this glorious sight with me. pity 'tis it vanishes so soon!" he clasped felix's hand with a warm, hearty pressure, such as few hands know how to give; though it is one of the most tender and most refined expressions of friendship. felix grasped his with an unconscious grip which made canon pascal wince, though he said nothing. for a few minutes the two men stood gazing upward in reverent silence, each brain busy with its own thoughts. "you were coming to see me?" said canon pascal at last. "yes," answered felix, in a voice faltering with eager emotion. "on some special errand?" pursued canon pascal. "don't let us lose time in beating about the bush, then. you cannot say anything that will not be interesting to me, felix; for i always find a lad like you, and at your age, has something in his mind worth listening to. what is it, my son?" "i don't want to beat about the bush," stammered felix, "but oh! if you only knew how i love alice! more than words can tell. you've known me all my life, and alice has known me. will you let her be my wife?" the smile was gone from canon pascal's face. a moment ago, and he, gazing up at the moon, had been recalling, with a boyish freshness of heart, the days of his own happy though protracted courtship of the dear wife, who might be gazing at the same scene from her window in his country rectory. his face grew almost harsh with its grave thoughtfulness as his eyes fastened upon the agitated features of the young man beside him. a fine-looking young fellow, he said to himself; with a frank, open nature, and a constitution and disposition unspoiled by the world. he needed nobody to tell him what his old pupil was, for he knew him as well as he knew his own boys, but he had never thought of him as any other than a boy. alice, too, was a child still. this sudden demand struck him into a mood of silent and serious thought; and he paced to and fro for a while along the corridor, with felix equally silent and serious at his side. "you've no idea how much i love her!" felix at last ventured to say. "hush, my boy!" he answered, with a sharp, imperative tone in his voice. "i loved alice's mother before you were born; and i love her more every day of my life. you children don't know what love means." felix answered by a gesture of protest. not know what love meant, when neither day nor night was the thought of alice absent from his inmost heart! he had been almost afraid of the vehemence of his own passion, lest it should prove a hindrance to him in god's service. canon pascal drew his arm affectionately through his and turned back to pace the cloister once more. "i'm trying to think," he said, in a gentler voice, "that alice is out of the nursery, and you out of the schoolroom. it is difficult, felix." "you were present at my ordination last week," exclaimed felix, in an aggrieved tone; "the church, and the bishop, and you did not think me too young to take charge of souls. surely you cannot urge that i am not old enough to take care of one whom i love better than my own life!" canon pascal pressed felix's arm closer to his side. "oh, my boy!" he said, "you will discover that it is easier to commit unknown souls to anybody's charge, than to give away one's child, body, soul, and spirit. it is a solemn thing we are talking of; more solemn, in some respects, than my girl's death. i would rather follow alice to the grave than see her enter into a marriage not made for her in heaven." "so would i," answered felix tremulously. "and to make sure that any marriage is made in heaven!" mused the canon, speaking as if to himself, with his head sunk in thought. "there's the grand difficulty! for oh! felix, my son, it is not love only that is needed, but wisdom; yes! the highest wisdom, that which cometh down from above, and is first pure, and then peaceable. for how could christ himself be the husband of the church, if he was not both the wisdom of god and the love of god? how could god be the heavenly father of us all, if he was not infinite in wisdom? know you not what bacon saith; 'to love and to be wise is not granted unto man?'" "i dare not say i am wise," answered felix, "but surely such love as i bear to alice will bring wisdom." "and does alice love you?" asked canon pascal. "i did not think it right to ask her?" he replied. "then there's some hope still," said the canon, more joyously; "the child is scarcely twenty yet. do not you be in a hurry, my boy. you do not know what woman is yet; how delicately and tenderly organized; how full of seeming contradictions and uncertainties, often with a blessed meaning in them, ah, a heavenly meaning, but hard to be understood and apprehended by the rougher portion of humanity. study them a little longer, felix; take another year or two before you fix on your life mistress." "you forget how many years i have lived under the same roof as alice," replied felix eagerly, "and how many women i have lived with; my mother, my grandmother, phebe, and hilda. surely i know more about them than most men." "all good women," he answered, "happy lad! blessed lad, i should rather say. they have been better to thee than angels. phebe has been more than a guardian angel to thee, though thou knowest not all thou owest to her yet. but a wife, felix, is different, god knows, from mother, or sister, or friend. god chooses our kinsfolk for us; but man chooses his own wife; having free will in that choice on which hangs his own life, and the lives of others. yet the wisest of men said, 'whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the lord.' ay, a good wife is the token of such loving favor as we know not yet in this world." the canon's voice had fallen into a low and gentle tone, little louder than a whisper. the dim, obscure light in the cloisters scarcely gave felix a chance of seeing the expression of his face; but the young man's heart beat high with hope. "you don't say no to me?" he faltered. "how can i say no or yes?" asked canon pascal, almost with an accent of surprise. "i will talk it over with your mother and alice's mother; but the yes or no must come from alice herself. what am i that i should stand between you two and god, if it is his will to bestow his sweet boon upon you both? only do not disturb the child, felix. leave her fancy-free a little longer." "and you are willing to take me as your son? you do not count me unworthy?" he exclaimed. "i've boys of my own," he answered, "whose up-growing i've watched from the day of their birth, and who are precious to me as my own soul; and you, felix, come next to them. you've been like another son to me. but i must see your mother. who knows what thoughts she may not have for her only son?" "none, none that can come between alice and me," cried felix rapturously. "father! yes, i shall know again what it is to have a father." a sob rose to his throat as he uttered the word. he seemed to see his own father again, as he remembered him in his childhood, and as phebe's portrait had recalled him vividly to his mind. if he had only lived till now to witness, and to share in this new happiness! it seemed as if his early death gathered an additional sadness about it, since he had left the world while so much joy and gladness had been enfolded in the future. even in this first moment of ineffable happiness he promised himself that he would go and visit his father's foreign grave. chapter iii. felicita's refusal. now there was no longer a doubt weighing upon his spirit, felix longed to tell his mother all. the slight cloud that had arisen of late years between them was so gossamer-like yet, that the faintest breath could drive it away. though her boy was not the brilliant genius she had secretly and fondly hoped he would prove, he was still dearer to felicita than ought else on earth or, indeed, in heaven; and her love for him was deeper than she supposed. on his part he had never lost that chivalrous tenderness, blended with deferential awe, with which he had regarded her from his early boyhood. his love for alice was so utterly different from his devotion to her, that he had never compared them, and they had not come into any kind of collision yet. felix sought his mother in her library. felicita was alone, reading in the light of a lamp which shed a strong illumination over her. in his eyes she was incomparably the loveliest woman he had ever seen, not even excepting alice; and the stately magnificence of her velvet dress, and rich lace, and costly jewels, was utterly different from that of any other woman he knew. for mrs. pascal dressed simply, as became the wife of a country rector; and phebe, in her studio, always wore a blouse or apron of brown holland, which suited her well, making her homely and domestic in appearance as she was in nature. felicita looked like a queen in his eyes. when she heard his voice speaking to her, having not caught the sound of his step on the soft carpet, felicita looked up with a smile in her dark eyes. in a day or two her son was about to leave her roof, and her heart felt very soft toward him. she had scarcely realized that he was a man, until she knew that he had decided to have a place and a dwelling of his own. she stretched out both hands to him, with a gesture of tenderness peculiar to herself, and shown only to him. it was as if one hand could not link them closely enough; could not bring them so nearly heart to heart. felix took them both into his own, and knelt down before her; his young face flushed with eagerness, and his eyes, so like her own, fastened upon hers. "your face speaks for you," she said, pressing one of her rare kisses upon it. "what is it my boy has to tell me?" "oh, mother," he cried, "you will never think i love you less than i have always done? see, i kiss your feet still as i used to do when i was a boy." he bent his head to caress the little feet, and then laid it on his mother's lap, while she let her white fingers play with his hair. "why should you love me less than you have always done?" she asked, in a sweet languid voice. "have i ever changed toward you, felix?" "no, mother, no," he answered, "but to-night i feel how different i am from what i was but a year or two ago. i am a man now; i was a boy then." "you will always be a boy to me," she said, with a tender smile. "yet i am as old as my father was when you were married," he replied. felicita's face grew white, and she leaned back in her chair with a sudden feeling of faintness. it was years since the boy had spoken of his father; why should he utter his name now? he had raised his head when he felt her move, and her dim and failing eyes saw his face in a mist, looking so like his father when she had known him first, that she shrank from him, with a terror and aversion too deep to be concealed. "roland!" she cried. he did not speak or move, being too bewildered and wonderstruck at his mother's agitation. felicita hid her face in her white hands, and sat still recovering herself. the pang had been sudden, and poignant; it had smitten her so unawares that she had betrayed its anguish. but, she felt in an instant, her boy had no thought of wounding her; and for her own sake, as well as his, she must conquer this painful excitement. there must be no scene to awaken observation or suspicion. "mother, forgive me," he exclaimed, "i did not mean to distress you." "no," she breathed with difficulty, "i am sure of it. go on felix." "i came to tell you," he said gravely, "that as long as i can remember--at least as long as we have been in london and known the pascals--i have loved alice. oh, mother, i've thought sometimes you seemed as fond of her as you are of hilda. you will be glad to have her as your daughter?" felicita closed her eyes with a feeling of helpless misery. she could hardly give a thought to felix and the words he uttered; yet it was those words which brought a flood of hidden memories and fears sweeping over her shrinking soul. it was so long since she had thought much of roland! she had persuaded herself that as so many years had passed by bringing to her no hint or token of his existence, he must be dead; and as one dead passes presently out of the active thoughts, busy only with the present, so had her husband passed away from her mind into some dim, hidden cell of memory, with which she had long ceased to trouble herself. her husband seemed to stand before her as she had seen him last, a haggard, way-worn, ruined man, beggared and stripped of all that makes life desirable. and this was only six months after he had lost all. what would he be after thirteen years if he was living still? but if it had appeared to her out of the question to face and bear the ignominy and disgrace he had brought upon her thirteen years ago, how utterly impossible it was now. she could never retrace her steps. to confess the deception she had herself consented to, and taken part in, would be to pull down with her own hands the fair edifice of her life. the very name she had made for herself, and the broader light in which her fame had placed her, made any repentance impossible. "a city that is set on a hill cannot be hid." her hill was not as lofty as she had once fancied it would be; but still she was not on the low and safer level of the plain. she was honorably famous. she could not stain her honor by the acknowledgment of dishonor. the chief question, after all, was whether roland was alive or dead. her colorless face and closed eyes, the expression of unutterable perplexity and anguish in her knitted brows and quivering lips, filled felix with wonder and grief. he had risen from his kneeling posture at her feet, and now his reverential awe of her yielded to the tender compassion of a man for a weak and suffering woman. he drew her beloved head on to his breast, and held her in a firm and loving grasp. "i would not grieve or pain you for worlds," he said falteringly, "nor would alice. i love you better than myself; as much as i love her. we will talk of it another day, mother." she pressed close to him, and he felt her arms strained about him, as if she could not hold him near enough to her. it seemed to him as if she was striving to draw him into the very heart of her motherhood; but she knew how deep the gulf was between her and him, and shuddered at her own loneliness. "it is losing you, my son," she whispered with her quivering lips. "no, no," he said eagerly; "it is not losing me, but finding another child. don't take a gloomy view of it, mother. i shall be as happy as my father was with you." he could not keep himself from thinking of his father, or of speaking of him. he understood more perfectly now what his father's worship of his mother had been; the tenderness of a stronger being toward a weaker one, blended with the chivalrous homage of a generous nature to the one woman chosen to represent all womanhood. there was a keener trouble to him to-night, than ever before, in the thought that his mother was a widow. "leave me now, felix," she said, loosing him from her close embrace, and shutting her eyes from the sight of him. "do not let any one come to me again to-night. i must be alone." but when she was alone it was only to let her thoughts whirl round and round in one monotonous circle. if roland was dead, her secret was safe, and felix might be happy. if he was not dead, felix must not marry alice pascal. she had not looked forward to this difficulty. there had been an unconscious and vague feeling in her heart that her son loved her too passionately to be easily pleased by any girl; and, almost unawares to herself, she had been in the habit of comparing her own attractions and loveliness with those of the younger women who crossed his path. yet there was no personal vanity in the calm conviction she possessed that felix had never seen a woman more beautiful and fascinating than the mother he had always admired with so much enthusiasm. she was not jealous of alice pascal, she said to herself, and yet her heart was sore when she said it. why could not felix remain simply constant to her? he was the only being she had ever really loved; and her love for him was deeper than she had known it to be. yet to crush his hopes, to wound him, would be like the bitterness of death to her. if she could but let him marry his alice, how much easier it would be than throwing obstacles in the way of his happiness; obstacles that would seem but the weak and wilful caprices of a foolish mother. when the morning came, and canon pascal made his appearance, felicita received him in her library, apparently composed, but grave and almost stern in her manner. they were old friends; but the friendship on his side was warm and genial, while on hers it was cold and reserved. he lost no time in beginning on the subject which had brought him to her. "my dear felicita," he said, "felix tells me he had some talk with you last night. what do you think of our young people?" "what does alice say?" she asked. "oh, alice!" he answered in an amused yet tender tone; "she would be of one mind with felix. there is something beautiful in the innocent, unworldly love of children like these, who are ready to build a nest under any eaves. felicita, you do not disapprove of it?" "i cannot disapprove of alice," she replied gloomily; "but i do disapprove of felix marrying so young. a man should not marry under thirty." "thirty!" echoed canon pascal; "that would be in seven years. it is a long time; but if they do not object i should not. i'm in no hurry to lose my daughter. but they will not wait so long." "do not let them be engaged yet," she said in hurried and sad tones. "they may see others whom they would love more. early marriages and long engagements are both bad. tell them from me that it is better for them to be free a while longer, till they know themselves and the world better. i would rather felix and hilda never married. when i see phebe so free from all the gnawing cares and anxieties of this life, and so joyous in her freedom, i wish to heaven i could have had a single life like hers." "why! felicita!" he exclaimed; "this is morbid. you have never forgiven god for taking away your husband. you have been keeping a grudge against him all these years of your widowhood." "no, no!" she interrupted; "it is not that. they married me too soon, my uncle and mr. sefton. i never loved roland as i ought. oh! if i had loved him, how different my life would have been, and his!" her voice faltered and broke into deep sobs, which cut off all further speech. for a few minutes canon pascal endeavored to reason with her and comfort her, but in vain. at length he quietly went away and sent phebe to her. there could be no more discussion of the subject for the present. chapter iv. taking orders. the darkness that had dwelt so long in the heart of felicita began now to cast its gloom over the whole household. a sharp attack of illness, which followed immediately upon her great and inexplicable agitation, caused great consternation to her friends, and above all to felix. the eminent physician who was called in said her brain had been over-worked, and she must be kept absolutely free of all worry and anxiety. how easily is this direction given, and how difficult, how impossible, in many cases, is it to follow! that any soul, except that of a child, can be freed from all anxiety, is possible only to the soul that knows and trusts god. all further mention of his love for alice was out of the question now for felix. bitter as silence was, it was imperative; for while his mother's objections and prejudices were not overcome, canon pascal would not hear of any closer tie than that which already existed being formed between the young people. he had, however, the comfort of believing that alice had heard so much of what had passed from her mother, as that she knew he loved her, and had owned his love to her father. there was a subtle change in her manner toward him; she was more silent in his presence, and there was a tremulous tone in her voice at times when she spoke to him, yet she lingered beside him, and listened more closely to all he had to say; and when they left westminster to return to their country rectory the tears glistened in her eyes as they had never done before when he bade her good-by. "come and see us as soon as it will not vex your mother, my boy," said canon pascal; "you may always think of our home as your own." the only person who was not perplexed by felicita's inexplicable conduct and her illness, was phebe marlowe, who believed that she knew the cause, and was drawn closer to her in the deepest sympathy and pity. it seemed to phebe that felicita was creating the obstacle, which existed chiefly in her fancy; and with her usual frankness and directness she went to canon pascal's abode in the cloisters at westminster, to tell him simply what she thought. "i want to ask you," she said, with her clear, honest gaze fastened on his face, "if you know why mrs. sefton left riversborough thirteen years ago?" "partly," he answered; "my wife is a riversdale, you know, felicita's second or third cousin. there was some painful suspicion attaching to roland sefton." "yes," answered phebe sadly. "was it not quite cleared up?" asked canon pascal. phebe shook her head. "we heard," he went on, "that it was believed roland sefton's confidential clerk was the actual culprit; and sefton himself was only guilty of negligence. mr. clifford himself told lord riversdale that sefton was gone away on a long holiday, and might not be back for months; and something of the same kind was put forth in a circular issued from the old bank. i had one sent to me; for some little business of my wife's was in the hands of the firm. i recollect thinking it was an odd affair, but it passed out of my mind; and the poor fellow's death quite obliterated all accusing thoughts against him." "that is the scruple in felicita's mind," said phebe in a sorrowful tone; "she feels that you ought to know everything before you consent to alice marrying felix, and she cannot bring herself to speak of it." "but how morbid that is!" he answered; "as if i did not know felix, every thought of him, and every motion of his soul! his father was a careless, negligent man. he was nothing worse, was he, phebe?" "he was the best friend i ever had," she answered earnestly, though her face grew pale, and her eyelids drooped, "i owe all i am to him. but it was not acton who was guilty. it was felix and hilda's father." "and felicita knew it?" he exclaimed. "she knew nothing about it until i told her," answered phebe. "roland sefton came to me when he was trying to escape out of the country, and my father and i helped him to get away. he told me all; and oh! he was not so much to blame as you might think. but he was guilty of the crime; and if he had been taken he would have been sent to jail. i would have died then sooner than let him be taken to jail." "if i had only known this from the beginning!" said canon pascal. "what would you have done?" asked phebe eagerly. "would you have refused to take felix into your home? he has done no wrong. hilda has done no wrong. there would have been disgrace and shame for them if their father had been sent to jail; but his death saved them from all danger of that. nobody would ever speak a word against roland sefton now. yet this is what is preying on felicita's mind. if she was sure you knew all, and still consented to felix marrying alice, she would be at peace again. and i too think you ought to know all. but you-will not visit the sins of the father upon the son----" "divine providence does so," he interrupted; "if the fathers eat sour grapes the teeth of the sons are set on edge. phebe, phebe, that is only too true." "but roland's death set the children free from the curse," answered phebe, weeping. "if he had been taken, they would have gone away to some foreign land where they were not known; or even if he had not died, we must have done differently from what we have done. but there is no one now to bring this condemnation against them. even old mr. clifford has more than forgiven roland; and if possible would have the time back again, that he might act so as to reinstate him in his position. no one in the world bears a grudge against roland." "i'm not hard-hearted, god knows," he answered, "but no man likes to give his child to the son of a felon, convicted or unconvicted." "then i have done harm by telling you." "no, no; you have done rightly," he replied, "it was good for me to know the truth. we will let things be for awhile. and yet," he added, his grave, stern face softening a little, "if it would be good for felicita, tell her that i know all, and that after a battle or two with myself, i am sure to yield. i could not see alice unhappy; and that lad holds her heart in his hands. after all, she too must bear her part in the sins of the world." but though phebe watched for an opportunity for telling felicita what she had done, no chance came. if felicita had been reserved before, she inclosed herself in almost unbroken silence now. during her illness she had been on the verge of delirium; and then she had shut her lips with a stern determination, which even her weak and fevered brain could not break. she had once begged phebe, if she grew really delirious, to dismiss all other attendants, so that no ear but hers might hear her wanderings; but this emergency had not arisen. and since then she had sunk more and more into a stern silence. felix had left home, and entered into his lodgings, taking his father's portrait with him. he was not so far from home but that he either visited it, or received visitors from it almost every day. his mother's illness troubled him; or otherwise the change in his life, his first step in independent manhood, would have been one of great happiness to him. he did not feel any deep misgivings as to alice, and the blessedness of the future with her; and in the mean-time, while he was waiting, there was his work to do. he had taken orders, not from ambition or any hope of worldly gain, those lay quite apart from the path he had chosen, but from the simple desire of fighting as best he might against the growing vices and miseries of civilization. step for step with the ever-increasing luxury of the rich he saw marching beside it the gaunt degradation of the poor. the life of refined self-indulgence in the one class was caricatured by loathsome self-indulgence in the other. on the one hand he saw, young as he was, something of the languor and weariness of life of those who have nothing to do, and from satiety have little to hope or to fear; and on the other the ignorance and want which deprived both mind and body of all healthful activity, and in the pressure of utter need left but little scope for hope or fear. he fancied that such civilization sank its victims into deeper depths of misery than those of barbarism. before him seemed to lie a huge, weltering mass of slime, a very quagmire of foulness and miasma, in the depths and darkness of which he could dimly discern the innumerable coils of a deadly dragon, breathing forth poison and death into the air, which those beloved of god and himself must breathe, and crushing in its pestilential folds the bodies and souls of immortal men. he was one of the young st. michaels called by god to give combat to that old serpent, called the devil and satan, which was deceiving the old world. chapter v. a london curacy. the district on which his vicar directed felix to concentrate his efforts was by no means a neglected one. it was rather suffering from the multitude of laborers, who had chosen it as their part of the great vineyard. lying close to a wealthy and fashionable neighborhood, it had long been a kind of pleasure-ground, or park for hunting sinners in, to the charitable and religious inhabitants of the comfortable dwellings standing within a stone's throw of the wretched streets. there was interest and excitement to be found there for their own unoccupied time, and a pleasant glow of approbation for their consciences. every denomination had a mission there; and the mission-halls stood thickly on the ground. there were bible-women, nurses, city missionaries, tract distributors at work; mothers' meetings were held; classes of all sorts were open; infirmaries and medical mission-rooms were established; and coffee-rooms were to be found in nearly every street. each body of christians acted as if there were no other workers in the field; each was striving to hunt souls into its own special fold; and each distributed its funds as if no money but theirs was being laid out for the welfare of the poor district. hence there were greater pauperism and more complete poverty than in many a neglected quarter of the east end, with all its untold misery. spirit-vaults flourished; the low lodging-houses were crowded to excess; rents rose rapidly; and the narrow ill lighted streets swarmed with riff-raff after nightfall, when the greater part of the wealthy district-visitors were spending their evening hours in their comfortable homes, satisfied with their day's work for the lord. but felix began his work in the evenings, when the few decent working men, who still continued to live in the brickfields, had come home from their day's toil, and the throng of professional beggars and thieves, who found themselves in good quarters there, poured in from their day's prowling. it was well for him that he had an athletic and muscular frame, well-knitted together, and strengthened by exercise, for many a time he had to force his way out of houses, where he found himself surrounded by a crew of half-drunken and dangerous men. presently they got to know and respect him both for his strength and forbearance, which he exercised with good temper and generosity. he could give a blow, as well as take one, when it was necessary. at one time his absence from church was compulsory, because he had received a black eye when defending a querulous old crone from her drunken son; he was seen about the wretched streets of the brickfields with this too familiar decoration, but he took care not to go home until it was lost. with the more decent inhabitants of the district he was soon a great favorite; but he was feared and abhorred by the others. felix belonged to the new school of philanthropic economy, which discerns, and protests against thoughtless almsgiving; and above all, against doles to street beggars. he would have made giving equally illegal with begging. but he soon began to despair of effecting a reformation in this direction; for even phebe could not always refrain from finding a penny for some poor little shivering urchin, dogging her steps on a winter's day. "you do not stop to think how cruel you are," felix would say indignantly; "if it was not for women giving to them, these poor little wretches would never be sent out, with their naked feet on the frozen pavement, and scarcely rags enough to hide their bodies, blue with cold. if you could only step inside the gin-shops as i do, you would see a drunken sinner of a father or a mother drinking down the pence you drop into the children's hands. your thoughtless kindness is as cruel as their vice." but still, with all that fresh ardor and energy which is sneered at in the familiar proverb, "a new broom sweeps clean," felix swept away at the misery, and the ignorance, and the vice of his degraded district. he was not going to spare himself; it should be no sham fight with him. the place was his first battlefield; and it had a strong attraction for him. so through the pleasant months of spring, which for the last four years had been spent at oxford, and into the hot weeks of summer, felix was indefatigably at work, giving himself no rest and no recreation, besides writing long and frequent letters to mrs. pascal, or rather to alice. for would not alice always read those letters, every word of them? would she not even often be the first to open them? it being the pleasant custom of the pascal household for most letters to be in common, excepting such as were actually marked "private." and mrs. pascal's answer might have been dictated by alice herself, so exactly did they express her mind. they did not as yet stand on the footing of betrothed lovers; but neither of them doubted but that they soon would do so. it was not without a sharp pang, however, that felix learned that the pascals were going to switzerland for the summer. he had an intense longing to visit the land, of which his grandmother had so often spoken to him, and where his father's grave lay. but quite apart from his duty to the district placed under his charge, there was an obstacle in the absolute interdiction felicita laid upon the country where her husband had met with his terrible death. it was impossible even to hint at going to switzerland whilst she was in her present state of health. she had only partially recovered from the low, nervous fever which had attacked her during the winter; and still those about her strove their utmost to save her from all worry and anxiety. the sultry, fervid days of august came; and if possible the narrow thoroughfares of the brickfields seemed more wretched than in the winter. the pavements burned like an oven, and the thin walls of the houses did not screen their inmates from the reeking heat. not a breath of fresh air seemed to wander through the low-lying streets, and a sickly glare and heaviness brooded over them. no wonder there was fever about. the fields were too far away to be reached in this tiring weather; and when the men and women returned home from their day's work, they sunk down in silent and languid groups on their door-steps, or on the dirty flag-stones of the causeway. even the professional beggars suffered more than in the winter, for the tide of almsgiving is at its lowest ebb during the summer, when the rich have many other and pleasanter occupations. felix walked through his "parish," as he called it, with slow and weary steps. yet his holiday was come, and this was the last evening he would work thus for the present. the pascals were in switzerland; he had had a letter from mrs. pascal, with a few lines from alice herself in a postscript, telling him she and her father were about to start for engelberg to visit his father's grave for him. it was a loving and gracious thing to do, just suited to canon pascal's kindly nature; and felix felt his whole being lifted up by it to a happier level. phebe and hilda were gone to their usual summer haunt, phebe's quaint little cottage on the solitary mountain-moor; where he was going to join them for a day or two, before they went to mr. clifford, in the old house at riversborough. his mother alone, of all the friends he had, was remaining in london; and she had refused to leave until phebe and hilda had first paid their yearly visits to the old places. he reached his mission-room at last, through the close, unwholesome atmosphere, and found it fairly filled, chiefly with working men, some of whom had turned into it as being a trifle less hot and noisy than the baking pavements without, crowded with quarrelsome children. it was, moreover, the pay-night for a providence club which felix had established for any, either men or women, who chose to contribute to it. there was a short and simple lecture given first; and afterwards the club-books were brought out, and a committee of working men received the weekly subscriptions, and attended to the affairs of the little club. the lecture was near its close, when a drunken man, in the quarrelsome stage of intoxication, stumbled in through the open door. felix knew him by sight well; a confirmed drunkard, a mere miserable sot, who hung about the spirit-vaults, and lived only for the drink he could pour down his throat. there had been a vague instinctive dread and disgust for the man, mingled with a deep interest he could not understand, in felix's mind. he paused for an instant, looking at the dirty rags, and bleared eyes, and degraded face of the drunkard standing just in the doorway, with the summer's light behind him. "what's the parson's name?" he called in a thick, unsteady voice. "is it sefton?" "hush! hush!" cried two or three voices in answer. "i'll not hush! if it's sefton, it were his father as made me what i am. it were his father as stole every blessed penny of my earnings. it were his father as drove me to drink, and ruined me, soul and body. sefton! i've a right to know the name of sefton if any man on earth does. curse it!" felix had ceased speaking, and stood facing his little congregation, listening as in a dream. the men caught the drunken accuser by the arms, and were violently expelling him, but his rough voice rose above the noise of the scuffle. "ay!" he shouted, "the parson won't hear the truth told. but take care of your money, mates, or it'll go where mine went." "don't turn him out," called felix; "it's a mistake, my men. let him alone. he never knew my father." the drunkard turned round and confronted him, and the little assembly was quiet again, with an intense quietness, waiting to hear what would follow. "your father's name was roland sefton?" said the drunkard. "yes," answered felix. "and he was banker of the old bank at riversborough?" he asked. "yes," said felix. "then what i've got to say is this," went on the rough, thick voice of the half-drunken man; "and the tale's true, mates. roland sefton, o' riversborough, cheated me out o' all my hard earnings--one hundred and nineteen pounds--as i'd trusted him with, and drove me to drink. i were a steady man till then, as steady as the best of ye; and he were a fine, handsome, fair-spoken gentleman as ever walked; and we poor folks trusted him as if he'd been god almighty. there was a old deaf and dumb man, called marlowe, lost six hundred pound by him, and it broke his heart; he never held his head up after, and he died. me, it drove to drink. that's the father o' the parson who stands here telling you about jesus christ, and maybe trusted with your money, as i trusted mine with him as cheated me. it's a true tale, mates, if god almighty struck me dead for it this moment." there was such a tone of truth in the hoarse and passionate tones, which grew steadier as the speaker gained assurance by the silence of the audience, that there was not one there who did not believe the story. even felix, listening with white face and flaming eyes, dared not cry out that the accusation was a lie. horrible as it was, he could not say to himself that it was all untrue. there came flashing across his mind confused reminiscences of the time when his father had disappeared from out of his life. he remembered asking his mother how long he would be away, and did he never write to her? and she had answered him that he was too young to understand the truth about his father. was it possible that this was the truth? in after years he never forgot that sultry evening, with the close, noisome atmosphere of the hot mission-hall, and the confused buzzing of many voices, which after a short silence began to hum in his ears. the drunkard was still standing in the doorway, the very wreck and ruin of a man; and every detail of his loathsome, degraded appearance was burnt in on felix's brain. he felt stupefied and bewildered--as if he had received almost a death-blow. but in his inmost soul a cry went up to heaven, "lord, thou also hast been a man!" then he saw that the cross lay before him in his path. "whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me." it had seemed to felix at times as if he had never been called upon to bear any cross. but now it lay there close before him. he could not take another step forward unless he lifted it up and laid it on his shoulders, whatever its weight might be. the cross of shame--the bearing of another's sin--his father's sin. his whole soul recoiled from it. any other cross but this he could have borne after christ with willing feet and rejoicing heart. but to know that his father was a criminal; and to bear the shame of it openly! yet he could not stand there longer, fighting his battle, in the presence of these curious eyes so keenly fastened upon him. the clock over the door showed upon its dial only a minute or two gone; but to felix the time consumed in his brief foretaste of the cross seemed years. he gathered together so much of his self-possession as could be summoned at a moment's notice, and looked straight into the faces of his audience. "friends," he said, "if this is true, it is as new to me as it is to you. my father died when i was a boy of ten; and no one had a heart hard enough to tell me then my father was a rogue. but if i find it is true, i'll not rest day nor night till this man has his money again. what is his name?" "nixey," called out three or four voices; "john nixey." again felix's heart sank, for he knew simon nixey, whose farm lay nearest to phebe's little homestead; and there was a familiar ring in the name. "ay, ay!" stammered nixey; "but old clifford o' the bank paid me the money back all right; only i'd sworn a dreadful oath i'd never lay by another farthin', and it soon came to an end. it were me as were lost as well as the money." "then what do you come bothering here for," asked one of the men, "if you've had your money back all right? get out with you." for a minute or two there was a scuffle, and then the drunkard was hustled outside and the door shut behind him. for another half hour felix mechanically conducted the business of the club, as if he had been in a dream; and then, bidding the members of the little committee good night, he paced swiftly away from his district in the direction of his home. chapter vi. other people's sins. "but why go home?" felix stopped as he asked himself this question. he could not face his mother with any inquiry about the mystery that surrounded his father's memory, that mystery which was slowly dissipating like the mists which vanish imperceptibly from a landscape. he was beginning to read his mother's life in a more intelligible light, and all along the clearer line new meanings were springing into sight. the solitude and sadness, the bitterness of spirit, which had separated her from the genial influences of a society that had courted her, was plain to him now at their fountain-head. she had known--if this terrible thing was true--that shame, not glory, was hers; confusion of face, not the bearing of the palm. his heart ached for her more than for himself. in his heart of hearts, felix had triumphed greatly in his mother's fame. from his very babyhood the first thought impressed upon his mind had been that his mother was different from other women; far above them. it had been his father who had given him that first impression, but it had grown with strong and vigorous growth from its deep root, through all the years which had passed since his father died. even his love for alice had not touched his passionate loyalty and devotion to his mother. he had rejoiced in thinking that she was known, not in england alone, but in other countries into whose language her books had been translated. her celebrity shone in his eyes with a very strong and brilliant splendor. how could he tell her that he had been thrust into the secret of his father's infamy! there was only phebe to whom he could just yet lay open the doubt and terror of his soul. if it was true that her father, old marlowe, had died broken-hearted from the loss of his money, she would be sure to know of it. his preparations for his journey to-morrow morning were complete; and if he chose there was time enough for him to catch the night train, and start at once for riversborough. there would be no sleep for him until some of these tormenting questions were answered. it was a little after sunrise when he reached riversborough, where with some difficulty he roused up a hostler and obtained a horse at one of the inns. before six he was riding up the long, steep lanes, fresh and cool with dew, and overhung with tall hedgerows, which led up to the moor. he had not met a living soul since he left the sleeping town behind him, and it seemed to him as if he was in quite a different world from the close, crowded, and noisome streets he had traversed only a few hours ago. in the natural exhilaration of the sweet mountain air, and the silence broken only by the singing of the birds, his fears fell from him. there must be some mistake which phebe would clear up. it was nothing but the accusation of a besotted brain which had frightened him. he shouted boyishly when the quaint little cottage came in sight, with a thin column of blue smoke floating upward from its ivy-clad chimney. phebe herself came to the door, and hilda, with ruffled hair and a sleepy face, looked out of the little window in the thatched roof. there was nothing in his appearance a few hours earlier than he was expected to alarm them, and their surprise and pleasure were complete. even to himself it seemed singular that he should sit down at the little breakfast-table with them, the almost level rays of the morning sun shining through the lattice window, instead of in the dingy parlor of his london lodgings. "come with me on to the moors, phebe," he said as soon as breakfast was over. she went out with him bareheaded, as she had been used to do when a girl at home, and led him to a little knoll covered with short heath and ferns, from which a broad landscape of many miles stretched under their eyes to a far-off horizon. the hollow of the earth curved upwards in perfect lines to meet the perfect curve of the blue dome of the sky bending over it. they were resting as some small bird might rest in the rounded shelter of two hands which held it safely. for a few minutes they sat silent, gazing over the wide sweep of sky and land, till felix caught sight of a faint haze, through which two or three spires were dimly visible. it was where riversborough was lying. "phebe," he said, "i want you to tell me the naked truth. did my father defraud yours of some money?" "felix!" she cried, in startled tones. "say only yes or no to me first," he continued; "explain it afterward. only say yes or no." through phebe's brain came trooping the vivid memories of the past. she saw roland again hurrying over the moors from his day's shooting to mount his horse, which she had saddled for him, and to ride off down the steep lanes, with a cheery shout of "good-night" to her when he reached the last point where she could catch sight of him; and she saw him as his dark form walked beside her pony that night when he was already crushed down beneath his weight of sin and shame, pouring out his burdened heart into her ears. if felix had asked her this question in london it might have hurt her less poignantly; but here, where roland and her father filled all the place with the memory of their presence, it wounded her like the thrust of a sword. she burst into a passion of tears. "yes or no?" urged felix, setting his face like a flint, and striking out blindly and pitilessly. "yes!" she sobbed; "but, oh, your father was the dearest friend i ever had!" the sharp, cruel sound of the yes smote him with a deadly force. he could not tell himself what he had expected to hear; but now for a certainty, his father, whom he had been taught to regard as a hero and a saint, proved no other than a rogue. it was a long time before he spoke again, or lifted up his head; so long that phebe ceased weeping, and laid her hand tenderly on his to comfort him by her mute sympathy. but he took no notice of her silent fellowship in his suffering; it was too bitter for him to feel as yet that any one could share it. "i must give up alice!" he groaned at last. "no, no!" said phebe. "i told canon pascal all, and he does not say so. it is your mother who cannot give her consent, and she will do it some day." "does he know all?" cried felix. "is it possible he knows all, and will let me love alice still? i think i could bear anything if that is true. but, oh! how could i offer to her a name stained like mine?" "nay, the name was saved by his death," answered phebe sadly. "there are only three who knew he was guilty--mr. clifford, and your mother, and i. if he had lived he might have been brought to trial and sent to a convict prison; i suppose he would; but his death saved him and you. down in riversborough yonder some few uncharitable people might tell you there was some suspicion about him, but most of them speak of him still as the kindest and the best man they ever knew. it was covered up skilfully, felix, and nobody knew the truth but we three." "alice is visiting my father's grave this very day," he said falteringly. "ah! how like that is to canon pascal!" answered phebe; "he will not tell alice; no, she will never know, nor hilda. why should they be told? but he will stand there by the grave, sorrowing over the sin which drove your father into exile, and brought him to his sorrowful death. and his heart will feel more tenderly than ever for you and your mother. he will be devising some means for overcoming your mother's scruples and making you and alice happy." "i never ran be happy again," he exclaimed. "i never thought of such a sorrow as this." "it was the sorrow that fell to christ's lot," she answered; "the burden of other people's sins." "phebe," he said, "if i felt the misery of my fellow-man before, and i did feel it, how can i bear now to remember the horrible degradation of the man who told me of my father's sin? it was a drunkard----" "john nixey," she interrupted; "ay, but he caught at your father's sin as an excuse for his own. he was always a drinking man. no man is forced into sin. nothing can harm them who are the followers of god. don't lay on your father's shoulders more than his own wrong-doing. sin spreads misery around it only when there is ground ready for the bad seed. your father's sin opened my soul to deeper influences from god; i did not love him less because he had fallen, but i learned to trust god more, and walk more closely with him. you, too, will be drawn nearer to god by this sorrow." "phebe," he said, "can i speak to mr. clifford about it? it would be impossible to speak to my mother." "quite impossible," she answered emphatically. "yes, go down to riversborough, and hear what mr. clifford can tell you. your father repented of his sin bitterly, and paid a heavy price for it; but he was forgiven. if my poor old father could not withhold his forgiveness, would our heavenly father fall short of it? you, too, must forgive him, my felix." chapter vii. an old man's pardon. to forgive his father--that was a strange inversion of the attitude of felix's mind in regard to his father's memory. he had been taught to think of him with reverence, and admiration, and deep filial love. as felicita looked back on the long line of her distinguished ancestry with an exaltation of feeling which, if it was pride, was a legitimate pride, so had felix looked back upon the line of good men from whom his own being had sprung. he had felt himself pledged to a christian life by the eminently christian lives of his forefathers. now, suddenly, with no warning, he was called upon to forgive his father for a crime which had made him amenable to the penal laws of his country; a mean, treacherous, cowardly crime. like judas, he had borne the bag, and his fellow-pilgrims had trusted him with their money; and, like judas, he had been a thief. felix could not understand how a christian man could be tempted by money. to attempt to serve mammon as well as god seemed utterly comtemptible and incredible to him. his heart was very heavy as he rode slowly down the lanes and along the highway to riversborough, which his father had so often traversed before him. when he had come this way in the freshness and stillness of the early morning there had been more hope in his soul than he had been aware of, that phebe would be able to remove this load from him; but now he knew for a certainty that his father had left to him a heritage of dishonor. she had told him all the circumstances known to her, and he was going to learn more from mr. clifford. he entered his old home with more bitterness of spirit than he had ever felt before in his young life. here, of all places in the world, clustered memories of his father; memories which he had fondly cherished and graved as deeply as he could upon his mind. he could almost hear the joyous tones of his father's voice, and see the summer gladness of his face, as he remembered them. how was it possible that with such a hidden load of shame he could have been so happy. mr. clifford, though a very old man, was still in full and clear possession of his faculties, and had not yet given up an occasional attention to the business of the bank. he was nearly eighty years of age, and his hair was white, and the cold, stern blue eyes were watery and sunken in their sockets. some years ago, when samuel nixey had given up his last hope of winning phebe, and had married a farmer's daughter, his mother, mrs. nixey, had come to the old bank as housekeeper to mr. clifford, and looked well after his welfare. felix found him sitting in the wainscoted parlor, a withered, bent, old man, seldom leaving the warm hearth, but keen in sight and memory, living over again in his solitude the many years that had passed over him from his childhood until now. he welcomed felix with delight, holding his hands, and looking earnestly into his face, with the half-childlike affection of old age. "i've not seen you since you became a parson," he said, with a sigh; "ah, my lad, you ought to have come to me. you don't get half as much as my cashier, and not a tenth part of what i give my manager. but there! that's your mother's fault, who would never let you touch business. she would never hear of you taking your father's place." "how could she?" said felix, indignantly. "do you think my mother would let me come into the house my father had disgraced and almost ruined?" "so you've plucked that bitter apple at last!" he answered, in a tone of regret. "i thought it was possible you might never have to taste it. felix, my boy, your mother paid every farthing of the money your father had, with interest and compound interest; even to me, who begged and entreated to bear the loss. your mother is a noble woman." a blessed ray of comfort shot across the gloom in felix's heart, and lit up his dejected face with a momentary smile; and mr. clifford stretched out his thin old hand again, and clasped his feebly. "ah, my boy!" he said, "and your father was not a bad man. i know how you are sitting in judgment upon him, as young people do, who do not know what it is to be sorely tempted. i judged him, and my son before him, as harshly as man could do. remember we judge hardest where we love the most; there's selfishness in it. our children, our fathers, must be better than other folk's children and fathers. don't begin to reckon up your father's sins before you are thirty, and don't pass sentence till you're fifty. judges ought to be old men." felix sat down near to the old man, whose chair was in the oriel window, on which the sun was shining warmly. there below him lay the garden where he had played as a child, with the river flowing swiftly past it, and the boat-house in the corner, from which his father and he had so often started for a pleasant hour or two on the rapid current. but he could never think of his father again without sorrow and shame. "sin hurts us most as it comes nearest to us," said old mr. clifford; "the crime of a frenchman does not make our blood boil as the crime of an englishman; our neighbor's sin is not half as black as our kinsman's sin. but when we have to look it in the face in a son, in a father, then we see the exceeding sinfulness of it. why, felix, you knew that men defrauded one another; that even men professing godliness were sometimes dishonest." "i knew it," he answered, "but i never felt it before." "and i never felt it till i saw it in my son," continued the old man, sadly; "but there are other sins besides dishonesty, of a deeper dye, perhaps, in the sight of our creator. if roland sefton had met with a more merciful man than i am he might have been saved." for a minute or two his white head was bowed down, and his wrinkled eyelids were closed, whilst felix sat beside him as sorrowful as himself. "i could not be merciful," he burst out with a sudden fierceness in his face and tone, "i could not spare him, because i had not spared my own son. i had let one life go down into darkness, refusing to stretch out so much as a little finger in help, though he was as dear to me as my own life; and god required me yet again to see a life perish because of my hardness of heart. i think sometimes if roland had come and cast himself on my mercy, i should have pardoned him; but again i think my heart was too hard then to know what mercy was. but those two, felix, my son robert, who died of starvation in the streets of paris, and your father, who perished on a winter's night in switzerland, they are my daily companions. they sit down beside me here, and by the fireside, and at my solitary meals; and they watch beside me in the night. they will never leave me till i see them again, and confess my sin to them." "it was not you alone whom my father wronged," said felix, "there were others besides you who might have prosecuted him." "yes, but they were ignorant, simple men," replied mr. clifford, "they need never have known of his crime. all their money could have been replaced without their knowledge; it was of me roland was afraid. if the time could come over again--and i go over and over it in my own mind all in vain--i would act altogether differently. i would make him feel to the utmost the sin and peril of his course; but i would keep his secret. even felicita should know nothing. it was partly my fault too. if i had fulfilled my duty, and looked after my affairs instead of dreaming my time away in italy, your father, as the junior partner, could not have fallen into this snare. when a crime is committed the criminal is not the only one to be blamed. consciously or unconsciously those about him have been helping by their own carelessness and indolence, by cowardice, by indifference to right and wrong. by a thousand subtle influences we help our brother to disobey god; and when he is found out we stand aloof and raise an outcry against him. god has made every one of us his brother's keeper." "then you too have forgiven him," said felix, with a glowing sense of comfort in his heart. "forgiven him? ay!" he answered, "as he sits by me at the fireside, invisible to all but me, i say to him again and again in words inaudible to all but him: 'even as i hope for pardon in that day, when the great judge of heaven in scarlet sits, so be thou pardoned.'" the tremulous, weak old voice paused, and the withered hands lay feebly on his knees as he looked out on the summer sky, seeing nothing of its brightness, for the thoughts and memories that were flocking to his brain. felix's younger eyes caught every familiar object on which the sun was shining, and knitted them up for ever with the memory of that hour. "god help me!" he cried, "i forgive my father too; but i have lost him. i never knew the real man." chapter viii. the grave at engelberg. on the same august morning when felix was riding up the long lovely lanes to phebe marlowe's little farmstead, canon pascal and alice were starting by the earliest boat which left lucerne for stansstad, in the dewy coolness of the dawn. the short transit was quickly over, and an omnibus carried them into stans, where they left their knapsacks to be sent on after them during the day. the long pleasant walk of fourteen miles to engelberg lay before them, to be taken leisurely, with many a rest in the deep cool shades of the woods, or under the shadow of some great rock. the only impediment with which alice burdened herself was a little green slip of ivy, which felix had gathered from the walls of her country home, and which she had carried in a little flower-pot filled with english soil, to plant on his father's grave. it had been a sacred, though somewhat troublesome charge to her, as they had travelled from place to place, and she had not permitted any one to take the care of it off her hands. this evening, with her own hands, she was going to plant it upon the foreign grave of roland sefton; which had been so long neglected, and unvisited by those whom he had left behind him. that felicita should never have made a pilgrimage to this sacred spot was a wonder to her; but that she should so steadily resist the wish of felix to visit his father's resting-place, filled alice's heart with grave misgivings for her own future happiness. but she was not troubling herself with any misgivings to-day, as they journeyed onward and upward through the rich meadows and thick forests leading to the alpine valley which lay under the snowy dome of the titlis. her father's enjoyment of the sweet solitude and changeful beauty of their pathway was too perfect for her to mar it by any mournful forebodings. he walked beside her under the arched aisles of the pine-woods bareheaded, singing snatches of song as joyously as a school-boy, or waded off through marshy and miry places in quest of some rare plant which ought to be growing there, splashing back to her farther on in the winding road, scarcely less happy if he had not found it than if he had. how could she be troubled whilst her father was treading on enchanted ground? but the last time they allowed themselves to sit down to rest before entering the village, canon pascal's face grew grave, and his manner toward his daughter became more tender and caressing than usual. the secret which phebe had told him of roland sefton had been pondered over these many weeks in his heart. if it had concerned felix only he would have felt himself grieved at this story of his father's sin, but he knew too well it concerned alice as closely. this little ivy-slip, so carefully though silently guarded through all the journey, had been a daily reminder to him of his girl's love for her old playfellow and companion. though she had not told him of its destiny he had guessed it, and now as she screened it from the too direct rays of the hot sun it spoke to her of felix, and to him of his father's crime. he had no resolve to make his daughter miserable by raising obstacles to her marriage with felix, who was truly as dear to him as his own sons. but yet, if he had only known this dishonest strain in the blood, would he, years ago, have taken felix into his home, and exposed alice to the danger of loving him? felix was out of the way of temptation; there was no stream of money passing through his hands, and it would be hard and vile indeed for him to fall into any dishonest trickery. but it might be that his children, alice's children, might tread in the steps of their forefather, roland sefton, and pursue the same devious course. thieves breed thieves, it was said, in the lowest dregs of social life. would there be some fatal weakness, some insidious improbity, in the nature of those descending from roland sefton? it was a wrong against god, a faithless distrust of him, he said to himself, to let these dark thoughts distress his mind, at the close of a day such as that which had been granted to him, almost as a direct and perfect gift from heaven itself. he looked into the sweet, tranquil face of his girl, and the trustful loving eyes which met his anxious gaze with so open and frank an expression; yet he could not altogether shake off the feeling of solicitude and foreboding which had fallen upon his spirit. "let us go on, and have a quiet dinner by ourselves," said alice, at last, "and then we shall have all the cool of the evening to wander about as we please." they left their resting-place, and walked on in silence, as if they were overawed by the snow-clad mountains and towering peaks hanging over the valley. a little way off the road they saw a poor and miserable hut, built on piles of stones, with deep, sheltering eaves, but with a broken roof, and no light except such as entered it by the door. in the dimness of the interior they just caught sight of a gray-headed man, sitting on the floor, with his face hidden on his knees. it was an attitude telling of deep wretchedness, and heaviness of heart; and though neither of them spoke of the glimpse they had had, they drew nearer to one another, and walked closely together until they reached the hotel. it was still broad daylight, though the sun had sunk behind the lofty mountains when they strolled out again into the picturesque, irregular street of the village. the clear blue sky above them was of the color of the wild hyacinth, the simplest, purest blue, against which the pure and simple white of the snowy domes and pinnacles of the mountain ranges inclosing the valley stood out in sharp, bold outlines; whilst the dark green of the solemn pine-forests climbing up the steep slopes looked almost black against the pale grey peaks jutting up from among them, with silver lines of snow marking out every line and crevice in their furrowed and fretted architecture. canon pascal bared his head, as if he had been entering his beloved abbey in westminster. "god is very glorious!" he said, in a low and reverent tone. "god is very good!" in silence they sauntered on, with loitering steps, to the little cemetery, where lay the grave they had come to seek. they found it in a forlorn and deserted corner, but there was no trace of neglect about the grey unpolished granite of the cross that marked it. no weeds were growing around it, and no moss was gathering upon it; the lettering, telling the name, and age, and date of death, of the man who lay beneath it, was as clear as if it had just come from the chisel of the graver. the tears sprang to alice's eyes as she stood before it with reverently bowed head, looking down on roland sefton's grave. "did you ever see him, father?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "i saw him once," he answered, "at riversdale towers, when felix was still only a baby. he was a finer and handsomer man than felix will ever be; and there was more foreign blood in his veins, which gave him greater gaiety and simpler vivacity than englishmen usually have. i remember how he watched over felicita, and waited on her in an almost womanly fashion; and fetched his baby himself for us to see, carrying him in his own arms with the deft skill of a nurse. felix is as tender-hearted, but he would not make a show of it so openly." "cousin felicita must have loved him with her whole heart," sighed alice, "yet if i were in her place, i should come here often; it would be the one place i loved to come to. she is a hard woman, father; hard, and bitter, and obstinate. do you think felix's father would have set himself against me as she has done?" she turned to him, her sad and pensive face, almost the dearest face in the world to him; and he gazed into it with penetrating and loving eyes. would it not be best to tell the child the secret this grave covered, here, by the grave itself? better for her to know the truth concerning the dead, than cherish hard and unjust thoughts of the living. even if felicita consented, he could not let her marry felix ignorant of the facts which phebe had disclosed to him. felix himself must know them some day; and was not this the hour and the place for revealing them to alice? "my darling," he said, "i know why felicita never comes here, nor lets her children come; and also why she is at present opposed to the thought of felix marrying. roland sefton, her husband, the unhappy man whose body lies here, was guilty of a crime; and died miserably while a fugitive from our country. his death consigned the crime to oblivion; no one remembered it against her and her children. but if he had lived he would have been a convict; and she, and felix, and hilda would have shared his ignominy. she feels that she must not suffer felix to enter our family until she has told me this; and it is the mere thought and dread of such a disclosure that has made her ill. we must wait till her mind recovers its strength." "what was it he had done?" asked alice, with quivering lips. "he had misappropriated a number of securities left in his charge," answered canon pascal, "phebe says to the amount of over £ , ; most of it belonging to mr. clifford." "is that all?" cried alice, the color rushing back again to her face, and the light to her eyes, "was it only money? oh! i thought it was more dreadful than that. why! we should never blame cousin felicita because her husband misappropriated some securities belonging to old mr. clifford. and felix is not to blame at all; how could he be? poor felix!" "but, alice," he said, with a half smile, "if, instead of being buried here, roland sefton had lived, and been arrested, and sent to a convict prison for a term of imprisonment, felicita's life, and the life of her children, would have been altogether overshadowed by the disgrace and infamy of it. there could have been no love between you and felix." "it was a good thing that he died," she answered, looking down on the grave again almost gladly. "does felix know this? but i am sure he does not," she added quickly, and looking up with a heightened color into her father's face, "he is all honor, and truth, and unselfishness. he could not be guilty of a crime against any one." "i believe in felix; i love him dearly," her father said, "but if i had known of this i do not think i could have brought him up in my own home, with my own boys and girls. god knows it would have been a difficult point to settle; but it was not given to my poor wisdom to decide." "i shall not love felix one jot less," she said, "or reverence him less. if all his forefathers had been bad men i should be sure still that he was good. i never knew him do or say anything that was mean or selfish. my poor felix! oh, father! i shall love him more than ever now i know there is something in his life that needs pity. when he knows it he will come to me for comfort; and i will comfort him. his father shall hear me promise it by this grave here. i will never, never visit roland sefton's sin on his son; i will never in my heart think of it as a thing against him. and if all the world came to know it, i would never once feel a moment's shame of him." her voice faltered a little, and she knelt down on the parched grass at the foot of the cross, hiding her face in her hands. canon pascal laid his hand fondly on her bowed head; and then he left her that she might be alone with the grave, and god. chapter ix. the lowest deeps. the miserable, delapidated hut at the entrance of engelberg, with no light save that which entered by the doorway, had been jean merle's home since he had fixed his abode in the valley, drawn thither irresistibly by the grave which bore roland sefton's name. there was less provision for comfort in this dark hovel than in a monk's cell. a log of rough, unbarked timber from the forest was the only seat, and a rude framework of wood filled with straw or dry ferns was his bed. the floor was bare, except near the door, the upper half of which usually stood open, and here it was covered with fine chips of box and oak-wood, and the dust which fell from his busy graver, the tool which was never out of his fingers while the light served him. there was no more decoration then there was comfort; except that on the smoke-stained walls the mildew had pencilled out some strange and grotesque lines, as if some mural painting had mouldered into ruin there. two or three english books alone, of the cheap continental editions, lay at one end of a clumsy shelf; with the few cooking utensils which were absolutely necessary, piled together on the other. there was a small stove in one corner of the hovel, where a handful of embers could be seen at times, like the eye of some wild creature lurking in the deep gloom. jean merle, though still two or three years under fifty, was looked upon by his neighbors as being a man of great, though unknown age. yet, though he stooped in the shoulders a little, and walked with his head bent down, he was not infirm, nor had he the appearance of infirmity. his long mountain expeditions kept his muscles in full force and activity. but his grey face was marked with many lines, so fine as to be seen only at close quarters; yet on the whole forming a wrinkled and aged mask as of one far advanced in life. in addition to this singularity of aspect there was the extraordinary seclusion and sordid miserliness of his mode of existence, more in harmony with the passiveness of extreme old age, than with the energy of a man still in the prime of his days. the village mothers frightened their children with tales about jean merle's gigantic strength, which made him an object of terror to them. he sought acquaintanceship with none of his neighbors; and they avoided him as a heretic and a stranger. the rugged, simple, narrow life of his swiss forefathers gathered around him, and hedged him in. they had been peasant-farmers, with the exception of the mountain-pastor his grandfather, and he still well-remembered felix merle, after whom his boy had been called. all of them had been men toiling with their own hands, with a never-ceasing bodily activity, which had left them but little time or faculty for any mental pursuit. this half of his nature fitted him well for the life that now lay before him. as his swiss ancestors had been for many generations toil-worn and weather-beaten men, whose faces were sunburnt and sun-blistered, whose backs were bent with labor, and whose weary feet dragged heavily along the rough paths, so he became. the social refinement of the prosperous englishman, skin deep as it is, vanished in the coarse and narrow life to which he had partly doomed himself, had partly been doomed, by the dull, despondent apathy which had possessed his soul, when he first left the hospital in lucerne. his mode of living was as monotonous as it was solitary. his work only gave him some passing interest, for in the bitterness of his spirit he kept himself quite apart from all relation with his fellow-men. as far as in him lay he shut out the memory of the irrevocable past, and forbade his heart to wander back to the years that were gone. he strove to concentrate himself upon his daily toil, and the few daily wants of his body; and after a while a small degree of calm and composure had been won by him. roland sefton was dead; let him lie motionless, as a corpse should do, in the silence of his grave. but jean merle was living, and might continue to live another twenty years or more, thus solitarily and monotonously. but there was one project which he formed early in his new state of existence, which linked him by a living link to the old. as soon as he found he could earn handsome wages for his skilled and delicate work, wages which he could in no way spend, and yet continue the penance which he pronounced upon himself, the thought came to him of restoring the money which had been intrusted to him by old marlowe, and the other poor men who had placed their savings in his care. to repay the larger amount to which he was indebted to mr. clifford would be impossible; but to earn the other sums, though it might be the work of years, was still practicable, especially if from time to time he could make safe and prudent speculations, such as his knowledge of the money-market might enable him to do, so as to insure more rapid returns. at the village inn he could see the newspapers, with their lists of the various continental funds, and the share and stock markets; and without entering at all into the world he could direct the buying in and selling out of his stock through some bankers in lucerne. even this restitution must be made in secret, and be so wrapped up in darkness and stealth that no one could suspect the hand from which it came. for he knew that the net he had woven about himself was too strong and intricate to be broken through without deadly injury to others, and above all to felicita. the grave yonder, and the stone cross above it, barred the way to any return by the path he had come. but would it be utterly impossible for him to venture back, changed as he was by these many years, to england? it would be only jean merle who would travel thither, there could be no resurrection for roland sefton. but could not jean merle see from afar off the old home; or phebe marlowe's cottage on the hill-side; or possibly his mother, or his children; nay, felicita herself? only afar off; as some banished, repentant soul, drawing a little nearer to the walls of the eternal city, might be favored with a glimpse of the golden streets, and the white-robed citizens therein, the memory of which would dwell within him for evermore. as he drew nearer the end he grew more eager to reach it. the dull apathy of the past thirteen years was transformed into a feverish anticipation of his secret journey to england with the accumulated proceeds of his work and his speculations; which in some way or other must find their way into the hands of the men who had trusted him in time past. but at this juncture the bankers at lucerne failed him, as he had failed others. it was not simply that his speculations turned out badly; but the men to whom he had intrusted the conduct of them, from his solitary mountain-home, had defrauded him; and the bank broke. the measure he had meted out to others had been measured to him again. whatsoever he had done unto men they had done unto him. for three days jean merle wandered about the eternal frosts of the ice-bound peaks and snow-fields of the mountains around him, living he did not himself know how. it was not money he had lost. like old marlowe he realized how poor a symbol money was of the long years of ceaseless toil, the days of self-denial, the hours of anxious thoughts it represented. and besides this darker side, it stood also for the hopes he had cherished, vaguely, almost unconsciously, but still with strong earnestness. he had fled from the penalty the just laws of his country demanded from him, taking refuge in a second and more terrible fraud, and now god suffered him not to make this small reparation for his sin, or to taste the single drop of satisfaction that he hoped for in realizing the object he had set before him. there was no place of repentance for him; not a foot-hold in all the wide wilderness of his banishment on which he could stand, and repair one jot a little of the injury he had inflicted upon his fellow-men. what passed through his soul those three days, amidst the ice-solitudes where no life was, and where the only sounds that spoke to him were the wild awful tones of nature in her dreariest haunts, he could never tell; he could hardly recall it to his own memory. he felt as utterly alone as if no other human being existed on the face of the earth; yet as if he alone had to bear the burden of all the falsehood, and dishonesty and dishonor of the countless generations of false and dishonorable men which this earth has seen. all hope was dead now. there was nothing more to work for, or to look forward to. nothing lay before him but his solitary blank life in the miserable hut below. there was no interest in the world for him but roland sefton's grave. he descended the mountain-side at last. for the first time since he had left the valley he noticed that the sun was shining, and that the whole landscape below him was bathed in light. the village was all astir, and travellers were coming and going. it was not in the sight of all the world that he could drag his weary feet to the cemetery, where roland sefton's grave was; and he turned aside into his own hut to wait till the evening was come. at last the sun went down upon his misery, and the cool shades of the long twilight crept on. he made a circuit round the village to reach the spot he longed to visit. his downcast eyes saw nothing but the rough ground he trod, and the narrow path his footsteps had made to the solitary grave, until he was close to it; and then, looking up to read the name upon the cross, he discerned the figure of a girl kneeling before it, and carefully planting a little slip of ivy into the soil beneath it. chapter x. alice pascal. alice pascal looked up into jean merle's face with the frank and easy self-possession of a well-bred english woman; coloring a little with girlish shyness, yet at the same time smiling with a pleasant light in her dark eyes. the oval of her face, and the color of her hair and eyes, resembled, though slightly, the more beautiful face of felicita in her girlhood; it was simply the curious likeness which runs through some families to the remotest branches. but her smile, the shape of her eyes, the kneeling attitude, riveted him to the spot where he stood, and struck him dumb. a fancy flashed across his brain, which shone like a light from heaven. could this girl be hilda, his little daughter, whom he had seen last sleeping in her cot? was she then come, after many years, to visit her father's grave? there had always been a corroding grief to him in the thought that it was felicita herself who had erected that cross over the tomb of the stranger, with whom his name was buried. he did not know that it was mr. clifford alone who had thus set a mark upon the place where he believed that the son of his old friend was lying. it had pained jean merle to think that felicita had commemorated their mutual sin by the erection of an imperishable monument; and it had never surprised him that no one had visited the grave. his astonishment came now. was it possible that felicita had revisited switzerland? could she be near at hand, in the village down yonder? his mother, also, and his boy, felix, could they be treading the same soil, and breathing the same air as himself? an agony of mingled terror and rapture shot through his inmost soul. his lips were dry, and his throat parched: he could not articulate a syllable. he did not know what a gaunt and haggard madman he appeared. his grey hair was ragged and tangled, and his sunken eyes gleamed with a strange brightness. the villagers, who were wont at times to call him an imbecile, would have been sure they were right at this moment, as he stood motionless and dumb, staring at alice; but to her he looked more like one whose reason was just trembling in the balance. she was alone, her father was no longer in sight; but she was not easily frightened. rather a sense of sacred pity for the forlorn wretch before her filled her heart. "see!" she said, in clear and penetrating accents, full, however, of gentle kindness, and she spoke unconsciously in english, "see! i have carried this little slip of ivy all the way from england to plant it here. this is the grave of a man i should have loved very dearly." a rapid flush of color passed over her face as she spoke, leaving it paler than before, while a slight sadness clouded the smile in her eyes. "was he your father?" he articulated, with an immense effort. "no," she answered; "not my father, but the father of my dearest friends. they cannot come here; but it was his son who gathered this slip of ivy from our porch at home, and asked me to plant it here for him. will it grow, do you think?" "it shall grow," he muttered. it was not his daughter, then; none of his own blood was at hand. but this english girl fascinated him; he could not turn away his eyes, but watched every slight movement as she carefully gathered the soil about the root of the little plant, which he vowed within himself should grow. she was rather long about her task, for she wished this madman to go away, and leave her alone beside roland sefton's grave. what her father had told her about him was still strange to her, and she wanted to familiarize it to herself. but still the haggard-looking peasant lingered at her side, gazing at her with his glowering and sunken eyes; yet neither moving nor speaking. "you know english?" she said, as all at once it occurred to her that she had spoken to him as she would have spoken to one of the villagers in their own country churchyard at home, and that he had answered her. he replied only by a gesture. "can you find me some one who will take charge of this little plant?" she asked. jean merle raised his head and lifted up his dim eyes to the eastern mountain-peaks, which were still shining in the rays of the sinking sun, though the twilight was darkening everywhere in the valley. only last night he had slept among some juniper-bushes just below the boundary of that everlasting snow, feeling himself cast out forever from any glimpse of his old paradise. but now, if he could only find words and utterance, there was come to him, even to him, a messenger, an angel direct from the very heart of his home, who could tell him all that last night he believed that he should never know. the tears sprang to his eyes, blessed tears; and a rush of uncontrollable longing overwhelmed him. he must hear all he could of those whom he loved; and then, whether he lived long or died soon, he would thank god as long as his miserable life continued. "it is i who take care of this grave," he said; "i was with him when he died. he spoke to me of felix and hilda and his mother; and i saw their portraits. you hear? i know them all." "was it you who watched beside him?" asked alice eagerly. "oh! sit down here and tell me all about it; all you can remember. i will tell it all again to felix, and hilda, and phebe marlowe; and oh! how glad, and how sorry they will be to listen!" there was no mention of felicita's name, and jean merle felt a terrible dread come over him at this omission. he sank down on the ground beside the grave, and looked up into alice's bright young face, with eyes that to her were no longer lit up with the fire of insanity, however intense and eager they might seem. it was an undreamed-of chance which had brought to her side the man who had watched by the death-bed of felix's father. "tell me all you remember," she urged. "i remember nothing," he answered, pressing his dark hard hand against his forehead, "it is more than thirteen years ago. but he showed to me their portraits. is his wife still living?" "oh, yes!" she answered, "but she will not let either of them come to switzerland; neither felix nor hilda. nobody speaks of this country in her hearing; and his name is never uttered. but his mother used to talk to us about him; and phebe marlowe does so still. she has painted a portrait of him for felix." "is roland sefton's mother yet alive?" he asked, with a dull, aching foreboding of her reply. "no," she said. "oh! how we all loved dear old madame sefton! she was always more like felix and hilda's mother than cousin felicita was. we loved her more a hundred times than cousin felicita, for we are afraid of her. it was her husband's death that spoiled her whole life and set her quite apart from everybody else. but madame--she was not made so utterly miserable by it; she knew she would meet her son again in heaven. when she was dying she said to cousin felicita, 'he did not return to me, but i go to him; i go gladly to see again my dear son.' the very last words they heard her say were, 'i come, roland!'" alice's voice trembled, and she laid her hand caressingly on the name of roland sefton graved on the cross above her. jean merle listened, as if he heard the words whispered a long way off, or as by some one speaking in a dream. the meaning had not reached his brain, but was travelling slowly to it, and would surely pierce his heart with a new sorrow and a fresh pang of remorse. the loud chanting of the monks in the abbey close by broke in upon their solemn silence, and awoke alice from the reverie into which she had fallen. "can you tell me nothing about him?" she asked. "talk to me as if i was his child." "i have nothing to tell you," answered jean merle. "i remember nothing he said." she looked down on the poor ragged peasant at her feet, with his gaunt and scarred features, and his slowly articulated speech. there seemed nothing strange in such a man not being able to recall roland sefton's dying words. it was probable that he barely understood them; and most likely he could not gather up the meaning of what she herself was saying. the few words he uttered were english, but they were very few and forced. "i am sorry," she said gently, "but i will tell them you promised to take care of the ivy i have planted here." she wished the dull, gray-headed villager would go home, and leave her alone for awhile in this solemn and sacred place; but he crouched still on the ground, stirring neither hand nor foot. when at last she moved as if to go away, he stretched out a toil-worn hand, and laid it on her dress. "stay," he said, "tell me more about roland sefton's children; i will think of it when i am tending this grave." "what am i to tell you?" she asked gently, "hilda is three years younger than me, and people say we are like sisters. she and felix were brought up with me and my brothers in my father's house; we were like brothers and sisters. and felix is like another son to my father, who says he will be both good and great some day. good he is now; as good as man can be." "and you love him!" said jean merle, in a low and humble voice, with his head turned away from her, and resting on the lowest step of the cross. alice started and trembled as she looked down on the grave and the prostrate man. it seemed to her as if the words had almost come out of this sad, and solitary, and forsaken grave, where roland sefton had lain unvisited so many years. the last gleam of daylight had vanished from the snowy peaks, leaving them wan and pallid as the dead. a sudden chill came into the evening air which made her shiver; but she was not terrified, though she felt a certain bewilderment and agitation creeping through her. she could not resist the impulse to answer the strange question. "yes, i love felix," she said simply. "we love each other dearly." "god bless you!" cried jean merle, in a tremulous voice. "god in heaven bless you both, and preserve you to each other." he had lifted himself up, and was kneeling before her, eagerly scanning her face, as if to impress it on his memory. he bent down his gray head and kissed her hand humbly and reverently, touching it only with his lips. then starting to his feet he hastened away from the cemetery, and was soon lost to her sight in the gathering gloom of the dusk. for a little while longer alice lingered at the grave, thinking over what had passed. it was not much as she recalled it, but it left her agitated and disturbed. yet after all she had only uttered aloud what her heart would have said at the grave of felix's father. but this strange peasant, so miserable and poverty-stricken, so haggard and hopeless-looking, haunted her thoughts both waking and sleeping. early the next morning she and canon pascal went to the hovel inhabited by jean merle, but found it deserted and locked up. some laborers had seen him start off at daybreak up the trübsee alps, from which he might be either ascending the titlis or taking the route to the joch-pass. there was no chance of his return that day, and jean merle's absence might last for several days, as he was eccentric, and bestowed his confidence on nobody. there was little more to be learned of him, except that he was a heretic, a stranger, and a miser. canon pascal and alice visited once more roland sefton's grave, and then they went on their way over the joch-pass, with some faint hopes of meeting with jean merle on their route, hopes that were not fulfilled. chapter xi. coming to himself. when he left the cemetery jean merle went home to his wretched chalet, flung himself down on his rough bed, and slept for some hours the profound and dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. the last three nights he had passed under the stars, and stretched upon the low juniper-bushes. he awoke suddenly, from the bright, clear moonlight of a cloudless sky and dry atmosphere streaming in through his door, which he had left open. there was light enough for him to withdraw some money from a safe hiding-place he had constructed in his crazy old hut, and to make up a packet of most of the clothing he possessed. there were between twenty and thirty pounds in gold pieces of twenty francs each--the only money he was master of now his lucerne bankers had failed him. a vague purpose, dimly shaping itself, was in his brain, but he was in no hurry to see it take definite form. with his small bundle of clothes and his leathern purse he started off in the earliest rays of the dawn to escape being visited by the young english girl, whom he had seen at the grave, and who would probably seek him out in the morning with her father. who they were he could find out if he himself returned to engelberg. _if_ he returned; for, as he ascended the steep path leading up to the trübsee alp, he turned back to look at the high mountain-valley where he had dwelt so long, as though he was looking upon it for the last time. it seemed to him as if he was awaking out of a long lethargy and paralysis. three days ago the dull round of incessant toil and parsimonious hoarding had been abruptly broken up by the loss of all he had toiled for and hoarded up, and the shock had driven him out like a maniac, to wander about the desolate heights of engelberg in a mood bordering on despair, which had made him utterly reckless of his life. since then news had come to him from home--stray gleams from the paradise he had forfeited. strongest of them all was the thought that these fourteen years had transformed his little son felix into a man, loving as he himself had loved, and already called to take his part in the battle of life. he had never realized this before, and it stirred his heart to the very depths. his children had been but soft, vague memories to him; it was felicita who had engrossed all his thought. all at once he comprehended that he was a father, the father of a son and daughter, who had their own separate life and career. a deep and poignant interest in these beings took possession of him. he had called them into existence; they belonged to him by a tie which nothing on earth, in heaven, or in hell itself could destroy. as long as they lived there must be an indestructible interest for him in this world. felicita was no longer the first in his thoughts. the dim veil which time had drawn around them was rent asunder, and they stood before him bathed in light, but placed on the other side of a gulf as fathomless, as impassable, and as death-like as the ice-crevasses yawning at his feet. he gazed down into the cold, gleaming abyss, and across it to the sharp and slippery margin where there could be no foot-hold, and he pictured to himself the springing across that horrible gulf to reach them on the other side, and the falling, with outstretched hands and clutching fingers, into the unseen icy depths below him. for the first time in his life he shrank back shivering and terror-stricken from the edge of the crevasse, with palsied limbs and treacherous nerves. he felt that he must get back into safer standing-ground than this solitary and perilous glacier. he reached at last a point of safety, where he could lie down and let his trembling limbs rest awhile. the whole slope of the valley lay below him, with its rich meadows of emerald green, and its silvery streams wandering through them. little farms and chalets were dotted about, some of them clinging to the sides of the rocks opposite to him, or resting on the very edge of precipices thousands of feet deep, and looking as if they were about to slip over them. he felt his head grow giddy as he looked at them, and thought of the children at play in such dangerous playgrounds. there were a few gray clouds hanging about the titlis, and caught upon the sharp horns of the rugged peaks around the valley. every peak and precipice he knew; they had been his refuge in the hours of his greatest anguish. but these palsied limbs and this giddy head could not be trusted to carry him there again. he had lost his last hope of making any atonement. hope was gone; was he to lose his indomitable courage also? it was the last faculty which made his present life endurable. he lay motionless for hours, neither listening nor looking. yet he heard, for the memory of it often came back to him in after years, the tinkling of innumerable bells from the pastures below him, and around him; and the voices of many waterfalls rushing down through the pine-forests into the valley; and the tossing to and fro of the interwoven branches of the trees. and he saw the sunlight stealing from one point to another, chased by the shadows of the clouds, that gathered and dispersed, dimming the blue sky for a little time, and then leaving it brighter and deeper than before. he was unconscious of it all; he was even unaware that his brain was at work at all, until suddenly, like a flash, there rose upon him the clear, resolute, unchangeable determination, "i will go to england." he started up at once, and seized his bundle and his alpenstock. the afternoon was far advanced, but there was time enough to reach the engstlenalp, where he could stay the night, and go on in the morning to meiringen. he could be in england in three days. three days: so short a time separated him from the country and the home from which he had been exiled so many years. any day during those fourteen years he might have started homeward as he was doing now; but there had not been the irresistible hunger in his heart that at this moment drove him thither. he had been vainly seeking to satisfy himself with husks; but even these, dry and empty, and bitter as they were, had failed him. he had lost all; and having lost all, he was coming to himself. there was not the slightest fear of detection in his mind. a gray-haired man with bowed shoulders, and seamed and marred face, who had lost every trace of the fastidiousness, which had verged upon foppery in the handsome and prosperous roland sefton, ran no risk of recognition, more especially as roland sefton had been reckoned among the dead and buried for many a long year. the lineaments of the dead die with them, however cunningly the artist may have used his skill to preserve them. the face is gone, and the memory of it. some hearts may long to keep it engraven sharp and clear in their remembrance; but oh, when the "inward eye" comes to look for it how dull and blurred it lies there, like a forgotten photograph which has grown faded and stained in some seldom-visited cabinet! jean merle travelled, as a man of his class would travel, in a third-class wagon and a slow train; but he kept on, stopping nowhere for rest, and advancing as rapidly as he could, until on the third day, in the gray of the evening, he saw the chalk-line of the english coast rising against the faint yellow light of the sunset; and as night fell his feet once more trod upon his native soil. so far he had been simply yielding to his blind and irresistible longing to get back to england, and nearer to his unknown children. he had heard so little of them from alice pascal, that he could no longer rest without knowing more. how to carry out his intention he did not know, and he had hardly given it a thought. but now, as he strolled slowly along the flat and sandy shore for an hour or two, with the darkness hiding both sea and land from him, except the spot on which he stood, he began to consider what steps he must take to learn what he wanted to know, and to see their happiness afar off without in any way endangering it. he had purchased it at too heavy a price to be willing to place it in any peril now. that felicita had left riversborough he had heard from her own lips, but there was no other place where he was sure of discovering her present abode, for london was too wide a city, even if she had carried out her intention of living there, for him to ascertain where she dwelt. phebe marlowe would certainly know where he could find them, for the english girl at roland sefton's grave had spoken of phebe as familiarly as of felix and hilda--spoken of her, in fact, as if she was quite one of the family. there would be no danger in seeking out phebe marlowe. if his own mother could not have recognized her son in the rugged peasant he had become, there was no chance of a young girl such as phebe had been ever thinking of roland sefton in connection with him; and he could learn all he wished to know from her. he was careful to take the precaution of exchanging his foreign garb of a swiss peasant for the dress of an english mechanic. the change did not make him look any more like his old self, for there was no longer any incongruity in his appearance. no soul on earth knew that he had not died many years ago, except felicita. he might saunter down the streets of his native town in broad daylight on a market-day, and not a suspicion would cross any brain that here was their old townsman, roland sefton, the fraudulent banker. yet he timed his journey so as not to reach riversborough before the evening of the next day; and it was growing dusk when he paced once more the familiar streets, slowly, and at every step gathering up some sharp reminiscence of the past. how little were they changed! the old grammar-school, with its gray walls and mullioned windows, looked exactly as it had done when he was yet a boy wearing his college-cap and carrying his satchel of school-books. his name, he knew, was painted in gold on a black tablet on the walls inside as a scholar who had gained a scholarship. most of the shops on each side of the streets bore the same names and looked but little altered. in the churchyard the same grave-stones were standing as they stood when he, as a child, spelt out their inscriptions through the open railings which separated them from the causeway. there was a zigzag crack in one of the flag-stones, which was one of his earliest recollections; he stood and put his clumsy boot upon it as he had often placed his little foot in those childish years, and leaning his head against the railings of the churchyard, where all his english forefathers for many a generation were buried, he waited as if for some voice to speak to him. suddenly the bells in the dark tower above him rang out a peal, clanging and clashing noisily together as if to give him a welcome. they had rung so the day he brought felicita home after their long wedding journey. it was friday night, the night when the ringers had always been used to practise, in the days when he was churchwarden. the pain of hearing them was intolerable; he could bear no more that night. not daring to go on and look at the house where he was born, and where his children had been born, but which he could never more enter, he sought out a quiet inn, and shut himself up in a garret there to think, and at last to sleep. chapter xii. a glimpse into paradise. i cannot tell whether it was fancy merely, but the morning light which streamed into his room seemed more familiar and home-like to him than it had ever done in switzerland. he was awakened by one of those sounds which dwell longest in the memory--the chiming of the church bells nearest home, which in childhood had so often called to him to shake off his slumbers, and which spoke to him now in sweet and friendly tones, as if he was still an innocent child. the tempest-tossed, sinful man lay listening to them for a minute or two, half asleep yet. he had been dreaming that he was in truth dead, but that the task assigned to him was that of an invisible guardian and defender to those who had lost him. he had been present all these years with his wife, and mother, and children, going out and coming in with them, hearing all their conversation, and sharing their family life, but himself unseen and unheard, felt only by the spiritual influence he could exercise over them. it had been a blissful dream, such as had never visited him in his exile; and as the familiar chiming of the bells, high up in the belfry not far from his attic, fell upon his ear, the dream for a brief moment gathered a stronger sense of reality. it was with a strange feeling, as if he was himself a phantom mingling with creatures of flesh and blood, that he went out into the streets. his whole former life lay unrolled before him, but there was no point at which he could touch it. every object and every spot was commonplace, yet invested with a singular and intense significance. many a man among the townsfolk he knew by name and history, whose eyes glanced at him as a stranger, with no surprise at his appearance, and no show of suspicion or of welcome. certainly he was nothing but a ghost revisiting the scenes of a life to which there was no possible return. yet how he longed to stretch out his hand and grasp those of these old towns-people of his! even the least interesting of the shopkeepers in the streets, bestirring themselves to meet the business of a new day, seemed to him one of the most desirable of companions. his heart was drawing him to whitefriars road, to that spot on earth of all others most his own, but his resolution failed him whenever he turned his face that way. he rambled into the ancient market square, where stood a statue of his felicita's great uncle, the first baron riversdale. the long shadow of it fell across him as he lingered to look in at a bookseller's window. he and the bookseller had been school-fellows together at the grammar-school, and their friendship had lasted after each was started in his own career. hundreds of times he had crossed this door-sill to have a chat with the studious and quiet bookworm within whose modest life was so great a contrast with his own. jean merle stopped at the well-remembered shop-window. his eyes glanced aimlessly along the crowded shelves, but suddenly his attention was arrested, and his pulses, which had been beating somewhat fast, throbbed with eager rapidity. a dozen volumes or more, ranged together, were labelled, "works by mrs. roland sefton." surprise, and pride, and pleasure were in the rapid beatings of his heart. by felicita! he read over the titles with a new sense of delight and admiration; and in the first glow of his astonishment he stepped quickly into the shop, with erect head and firm tread, and found himself face to face with his old school-fellow. the sight of his blank, unrecognizing gaze brought him back to the consciousness of the utter change in himself. he looked down at his coarse hands and mechanic's dress, and remembered that he was no longer roland sefton. his tongue was parched; it was difficult to stammer out a word. "do you want anything, my good man?" asked the bookseller quietly. there was something in the words "my good man" that brought home to him at once the complete separation between his former life and the present, and the perfect security that existed for him in the conviction that roland sefton was dead. with a great effort he commanded himself, and answered the bookseller's question collectedly. "there are some books in the window by mrs. roland sefton," he said, "how much are they?" "that is the six shilling edition," replied the bookseller. jean merle was on the point of saying he would take them all, but he checked himself. he must possess them all, and read every line that felicita had ever written, but not now, and not here. "which do you think is the best?" he asked. "they are all good," was the answer; "we are very proud of mrs. roland sefton, who belongs to riversborough. that is her great uncle yonder, the first lord riversdale; and she married a prominent townsman, roland sefton, of the old bank. i have a soiled copy or two, which i could sell to you for half the price of the new ones." "she is famous then?" said jean merle. "she has won her rank as an author," replied the bookseller. "i knew her husband well, and he always foretold that she would make her mark; and she has. he died fourteen years ago; and, strange to say, there was something about your step as you came in which reminded me of him. do you belong to riversborough?" "no," he answered; "but my name is jean merle, and i am related to madame sefton, his mother. i suppose there is some of the same blood in roland sefton and me." "that is it," said the bookseller cordially. "i thought you were a foreigner, though you speak english so well." "there was some mystery about roland sefton's death?" remarked jean merle. "no, no; at least not much," was the answer. "he went away on a long holiday, unluckily without announcing it, on account of bank business; but mr. clifford, the senior partner, was on his way to take charge of affairs. there was but one day between roland sefton's departure and mr. clifford's arrival, but during that very day, for some reason or other unknown, the head clerk committed suicide, and there was a panic and a run upon the bank. unfortunately there was no means of communicating with sefton, who had started at once for the continent. mr. clifford did not see any necessity for his return, as the mischief was done; but just as his six months' absence was over--not all holiday, as folks said, for there was foreign business to see after--he died by accident in switzerland. i knew the truth better than most people; for mr. clifford came here often, and dropped many a hint. some persons still say the police were seeking for roland; but that is not true. it was an unfortunate concatenation of circumstances." "you knew him well?" said jean merle. "yes; we were school-fellows and friends," answered the bookseller, "and a finer fellow never breathed. he was always eager to get on, and to help other people on. we have not had such a public-spirited man amongst us since he died. it cuts me to the heart when anybody pretends that he absconded. absconded! why! there were dozens of us who would have made him welcome to every penny we could command. but i own appearances were against him, and he never came back to clear them up, and prove his innocence." "and this is his wife's best book," said jean merle, holding it with shaking, nerveless hands. felicita's book! the tears burned under his eyelids as he looked down on it. "i won't say it is the best; it is my favorite," replied the bookseller. "her son, felix sefton, a clergyman now, was in here yesterday, asking the same question. if you are related to madame sefton, you'll be very welcome at the old bank; and you'll find both of madame's grand-children visiting old mr. clifford. i'll send one of my boys to show you the house." "not now," said jean merle. if mr. clifford was living yet he must be careful what risks he ran. hatred has eyes as keen as love; and if any one could break through his secret it would be the implacable old man, who had still the power of sending him to a convict prison. a shudder ran through him at the dread idea of detection. what would it be to felicita now, when her name was famous, to have it dragged down to ignominy and utter disgrace? the dishonor would be a hundred-fold the greater for the fair reputation she had won, and the popularity she had secured. and her children too! worse for them past all words would it be than if they were still little creatures, ignorant of the value of the world's opinion. he bade the bookseller good-morning, and threaded his way through many alleys and by-lanes of the old town until he reached a ferry and a boat-house, where many a boat lay ready for him, as they had always done when he was a boy. he seated himself in one of them, and taking the oars fell down with the current to the willows under the garden-wall of his old home. he steered his boat aside into a small creek, where the willow-wands grew tall and thick, from which he could see the whole river frontage of the old house. was there any change in it? his keen, despairing gaze could not detect one. the high tilted gables in the roof stood out clear against the sky, with their spiral wooden rods projecting above them. the oriel window cast its slowly moving shadow on the half-timber walls; and the many lattice casements, with their small diamond-shaped panes, glistened in the sun as in the days gone by. the garden-plots were unchanged, and the smooth turf on the terraces was as green and soft as when he ran along them at his mother's side. the old house brought to his mind his mother rather than his wife. it was full of associations and memories of her, with her sweet, humble, self-sacrificing nature. there was repose and healing in the very thought of her, which seemed to touch his anguish with a strong and soothing hand. was there an echo of her voice still lingering for him about the old spot where he had listened to it so often? could he hear her calling to him by his name, the name he had buried irrecoverably in a foreign grave? for the first time for many years he bent down his face upon his hands, and wept many tears; not bitter ones, full of grief as they were. his mother was dead; he had not wept for her till now. presently there came upon the summer silence the sound of a young, clear, laughing voice, calling "phebe;" and he lifted up his head to look once more at the house. an old man, with silvery white hair was pacing slowly to and fro on the upper terrace, and a slight girlish figure was beside him. that was old clifford, his enemy; but could that girl be hilda? a face looked out of one of the windows, smiling down upon this young girl, which he knew again as phebe marlowe's. by and by she came down to the terrace, with a tall, fine-looking young man walking beside her; and all three, bidding farewell to the old man, descended from terrace to terrace, becoming every minute more distinct to his eyes. yes, there was phebe; and these others must be his girl hilda and his son felix. they were near to him, every word they spoke reached his ears, and penetrated to his heart. they seemed more beautiful, more perfect than any young creatures he had ever beheld. he listened to them unfastening the chain which secured the boat, and to the creaking of the row-locks as they fitted the oars into them. it was as if one of his own long-lost days was come back again to earth, when he had sat where felix was now sitting, with felicita instead of hilda dipping her little white hand into the water. he had scarcely eyes for phebe; but he was conscious that she was there, for hilda was speaking to her in a low voice which just reached him. "see," she said, "that man has one of my mother's books! and he is quite a common man!" "as much a common man, perhaps, as i am a common woman," answered phebe, in a gentle though half-reproving tone. as long as his eyes could see them they were fastened upon the receding boat; and long after, he gazed in the direction in which they had gone. he had had the passing glimpse he longed for into the paradise he had forfeited. this had been his place, appointed to him by god, where he could have served god best, and served him in as perfect gladness and freedom as the earth gives to any of her children. what lot could have been more blessed? the lines had fallen unto him in pleasant places; he had had a goodly heritage, and he had lost it through grasping dishonestly at a larger share of what this world called success. the madness and the folly of his sin smote him with unutterable bitterness. he could bear to look at it no longer. the yearning he had felt to see his old home was satisfied; but the satisfaction seemed an increase of sorrow. he would not wait to witness the return of his children. the old man was gone into the house, and the garden was quiet and deserted. with weary strokes he rowed back again up the river; and with a heavier weight of sorrow and a keener consciousness of sin he made his way through the streets so familiar to his tread. it was as if no eye saw him, and no heart warmed to him in his native town. he was a stranger in a strange place; there was none to say to him, here or elsewhere on earth, "you are one of us." chapter xiii. a london garret. there was one other place he must see before he went out again from this region of many memories, to which all that he could call life was linked--the little farmstead on the hills, which, of all places, had been his favorite haunt when a boy, and which had been the last spot he had visited before fleeing from england. phebe marlowe he had seen; if he went away at once he could see her home before her return to it. next to his mother and his wife, he knew that phebe was most likely to recognize him, if recognition by any one was possible. most likely old marlowe was dead; but if not, his senses would surely be too dull to detect him. the long, hot, white highway, dusty with a week's drought, carried back his thoughts so fully to old times that he walked on unconscious of the noontide heat and the sultriness of the road. yet when he came to the lanes, green overhead and underfoot, and as silent as the mountain-heights round engelberg, he felt the solace of the change. all the recollections treasured up in the secret cells of memory were springing into light at every step; and these were remembrances less bitter than those the sight of his lost home had called to mind. he felt himself less of a phantom here, where no one met him or crossed his path, than in the streets where many faces looking blankly at him wore the well-known features of old comrades. by the time he gained the moorlands, and looked across its purple heather and yellow gorse, his mind was in a healthier mood than it had been for years. the low thatched roof of the small homestead, and the stunted and twisted trees surrounding it, seemed like a possible refuge to him, where for a little while he might find shelter from the storm of life. he pressed on with eagerness, and found himself quickly at the door, which he had never met with fastened. but it was locked now. after knocking twice he tried the latch, but it did not open. he went to the little window, uncurtained as usual and peered in, but all was still and dark; there was not a glimmer of light on the hearth, where he had always seen some glimmering embers. there was no sign of life about the place; no dog barking, no sheep bleating, or fowls fluttering about the little farm-yard. all the innocent, joyous gayety of the place had vanished; yet he could see that it was not falling into decay; the thatch was in repair, the dark interior, dimly visible through the window, was as it used to be. it was not a ruin, but it was not a home. a home might have received him with its hospitable walls, or a ruin might have given him an hour's shelter. but phebe's door was shut against him, though it would have done him good to stand within it once more, a penitent man. he was turning away sadly, when a loud rustic voice called to him; and simon nixey, almost hidden under a huge load of dried ferns, came into sight. jean merle stepped down the stone causeway of the farm-yard to open the gate for him. "what are you doing here?" he inquired suspiciously. "a wood-carver, called old marlowe, used to live here," he answered, "what has become of him?" "dead!" said simon; "dead this many a year. why, if you know anything you ought to know that." "what did he die of?" asked jean merle. "a broken heart, if ever man did," answered simon; "he'd saved a mint o' money by scraping and moiling; and he lost it all when there was a run on the old bank over thirteen years ago. he couldn't talk about it like other folks, poor old dummy! and it struck inwards, as you may say. it killed him as certain as if they'd shot a bullet into him." jean merle staggered as if simon had struck him a heavy blow. he had not thought of anything like this, old marlowe dying broken-hearted, and phebe left alone in the world. simon nixey seemed pleased at the impression his words had produced. "ay!" he said, "it was hard on old marlowe; and drove my cousin, john nixey, into desperate ways o' drinking. not but all the money was paid up; only it was too late for them two. every penny was paid, so as folks had nothing to say against the old bank. only money won't bring a dead man back to life again. i offered phebe to make her my wife before i knew it'ud be paid back; but she always said no, till i grew tired of it, and married somebody else." "and where is she now?" inquired jean merle. "oh! she's quite the fine lady," answered simon. "mrs. roland sefton, lord riversdale's daughter that was, took quite a fancy to her, and had her to live with her in london; not as a servant, you know, but as a friend; and she paints pictures wonderful. my mother, who lives housekeeper with mr. clifford, hears say she can get sixty pounds or more for one likeness. think of that now! if she'd been my wife what a fortune she'd have been to me!" "has she sold this place?" asked jean merle. "there it is," he replied; "she gave her father a faithful promise never to part with it, or i'd have bought it myself. she comes here once a year with miss hilda and mr. felix, and they stay a week or two; and it's shut up all the rest of the time. i've got the key here if you'd like to look inside at old dummy's carving." how familiar, yet how different, the interior of the cottage seemed! he knew all these carvings, curious and beautiful, which lined the walls and decorated every article of the old oak furniture. but the hearth was cold, and there was no pleasant disorder about the small house telling its story of daily work. in the deep recess of the window-frame, where the western sun was already shining, stood old marlowe's copy of a carved crucifix, which he had himself once brought from the tyrol, and lent to him before finding a place for it in his own home. the sacred head was bowed down so low as to be almost hidden under the shadow of the crown of thorns. at the foot of the cross, in delicately small old english letters, the old man had carved the words, "come unto me all ye that be weary and heavy laden, and i will give you rest." he remembered pointing out the mistake that he had made to old marlowe. "i like it best," said the dumb man; "i have often been weary, but not with labor; weary of myself, weary of the world, weary of life, weary of everything but my phebe. that is what christ says to me." jean merle could see the old man's speaking face again, and the fingers moving less swiftly when spelling out the words to him, than when he was talking to phebe. weary! weary! was it not so with him? could any man on earth be more weary than he was? he loitered back to riversborough through the cool of the evening, with the pale stars shining dimly in the twilight of the summer sky; pondering, brooding over what he had seen and heard that day. he had already done much of what he had come to england to do; but what next? what was the path he ought to take now? he was in a labyrinth, where there were many false openings leading no-whither; and he had no clue to guide him. all these years he had lain as one dead in the coil he had wound about himself, but now he was living again. there was agony in the life that he had entered into, but it was better than the apathy of his death in life. he returned to london, and hired a garret for a small weekly rent, where he would lodge until he could resolve what to do. but week after week passed without bringing to his mind the solution of the problem. remorse had given place to repentance; but despair had not been succeeded by hope. there was nothing to hope for. the irrevocable past stood between him and any reparation for his sin which his soul earnestly desired to make. an easy thing, and light, it would have been to put himself into the power of his enemy, mr. clifford, and bear the penalty of the law. he had suffered a hundred fold more than justice would have exacted. the broken law demanded satisfaction, and it would have been a blessed relief to him to give it. but that could never be. he could never bear the penalty of his crime without dragging felicita into depths of shame and suffering deeper than they would have been if he had borne it at first. the fame she had won for herself would lift up his infamy and hers to the intolerable gaze of a keen and bitter publicity. he must blacken her fair reputation if he sought to appease his own conscience. he made no effort to find out where she and his children were living. but one after another, in the solitude of his garret, he read every book felicita had written. they gave him no pleasure, and awoke in him no admiration, for he read them through different eyes from her other readers. there was great bitterness of soul for him in many of the sentences she had penned; now and then he came upon some to which he alone held the true key. he felt that he, her husband, was dwelling in her mind as a type of subtle selfishness and weak ambition. when she depicted a good or noble character it was almost invariably a woman, not a man; it was never a man past his early manhood. however varied their circumstances and temperaments, they were in the main worldly and mean; sometimes they were successful hypocrites, deceiving those nearest and dearest to them. it was a wholesome penance to him, perhaps, but it shook and troubled his soul to its very depths. his sin had ruined the poor weakminded drunkard, john nixey, and hastened the end of dumb old marlowe; these consequences of it must, at any time, have clouded his own after-life. but it had also wrought a baneful change in the spirit of the woman whom he loved. it was he who had slain within her the hope, and the love, and the faith in her fellow-men which had been needed for the full perfecting of her genius. chapter xiv. his father's sin. when felix returned from his brief and clouded holiday to his work in that corner of the great vineyard, so overcrowded with busy husbandmen that they were always plucking up each others' plants, and pruning and repruning each others' vines, till they made a wilderness where there should have been a harvest, he found that his special plot there had suffered much damage. john nixey, following up the impression he had so successfully made, had spread his story abroad, and found ears willing to listen to it, and hearts willing to believe it. the small provident club, instituted by felix to check the waste and thriftlessness of the people, had already, in his short absence, elected another treasurer of its scanty funds; and the members who formed it, working men and women who had been gathered together by his personal influence, treated him with but scant civility. his evening lectures in the church mission-house were sometimes scarcely attended, whilst on other days there was an influx of hearers, among whom john nixey was prominent, with half-a-dozen rough and turbulent fellows like himself, hangers-on at the nearest spirit-vaults, who were ready for any turn that might lead to a row. the women and children who had been accustomed to come stayed away, or went to some other of the numerous preaching-places, as though afraid of this boisterous element in his little congregation. now and then, too, he heard his name called out aloud in the streets by some of nixey's friends, as he passed the prospering gin-palaces with their groups of loungers about the doors; but though he could catch the sound of the laugh and the sneer that followed him, he could take no notice. he could not turn round in righteous indignation and tell the fellows, and the listening bystanders, that what they said of his father was a lie. the poor young curate, with his high hopes and his enthusiastic love of the work he had chosen for the sake of his fellow-men, was compelled to pass on with bowed head, and silent lips, and a heart burdened with the conviction that his influence was altogether blighted and uprooted. "it isn't true, sir, is it, what folks are tellin' about your father?" was a question put to him more than once, when he entered some squalid home, in the hope of giving counsel, or help, or comfort. there was something highly welcome and agreeable to these people, themselves thieves or bordering on thievedom, in the idea that this fine, handsome, gentlemanly young clergyman, who had set to work among them with so much energy and zeal, was the son of a dishonest rogue, who ought to have been sent to jail as many of them had been. felix had not failed to make enemies in the brickfields by his youthful intolerance of idleness, beggary, and drunkenness. the owners of the gin-palaces hated him, and not a few of the rival religious sects were, to say the least, uncharitably disposed towards one who had drawn so many of their followers to himself. there was very little common social interest in the population of the district, for the tramping classes of the lowest london poor, such as were drawn to the brickfields by its overflowing charities, have as little cohesion as a rope of sand; but felix was so conspicuous a figure in its narrow and dirty streets, that even strangers would nudge one another's elbows, and almost before he was gone by narrate nixey's story, with curious additions and alterations. it was gall and wormwood to felix that he was unable to contradict the story in full. he could say that his father had never been a convict; but no inducement on earth could have wrung from him the declaration that his father had never been guilty of fraud. sometimes he wondered whether it would not be well to own the simple truth, and endure the shame: if he had been the sole survivor of his father's sin this he would have done, and gone on toilsomely regaining the influence he had lost. but the secret touched his mother even more closely than himself, and hilda was equally concerned in it. it had been sacredly kept by those older than he was, and it was not for him to betray it. "my poor mother!" he called her. never, before he learned the secret burden she had borne, had he called her by that tender and pitiful epithet; but as often as he thought of her now his heart said, "my poor mother!" as soon as canon pascal returned to england felix took a day's holiday, and ran down by train to the quiet rectory in essex, where he had spent the greater portion of his boyhood. only a few years separated him from that careless and happiest period of his life; yet the last three months had driven it into the far background. he almost smiled at the recollection of how young he was half-a-year ago, when he had declared his love for alice. how far dearer to him she was now than then! the one letter he had received from her, written in switzerland, and telling him in loving detail of her visit to his father's grave, would be forever one of his most precious treasures. but he was not going to share his blemished name with her. he had had nothing worthy of her, or of his father, to lay at her feet, whilst he was yet in utter ignorance of the shame he had inherited; and now? he must never more think of her as his wife. she was at home, he knew; but he sternly forbade himself to seek for her. it was canon pascal he had come down to see, and he went straight on to his well-known study. he was busy in the preparation of next sunday's sermons, but at the sight of felix's dejected, unsmiling face, he swept away his books and papers with one hand, whilst he stretched out his hand to give him such a warm, strong, hearty grip as he might have given to a drowning man. "what is it, my son?" he asked. there was such a full sympathetic tone in the friendly voice speaking to him, that felix felt his burden already shared, and pressing less heavily on his bruised spirit. he stood a little behind canon pascal, with his hand upon his shoulder, as he had often placed himself before when he was pleading for some boyish indulgence, or begging pardon for some boyish fault. "you have been like a true father to me, and i come to tell you a great trouble," he began in a tremulous voice. "i know it, my boy," replied canon pascal; "you have found out how true it is, 'the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge.' ah! felix, life teaches us so, as well as this wise old book." "you know it?" stammered felix. "phebe told me," he interrupted, "six months since. and now you and i can understand felicita. there was no prejudice against our alice in her mind; no unkindness to either of you. but she could not bring herself to say the truth against the husband whom she has wept and mourned over so long. and your mother is the soul of truth and honor; she could not let you marry whilst we were ignorant of this matter. it has been a terrible cross to bear, and she has borne it in silence. i love and revere your mother more than ever." "yes!" said felix with a sob. he had not yet seen her since coming to this fateful knowledge; for phebe and hilda had joined her at the sea-side where they were still staying. but if his father had gone down into depths of darkness, his mother had risen so much the higher in his reverence and love. she had become a saint and a martyr in his eyes; and to save her from a moment's grief seemed to be a cause worth dying for. "i came to tell you all," he went on, "and to say i cannot any more hope that you will give alice to me. god alone knows what it costs me to give her up: and she will suffer too for a while, a long while, i fear; for we have grown together so. but it must be. alice cannot marry a man who has not even an unblemished name to offer to her." "you should ask alice herself about that," said canon pascal quietly. a thrill of rapture ran through felix, and he grasped the shoulder, on which his hand still rested, more firmly. what! was it possible that this second father of his knew all his disgrace and dishonor, how his teeth were set on edge by the sour grapes which he had not eaten, and yet was willing that alice should share his name and his lot? there was no fear as to what alice would say. he recollected how phebe spoke, as if her thoughts dwelt more on his father's sorrow and sad death, than on his sin; and alice would be the same. she would cover it with a woman's sweet charity. he could not command his voice to speak; and after a minute's pause canon pascal continued-- "yes! alice, too, knows all about it. i told her beside your father's grave. and do you suppose she said, 'here is cause enough for me to break with felix'? nay, i believe if the sin had been your own, alice would have said it was her duty to share it, and your repentance. shall our lord come to save sinners, and we turn away from their blameless children? yet i thought it must be so at first, i own it, felix; at first, while my eyes were blinded and my heart hardened; and i looked at it in the light of the world. but then i be-thought me of your mother. shall not she make good to you the evil your father has wrought? if he dishonored your name in the eyes of a few, she has brought honor to it, and made it known far beyond the limits it could have been known through him. the world will regard you as her son, not as his." "but i came also to tell you that i wish to leave the country," said felix. "there is a difficulty in getting young men for our colonial work; and i am young and strong, stronger than most young men in the church. i could endure hardships, and go in for work that feebler men must leave untried; you have taken care of that for me. such a life would be more like old felix merle's than a london curacy. you let your own sons emigrate, believing that the old country is getting over-populated; and i thought i would go too." "why?" asked canon pascal, turning round in his chair, and looking up searchingly into his face. in a few words, and in short broken sentences, felix told him of nixey's charge, and the change it had wrought in the london curacy, upon which he had entered with so much enthusiasm and delight. "it will be the same wherever i go in england," he said in conclusion; "and i cannot face them boldly and say it is all a falsehood." "you must live it down," answered canon pascal; "go on, and take no notice of it." "but it hinders my work sadly," said felix, "and i cannot go on in the brickfields. there might be a row any evening, and then the story would come out in the police-courts; and what could i say? at least, i must give up that." for a few minutes canon pascal was lost in thought. if felix was right in his apprehension, and the whole story came out in the police-court, there were journals pandering to public curiosity that would gladly lay hold of any gossip or scandal connected with mrs. roland sefton. her name would ensure its publicity. and how could felicita endure that, especially now that her health was affected? if the dread of disclosing her secret to him had wrought so powerfully upon her physical and mental constitution, what would she suffer if it became a nine days' talk for the world? "i will get your rector to exchange curates with me till we can see our way clear," he said. "he is alice's godfather, you know, and will do it willingly. i am going up to westminster in november, and you will be here in my place, where everybody knows your face and you know theirs. there will be no question here about your father, for you are looked upon as my son. now go away, and find alice." when felix turned out of liverpool street station that evening, a tall, gaunt-looking workman man offered to carry his bag for him. it was filled with choice fruit from the rectory garden, grown on trees grafted and pruned by canon pascal's own hands; and felix had helped alice to gather it for some of his sick parishioners in the unwholesome dwelling-places he visited. "i am going no farther than the mansion house," he answered, "and i can carry it myself." "you'd do me a kindness if you'd let me carry it," said the man. it was not the tone of a common loafer, hanging about the station for any chance job, and felix turned to look at him in the light of the street-lamp. it was the old story, he thought to himself, a decent mechanic from the country, out of work, and lost in this great labyrinth of a city. he handed his bag to him and walked on along the crowded thoroughfare, soon forgetting that he was treading the flagged streets of a city; he was back again, strolling through dewy fields in the cool twilight, with alice beside him, accompanying him to the quiet little station. he thought no more of the stranger behind him, or of the bag he carried, until he hailed an omnibus travelling westward. "here is your bag, sir," said the man. "ah! i'd forgotten it," exclaimed felix. "good night, and thank you." he had just time to drop a shilling into his hand before the omnibus was off. but the man stood there in front of the mansion house, motionless, with all the busy sea of life roaring around him, hearing nothing and seeing nothing. this coin that lay in his hand had been given to him by his son; his son's voice was still sounding in his ears. he had walked behind him taking note of his firm strong step, his upright carriage and manly bearing. it had been too swift a march for him, full of exquisite pain and pleasure, which chance might never offer to him again. "move on, will you?" said a policeman authoritatively; and jean merle, rousing himself from his reverie, went back to his lonely garret. chapter xv. haunting memories. felicita was slowly recovering her strength at the sea-side. she had never before felt so seriously shaken in health, as since she had known of the attachment of felix to alice pascal; an attachment which would have been quite to her mind, if there was no loss of honor in allowing it whilst she held a secret which, in all probability, would seem an insuperable barrier in the eyes of canon pascal. this secret she had kept resolutely in the background of her own memory, conscious of its existence, but never turning her eyes towards it. the fact that it was absolutely a secret, suspected by no one, made this more possible; for there was no gleam of cognizance in any eye meeting hers which could awaken even a momentary recollection of it. it seemed so certain that her husband was dead to every one but herself, that she came at last almost to believe that it was true. and was it not most likely to be true? through all these long years there had come no hint to her in any way that he was living. she had never seen or heard of any man lingering about her home where she and her children lived, all whom roland loved, and loved so passionately. certainly she had made no effort to discover whether he was yet alive; but though it would be well for her if he was dead--a cause of rest almost amounting to satisfaction--it was not likely that he would remain content with unbroken and complete ignorance of how she and her children were faring. if he had been living, surely he would have given her some sign. there was a terrible duty now lying in her path. before she could give her consent to felix marrying alice, she must ascertain positively if her husband was dead. should it be so, her secret was safe, and would die with her. nobody need ever know of this fraud, so successfully carried out. but if not? then she knew in herself that her lips could never confess the sin in which she had shared; and nothing would remain for her to do but to oppose with all the energy and persistence possible the marriage either of her son or daughter. and she fully believed that neither of them would marry against her will. her health had not permitted her hitherto to make the exertion necessary for ascertaining this fact, on which her whole future depended--hers and her children's. the physician whom she had consulted in london had urged upon her the imperative necessity of avoiding all excitement and fatigue, and had ordered her down to this dull little village of freshwater, where not even a brass band on the unfinished pier or the arrival of an excursion steamer could disturb or agitate her. she had nothing to do but to sit on the quiet downs, where no sound could startle her, and no spectacle flutter her, until the sea-breezes had brought back her usual tone of health. how long this promised restoration was in coming! phebe, who watched for it anxiously, saw but little sign of it. felicita was more silent than ever, more withdrawn into herself, gazing for hours upon the changeful surface of the sea with absent eyes, through which the brain was not looking out. neither sound nor sight reached the absorbed soul, that was wandering through some intricate mazes to which phebe had no clue. but no color came to felicita's pale face, and no light into her dim eyes. there was a painful and weird feeling often in phebe's heart that felicita herself was not there; only the fair, frail form, which was as insensible as a corpse, until this spirit came back to it. at such times phebe was impelled to touch her, and speak to her, and call her back again, though it might be to irritability and displeasure. "phebe," said felicita, one day when they sat on the cliff, so near the edge that nothing but the sea lay within the range of their sight, "how should you feel if, instead of helping a fellow-creature to save himself from drowning, you had thrust him back into the water, and left him, sure that he would perish?" "but i cannot tell you how i should feel," answered phebe, "because i could never do it. it makes me shudder to think of such a thing. no human being could do it." "but if you had thrust the one fellow-creature nearest to you, the one who loved you the most," pursued felicita, "into sin, down into a deeper gulf than he could have fallen into but for you--" "my dear, my dear!" cried phebe, interrupting her in a tone of the tenderest pity. "oh! i know now what is preying upon you. because felix loves alice it has brought back all the sorrowful past to you, and you are letting it kill you. listen! let me speak this once, and then i will never speak again, if you wish it. canon pascal knows it all; i told him. and felix knows it, and he loves you more than ever; you are dearer to him a hundred times than you were before. and he forgives his father--fully. god has cast his sin as a stone into the depths of the sea, to be remembered against him no more forever!" a slight flush crept over felicita's pale face. it was a relief to her to learn that canon pascal and felix knew so much of the truth. the darker secret must be hidden still in the depths of her heart until she found out whether she was altogether free from the chance of discovery. "it was right they should know," she said in a low and dreamy tone; "and canon pascal makes no difficulty of it?" "canon pascal said to me," answered phebe, "that your noble life and the fame you had won atoned for the error of which felix and hilda's father had been guilty. he said they were your children, brought up under your training and example, not their father's. why do you dwell so bitterly upon the past? it is all forgotten now." "not by me," murmured felicita, "nor by you, phebe." "no; i have never forgotten him," cried phebe, with a passionate sorrow in her voice. "how good he was to me, and to all about him! yes, he was guilty of a sin before god and against man; i know it. but oh! if he had only suffered the penalty, and come back to us again, for us to comfort him, and to help him to live down the shame! possibly we could not have done it in riversborough; i do not know; but i would have gone with you, as your servant, to the ends of the earth, and you would have lived happy days again--happier than the former days. and he would have proved himself a good man, in spite of his sin; a christian man, whom christ would not have been ashamed to own." "no, no," said felicita; "that is impossible. i never loved roland; can you believe that, phebe?" "yes," she answered in a whisper, and with downcast eyes. "not as i think of love," continued felicita in a dreary voice. "i have tried to love you all; but you seem so far away from me, as if i could never touch you. even felix and hilda, they are like phantom children, who do not warm my heart, or gladden it, as other mothers are made happy by their children. sometimes i have dreamed of what life would have been if i had given myself to some man for whom i would have forfeited the world, and counted the loss as nothing. but that is past now, and i feel old. there is nothing more before me; all is gray and flat and cold, a desolate monotony of years, till death comes." "you make me unhappy," said phebe. "ought we not to love god first, and man for god's sake? there is no passion in that; but there is inexhaustible faithfulness and tenderness." "how far away from me you are!" answered felicita with a faint smile. she turned her sad face again towards the sea, and sat silent, watching the flitting sails pass by, but holding phebe's hand fast in her own, as if she craved her companionship. phebe, too, was silent, the tears dimming her blue eyes and blotting out the scene before her. her heart was very heavy and troubled for felicita. "will you go to engelberg with me by-and-by?" asked felicita suddenly, but in a calm and tranquil tone. "to engelberg!" echoed phebe. "i must go there before felix thinks of marrying," she answered in short and broken sentences; "but it cannot be till spring. yet i cannot write again until i have been there; the thought of it haunts me intolerably. sometimes, nay, often, the word engelberg has slipped from my pen unawares when i have tried to write; so i shall do no more work till i have fulfilled this duty; but i will rest another few months. when i have been to engelberg again, for the last time, i shall be not happy, but less miserable." "i will go with you wherever you wish," said phebe. it was so great a relief to have said this much to phebe, to have broken through so much of the icy reserve which froze her heart, that felicita's spirits at once grew more cheerful. the dreaded words had been uttered, and the plan was settled; though its fulfilment was postponed till spring; a reprieve to felicita. she regained health and strength rapidly, and returned to london so far recovered that her physician gave her permission to return to work. but she did not wish to take up her work again. it had long ago lost the charm of novelty to her, and though circumstances had compelled her to write, or to live upon her marriage settlement, which in her eyes was to live upon the proceeds of a sin successfully carried out, her writing itself had become tedious to her. "vanity of vanities; all is vanity!" and there is much vexation of spirit, as well as weariness of the flesh, in the making of many books. she had made enemies who were spiteful, and friends who were exacting; she, who felt equally the irksomeness of petty enmities and of small friendships, which, like gnats buzzing monotonously about her, were now and then ready to sting. the sting itself might be trivial, but it was irritating. felicita had soon found out how limited is the circle of fame for even a successful writer. for one person who would read a book, there were fifty who would go to hear a famous singer or actor, and a hundred who would crowd to see a clever acrobat. as she read more she discovered that what she had fondly imagined were ideas originated by her own intellect, was, in reality, the echo only of thought long since given to mankind by other minds, in other words, often better than her own. her own silent claim to genius was greatly modified; she was humbler than she had been. but she knew painfully that her name was now a hundred-fold better known than it had been while she was yet only the wife of a riversborough banker. all her work for the last fourteen years had placed it more and more prominently before the public. any scandal attaching to it now would be blazoned farther and wider, in deeper and more enduring characters, than if her life as an author had been a failure. the subtle hope, very real, vague as it was, that her husband was in truth dead, gathered strength. the silence that had engulfed him had been so profound that it seemed impossible he should still be treading the same earth as herself, and wearing through its slow and commonplace days, sleeping and waking, eating and drinking like other men. felicita was not superstitious, but there was in her that deep-rooted, instinctive sense of mystery in this double life of ours, dividing our time into sleeping and waking hours, which is often apt to make our dreams themselves omens of importance. she had never dreamed of roland as she did of those belonging to her who had already passed into the invisible world about us. his spirit was not free, perhaps, from its earthly fetters so as to be able to visit her, and haunt her sleeping fancies. but now she began to dream of him frequently, and often in the daytime flashes of memory darted vividly across her brain, lighting up the dark forgotten past, and recalling to her some word of his, or a glance merely. it was an inward persecution from which she could not escape, but it seemed to her to indicate that her persecutor was no more a denizen of this world. to get rid of these haunting memories as much as possible, she made such a change in her mode of life as astonished all about her. she no longer shut herself up in her library; as she had told phebe, she resolved to write no more, nor attempt to write, until she had been to engelberg. she seemed wishful to attract friends to her, and she renewed old acquaintanceships with members of her own family which she had allowed to drop during these many years. no sooner was it evident that felicita sefton was willing to come out of the extremely quiet and solitary life she had led hitherto, and take her place in society both as lord riversdale's daughter and as the author of many popular books, than the current of fashion set towards her. she was still a remarkably lovely woman, possessing irresistible attractions in her refined face and soft yet distant manners, as of one walking in a trance, and seeing and hearing things invisible and inaudible to less favored mortals. quite unconsciously to herself she became the lion of the season, when the next season opened. she had been so difficult to know, that as soon as she was willing to be known invitations poured in upon her, and her house was invaded by a throng of visitors, many of them more or less distantly related to her. to hilda this new life was one of unexpected and exquisite delight. phebe, also, with her genuine interest in her fellow-creatures, and her warm sympathy in all human joys and sorrows, enjoyed the change, though it perplexed her, and caused her to watch felicita with anxiety. felix saw less of it than any one, for he was down in essex, leading the tranquil and not very laborious life of a country curate, chafing a little now and then at his inactivity, yet blissful beyond words in the close daily intercourse with alice. there was no talk of their marriage, but they were young and together. their happiness was untroubled. chapter xvi. the voice of the dead. in his lonely garret in the east end, jean merle was living in an isolation more complete even than that of engelberg. there he had known at least the names of those about him, and their faces had grown familiar to him. more than once he had been asked to help when help was sorely needed, and he had felt, though not quite consciously, that there was still a link or two binding him to his fellow-men. but here, an unit among millions, who hustled him at every step, breathed the same air, and shared the common light with him, he was utterly alone. "isolation is the sum total of wretchedness to man," and no man could be more completely isolated than he. strangely enough, his swiss proclivities seemed to have fallen from him like a worn-out garment. the narrow, humble existence of his peasant forefathers, to which he had so readily adapted himself, was no longer tolerable in his eyes. he felt all the force and energy of the life of the great city which surrounded him. his birthright as an englishman presented itself to his imagination with a splendor and importance that it had never possessed before, even in those palmy days when it was no unthought-of honor that he might some day take his place in the house of commons. he called himself jean merle, for no other name belonged to him; but he felt himself to be an englishman again, to whom the life of a swiss peasant would be a purgatory. other natural instincts were asserting themselves. he had been a man of genial, social habits, glad to gather round him smiling faces and friendly voices; and this bias of his was stirring into life and shaking off its long stupor. he longed, with intense longing, for some mortal ear into which he could pour the story of his sins and sufferings, and for some human tongue to utter friendly words of counsel to him. it was not enough to pour out his confessions before god in agonizing prayer; that he had done, and was doing daily. but it was not all. the natural yearning for man's forgiveness, spoken in living human speech, grew stronger within him. there was no longer a chance for him to make even a partial reparation of the wrong he had committed; he felt himself without courage to begin the long conflict again. what his soul hungered for now was to see his life through another man's eyes. but his money, economize it as he might, was slowly melting away. unless he could get work--and all his efforts to find it failed--it would not do to remain in england. at engelberg had secured a position as a wood carver, and his livelihood was assured. there, too, he possessed a scanty knowledge of the neighbors, and they of him. it would be his wisest course to return there, to forget what he had been, and to draw nearer to him the simple and ignorant people, who might yet be won over to regard him with good-will. this must be done before he found himself penniless as well as friendless. he set aside a certain sum, when that was spent he must once more be an exile. until then, it was his life to pace to and fro along the streets of london. somewhere in this vast labyrinth there was a home to which he had a right; a hearth where he could plant himself and claim it for his own. he was master of it, and of a wife, and children; he, the lonely, almost penniless man. it would be a small thing to him to pay the penalty the law could demand of him. a few years more or less in dartmoor prison would be nothing to him, if at the end of them he saw a home waiting for him to return to it. but he never sought to look at the exterior even of that spot to which he had a right. he made no effort to see felicita. he stayed till he touched his last shilling. it was already winter, and the short, dark days, with their thick fogs, made the wintry months little better than one long night. to-morrow he must leave england, never to return to it. he strayed aimlessly about the gloomy streets, letting his feet bear him whither they would, until he found himself looking down through the iron railings upon the deserted yard in front of the houses of parliament. the dark mass of the building loomed heavily through the yellow fog, but beyond it came the sound of bells ringing in the invisible abbey. it was the hour for morning prayer, and jean merle sauntered listlessly onwards until he reached the northern entrance and turned into the transept. the dim daylight scarcely lit up the lofty arches in the roof or the farther end of the long aisles, but he gave no heed to either. he sank down on a chair and bent his gray head on the back of the chair before him; the sweet solemn chanting of the white-robed choristers echoed under the roof, and the sacred and soothing tones of prayer floated pest him. but he did not move or lift his head. he sat there absorbed in his own thoughts, and the hours seemed only as floating minutes to him. visitors came and went, chatting close beside him, and the vergers, with their quiet footsteps, came one by one to look at this motionless, poverty-stricken form, whose face no man could see, but nobody disturbed him. he had a right to be there, as still, and as solitary, and as silent as he pleased. but when canon pascal came up the long aisle to evening prayers and saw again the same gray head bowed down in the same despondent attitude as he had left it in the morning, he could scarcely refrain himself from pausing then and there, before the evening service proceeded, to speak to this man. he had caught a momentary glimpse of his face, and it had haunted him in his study in the interval, until he had half reproached himself for not answering to that silent appeal its wretchedness had made. but he had had no expectation of seeing it again. it was dark by the time the evening service was over, and canon pascal hastily divested himself of his surplice, that he might not seem to approach the stranger as a clergyman, but rather as an equal. the abbey was being cleared of its visitors, and the lights were being put out one by one, when he sat down on the seat next to jean merle's, and laid his hand with a gentle pressure on his arm. jean merle started and lifted up his head. it was too dark for them to see each other well; but canon pascal's voice was full of friendly urgency. "they are going to close the abbey," he said; "and you've been here all day, without food, my friend. is there any special reason why you should pass a long, dark winter's day in such a manner? i would be glad to serve you if i can. perhaps you are a stranger in london?" "i have been seeking the guidance of god," answered jean merle, in a bewildered yet unutterably sorrowful voice. "that is good," replied canon pascal; "that is the best. but it is good also at times to seek man's guidance. it is god, doubtless, who has sent me to you. as his servant, i earnestly desire to serve you." "if you would listen to me under a solemn seal of secrecy!" cried jean merle. "are you a catholic?" asked canon pascal. "is it a confessor you want?" "i am not a catholic," he answered; "but there is a strong desire in my soul to confess. my burden would be lighter if any man would share it, so far as to keep my secret." "does it touch the life of any fellow-creature?" inquired canon pascal; "is there any great crime in it?" "no; not what you are thinking," he said; "there is sin in it; ay, and crime; but not a crime like that." "then i will listen to it under a solemn promise of secrecy, whatever it may be," replied canon pascal. "but the vergers are waiting to close the abbey. come with me; my home is close by, within the precincts." jean merle had risen obediently as he spoke, but, exhausted and weary, he staggered as he stood upon his feet. canon pascal drew his arm within his own. this simple action was to him full of a friendliness to which he had been long a stranger. to clasp another man's hand, to walk arm-in-arm with him, he felt keenly how much of implied brotherhood was in them. he was ready to go anywhere with canon pascal, almost as a child guided and cared for by an older and wiser brother. they passed out of the abbey into the cloisters, dimly lighted by the lamps, which had been lit in good time this dark november evening. the low, black-browed arches, which had echoed to the footsteps of sorrow-stricken men for more than eight hundred years, resounded to their tread as they walked beneath them in silence. jean merle suffered himself to be led without a question, like one in a dream. there seemed some faint reminiscence from the past of this man, with his harsh features, and kindly, genial expression, the deep-set eyes, beaming with a benign light from under the rugged eyebrows, and the firm yet friendly pressure of his guiding arm; and his mind was groping about the dark labyrinth of memory to seize his former knowledge of him, if there had ever been any. there was a vague apprehension about him lest he should discover that this friend was no stranger, and his tongue must be tied, even though what he was about to say would be under the inviolable seal of secrecy. they had not far to go, for canon pascal turned aside into a little square, open to the black november sky, and stopping at a door in the gray, old walls, opened it with a latch-key. they entered a narrow passage, and canon pascal turned at once to his study, which was close by. as he pushed open the door, he said, "go in, my friend; i will be with you in a moment." jean merle saw before him an old-fashioned room with a low ceiling. there was no light besides the warm, red glow of a fire, which was no longer burning with yellow flame, but which lit up sufficiently the figure of a woman seated on a low stool on the hearth, with her head resting on the hand that shaded her eyes. it was a figure familiar to him in his old life--that life which lay on the other side of roland sefton's grave. he had seen the same well-shaped head, with its soft brown hair, and the round outline of the averted cheek and chin, a thousand times in old marlowe's cottage on the uplands, sitting in the red firelight as she was sitting now. all the intervening years were swept away in an instant--his bitter anguish and unavailing repentance--the long solitude and gnawing remorse--all was swept clean away from his mind. he felt the strength and freshness of his boyhood come back to him, as if the breeze of the uplands was blowing softly yet keenly across his throbbing and fevered temples. even his voice caught back for the moment the ring of his early youth as he stood on the threshold, forgetting all else but the sight that filled his eyes. "phebe!" he cried; "little phebe marlowe!" the cry startled phebe, but she did not move. it was the voice of one long since dead that rang in her ears--dead, and faithfully mourned over; and every nerve tingled, and her heart seemed to stay its beating. roland sefton's voice! she did not doubt it or mistake it. the call had been too real. she had answered to it too many times to be mistaken now. in those days of utter silence, when dumb signs only had passed between her and her father, roland's pleasant voice had sounded too gladly in her ears ever to be forgotten or confounded with another. but how could she hear it now? the voice of the dead! how could it reach her? a strange pang of mingled joy and terror paralyzed her. she sat motionless and bewildered, with a thrill of passionate expectation quivering through her. let roland speak again; she could not answer his first call! "phebe!" she heard the cry again; but this time the voice was low, and lamentable, and despairing. for in the few seconds he had been standing, arrested on the threshold, the whole past had flitted through his brain in dismal procession. she lifted herself up slowly and mechanically from her low seat, and turned her face reluctantly towards the spot from which the startling call had come. in the dusky, red light stood the form of the one friend to whom she had been faithful with the utter faithfulness of her nature. whence he came she knew not--she was afraid of knowing. but he was there, himself, and not another like him. there was a change, she could see that dimly; but not such a change as could disguise him from her. of late, whilst she had been painting his portrait from memory, every recollection of him had been revived with keener vividness. yet the terror of beholding him again on this side of death struck her dumb. she stretched out her hands towards him, but she could not speak. "i must speak to phebe marlowe alone," said jean merle to canon pascal, and speaking in a tone of irresistible earnestness. "i have that to say to her which no one else can hear. she is god's messenger to me." "shall i leave you with this stranger, phebe?" asked canon pascal. she made a gesture simply; her lips were too parched to open. "my dear girl, i will stay, if you please," he said again. "no," she breathed, in a voice scarcely audible. "there is a bell close at your hand," he went on, "and i shall be within hearing of it. i will come myself if you ring it however faintly. you know this man?" "yes," she answered. she saw him look across at her with an encouraging smile; and then the door was shut, and she was alone with her mysterious visitor. chapter xvii. no place for repentance. they stood silent for a few moments;--moments which seemed hours to phebe. the stranger--for who could be so great a stranger as one who had been many years dead?--had advanced only a step or two from the threshold, and paused as if some invisible barrier was set up between them. she had shrunk back, and stood leaning against the wall for the support her trembling limbs needed. it was with a vehement effort that at last she spoke. "roland sefton!" she faltered. "yes!" he answered, "i am that most miserable man." "but you died," she said with quivering lips, "fourteen years ago." "no, phebe, no," he replied; "would to god i had died then." once more an agony of mingled fear and joy overwhelmed her. this dear voice, so lamentable and hopeless, so well remembered in all its tones, told her that he was still living, whom she had mourned over so many years. but what could this mystery mean? what had he passed through? what was about to happen now? a tumult of thoughts thronged to her brain. but clearest of all came the assurance that he was alive, standing there, desolate, changed, and friendless. she ran to him and clasped his hands in hers; stooping down and kissing them, those hard worn hands, which he left unresistingly in her grasp. these loving, and deferential caresses belonged to the time when she was a humble country girl, and he the friend very far above her. "come closer to the fire, your hands are cold, mr. roland," she said, speaking in the old long-disused accent of her early days, as she might have spoken to him while she was yet a child. she threw a few logs on the fire, and drew up canon pascal's chair to the hearth for him. she felt spell-bound; and as if she had been suddenly thrust back upon those old times. "i am no longer roland sefton," he said, sinking down into the chair; "he died, as you say, many a long year ago. do not light the lamp, phebe; let us talk by the firelight." the flicker of the flames creeping round the dry wood played upon his face, and her eyes were fastened on it. could this man really be roland sefton, or was she being tricked by her fancy? here was a scarred and wrinkled face, blistered and burnt by the summer's sun, and cut and frost-bitten by the winter's cold; the hair was gray and ragged, and the eyes far sunk in the head met her gaze with a despairing and uneasy glance, as if he shrank from her close scrutiny. his bowed shoulders and hands roughened by toil, and worn-out mechanic's dress, were such a change, that perhaps, she acknowledged it reluctantly to herself, if he had not spoken as he did she might have passed him by undiscovered. "i am jean merle," he said, "not roland sefton." "jean merle?" she repeated in a low, bewildered tone, "not roland sefton, but jean merle?" but she could not be bewildered or in doubt much longer. this was roland indeed, the hero of her life, come back to her a broken-down, desolate, and hopeless man. she knelt down on the hearth beside him, and laid her hand compassionately on his. "but you are roland himself to me!" she cried. "oh! be quick, and tell me all about it. why did we ever think you were dead?" "it was best for them all," he answered. "god knows i believed it was best. but it was a second sin, worse than the first, phebe. i did the man who died no wrong, for he told me as he lay dying that he had no friends to grieve for him, and no property to leave. all he wanted was a decent grave; and he has it, and my name with it. the grave at engelberg contains a stranger. and i, jean merle, have taken charge of it." "oh!" cried phebe, with a pang of dread, "how will felicita bear it?" "felicita has known it; she consented to it," said jean merle. "if she had uttered one word against my desperate plan, i should have recoiled from it. to be dead whilst you are yet in the body; to have eyes to see and ears to hear with, and a thinking brain and a hungry heart, whilst there is no sign, or sound, or memory, or love from your former life; you cannot conceive what that is, phebe. i was dead, yet i was too keenly alive in jean merle, the poor wood-carver and miser. they thought i was imbecile; and i was almost a madman. i could not tear myself away from the grave where roland sefton was buried; but oh! what i have suffered!" he ended with a long shuddering sigh, which pierced phebe to the heart. the joy of seeing him again was vanishing in the sight of his suffering; but the thought uppermost in her mind was of felicita. "and she has known all along that you were not dead?" she said, in a tone of awe. "yes, felicita knew," he answered. "and has she never seen you, never written to you?" she asked. "she knows nothing of me," he replied. "i was to be dead to her, and to every one else. we parted forever in engelberg fourteen years ago this very month. perhaps she believes me to be dead in reality. but i could live no longer without knowing something of you all, of felix and hilda; and i came over to england in august. i have seen all of you, except felicita." "oh! it was wicked! it was cruel!" sobbed phebe, shivering. "your mother died, believing she was going to rejoin you; and i, oh! how i have mourned for you!" "have you, phebe?" he said sorrowfully; "but felicita has been saved from shame, and has been successful. she is too famous now for me to retrace my steps, and get back into truthfulness. i can find no place for repentance, let me seek it ever so carefully and with tears." "but you have repented?" she whispered. "before god? yes!" he answered, "and i believe he has forgiven me. but there is no way by which i can retrieve the past. i have forfeited everything, and i am now shut out even from the duties of life. what ought i to have done, phebe? there was this way to save my mother, and my children, and felicita; and i took it. it has prospered for all of them; they hold a different position in the world this day than they could have done if i had lived." "in this world, yes!" answered phebe, with a touch of scorn in her voice; "but cannot you see what you have done for felicita? oh! it would have been better for her to have endured the shame of your first sin, than bear such a burden of guilt. and you might have outlived the disgrace. there are christian people in the world who can forgive sin, even as christ forgives it. even my poor father forgave it; and mr. clifford, he is repenting now that he did not forgive you; it weighs him down in his old age. it would have been better for you and felicita if you had borne the penalty of your crime." "and our children, phebe?" he said. "could not god have made it up to them?" she asked. "did he make it necessary for you to sin again on their account? oh! if you had only trusted him! if you had only waited to see how christ could turn even the sins of the father into blessings for his children! they have missed you; it may be, i cannot see clearly, they must miss you now all their lives. it would break their hearts to learn all this. whether they must know it, i cannot tell." "to what end should they know it?" he said. "don't you see, phebe, that the distinction felicita has won binds us to keep this secret? it cannot be disclosed either to her or to them. i came to tell it to the man who brought me here under a seal of secrecy." "to canon pascal?" she exclaimed. "pascal?" he repeated, "ay? i remember him now. it would have been terrible to have told it to him." "let me think about it," said phebe, "it has come too suddenly upon me. there must be something we ought to do, but i cannot see it yet. i must have time to recollect it all. and yet i am afraid to let you go, lest you should disappear again, and all this should seem like a dreadful dream." "you care for me still, phebe?" he answered mournfully. "no, i shall not disappear from you; i shall hold fast by you, now you have seen me again. if that poor wretch in hell who lifted up his eyes, being in torments, had caught sight of some pitying angel, who would now and then dip the tip of her finger in water and cool his tongue, would he have disappeared from her vision? wouldn't he rather have had a horrible dread lest she should disappear? but you will not forsake me, phebe?" "never!" replied phebe, with an intense and mournful earnestness. "then i will go," he said, rising reluctantly to his feet. the deep tones of the abbey clock were striking for the second time since he had entered canon pascal's study, and they had been left in uninterrupted conversation. it was time for him to go; yet it seemed to him as if he had still so much to pour into phebe's ear, that many hours would not give him time enough. unconstrained speech had proved a source of ineffable solace and strength to him. he had been dying of thirst, and he had found a spring of living waters. to phebe, and to her alone, he was still a living man, unless sometimes felicita thought of him. "if you are still my friend, knowing all," he said, "i shall no longer despair. when will you see me again?" "i will come to morning service in the abbey to-morrow," she answered. chapter xviii. within and without. after speaking to canon pascal for a few minutes, with an agitation and a reserve which he could not but observe, phebe left the house to go home. in one of the darkest corners of the cloisters she caught sight of the figure of jean merle, watching for her to come out. for an instant phebe paused, as if to speak to him once more; but her heart was over-fraught with conflicting emotions, whilst bewildering thoughts oppressed her brain. she longed for a solitary walk homewards, along the two or three miles of a crowded thoroughfare, where she could how feel as much alone as she had ever done on the solitary uplands about her birth-place. she had always delighted to ramble about the streets alone after nightfall, catching brief glimpses of the great out-door population, who were content if they could get a shelter for their heads during the few, short hours they could give to sleep, without indulging in the luxury of a home. when talking to them she could return to the rustic and homely dialect of her childhood; and from her own early experience she could understand their wants, and look at them from their stand-point, whilst feeling for them a sympathy and pity intensified by the education which had lifted her above them. but to-night she passed along the busy streets both deaf and dumb, mechanically choosing the right way between the abbey and her home, nearly three miles away. there was only one circumstance of which she was conscious--that jean merle was following her. possibly he was afraid in the depths of his heart that she would fail him when she came to deliberately consider all he had told her. he wronged her, she said to herself indignantly. still, whenever she turned her head she caught sight of his tall, bent figure and gray head, stealing after her at some distance, but never losing her. so mournful was it to phebe, to see her oldest and her dearest friend thus dogging her footsteps, that once or twice she paused at a street corner to give him time to overtake her; but he kept aloof. he wished only to see where she lived, for there also lived felicita and hilda. she turned at last into the square where their house was. it was brilliantly lighted up, for felicita was having one of her rare receptions that evening, and in another hour or two the rooms would be filled with guests. it was too early yet, and hilda was playing on her piano in the drawing-room, the merry notes ringing out into the quiet night. there was a side door to phebe's studio, by which she could go in and out at pleasure, and she stood at it trying to fit her latch-key into the lock with her trembling hands. looking back she saw jean merle some little distance away, leaning against the railings that enclosed the square garden. "oh! i must run back to him! i must speak to him again!" she cried to her own heart. in another instant she was at his side, with her hands clasping his. "oh!" she sobbed, "what can i do for you? this is too miserable for you; and for me as well. tell me what i can do." "nothing," he answered. "why, you make me feel as if i had sinned again in telling you all this. i ought not to have troubled your happy heart with my sorrow." "it was not you," she said, "you did not even come to tell me; god brought you. i can bear it. but oh! to see you shut out, and inside, yonder, hilda is playing, and felix, perhaps, is there. they will be singing by-and-by, and never know who is standing outside, in the foggy night, listening to them." her voice broke into sobs, but jean merle did not notice them. "and felicita?" he said. phebe could not answer him for weeping. just yet she could hardly bring herself to think distinctly of felicita; though in fact her thoughts were full of her. she ran back to her private door, and this time opened it readily. there was a low light in the studio from a shaded lamp standing on the chimney-piece, which made the hearth bright, but left all the rest of the room in shadow. phebe threw off her bonnet and cloak with a very heavy and troubled sigh. "what can make you sigh, phebe?" asked a low-toned and plaintive voice. in the chair by the fire-place, pushed out of the circle of the light, she saw felicita leaning back, and looking up at her. the beauty of her face had never struck harshly upon phebe until now; at this moment it was absolutely painful to her. the rich folds of her velvet dress, and the soft and costly lace of her head-dress, distinct from though resembling a widow's cap, set off both her face and figure to the utmost advantage. phebe's eyes seemed to behold her more distinctly and vividly than they had done for some years past; for she was looking through them with a dark background for what she saw in her own brain. she was a strikingly beautiful woman; but the thought of what anguish and dread had been concealed under her reserved and stately air, so cold yet so gentle, filled phebe's soul with a sudden terror. what an awful life of self-approved, stoical falsehood she had been living! she could see the man, from whom she had just parted, standing without, homeless and friendless, on the verge of pennilessness; a dead man in a living world, cut off from all the ties and duties of the home and the society he loved. but to phebe he did not appear so wretched as felicita was. she sank down on a seat near felicita, with such a feeling of heart-sickness and heart-faintness as she had never experienced before. the dreariness and perplexity of the present stretched before her into the coming years. for almost the first time in her life she felt worn-out; physically weary and exhausted, as if her strength had been overtaxed. her childhood on the fresh, breezy uplands, and her happy, tranquil temperament had hitherto kept her in perfect health. but now she felt as if the sins of those whom she had loved so tenderly and loyally touched the very springs of her life. she could have shared any other burden with them, and borne it with an unbroken spirit and an uncrushed heart. but such a sin as this, so full of woe and bewilderment to them all, entangled her soul also in its poisonous web. "why did you sigh so bitterly?" asked felicita again. "the world is so full of misery," she answered, in a tremulous and troubled voice; "its happiness is such a mockery!" "have you found that out at last, dear phebe?" said felicita. "i have been telling you so for years. the son of man fainting under the cross--that is the true emblem of human life. even he had not strength enough to bear his cross to the place called golgotha. whenever i think of what most truly represents our life here, i see jesus, faltering along the rough road, with simon behind him, whom they compelled to bear his cross." "he fainted under the sins of the world," murmured phebe. "it is possible to bear the sorrows of others; but oh! it is hard to carry their sins." "we all find that out," said felicita, her face growing wan and white even to the lips. "can one man do evil without the whole world suffering for it? does the effect of a sin ever die out? what is done cannot be undone through all eternity. there is the wretchedness of it, phebe." "i never felt it as i do now," she answered. "because you have kept yourself free from earthly ties," said felicita mournfully; "you have neither husband nor child to increase your power of suffering a hundred-fold. i am entering upon another term of tribulation in felix and hilda. if i had only been like you, dear phebe, i could have passed through life as happily as you do; but my life has never belonged to myself; it has been forced to run in channels made by others." somewhere in the house behind them a door was left open accidentally, and the sound of hilda's piano and of voices singing broke in upon the quiet studio. phebe listened to them, and thought of the desolate, broken-hearted man without, who was listening too. the clear young voices of their children fell upon his ears as upon felicita's; so near they were to one another, yet so far apart. she shivered and drew nearer to the fire. "i feel as cold as if i was a poor outcast in the streets," she said. "and i, too," responded felicita; "but oh! phebe, do not you lose heart and courage, like me. you have always seemed in the sunshine, and i have looked up to you and felt cheered. don't come down into the darkness to me." phebe could not answer, for the darkness was closing round her. until now there had happened no perplexity in her life which made it difficult to decide upon the right or the wrong. but here was come a coil. the long years had reconciled her to roland's death, and made the memory of him sacred and sorrowfully sweet, to be brooded over in solitary hours in the silent depths of her loyal heart. but he was alive again, with no right to be alive, having no explanation to give which could reinstate him in his old position. and felicita? oh! what a cruel, unwomanly wrong felicita had been guilty of! she could not command her voice to speak again. "i must go," said felicita, at last. "i wish i had not invited visitors for to-night." "i cannot come in this evening," phebe answered; "but felix is there, and canon pascal is coming. you will do very well without me." she breathed more freely when felicita was gone. the dimly-lighted studio, with the canvases she was at work upon, and the pictures she had painted hanging on the walls, and her easels standing as she had left them three or four hours ago, when the early dusk came on, soothed her agitated spirit now she was alone. she moved slowly about, putting everything into its place, and feeling as if her thoughts grew more orderly as she did so. when all was done she opened the outer door stealthily, and peeped out. yes; he was there, leaning against the railings, and looking up at the brilliantly-lighted windows. carriages were driving up and setting down felicita's guests. phebe's heart cried out against the contrast between the lives of these two. she longed to run out and stand beside him in the darkness and dampness of the november night. but what good could she do? she asked bitterly. she did not dare even to ask him in to sit beside her studio fire. the same roof could not cover him and felicita, without unspeakable pain to him. it was late before the house was quiet, and long after midnight when the last light was put out. that was in phebe's bedroom, and once again she looked out, and saw the motionless figure, looking black amidst the general darkness, as if it had never stirred since she had seen it first. but whilst she was gazing, with quivering mouth and tear-dimmed eyes, a policeman came up and spoke to jean merle, giving him an authoritative shake, which seemed to arouse him. he moved gently away, closely followed by the policeman till he passed out of her sight. there was no sleep for phebe; she did not want to sleep. all night long her brain was awake and busy; but it found no way out of the coil. who can make a crooked thing straight? or undo that which has been done? chapter xix. in his father's house. when phebe entered westminster abbey the next day the morning service was already begun. upon the bench nearest the door sat a working-man, in worn-out clothes, whose gray hair was long and ragged, and whose whole appearance was one of poverty and suffering. she was passing by, when a gleam of recognition in the dark and sunken eyes of this poor man arrested her. could he possibly be roland sefton? the night before she had seen him only in a friendly obscurity, which concealed the ravages time, and sorrow, and labor had effected; but now the daylight, in revealing them, cast a chill shadow of doubt into her heart. it was his voice she had known and acknowledged the night before; but now he was silent, and, revealed by the daylight, she felt troubled and distrustful. such a man she might have met a thousand times without once recalling to her memory the handsome, manly presence and prosperous bearing of roland sefton. yet she sat down beside him in answer to that appealing gleam in his eyes, and as his well-known voice joined hers in the responses to the prayers, she acknowledged him again in her heart of hearts. and now all thought of the sacred place, and of the worship she was engaged in, fled from her mind. she was a girl at home again, dwelling in the silent society of her dumb father, with this voice of roland sefton's coming to break the stillness from time to time, and to fill it with that sweetest music, the sound of human speech. if he had lost every vestige of resemblance to his former self, his voice only, calling "phebe" as he had done the evening before, must have betrayed him to her. not an accent of it had been forgotten. to jean merle phebe marlowe was little altered, save that she had grown from a simple rustic maiden into a cultivated and refined woman. the sweet and gentle face beside him, with the deep peaceful blue of her eyes, and the sensitive mouth so ready to break into a smile, was the same he had seen when, on that terrible evening so many years ago, he had craved her help to escape from his dreaded punishment. "i will help you, even to dying for you and yours," she had said. he remembered vividly how mournfully the girlish fervor of her manner had impressed him. even now he had no one else to help him; this woman's little hand alone could reach him in the gulf where he lay; only the simple, pitiful wisdom of her faithful heart could find a way for him out of this misery of his into some place of safety and peace. he was willing to follow wherever she might guide him. "i can see only one duty before us," she said, when the service was over, and they stood together before one of the monuments in the abbey; "i think mr. clifford ought to know." "what will he do, phebe?" asked jean merle. "god knows if i had only myself to think of i would go into a convict-prison as thankfully as if it was the gate of heaven. it would be as the gate of heaven to me if i could pay the penalty of my crime. but there are felicita and my children; and the greater shock and shame to them of my conviction now." "yet if mr. clifford demanded the penalty it must even now be paid," answered phebe; "but he will not. one reason why he ought to know is that he mourns over you still, day and night, as if he had been the chief cause of your death. he reproaches himself with his implacability both towards you and his son. but even if the old resentment should awaken, it is right you should run the risk. why need it be known to any one but us two that felicita knew you were still alive?" "if we could save her and the children i should be satisfied," said jean merle. "it would kill her to know you were here," answered phebe, looking round her with a terrified glance, as if she expected to see felicita; "she is not strong, and a sudden agitation and distress might cause her death instantly. no, she must never know. and i am not afraid of mr. clifford; he will forgive you with all his heart; and he will be made glad in his old age. i will go down with you this evening. there is a train at four o'clock, and we shall reach riversborough at eight. be at the station to meet me." "you know," said jean merle, "that the lapse of years does not free one from trial and conviction? mr. clifford can give me into the hands of the police at once; and to-night may see me lodged in riversborough jail, as if i had been arrested fourteen years ago. you know this, phebe?" "yes, i know it, but i am not afraid of it," she answered. she had not the slightest fear of old mr. clifford's vindictiveness. as she travelled down to riversborough, with jean merle in a third-class carriage of the same train, her mind was very busy with troubled thoughts. there was an unquiet joy stirring in the secret depths of her heart, but she was too full of anxiety and bewilderment to be altogether aware of it. though it was not more than twenty-four hours since she had known otherwise, it seemed to her as if she had never believed that roland sefton was dead, and it appeared incredible that the report of his death should have received such full acceptance as it had everywhere done. yet though he had come back, there could be no welcome for him. to her and to old mr. clifford only could this return from the grave contain any gladness. and was she glad? she asked herself, after a long deliberation over the difficulties surrounding this strange reappearance. she had sorrowed for him and comforted his mother in her mourning, and talked of him as one talks fondly of the dead to his children; and all the sacred healing of time had softened the grief she once felt into a tranquil and grateful memory of him, as of the friend she had loved most, and whose care for her had most widely influenced her life. but she could not own yet that she was glad. old mr. clifford was sitting in the wainscoted dining-room, his favorite room, when phebe opened the door silently, and looked in with a pale and anxious face. his sight was dim, and a blaze of light fell upon the dark, old panels, and the old-fashioned silver tankards and bright brass salvers on the carved sideboard. two or three of phebe's sunniest pictures hung against the oaken panels. there was a blazing fire on the hearth, and the old man, with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, and his hands clasped lightly, was watching the play and dance of the flames as they shot up the chimney. some new books lay on a table beside him, but he was not reading. he was sitting there in utter loneliness, with no companionship except that of his own fading memories. phebe's tenderness for the old man was very great; and she paused on the threshold gazing at him pitifully; whilst jean merle, standing in the hall behind her, caught a glimpse of the hearth so crowded with memories for him, but occupied now by one desolate old man, before the door was closed, and he was left without. "why, it's little phebe marlowe!" cried mr. clifford gladly, looking round at the light sound of a footstep, very different from mrs. nixey's heavy tread; "my dear child, you can't tell what a pleasure this is to me." he had risen up, and stood holding both her hands and looking fondly into her face. "this moment i was thinking of you, my dear," he said; "i was inditing a long letter to you in my head, which these lazy old fingers of mine would have refused to write. sandon, the bookseller, has been in here, bringing these books; and he told me a queer story enough. he says that in august last a relation of madame sefton's was here, in riversborough; and told him who he was, in his shop, where he bought one of felicita's books. why didn't sandon come here at once and tell us then, so that you could have found him out, phebe? you and felix and hilda were here. he was a poor man, and seemed badly off; and i guess he came to inquire after madame. sandon says he reminded him of roland--poor roland! why, i'd have given the poor fellow a welcome for the sake of that resemblance; and i was just thinking how phebe's tender heart would have been touched by even so faint a likeness." "yes," she murmured. "and we could have lifted him up a little; quite a poor man, sandon says," continued mr. clifford; "but sit down, my dear. there is no one in the wide world would be so welcome to me as little phebe marlowe, who refused to be my adopted daughter." he had drawn a chair close beside his own, for he would not loose her hand, but kept it closely grasped by his thin and crooked fingers. "you have altogether forgiven roland?" she said tremulously. "altogether, my dear," he answered. "as christ forgives us, bearing away our sins himself?" she said. "as christ forgave us," he replied, bowing his head solemnly. "and if it was possible--think it possible," she went on, "that he could come back again, that the grave in engelberg could give up its dead, he would be welcome to you?" "if my old friend sefton's son, could come back again," he said, "he would be more welcome to me than you are, phebe. how often do i fancy him sitting yonder in sefton's chair, watching me with his dear eyes!" "but suppose he had deceived us all," she continued, "if he had escaped from your anger by another fraud; a worse fraud! if he had managed so as to bury some one else in his name, and go on living under a false one! could you forgive that?" "if roland could come back a repentant man, i would forgive him every sin," answered mr. clifford, "and rejoice that i had not driven him to seek death. but what do you mean, phebe? why do you ask?" "because," she answered, speaking almost in a whisper, with her face close to his, "roland did not die. that man, who was here in august, and called himself jean merle, is roland himself. he saw you, and all of us, and did not dare to make himself known. i can tell you all about it. but, oh! he has bitterly repented; and there is no place of repentance for him in this world. he cannot come back amongst us, and be roland sefton again." "where is he?" asked the old man, trembling. "he is here; he came with me. i will go and fetch him," she answered. mr. clifford leaned back in his arm-chair, and gazed towards the half-open door. his memory had gone back twenty years, to the last time he had seen roland sefton, in the prime of his youth, handsome, erect, and happy, who had made his heart ache as he thought of his own abandoned son, lying buried in a common grave in paris. the man whom he saw entering slowly and reluctantly into the room behind phebe, was gray-headed, bent, and abject. this man paused just within the doorway, looking not at him but round the room, with a glance full of grief and remembrance. the eager, questioning eyes of old mr. clifford did not arrest his attention, or divert it from the aspect of the old familiar place. "no, no, phebe!" exclaimed mr. clifford, "he's an impostor, my dear. that's not my old friend's son roland." "would to god i were not!" cried jean merle bitterly, "would to god i stood in this room as a stranger! phebe marlowe, this is very hard; my punishment is greater than i can bear. all my life comes back to me here. this place, of all other places in the world, brings my sin and folly to remembrance." he sank down on a chair, and buried his face in his hands, to shut out the hateful sight of the old home. he was inside his paradise again; and behold, it was a place of torment. there was no room in his thoughts for mr. clifford, it was nothing to him that he should be called an impostor. he came to claim nothing, not even his own name. but the avenging memories of the past claimed him and held him fast bound. even last night, when in the chill darkness of the november night he had watched the house which held felicita and their children, his pain had been less poignant than now, within these walls, where all his happy life had been passed. he was unconscious of everything but his pain. he could not hear phebe's voice speaking for him to mr. clifford. he saw and felt nothing, until a gentle and trembling hand pressing on his shoulder feebly and as tenderly as his mother's made him look up into the gray and agitated face of mr. clifford bending over him. "roland! roland!" he said, in a voice broken by sobs, "my old friend's son, forgive me as i forgive you. god be thanked, you have come back again in time for me to see you and bid you welcome. i bless god with all my heart. it is your own home, roland, your own home." with his feeble but eager old hands he drew him to the hearth, and placed him in the chair close beside his own, where phebe had been sitting, and kept his hand upon his arm, lest he should vanish out of his sight. "you shall tell me nothing more to-night," he said; "i am old, and this is enough for me. it is enough that to-night you and i have pardoned one another from 'the low depths of our hearts.' tell me nothing else to-night." phebe had slipped away from them to help mrs. nixey to prepare a room for jean merle. it was the one that had been roland sefton's nursery, and the nursery of his children, and it was still occupied by felix, when he visited his old home. the homely hospitable occupation was a relief to her; but in the room that she had left the two men sat side by side in unbroken silence. chapter xx. as a hired servant. from a profound and dreamless sleep jean merle awoke early the next morning, with the blessed feeling of being at home again in his father's house. the heavy cross-beams of black oak dividing the ceiling into panels; the low broad lattice window with a few upper panes of old stained glass; the faded familiar pictures on the wall; these all awoke in him memories of his earliest years. in the corner of the room, hardly to be distinguished from the wainscot, was the high narrow door communicating with his mother's chamber, through which he had often, how often! seen her come in softly, on tiptoe, to take a look at him. his own children, too, had slept there; and it was here that he had last seen his little son and daughter before fleeing from his home a self-accused criminal. all the happy, prosperous life of roland sefton had been encompassed round by these walls. but the dead past must bury the dead. if there had ever been a deep, buried, hidden hope, that a possible return to something of the old life lay in the unknown future, it was now utterly uprooted. such a return was only possible over the ruined lives and broken hearts of felicita and his children. if he made himself known, though he was secure against prosecution, the story of his former crime would revive, and spread wider, joined with the fair name of felicita, than it would have done when he was merely a fraudulent banker in a country town. however true it might be what phebe maintained, that he might have suffered the penalty of his sin, and afterwards retrieved the past, whilst his children were too young to feel the full bitterness of the shame, it was too late to do it now. the name he had dishonored was forever forfeited. his return to his former life was hedged up on every hand. but a new courage was awaking in him, which helped him to grapple with his despair. he would bury the dead past, and go on into the future making the best of his life, maimed and marred as it was by his own folly. he was still in the prime of his age, thirty years younger than mr. clifford, whose intellect was as keen and clear as ever; there was a long span of time stretching before him, to be used or misused. "come unto me all ye that be weary, and heavy laden, and i will give you rest." he seemed to see the words in the quaint upright characters in which old marlowe had carved them under the crucifix. he had fancied he knew what coming to christ meant in those old days of his, when he was reputed a religious man, and was first and foremost in all religious and philanthropic schemes, making his trespass more terrible and pernicious than if it had been the transgression of a worldly man. but it was not so when he came to christ this morning. he was a broken-hearted man, who had cut himself off from all human ties and affections, and who was longing to feel that he was not forsaken of the universal brother and saviour. his cry was, "my soul thirsteth for thee; my flesh longeth for thee, in a dry and weary land, where no water is." it was his own fault that he was in the dry and weary wilderness; but oh! if christ would not forsake him then, would dwell with him, even in this desert made desolate by himself, then at last he might find peace to his soul. there was a deep inner consciousness, the forgotten but not obliterated faith of his boyhood and youth, before the world with its pomps and ambitions had laid its iron hand upon him, that christ was with him, leading him day by day, if he would but follow nearer to god. was it impossible to follow his guidance now? could he not, even yet, take up his cross, and be willing to fill any place which he could yet fill worthily and humbly; expiating his sins against his fellow-men by truer devotion to their service, as jean merle, the working-man; not as roland sefton, the prosperous and fraudulent banker? this return to his father's house, and all its associations, solemn and sacred with a peculiar sacredness and solemnity, seemed to him a pledge that he could once more be admitted into the great brotherhood and home of christ's disciples. every object on which his eye rested smote him, but it was with the stroke of a friend. a clear and sweet light from the past shed its penetrating rays into the darkest corners of his soul. forgiven! god had forgiven him; and man had forgiven him. before him lay an obscure and humble path; but the heaviest part of his burden was gone. he must go heavy-laden to the end of his days, treading in rough paths; but despair had fled, and with it the sense of being separated from god and man. he heard the feeble yet deep old voice of mr. clifford outside his door inquiring from mrs. nixey if mr. merle was gone down-stairs yet. he made haste to go down, treading the old staircase with something of the alacrity of former days. phebe was in the dining-room, and the servants came in to prayer as they had been used to do forty years ago when he was a child. an old-world tranquillity and peacefulness was in the familiar scene which breathed a deep calm over his tempest-tossed spirit. "phebe has been telling me all," said mr. clifford, when breakfast was over; "tell me what can be done to save felicita and the children." "i am jean merle," he answered with a melancholy smile, "jean merle, and no one else. i come back with no claims, and they must never know me. why should i cross their path and blight it? i cannot atone for the past in any way, except by keeping away forever from them. i shall injure no one by continuing to be jean merle." "no," said phebe, "it is too late now, and it would kill felicita." "this morning a thought struck me," he continued, "a project for my future life, which you can help me to put into execution, phebe. i have an intolerable dread of losing sight of you all again; let me be at least somewhere in england, when you can now and then give me tidings of my children and felicita." "i will do anything in the world to help you," cried phebe eagerly. "then let me go to your little farm," he answered, "and take up your father's life, at least for a time, until i can see how to make myself of greater use to my fellow-men. i will till the fields as he did, and finish the carvings he has left undone, and live his simple, silent life. it will be good for me, and i shall not be banished from my own country. i shall be a happier man then than i have any right to be." "have you no fear of being recognized?" she asked. "none," he replied. "look at me, phebe. should you have known me again if i had not betrayed myself to you?" "i should have known you again anywhere," she exclaimed. but it was her heart that cried out that no change could have concealed him from her; there was a dread lying deep down in her conscience that she might have passed him by with no suspicion. he shook his head in answer to her assertion. "i will go out into the town," he continued, "and speak to half-a-dozen men who knew me best, and there will be no gleam of recognition in their eyes. recollect roland sefton is dead, and has been dead so long that there will be no clear memory left of him as he was then to compare with me. and any dim resemblance to him will be fully accounted for by my relationship to madame sefton. no, i am not afraid of the keenest eyes." he went out as he had said, and met his old townsmen, many of whom were themselves so changed that he could barely recognize them. the memory of roland sefton was blotted out, he was utterly forgotten as a dead man out of mind. as jean merle strayed through the streets crowded with market-people come in from the country, his new scheme grew stronger and brighter to him. it would keep him in england, within reach of all he had loved and had lost. the little place was dear to him, and the laborious, secluded peasant life had a charm for him who had so long lived as a swiss peasant. by-and-by, he thought, the chance resemblance in the names would merge that of merle into the more familiar name of marlowe; and the identity of his pursuits with those of the deaf and dumb old man would hasten such a change. so the years to come would pass by in labor and obscurity; and an obscure grave in the little churchyard, where all the marlowes lay, would shelter him at last. a quiet haven after many storms; but oh! what a shipwreck had he made of his life! all the morning mr. clifford sat in his arm-chair lost in thought, only looking up sometimes to ply phebe with questions. when jean merle returned, his gray, meditative face grew bright, with a faint smile shining through his dim eyes. "you are no phantom then!" he said. "i've been so used to your company as a ghost that when you are out of sight i fancy myself dreaming. i could not let phebe go away lest i should feel that all this is not real. did any one know you again?" "not a soul," he answered; "how could they? mrs. nixey herself has no remembrance of me. there is no fear of my being known." "then i want you to stay with me," said old mr. clifford eagerly; "i'm a lonely man, seventy-seven years old, with neither kith nor kin, and it seems a long and dreary road to the grave. i want one to sit beside me in these long evenings, and to take care of me as a son takes care of his old father. could you do it, jean merle? i beseech you, if it is possible, give me your services in my old age." "it will be hard for you," pleaded phebe in a low voice, "harder than going out alone to my little home. but you would do more good here; you could save us from anxiety, for we are often very anxious and sorrowful about mr. clifford. i can take care that you should always know before felix and hilda come down. felicita never comes." how much harder it would be for him even phebe could not guess. to dwell within reach of his old home was altogether different from living in it, with its countless memories, and the unremitting stings of conscience. to have about him all that he had lost and made desolate; the empty home, from which all the familiar faces and beloved voices had vanished; this lot surely was harder than the humble, laborious life of old marlowe on the hills. yet if any one living had a claim upon him for such self-sacrifice, it was this feeble, tottering old man, who was gazing up into his face with urgent and imploring eyes. "i will stay here and be your servant," he answered, "if there appears no reason against it when we have given it more thought." chapter xxi. phebe's secret. for the first time in her life those who were about phebe marlowe felt that she was under a cloud. the sweet sunny atmosphere, as of a clear and peaceful day, which seemed to surround her, had fled. she was absent and depressed, and avoided society, even that of hilda, who had been like her own child to her. towards felicita there was a subtle change in phebe's manner, which could not fail to impress deeply her sensitive temperament. she felt that phebe shrank from her, and that she was no longer welcome to the studio, which of all places in the world had been to her a place of repose, and of brief cessation of troubled thought. phebe's direct and simple nature, free from all guile and worldliness, had made her a perfect sympathizer with any true feeling. and felicita's feeling with regard to her past most sorrowful life had been absolutely real; if only phebe had known all the circumstances of it as she had always supposed she did. phebe was, moreover, fearful of some accident betraying to felicita the circumstance of jean merle living at riversborough. there had never been any direct correspondence between felicita and mr. clifford, except on purely business matters; and felix was too much engrossed with his own affairs to find time to run down to riversborough, or to keep up an animated interchange of letters with his old friend there. the intercourse between them had been chiefly carried on through phebe herself, who was the old man's prime favorite. neither was he a man likely to let out anything he might wish to conceal. but still she was nervous and afraid. how far from improbable it was that through some unthought-of channel felicita might hear that a stranger, related to madame sefton, had entered the household of mr. clifford as his confidential attendant, and that this stranger's name was jean merle. what would happen then? she was burdened with a secret, and her nature abhorred a secret. there was gladness, almost utterly pure, to her in the belief that there was one being who could read the inmost recesses of her heart, and see, with the loving-kindness of an allwise father, its secret faults, the errors which she did not herself understand. that she had nothing to tell to god, which he did not know of her already, was one of the deepest foundations of her spiritual life. and in some measure, in all possible measure, she would have had it so with those whom she loved. she did not shrink from showing to them her thoughts, and motives, and emotions. it was the limit of expression, so quickly reached, so impassable, that chafed her; and she was always searching for fresh modes of conveying her own feeling to other souls. possibly the enforced speechlessness in which she had passed her early years had aided in creating this passionate desire to impart herself to those about her in unfettered communion, and she ardently delighted in the same unreserved confidence in those who conversed with her. but now she was doomed to bear the burden of a secret fraught with strange and painful consequences to those whom she loved, if time should ever divulge it. the winter months passed away cheerlessly, though she worked with more persistent energy than ever before, partly to drive away the thoughts that troubled her. she heard from mr. clifford, but not more frequently than usual, and jean merle did not venture upon sending her a line of his hand-writing. mr. clifford spoke in guarded terms of the comfort he found in the companionship of his attendant, in spite of his being a sad and moody man. now and then he told phebe that this attendant of his had gone for a day or two to her solitary little house on the uplands, of which mr. clifford kept the key, and that he stayed there a day or two, finishing the half-carved blocks of oak her father had left incomplete. it would have been a happier existence, she knew, for himself, if jean merle had gone to dwell there altogether; but it was along this path of self-sacrifice and devotion alone lay the road back to a christian life. one point troubled phebe's conscience more than any other. ought she not at least to tell canon pascal what she knew? she could not help feeling that this second fraud would seem worse in his estimation than the first one. and felicita, the very soul of truth and honor, had connived at it! it seemed immeasurably more terrible in phebe's own eyes. to her money had so small a value, it lay on so low a level in the scale of life, that a crime in connection with it had far less guilt than one against the affections. and how unutterable a sin against all who loved him had roland and felicita fallen into! she recalled his mother's mourning for him through many long years, and her belief in death that she was going soon to rejoin the beloved son whom she had lost. her own grief she put aside, but there was the deep, boyish sorrow of felix, and even little hilda's fatherlessness, as the children had grown up through the various stages of childhood. it might have been bad for them to bear the stigma of their father's shame, but still phebe believed it would have been better for every one of them to have gone bravely forward to bear the just consequences of sin. she went down into essex to spend a day or two at christmas, carrying with her the fitful spirit so foreign to her. the perfect health that had been hers hitherto was broken; and mrs. pascal, a confirmed invalid, to whom phebe's physical vigor and evenness of temper had been a constant source of delight and invigoration, felt the change in her keenly. "she has something on her mind," she said to her husband; "you must try and find it out, or she will be ill." "i know she has a secret," he answered, "but it is not her own. phebe marlowe is as open as the day; she will never have a secret of her own." but he made no effort to find out her secret. his searching, kindly eyes met hers with the trustfulness of a frank and open nature that recognized a nature akin to its own, and phebe never shrank from his gaze, though her lips remained closed. if it was right for her to tell him anything of the stranger who had been about to make him his confessor, she would do it. canon pascal would not ask any questions. "felix and alice are growing more and more deeply in love with each other," he said to her; "there is something beautiful and pleasant in being a spectator of these palmy days of theirs. felicita even felt something of their happiness when she was here last, and she will not withhold her full approbation much longer." "and you," answered phebe, with an eager flush on her face, "you do not repent of giving alice to the son of a man who might have been a convict?" "i believe alice would marry felix if his father had been a murderer," replied canon pascal; "it is too late to alter it now. besides, i know felix through and through, he is himself; he is no longer the son of any person, but a true man, one of the sons of god." the strong and emphatic tone of canon pascal's words brought great consolation to phebe's troubled mind. she might keep silence with a good conscience, for the duty of disclosing all to canon pascal arose simply from the possibility that his conduct would be altered by this further knowledge of roland and felicita. "but this easy country life is not good for felix," she said in a more cheerful tone; "he needs a difficult parish to develop his energies. it is not among your people he will become a second felix merle." "patience! phebe," he answered, "there is a probability in the future, a bare probability, and dimly distant, which may change all that. he may have as much to do as felix merle by and by." phebe returned to her work in london with a somewhat lighter heart. yet the work was painful to her; work which a few months before would have been a delight. for felicita, yielding to the urgent entreaties of felix and hilda, had consented to sit for her portrait. she was engaged in no writing, and had ample leisure. until now she had resisted all importunity, and no likeness of her existed. she disliked photographs, and had only had one taken for roland alone when they were married, and she could never bring herself to sit for an artist comparatively a stranger to her. it was opposed to her reserved and somewhat haughty temperament that any eye should scan too freely and too curiously the lineaments of her beautiful face, with its singularly expressive individuality. but now that phebe's skill had been so highly cultivated, and commanded an increasing reputation, she could no longer oppose her children's reiterated entreaties. felicita was groping blindly for the reason of the change in phebe's feeling towards her, for she was conscious of some vague, mysterious barrier that had arisen between her and the tender, simple soul which had been always full of lowly sympathy for her. but phebe silently shrank from her in a terror mingled with profound, unutterable pity. for here was a secret misery of a solitary human spirit, ice-bound in a self-chosen isolation, which was an utter mystery to her. all the old love and reverence, amounting almost to adoration, which she had, offered up as incense to some being far above her had died away; gone also was the child-like simplicity with which she could always talk to felicita. she could read the pride and sadness of the lovely face before her with a clear understanding now, but the lines which reproduced it on her canvas were harder and sterner than they would have been if she had known less of felicita's heart. the painting grew into a likeness, but it was a painful one, full of hidden sadness, bitterness, and infelicity. felix and hilda gazed at it in silence, almost as solemn and mournful as if they were looking on the face of their dead mother. she herself turned from it with a feeling of dread. "how much do you know of me?" she cried; "how deep can you look into my heart, phebe?" phebe glanced from her to the finished portrait, and only answered by tears. chapter xxii. near the end. felicita had followed the urgent advice of her physicians in giving up writing for a season. there was no longer any necessity for her work, as some time since the money which roland sefton had fraudulently appropriated, had been paid back with full interest, and she began to feel justified in accepting the income from her marriage settlement. during the winter and spring she spent her days much as other women of her class and station, in a monotonous round of shopping, driving in the parks, visiting, and being visited, partly for hilda's sake, and partly driven to it for want of occupation; but short as the time was which she gave to this life, she grew inexpressibly weary of it. early, in may she turned into phebe's studio, which she had seldom entered since her portrait was finished. this portrait was in the academy exhibition, and she was constantly receiving empty compliments about it. "dear phebe!" she exclaimed, "i have tried fashionable life to see how much it is worth, and oh! it is altogether hollow and inane. i did not expect much from it, but it is utter weariness to me." "and you will go back to your writing?" said phebe. felicita hesitated for a moment. there was a worn and harassed expression on her pale face, as if she had not slept or rested well for a long time, which touched phebe's heart. "not yet," she answered; "i am going on a journey. i shall start for switzerland to-night." "to switzerland! to-night!" echoed phebe. "oh, no! you must not, you cannot. and alone? how can you think of going alone?" "i went alone once," she answered, smiling with her lips, though her dark eyes grew no brighter, "and i can go again. i shall manage very well. i fancied you would not care to go with me," she added, sighing. "but i must go with you!" cried phebe; "did i not promise long ago? only don't go to-night, stay a day or two." "no, no," she said with feverish impatience, "i have made all my arrangements. nobody must know, and hilda is gone down into essex for a week, and my cousins fancy i am going to the sea-side for a few days' rest. i must start to-night, in less than four hours, phebe. you cannot be ready in time?" but she spoke wistfully, as if it would be pleasant to hear phebe say she would go with her. for a few minutes phebe was lost in bewildered thought. felicita had told her some months ago that she must go to engelberg before she could give her consent to felix marrying alice, but it had escaped her memory, pushed out by more immediate and more present cares. and now she could not tell what jean merle would have her do. to discover suddenly that he was alive, and in england, nay, at riversborough itself, under their old roof, would be too great a shock for felicita. phebe dared not tell her. yet, to let her start off alone on this fruitless errand, to find only an empty hut at engelberg, with no trace of its occupant left behind, was heartless, and might prove equally injurious to felicita. there was no time to communicate with riversborough, she must come to a decision for herself, and at once. the white, worn face, with its air of sad determination, filled her with deep and eager pity. "oh! i will go with you," she cried. "i could never bear you to go alone. but is there nothing you can tell me? only trust me. what trouble carries you there? why must you go to engelberg before felix marries?" she had caught felicita's small cold hand between her own and looked up beseechingly into her face. oh! if she would but now, at last, throw off the burden which had so long bowed her down, and tell her secret, she could let her know that this painful pilgrimage was utterly needless. but the sweet, sad, proud lips were closed, and the dark eyes looking down steadily into phebe's, betrayed no wavering of her determined reticence. "you shall come with me as far as lucerne, dear phebe," she answered, stooping down to kiss her uplifted face, "but i must go alone to engelberg." there was barely time enough for phebe to make any arrangements, there was not a moment for deliberation. she wrote a few hurried words to jean merle, imploring him to follow them at once, and promising to detain felicita on their way, if possible. felicita's own preparations were complete, and her route marked out, with the time of steamers and trains set down. through paris, mulhausen, and basle she hastened on to lucerne. now she had set out on this dreary and dolorous path there could be no rest for her until she reached the end. phebe recognized this as soon as they had started. it would be impossible to detain felicita on the way. but jean merle could not be far behind them, a few hours would bring him to them after they had reached lucerne. felicita was very silent as they travelled on by the swiftest trains, and phebe was glad of it. for what could she say to her? she was herself lost in a whirl of bewilderment, and of mingled hope and fear. could it possibly be that felicita would learn that jean merle was still living, and the mode and manner of his life through this long separation, and yet stand aloof from him, afar off, as one on whom he had no claim, claim for pity and love? but if she could relent towards him, how must it be in the future? it could never be that she would own the wrong she had committed openly in the face of the world. what was to happen now? phebe was hardly less feverishly agitated than felicita herself. it was evening when they arrived at lucerne, and felicita was forced to rest until the morning. they sat together in a small balcony opening out of her chamber, which overlooked the lake, where the moonbeams were playing in glistening curves over the quiet ripples of the water. all the mountains round it looked black in the dim light, and the rugged summit of pilatus, still slightly sprinkled with snow, frowned down upon them; but southward, behind the dark range of lower hills, there stood out against the almost black-blue of the sky a broken line of pale, mysterious peaks, which might have been merely pallid clouds lying along the horizon but for their stedfast, unaltering immobility. they were the engelberg alps, with the snowy titlis gleaming highest among them; and felicita's face, wan and pallid as themselves, was set towards them. "you will let me come with you to-morrow?" said phebe, in a tone of painful entreaty. "no, no," she answered. "i could not bear to have even you at engelberg with me. i must visit that grave alone. and yet i know you love me, dear phebe." "dearly!" she sobbed. "yes, you love me dearly," she repeated sorrowfully, "but not as you once did; even your heart is changed towards me. if you went with me to-morrow i might lose all the love that is left. i cannot afford to lose that, my dear." "you could never lose it!" answered phebe. "i love you differently? yes, but not less. i love you now as christ loves us all, more for god's sake than our own; and that is the deepest, most faithful love. that can never be worn out or repulsed. as christ has loved me, so i love you, my felicita." her voice had fallen into an almost inaudible whisper, as she knelt down beside her, pressing her lips upon the thin, cold hands lying listlessly on felicita's lap. it had been as an impulsive girl, worshipping her from a lowly inferiority, that phebe had been used long ago to kiss felicita's hand. but this was the humility of a great love, willing to help, and seeking to save her. felicita felt it through every fibre of her sensitive nature. for an instant she thought it might be possible that phebe had caught some glimmer of the truth. with her weary and dim eyes lifted up to the pale crests of the mountains, beneath which lay the miserable secret of her life, she hesitated as to whether she could tell phebe all. but the effort to admit any human soul into the inner recesses of her own was too great for her. "christ loves me, you say," she murmured, "i don't know; i never felt it. but i have felt sure of your love; and next to felix and hilda you have stood nearest to me. love me always, and in spite of all, my dear." she lifted up her bowed head and kissed her lips with a long and lingering kiss. then phebe knew that she was bent upon going alone and immediately to engelberg. * * * * * the icy air of the morning, blowing down from the mountains where the winter's snow was but partially melted, made felicita shiver, though her mind was too busy to notice why. phebe had seen that she was warmly clad, and had come down to the boat with her to start her on this last day's journey; but felicita had scarcely opened her pale lips to say good-by. she stood on the quay, watching the boat as long as the white steam from the funnel was in sight, and then she turned away, blind to all the scenery about her, in the heaviness of heart she felt for the sorrowful soul going out on so sad and vain a quest. there had been no time for jean merle to overtake them, and now felicita was gone when a few words from her would have stopped her. but phebe had not dared to utter them. felicita too had not seen either the sunlit hills lying about her, or phebe watching her departure. she had no thought for anything but what there might be lying before her, in that lonely mountain village, to which, after fourteen years, her reluctant feet were turned. possibly she might find no trace of the man who had been so long dead to her and to all the world, and thus be baffled and defeated, yet relieved, at the first stage of her search. for she did not desire to find him. her heart would be lightened of its miserable load, if she should discover that jean merle was dead, and buried in the same quiet cemetery where the granite cross marked the grave of roland sefton. that was a thing to be hoped for. if jean merle was living still, and living there, what should she say to him? wild hopes and desires would be awakened within him if he found her seeking after him? nay, it might possibly be that he would insist upon making their mutual sin known to the world, by claiming to return to her and her children. it seemed a desperate thing to have done; and for the first time since she left london she repented of having done it. was she not sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind? there was still time for her to retrace her steps and go back home, the home she owed altogether to herself; yet one which this man, whom she had not seen for so long a time, had a right to enter as the master of it. what fatal impulse had driven her to leave it on so wild and fruitless an errand? yet she felt she could no longer live without knowing the fate of jean merle. her heart had been gnawing itself ever since they parted with vague remorses and self-accusations, slumbering often, but now aroused into an activity that could not be laid to rest. this morning, for the first time, beneath all her perplexity and fear and hope to find him dead, there came to her a strange, undefined, scarcely conscious tenderness towards the miserable man, whom she had last seen standing in her presence, an uncouth, ragged, weather-beaten peasant. the man had been her husband, the father of her children, and a deep, keen pain was stirring in her soul, partly of the old love, for she had once loved him, and partly of the pity she felt for him, as she began to realize the difference there had existed between her lot and his. she scarcely felt how worn out she was, how dangerously fatigued with this rapid travelling and the resistless current of agitation which had possessed her. as she journeyed onwards she was altogether unconscious of the roads she traversed, only arousing herself when any change of conveyance made it necessary. her brain was busy over the opinion, more than once expressed by phebe, that every man could live down the evil consequences of his sin, if he had courage and faith enough. "if god forgives us, man will forgive us," said phebe. but felicita pondered over the possibility of roland having paid the penalty of his crime, and going back again to take up his life, walking more humbly in it evermore, with no claim to preeminence save that of most diligently serving his fellow-men. she endeavored to picture herself receiving him back again from the convict prison, with all its shameful memories branded on him, and looking upon him again as her husband and the father of her children; and she found herself crying out to her own heart that it would have been impossible to her. phebe might have done it, but she--never! the journey, though not more than fourteen miles from stans to engelberg, occupied several hours, so broken up the narrow road was by the winter's rains and the melting snow. the steep ascent between grafenort and engelberg was dangerous, the more so as a heavy thunderstorm broke over it; but felicita remained insensible to any peril. at length the long, narrow valley lay before her, stretching upwards to the feet of the rocky hills. the thunderstorm that had met them on the road had been raging fiercely in this mountain caldron, and was but just passing away in long, low mutterings, echoed and prolonged amid the precipitous walls of rock. tall, trailing, spectre-like clouds slowly followed each other in solemn and stately procession up the valley, as though amid their light yet impenetrable folds of vapor they bore the invisible form of some mysterious being; whether in triumph or in sorrow it was impossible to tell. the sun caught their gray crests and tinged them with rainbow colors; and as they floated unhastingly along, the valley behind them seemed to spring into a new life of sunshine and mirth. chapter xxiii. the most miserable. it was past noon when felicita was driven up to the hotel in the village, where, when she had last been at engelberg, she had gone to look upon the dead face of the stranger, who was to carry away the sin of roland sefton, with the shame it would bring upon her, and bury it forever in his grave. it seemed but a few days ago, and she felt reluctant to enter the house again. in two or three hours when the horses were rested, she said to the driver, she would be ready to return to stans. then she wandered out into the village street, thinking she might come across some peasant at work alone, or some woman standing idly at her door, with whom she could fall into a casual conversation, and learn what she had come to ascertain. but she met with no solitary villager; and she strayed onward, almost unwittingly in the direction of the cemetery. in passing by the church, she pushed open one of the heavy, swinging doors, and cast a glance around; there was no one in sight, but the gabble of boys' voices in some vestry close by reached her ear, and a laugh rang after it, which echoed noisily in the quiet aisles. the high altar was lit up by a light from a side-window and her eye was arrested by it. still, whether she saw and heard, or was deaf and blind, she scarcely knew. her feet were drawn by some irresistible attraction towards the grave where her husband was not buried. she did not know in what corner of the graveyard it was to be found; and when she entered the small enclosure, with its wooden cross at the head of every narrow mound, she stood still for a minute or two, hesitatingly, and looking before her with a bewildered and reluctant air, as if engaged in an enterprise she recoiled from. a young priest, the curé of the nearest mountain parish, who visiting the grave of one of his parishioners lately buried at engelberg, was passing to and fro among the grassy mounds with his breviary in his hands, and his lips moving as if in prayer; but at the unexpected sight of a traveller thus early in the season, his curiosity was aroused, and he bent his steps towards her. when he was sufficiently near to catch her wandering eye, he spoke in a quiet and courteous manner-- "is madame seeking for any special spot?" he inquired. "yes," answered felicita, fastening upon him her large; sad eyes, which had dark rings below them, intensifying the mournfulness of their expression, "i am looking for a grave. the grave of a stranger; roland sefton. i have come from england to find it." her voice was constrained and low; and the words came in brief, panting syllables, which sounded almost like sobs. the black-robed priest looked closely and scrutinizingly into the pallid face turned towards him, which was as rigid as marble, except for the gleam of the dark eyes. "madame is suffering; she is ill!" he said. "no, not ill," answered felicita, in an absent manner, as if she was speaking in a dream, "but of all women the most miserable." it seemed to the young curé that the english lady was not aware of what words she uttered. he felt embarrassed and perplexed: all the english were heretics, and how heretics could be comforted or counselled he did not know. but the dreamy sadness of her face appealed to his compassion. the only thing he could do for her was to guide her to the grave she was seeking. for the last nine months no hand had cleared away the weeds from around it, or the moss from gathering upon it. the little pathway trodden by jean merle's feet was overgrown, though still perceptible, and the priest walked along it, with felicita following him. little threads of grass were filling up the deep clear-cut lettering on the cross; and the gray and yellow lichens were creeping over the granite. since the snow had melted and the sun had shone hotly into the high-lying valley there had been a rapid growth of vegetation here, as everywhere else, and the weeds and grass had flourished luxuriantly; but amongst them alice's slip of ivy had thrown out new buds and tendrils. the priest paused before the grave, with felicita standing beside him silent and spell-bound. she did not weep or cry, or fling herself upon the ground beside it, as he had expected. when he looked askance at her marble face there was no trace of emotion upon it, excepting that her lips moved very slightly, as if they formed the words inscribed upon the cross. "it is not in good order just at present," he said, breaking the oppressive silence; "the peasant who took charge of it, jean merle, disappeared from engelberg last summer, and has never since been seen or heard of. they say he was paid to take care of this grave; and truly when he was here there was no weed, no soil, no little speck of moss upon it. there was no other grave kept like this. was roland sefton a relation of madame?" "yes," she whispered, or he thought she whispered it from the motion of her lips. "madame is not a catholic?" he asked. felicita shook her head. "what a pity! what a pity!" he continued, in a tone of mild regret, "or i could console her. yet i will pray for her this night to the good god, and the mother of sorrows, to give her comfort. if she only knew the solace of opening her heart; even to a fellow-mortal!" "does no one know where jean merle is?" she asked, in a low but clear penetrating voice, which startled him, he said afterwards, almost as much as if the image of the blessed virgin had spoken to him. with the effort to speak, a slight color flushed across the pale wan face, and her eyes fastened eagerly upon him. "no one, madame," he replied; "the poor man was a misanthrope, and lived quite alone, in misery. he came neither to confession nor to mass; but whether he was a heretic or an atheist no man knew. where he came from or where he went to was known only to himself. but they think that he must have perished on the mountains, for he disappeared suddenly last august. his little hut is falling into ruins; it was too poor a place for anybody but him." "i must go there; where is it?" she inquired, turning abruptly away from the grave, without a tear or a prayer, he observed. the spell that had bound her seemed broken; and she looked agitated and hurried. there was more vigor and decision in her face and manner than he could have believed possible a few moments before. she was no longer a marble image of despair. "if madame will go quite through the village," he answered, "it is the last house on the way to stans. but it cannot be called a house; it is a ruin. it stands apart from all the rest, like an accursed spot; for no person will go near it. if madame goes, she will find no one there." with a quick yet stately gesture of farewell, felicita turned away, and walked swiftly down the little path, not running, but moving so rapidly that she was soon out of sight. by and by, when he had had time to think over the interview and to recover from his surprise, he followed her, but he saw nothing of her; only the miserable hovel where poor jean merle had lived, into which she had probably found an entrance. felicita had learned something of what she had come to discover. jean merle had been living in engelberg until the last summer, though now he had disappeared. perished on the mountains! oh! could that be true? it was likely to be true. he had always been a daring mountaineer when there was every motive to make him careful of his life; and now what could make it precious to him? there was no other reason for suddenly breaking off the thread of his life here in engelberg; for felicita had never imagined it possible that he would return to england. if he had disappeared he must have perished on the mountains. yet there was no relief to her in the thought. if she had heard in england that he was dead there would have been a sense of deliverance, and a secret consciousness of real freedom, which would have made her future course lie before her in brighter and more tranquil light. she would at least be what she seemed to be. but here, amid the scenes of his past life, there was a deep compunction in her heart, and a profound pity for the miserable man, whose neighbors knew nothing about him but that he had disappeared out of their sight. that she should come to seek him, and find not even his grave, oppressed her with anguish as she passed along the village street, till she saw the deserted hut standing apart like an accursed place, the fit dwelling of an outcast. the short ladder that led to it was half broken, but she could climb it easily; and the upper part of the door was partly open, and swinging lazily to and fro in the light breeze that was astir after the storm. there was no difficulty in unfastening the bolt which held the lower half; and felicita stepped into the low room. she stood for awhile, how long she did not know, gazing forward with wide open motionless eyes, the brain scarcely conscious of seeing through them, though the sight before her was reflected on their dark and glistening surface. a corner of the roof had fallen in during the winter, and a stream of bright light shone through it, irradiating the dim and desolate interior. the abject poverty of her husband's dwelling-place was set in broad daylight. the windowless walls, the bare black rafters overhead, the rude bed of juniper branches and ferns, the log-seat, rough as it had come out of the forest--she saw them all as if she saw them not, so busy was her brain that it could take no notice of them just now. so busy was it that all her life seemed to be hurrying and crowding and whirling through it, with swift pictures starting into momentary distinctness and dying suddenly to give place to others. it was a terrifying and enthralling phantasmagoria which held her spell-bound on the threshold of this ruined hovel, her husband's last shelter. at last she roused herself, and stepped forward hesitatingly. her eyes had fallen upon a book or two at the end of a shelf as black as the walls; and books had always called to her with a voice that could not be resisted. she crept slowly and feebly across the mouldering planks of the floor, through which she could see the grass springing on the turf below the hut. but when she lifted up the mildewed and dust-covered volume lying uppermost and opened it, her eyes fell first upon her own portrait, stained, faded, nearly blotted out; yet herself as she was when she became roland sefton's wife. she sank down, faint and trembling, on the rough block of wood, and leaned back against the mouldy walls, with the photograph in her hand, and her eyes fastened upon it. his mother's portrait, and his children's, he had given up as evidence of his death; but he had never parted with hers. oh! how he had loved her! would to god she had loved him as dearly! but she had forsaken him, had separated him from her as one who was accursed, and whose very name was a malediction. she had exacted the uttermost farthing from him; his mother, his children, his home, his very life, to save her name from dishonor. it seemed as if this tarnished, discolored picture of herself, cherished through all his misery and desolation, spoke more deeply and poignantly to her than anything else could do. she fancied she could see him, the way-worn, haggard, weather-beaten peasant, as she had seen him last, sitting here, with the black walls shutting him out from all the world, but holding this portrait in his hands, and looking at it as she did now. and he had perished on the mountains! suddenly all the whirl of her brain grew quiet; the swift thoughts ceased to rush across it. she felt dull and benumbed as if she could no longer exert herself to remember or to know anything. her eyes were weary of seeing, and the lids drooped over them. the light had become dim as if the sun had already set. her ears were growing heavy as though no sound could ever disturb her again; when a bitter and piercing cry, such as is seldom drawn from the heart of man, penetrated through all the lethargy creeping over her. looking up, with eyes that opened slowly and painfully, she saw her husband's face bending over her. a smile of exceeding sweetness and tenderness flitted across her face, and she tried to stretch out both her hands towards him. but the effort was the last faint token of life. they had found one another too late. chapter xxiv. for one moment she had not uttered a word to him; but her smile and the tender gesture of her dying hands had spoken more than words. he stood motionless, gazing down upon her, and upon phebe, who had thrown herself beside her, encircling her with her arms, as if she would snatch her away from the relentless grasp of death. a single cry of anguish had escaped him; but he was dumb now, and no sound was heard in the silent hut, except those that entered it from without. phebe did not know what had happened, but he knew. quite clearly, without any hope or self-deception, he knew that felicita was dead. the dread of it had haunted him from the moment that he had heard of her hurried departure in quest of him. when he read phebe's words, imploring him to follow them, the recollection had flashed across him of how the thread of lord riversdale's life had snapped under the strain of unusual anxiety and fatigue. felicita's own delicate health had been failing for some months past. as swiftly as he could follow he had pursued them; but her impatient and feverish haste had prevented him from overtaking them in time. what might have been the result if he had reached her sooner he could not tell. that there could ever have been any knitting together again of the tie that had ever united them seemed impossible. death alone, either hers or his, could have touched her heart to the tenderness of her farewell smile and gesture. in after life jean merle never spoke of that hour of agony. but there was nothing in the past which dwelt so deeply or lived again so often in his memory. he had suffered before; but it seemed as nothing to the intensity of the anguish that had befallen him now. the image of felicita's white and dying face lying against the darkened walls of the hovel where she had gone to seek him, was indelibly printed on his brain. he would see it till the hour of his own death. he lifted her up, holding her once more in his arms, and clasping her to his heart, as he carried her through the village street to the hotel. phebe walked beside him, as yet only thinking that felicita had fainted. his old neighbors crowded out of their houses, scarcely recognizing jean merle in this monsieur in his good english dress, but with redoubled curiosity when they saw who it was thus bearing the strange english lady in his arms. when he had carried her to the hotel, and up-stairs to the room where he had watched beside the stranger who had borne his name, he broke through the gathering crowd of onlookers, and fled to his familiar solitudes among the mountains. he had always told himself that felicita was dead to him. there had not been in his heart the faintest hope that she could ever again be anything more to him than a memory and a dream. when he was in england, though he had not been content until he had seen his children and his old home, he had never sought to get a glimpse of her, so far beyond him and above him. but now that she was indeed dead, those beloved eyes closed forever more from the light of the sun, and the familiar earth never again to be trodden by her feet, the awful chasm set between them made him feel as if he was for the first time separated from her. only an hour ago and his voice could have reached her in words of entreaty and of passionate repentance and humble self-renunciation. they could have spoken face to face, and he might have had a brief interval for pouring out his heart to her. but there had been no word uttered between them. there had been only that one moment in which her soul looked back upon him with a glance of tenderness, before she was gone from him beyond recall. he came to himself, out of the confused agony of his grief, as the sun was setting. he found himself in a wild and barren wilderness of savage rocks, with a small black tarn lying at his feet, which just caught the glimmer of the setting sun on its lurid surface. the silence about him was intense. gray clouds stretched across the mountains, out of which a few sad peaks of rock rose against the gray sky. the snowy dome of the titlis towering above the rest looked down on him out of the shadow of the clouded heavens with a ghostly paleness. all the world about him was cold and wan, and solemn as the face of the dead. there was death up here and in the valley yonder; but down in the valley it bore too dear and too sorrowful a form. as the twilight deepened, the recollection of phebe's loneliness and her distress at his absence at last roused him. he could no longer leave her, bewildered by this new trouble, and with slow and reluctant steps he retraced his path through the deep gloom of the forests to the village. there was much to be turned over in his mind and to be decided upon before he reached the bustling hotel and the gaping throng of spectators, marvelling at jean merle's reappearance under circumstances so unaccountable. he had met with phebe as she returned from starting felicita in the first boat, and they had waited for the next. at grafenort they had dismissed their carriage, thinking they could enter the valleys with less observation on foot; and perhaps meet with felicita in such a manner as to avoid making his return known in engelberg. he had turned aside to take shelter in his old hut, whilst phebe went on to find felicita, when his bitter cry of pain had called her back to him. the villagers would probably take him for a courier in attendance upon these ladies, if he acted as one when he reached the hotel. but how was he to act? two courses were open to him. there was no longer any reason to dread a public trial and conviction for the crime he had committed so many years ago. it was quite practicable to return to england, account plausibly for his disappearance and the mistake as to identity which had caused a stranger to be buried in his name, and take up his life again as roland sefton. it was improbable that any searching investigation should be made into his statements. who would be interested in doing it? but the old memories and suspicions would be awakened and strengthened a hundred-fold by the mystery surrounding his return. no one could compel him to reveal his secret, he had simply to keep his lips closed in impenetrable silence. true he would be a suspected man, with a disgraceful secrecy hanging like a cloud about him. he could not live so at riversborough, among his old towns-people, of whom he had once been a leader. he must find some new sphere and dwell in it, always dreading the tongue of rumor. and his son and daughter? how would they regard him if he maintained an obstinate and ambiguous silence towards them? they were no longer little children, scarcely separate from their father, seeing through his eyes, and touching life only through him. they were separate individuals, living souls, with a personality of their own, the more free from his influence because of his long absence and supposed death. it was a young man he must meet in felix, a critic and a judge like other men; but with a known interest in the criticism and the judgment he had to pass upon his father, and less apt to pass it lightly. his son would ponder deeply over any account he might give of himself. hilda, too, was at a sensitive and delicate point of girlhood, when she would inevitably shrink from any contact with the suspicion and doubt that would surround this strange return after so many years of disappearance. yet how could he let them know the terrible fraud he had committed for their mother's sake and with her connivance? felix knew of his other defalcations; but hilda was still ignorant of them. if he returned to them with the truth in his lips, they would lose the happy memory of their mother and their pride in her fame. he understood only too well how dominant must have been her influence over them, not merely by the tender common ties of motherhood, but by the fascinating charm of her whole nature, reserved and stately as it had been. he must betray her and lessen her memory in their sorrowful esteem. to them, if not to the world, he must disclose all, or resolve to remain a stranger to them forever. during the last six months it had seemed to him that a humble path lay before him, following which he might again live a life of lowly discipleship. he had repented with a bitter repentance, and out of the depths into which he had fallen he had cried unto god and been delivered. he believed that he had received god's forgiveness, as he knew that he had received men's forgiveness. out of the wreck of his former life he had constructed a little raft and trusted to it bearing him safely through what remained of the storm of life. if felicita had lived he would have remained in the service of his father's old friend, proving himself of use in numberless ways; not merely as an attendant, but in assisting him with the affairs of the bank, with which he was more conversant, from his early acquaintanceship with the families transacting business with it, than the stranger who was acting manager could be. he had not been long enough in riversborough to gain any influence in the town as a poor foreigner, but there had been a hope dawning within that he might again do some good in his native place, the dearer to him because of his long and dreary banishment. in time he might perform some work worthy of his forefathers, though under another name. if he could so live as to leave behind him the memory of a sincere and simple christian, who had denied himself daily to live a righteous, sober, and godly life, and had cheerfully taken up his cross to follow christ, he would in some measure atone for the disgrace roland sefton's defalcations had brought upon the name of christ. this humble, ambitious career was still before him if he could forego the joy of making himself known to his children--a doubtful joy. for had he not cut himself from them by his reckless and despairing abandonment of them in their childhood? he could bring them nothing now but sorrow and shame. the sacrifice would be on their side, not his. it needs all the links of all the years to bind parents and children in an indestructible chain; and if he attempted to unite the broken links it could only be by a knowledge of their mother's error as well as his. let him sacrifice himself for the last and final time to felicita and the fair name she had made for herself. he was stumbling along in the dense darkness of the forest with no gleam of light to guide him on his way, and his feet were constantly snared in the knotted roots of the trees intersecting the path. so must he stumble along a dark and rugged track through the rest of his years. there was no cheering gleam beckoning him to a happy future. but though it was thorny and obscure it was not an ignoble path, and it might end at last even for him in the welcome words, "well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy lord." his mind was made up before he reached the valley. he could not unravel the warp and woof of his life. the gossamer threads of the webs he had begun to weave about himself so lightly in the heyday of his youth and prosperity and happiness had thickened into cables and petrified; it was impossible to break through the coil of them or find a way out of it. roland sefton had died many years ago. let him remain dead. chapter xxv. the final resolve. it was dark, with the pitchy darkness of a village street, where the greater part of the population were gone to bed, when he passed through engelberg towards the hotel, where phebe must be awaiting his return anxiously. in carrying out his project it would be well for him to have as little as possible to do with the inmates of the hotel, and he approached it cautiously. all the ground-floor was dark, except for a glimmer of light in a little room at the end of a long passage; but the windows of the _salon_ on the floor above were lit up, and jean merle stepped quietly up the staircase unheard and unseen. phebe was sitting by a table, her head buried in her arms, which rested upon it--a forlorn and despondent attitude. she lifted up her face as he entered and gazed pitifully into his; but for a minute or two neither of them spoke. he stood just within the door, looking towards her as he had done on the fateful night when felicita had told him that she chose his death rather than her share of the disgrace attaching to his crime. this day just drawn to a close had been the bitterest fruit of the seed then sown. jean merle's face, on which there was stamped an expression of intense but patient suffering, steadfastly met phebe's aching eyes. "she is dead!" she murmured. "i knew it," he answered. "i did not know what to do," she went on after a slight pause, and speaking in a pitiful and deprecating tone. "poor phebe!" he said; "but i am come to tell you what i have resolved to do--what seems best for us all to do. we must act as if i was only what i seem to be, a stranger to you, a passing guide, who has no more to do with these things than any other stranger. we will do what i believe she would have desired; her name shall be as dear to us as it was to her; no disgrace shall stain it now." "but can you never throw off your disguise?" she asked, weeping. "must you always be what you seem to be now?" "i must always be jean merle," he replied. "roland sefton cannot return to life; it is impossible. let us leave her children at least the tender memory of their mother; i can bear being unknown to them for what remains to me of life. and we do no one any harm, you and i, by keeping this secret." "no, we wrong no one," she answered. "i have been thinking of it ever since i was sure she was dead, and i counted upon you doing this. it will save felix and hilda from bitter sorrow, and it would keep her memory fair and true for them. but you--there will be so much to give up. they will never know that you are their father; for if we do not tell them now, we must never, never betray it. can you do it?" "i gave them up long ago," he said; "and if there be any sacrifice i can make for them, what should withhold me, phebe? god only knows what an unutterable relief it would be to me if i could lay bare my whole life to the eyes of my fellow-men and henceforth walk in their sight in simple honesty and truthfulness. but that is impossible. not even you can see my whole life as it has been. i must go softly all my days, bearing my burden of secrecy." "i too shall have to bear it," she murmured almost inaudibly. "i shall start at once for stans," he went on, "and go to lucerne by the first boat in the morning. you shall give me a telegram to send from there to canon pascal, and felix will be here in less than three days. i must return direct to riversborough. i must not perform the last duties to the dead; even that is denied to me." "but felicita must not be buried here," exclaimed phebe, her voice faltering, with an accent of horror at the thought of it. a shudder of repugnance ran through him also. roland sefton's grave was here, and what would be more natural than to bury felicita beside it? "no, no," he cried, "you must save me from that, phebe. she must be brought home and buried among her own people. promise to save her and me from that." "oh, i promise it," she said; "it shall never be. you shall not have that grief." "if i stayed here myself," he continued, "it would make it more difficult to take up my life in riversborough unquestioned and unsuspected. it can only be by a complete separation now that i can effect my purpose. but i can hardly bear to go away, phebe." the profound pitifulness of phebe's heart was stirred to its inmost depths by the sound of his voice and the expression of his hopeless face. she left her seat and drew near to him. "come and see her once more," she whispered. silently he made a gesture of assent, and she led the way to the adjoining room. he knew it better than she did; for it was here that he had watched all the night long the death of the stranger who was buried in roland sefton's grave. there was little change in it to his eyes. the bare walls and the scanty homely furniture were the same now as then. there was the glimmer of a little lamp falling on the tranquil figure on the bed. the occupant of this chamber only was different, but oh! the difference to him! "do not leave me, phebe!" he cried, stretching out his hand towards her, as if blind and groping to be led. she stepped noiselessly across the uncarpeted floor and looked down on the face lying on the pillow. the smile that had been upon it in the last moment yet lingered about the mouth, and added an inexpressible gentleness and tenderness to its beauty. the long dark eyelashes shadowed the cheeks, which were suffused with a faint flush. felicita looked young again, with something of the sweet shy grace of the girl whom he had first seen in this distant mountain village so many years ago. he sank down on his knees, and shut out the sight of her from his despairing eyes. the silent minutes crept slowly away unheeded; he did not stir, or sob, or lift up his bowed face. this kneeling figure at her feet was as rigid and as death-like as the lifeless form lying on the bed; and phebe grew frightened, yet dared not break in upon his grief. at last a footstep came somewhat noisily up the staircase, and she laid her hand softly on the gray head beneath her. "jean merle," she said, "it is time for us to go." the sound of this name in phebe's familiar voice aroused him. she had never called him by it before; and its utterance was marked as a thing irrevocably settled that his life henceforth was to be altogether divorced from that of roland sefton. he had come to the last point which connected him with it. when he turned away from this rigid form, in all the awful loveliness of death, he would have cut himself off forever from the past. he laid his hand upon the chilly forehead; but he dared not stoop down to touch the sweet sad face with his lips. with no word of farewell to phebe, he rushed out into the dense darkness of the night and made his way down the valley, and through the steep forest roads he had traversed only a few hours ago with something like hope dawning in his heart. for in the morning he had known that he should see felicita again, and there was expectation and a gleam of gladness in that; but to-night his eyes had looked upon her for the last time. chapter xxvi. in lucerne. phebe found herself alone, with the burden of jean merle's secret resting on her unshared. it depended upon her sagacity and tact whether he should escape being connected in a mysterious manner with the sad event that had just transpired in engelberg. the footstep she had heard on the stairs was that of the landlady, who had gone into the salon and had thus missed seeing jean merle as he left the house. phebe met her in the doorway. "i have sent a message by the guide who brought me here," she said in slowly pronounced french; "he is gone to lucerne, and he will telegraph to england for me." "is he gone--jean merle?" asked the landlady. "certainly, yes," answered phebe; "he is gone to lucerne." "will he return, then?" inquired the landlady. "no, i suppose not," she replied; "he has done all he had to do for me. he will telegraph to england, and our friends will come to us immediately. good-night, madame." "good-night, mademoiselle," was the response. "may you sleep well!" but sleep was far away from phebe's agitated brain that night. she felt herself alone in a strange land, with a great grief and a terrible secret oppressing her. as the night wore on a feverish dread took possession of her that she should be unable to prevent felicita's burial beside roland sefton's grave. even felix would decide that it ought to be so. as soon as the dawn came she rose and went out into the icy freshness of the morning air, blowing down from the snow-fields and the glaciers around her. the village was beginning to arouse itself. the abbey bells were ringing, and at the sound of them, calling the laborers to a new day's toil, here and there a shutter was thrown back or a door was opened, and light volumes of gray wood-smoke stole upwards into the still air. there was a breath of serenity and peace in this early hour which soothed phebe's fevered brain, as she slowly sauntered on with the purpose of finding the cemetery, where the granite cross stood over the grave that had occupied so much of her thoughts since she had heard of roland sefton's death. she reached it at last and stood motionless before it, looking back through all the years in which she had mourned with roland's mother his untimely death. he whom she had mourned for was not lying here; but did not his life hold deeper cause for grief than his death ever had? standing there, so far from home, in the quiet morning, with this grave at her feet, she answered to herself a question which had been troubling her for many months. yes, it was a right thing to do, on the whole, to keep this secret--felicita's secret as well as roland's--forever locked in her own heart. there was concealment in it closely verging, as it must always do, on deception. phebe's whole nature revolted against concealment. she loved to live her life out in the eye of day. but the story of roland sefton's crime, and the penance done for it, in its completeness could never be given to the world; it must always result in some measure in misleading the judgment of those most interested in it. there was little to be gained and much to be sacrificed by its disclosure. felicita's death seemed to give a new weight to every reason for keeping the secret; and it was safe in her keeping and mr. clifford's: when a few years were gone it would be hers alone. the cross most heavy for her to bear she must carry, hidden from every eye; but she could bear it faithfully, even unto death. as her lips whispered the last three words, giving to her resolution a definite form and utterance, a shadow beside her own fell upon the cross. she turned quickly and met the kindly inquisitive gaze of the mountain curé who had led felicita to this spot yesterday. he had been among the first who followed jean merle as he carried her lifeless form through the village street; and he had run to the monastery to seek what medical aid could be had there. the incident was one of great interest to him. phebe's frank yet sorrowful face, turned to him with its expression of ready sympathy with any fellow-creature, won from the young priest the cordial friendliness that everywhere greeted her. he stood bareheaded before her, as he had done before felicita, but he spoke to her in a tone of more familiar intercourse. "madame, pardon," he said, "but you are in grief, and i would offer you my condolence. behold! to me the lady who died yesterday spoke her last words--here, on this spot. she said not a word afterwards to any human creature. i come to communicate them to you. there is but little to tell." it was so little that phebe felt greatly disappointed; though her eyes grew blind with tears as she thought of felicita standing here before this deceptive cross and calling herself of all women the most miserable. the cross itself had had no message of peace to her troubled heart. "most miserable," repeated phebe to herself, looking back upon yesterday with a vain yearning that she had been there to tell felicita that she shared her misery, and could help her to bear it. "and now," continued the curé, "can i be of any service to madame? you are alone; and there are a few formalities to observe. it will be some days before your friends can arrive. command me, then, if i can be of any service." "can you help me to get away," she asked, in a tone of eager anxiety, "down to lucerne as quickly as possible? i have telegraphed to madame's son, and he will come immediately. of course, i know in england when a sudden death occurs there are inquiries made; and it is right and necessary. but you see madame died of a heart disease." "without doubt," he interrupted; "she was ill here, and i followed her down the village, and saw her enter jean merle's hut. i was about to enter, for she had been there a long time, when you appeared with your guide and went in. in a minute there was a cry, and i saw jean merle bearing the poor lady out into the daylight and you following them. without doubt she died from natural causes." "there are formalities to observe," said phebe earnestly, "and they take much time. but i must leave engelberg to-morrow, or the next day at the latest, taking her with me. can you help me to do this?" "but you will bury madame here?" answered the curé, who felt deeply what interest would attach to another english grave in the village burial-ground; "she told me yesterday roland sefton was her relative, and there will be many difficulties and great expenditure in taking her away from this place." "yes," answered phebe, "but madame belongs to a great family in england; she was the daughter of baron riversborough, and she must be buried among her own people. you shall telegraph to the consul at geneva, and he will say she must be buried among her own people, not here. it does not signify about the expenditure." "ah! that makes it more easy," replied the curé, "and if madame is of an illustrious family--i was about to return to my parish this morning; but i will stay and arrange matters for you. this is my native place, and i know all the people. if i cannot do everything, the abbot and the brethren will. be tranquil; you shall leave engelberg as early as possible." it was impossible for phebe to telegraph to england her intention of returning immediately to lucerne; for felix must have set off already, and would be on his way to the far-off valley among the swiss mountains, where he believed his father's grave lay, and where his mother had met her death. phebe's heart was wrung for him, as she thought of the overwhelming and instantaneous shock it would be to him and hilda, who did not even know that their mother had left home; but her dread lest he should judge it right to lay his mother beside this grave, which had possessed so large a share in his thoughts hitherto, compelled her to hasten her departure before he could arrive, even at the risk of missing him on the way. the few formalities to be observed seemed complicated and tedious; but at last they were ended. the friendly priest accompanied her on her sorrowful return down the rough mountain-roads, preceded by the litter bearing felicita's coffin; and at every hamlet they passed through he left minute instructions that a young english gentleman travelling up to engelberg was to be informed of the little funeral cavalcade that was gone down to lucerne. down the green valley, and through the solemn forests, phebe followed the rustic litter on foot with the priest beside her, now and then reciting a prayer in a low tone. when they reached grafenort carriages were in waiting to convey them as far as the lake. it was only a week since she and felicita had started on their secret and disastrous journey, and now her face was set homewards, with no companion save this coffin, which she followed with so heavy a spirit. she had come up the valley as jean merle had done, with vague, dim hopes, stretching vainly forward to some impossible good that might come to him when he and felicita stood face to face once again. but now all was over. a boat was ready at stans, and here the friendly curé bade her farewell, leaving her to go on her way alone. and now it seemed to phebe, more than ever before, that she had been living and acting for a long while in a painful dream. her usually clear and tranquil soul was troubled and bewildered as she sat in the boat at the head of felicita's coffin, with her dear face so near to her, yet hidden from her eyes. all around her lay the lake, with a fine rapid ripple on the silvery blue of its waters, as the rowers, with measured and rhythmical strokes of their oars, carried the boat's sad freight on towards lucerne. the evening sun was shining aslant down the wooded slopes of the lower hills, and dark blue shadows gathered where its rays no longer penetrated. that half-consciousness, common to all of us, that she had gone through this passage in her life before, and that this sorrow had already had its counterpart in some other state of existence, took possession of her; and with it came a feeling of resigning herself to fate. she was worn out with anxiety and grief. what would come might come. she could exert herself no longer. as they drew near to lucerne, the clangor of military music and the merry pealing of bells rang across the water, jarring upon her faint and sorrowful heart. some fête was going on, and all the populace was active. banners floated from all the windows, and a gay procession was parading along the quay, marching under the echoing roof of the long wooden bridge which crossed the green torrent of the river. numberless little boats were darting to and fro on the smooth surface of the lake, and through them all her own, bearing felicita's coffin, sped swiftly on its way to the landing-stage, on which, as if standing there amid the hubbub to receive it, her sad eyes saw canon pascal and felix. they had but just reached lucerne, and were waiting for the next steamer starting to stans, when felix had caught sight of the boat afar off, with its long, narrow burden, covered by a black pall; and as it drew nearer he had distinguished phebe sitting beside it alone. until this moment it had seemed absolutely incredible that his mother could be dead, though the telegram to canon pascal had said so distinctly. there must be some mistake, he had constantly reiterated as they hurried through france to lucerne; phebe had been frightened, and in her terror had misled herself and them. no wonder his mother should be ill--dangerously so, after the fatigue and agitation of a journey to engelberg; but she could not be dead. phebe had had no opportunity of telegraphing again; for they had set off at once, and from basle they had brought on with them an eminent physician. so confident was felix in his asseverations that canon pascal himself had begun to hope that he was right, and but that the steamer was about to start in a few minutes, they would have hired a boat to carry them on to stans, in order to lose no time in taking medical aid to felicita. but as felix stood there, only dimly conscious of the scene about them, the sight of the boat bringing phebe to the shore with the covered coffin beside her, extinguished in his heart the last glimmering of the hope which had been little more than a natural recoil from despair. he was not taken by surprise, or hurried into any vehemence of grief. a cold stupor, which made him almost insensible to his loss, crept over him. sorrow would assert itself by and by; but now he felt dull and torpid. when the coffin was lifted out of the boat, by bearers who were waiting at the landing-stage for the purpose, he took up his post immediately behind it, as if it were already the funeral procession carrying his mother to the grave; and with all the din and tumult of the streets sounding in his ears, he followed unquestioningly wherever it might go. why it was there, or why his mother's coffin was there, he did not ask; he only knew that she was there. "my poor phebe," said canon pascal, as they followed closely behind him, "why did you start homewards? would it not have been best to bury her at engelberg, beside her husband? did not felicita forgive him, even in her death?" "no, no, it was not that," answered phebe; "she forgave him, but i could not bear to leave her there. i was with her just as she died; but she had gone up to engelberg alone, and i followed her, only too late. she never spoke to me or looked at me. i could not leave felicita in engelberg," she added excitedly; "it has been a fatal place to her." "is there anything we must not know?" he inquired. "yes," she said, turning to him her pale and quivering face, "i have a secret to keep all my life long. but the evil of it is spent now. it seems to me as if it is a sin no longer; all the selfishness is gone out of it, and felix and hilda were as clear of it as alice herself; if i could tell you all, you would say so too." "you need tell me no more, dear phebe," he replied; "god bless you in the keeping of their secret!" chapter xxvii. his own children. the tidings of felicita's death spread rapidly in england, and the circumstances attending it, its suddenness, and the fact that it had occurred at the same place that her husband had perished by accident many years before, gave it more than ordinary interest and excited more than ordinary publicity. it was a good deal talked of in literary circles, and in the fashionable clique to which she belonged through her relationship with the riversford family. there were the usual kindly notices of her life and works in the daily papers; and her publisher seized the occasion to advertise her books more largely. but it was in riversborough that the deepest impression was made, and the keenest curiosity aroused by the story of her death, obscure in some of its details, but full of romantic interest to her old towns-people, who were thus recalled to the circumstances attending roland sefton's disappearance and subsequent death. the funeral also was to be in the immediate neighborhood, in the church where all the riversfords had been buried time out of mind, long before a title had been conferred on the head of the house. it appeared quite right that felicita should be buried beside her own people; and every one who could get away from business went down to the little country churchyard to be present at the funeral. but phebe was not there: when she reached london she was so worn out with fatigue and agitation that she was compelled to remain at home, brooding over what she had come through. and jean merle had not trusted himself to look into the open grave, about to close over all that remained of the woman he had so passionately loved. the tolling of the minute-bell, which began early in the day and struck its deep knell through the tardy hours till late in the evening, smote upon his ear and heart every time the solemn tone sounded through the quiet hours. he was left alone in his old home, for mr. clifford was gone as one of the mourners to follow felicita to the grave; and all the servants had asked to be present at the funeral. there was nothing to demand his attention or to distract his thoughts. the house was as silent as if it had been the house of death and he himself but a phantom in it. though he had been six months in the house, he had never yet been in felicita's study--that quiet room shut out from the noise both of the street and the household, which he had set apart and prepared for her when she was coming, stepping down a little from her own level to be his wife. it was dismantled, he knew; her books were gone, and all the costly decorative fittings he had chosen with so much joyous anxiety. but the panelled doors which he had worked at with his own hands were there, and the window, with its delicately tinted lattice-frames, through which the sun had shone in daintily upon her at her desk. he went slowly up the long staircase, pausing now and then lost in thought; and standing, at last before the door, which he had never opened without asking permission to enter in, he hesitated for many minutes before he went in. an empty room, swept clean of everything which made it a living habitation. the sunshine fell in pencils of colored light upon the bare walls and uncarpeted floor. it bore no trace of any occupant; yet to him it seemed but yesterday that he had been in here, listening to the low tones of felicita's sweet voice, and gazing with silent pride on her beautiful face. there had been unmeasured passion and ambition in his love for her, which had fatally changed his whole life. but he knew now that he had failed in winning her love and in making her happy; and the secret dissatisfaction she had felt in her ill-considered marriage had been fatal both to her and to him. the restless eagerness it had developed in him to gain a position that could content her, had been a seed of worldliness, which had borne deadly fruit. he opened the casement, and looked out on the familiar landscape, on which her eyes had so often rested--eyes that were closed forever. the past, so keenly present to him this moment, was in reality altogether dead and buried. she had ceased to be his wife years ago, when she had accepted the sacrifice he proposed to her of his very existence. that old life was blotted out; and he had no right to mourn openly for the dead, who was being laid in the grave of her fathers at this hour. his children were counting themselves orphans, and it was not in his power to comfort them. he knelt down at the open window, and rested his bowed head on the window-sill. the empty room behind him was but a symbol of his own empty lot, swept clean of all its affections and aspirations. two thirds of his term of years were already spent; and he found himself bereft and dispossessed of all that makes life worth having--all except the power of service. even at this late hour a voice within him called to him, "go work to-day in my vineyard." it was not too late to serve god who had forgiven him and mankind whom he had wronged. there was time to make some atonement; to work out some redemption for his fellow-men. to roland sefton had arisen a vision of a public and honorable career, cheered on by applause of men and crowned with popularity and renown for all he might achieve. but jean merle must toil in silence and difficulty, amid rebuffs and discouragements, and do humble service which would remain unrecognized and unthanked. yet there was work to do, if it were no more than cheering the last days of an old man, or teaching a class of the most ignorant of his townsfolk in a night school. he rose from his knees after a while, and left the room, closing the door as softly as he had been used to do when afraid of any noise grating on his wife's sensitive brain. it seemed to him like the closing up of the vault where she was buried. she was gone from him forever, and there was nothing left but to forget the past if that were possible. as he went lingeringly down the staircase, which would henceforth be trodden seldom if ever by him, he heard the ringing of the house-bell, which announced the return of mr. clifford and of felix and hilda, who were coming to stay the night in their old home, before returning to london on the morrow. he hastened down to open the door and help them to alight from their carriage. it was the first time he had been thus brought into close contact with them; but this must happen often in the future, and he must learn to meet them as strangers, and to be looked upon by them as little more than a hired servant. but the sight of hilda's sad young face, so pale and tear-stained, and the expression of deep grief that felix wore, tried him sorely. what would he not have given to be able to take this girl into his arms and soothe her, and to comfort his son with comfort none but a father can give? he stood outside the sphere of their sorrows, looking on them with the eyes of a stranger; and the pain of seeing them so near yet so far away from him was unutterable. the time might come when jean merle could see them, and talk with them calmly as a friend, ready to serve them to the utmost of his power; when there might be something of pleasure in gaining their friendship and confidence. but so long as they were mourning bitterly for their mother and could not conceal the sharpness of their grief, the sight of them was a torture to him. it was a relief to him and to mr. clifford when they left riversborough the next morning. chapter xxviii. an emigration scheme. several months passed away, bringing no visitor to riversborough, except phebe, who came down two or three times to see mr. clifford, whose favorite she was. but phebe never spoke of the past to jean merle. since they had determined what to do, it seemed wiser to her not to look back so as to embitter the present. jean merle was gradually gaining a footing in the town as mr. clifford's representative, and was in many ways filling a post very few could fill. now and then, some of the elder townsmen, who had been contemporary with roland sefton, remarked upon the resemblance between jean merle and their old comrade; but this was satisfactorily accounted for by his relationship to madame sefton: for roland, they said, had always had a good deal of the foreigner about him, much more than this quiet, melancholy, self-effacing man, who never pushed himself forward, or courted attention, yet was always ready with a good sound shrewd opinion if he was asked for it. it had been a lucky thing for old clifford that such a man had been found to take care of him and his affairs in his extreme old age. felix had gone back to his curacy, under canon pascal, in the parish where he had spent his boyhood and where he was safe against any attack upon his father's memory. but in spite of being able to see alice every day, and of enjoying canon pascal's constant companionship, he was ill at ease, and phebe was dissatisfied. this was exactly the life felicita had dreaded for him, an easy, half-occupied life in a small parish, where there was little active employment for either mind or body. the thought of it troubled and haunted phebe. the magnificent physical strength and active energy of felix, and the strong bent to heroic effort and christian devotion given to him in his earliest years, were thrown away in this tranquil english village, where there was clearly no scope for heroism. how was it that canon pascal could not see it? his curacy was a post to be occupied by some feebler man than felix; a man whose powers were only equal to the quiet work of carrying on the labors begun by his rector. besides, felix would have recovered from the shock of his mother's sudden death if his time and faculties had been more fully occupied. she must give words to her discontent, and urge canon pascal to banish him from a spot where he was leading too dull a life. canon pascal had been in residence at westminster for some weeks, and was about to return to his rectory, when phebe went down to the abbey one day, bent upon putting her decision into action. the bitterness of the early spring had come again; and strong easterly gales were blowing steadily day after day, bringing disease and death to those who were feeble and ailing, yet not more surely than the fogs of the city had done. it had been a long and gloomy winter, and in this second month of the year the death rates were high. as phebe passed through the abbey on her way to his home in the cloisters, she saw canon pascal standing still, with his head thrown back and his eyes uplifted to the noble arches supporting the roof. he did not notice her till her clear, pleasant voice addressed him. "ah, phebe!" he exclaimed, a swift smile transforming his grave, marked face, "my dear, i was just asking myself how i could bear to say farewell to all this." he glanced round him with an expression of unutterable love and pride and of keen regret. the abbey had grown dearer to him than any spot on earth; and as he paced down the long aisle he lingered as if every step he took was full of pain. "bid farewell to it!" repeated phebe; "but why?" "for a series of whys," he answered; "first and foremost, because the doctors tell me, and i believe it, that my dear wife's days are numbered if she stays another year in this climate. all our days are numbered by god, i know; but man can number them also, if he pleases, and make them longer or shorter by his obedience or disobedience. secondly, phebe, our sons have gone on before us as pioneers, and they send us piteous accounts of the spiritual needs of the colonists and the native populations out yonder. i preach often on the evils of over-population and its danger to our country, and i prescribe emigration to most of the young people i come across. why should not i, even i, take up the standard and cry 'follow me'? we should leave england with sad hearts, it is true, but for her good and for the good of unborn generations, who shall create a second england under other skies. and last, but not altogether least, the colonial bishopric is vacant, and has been offered to me. if i accept it i shall save the life most precious to me, and find another home in the midst of my children and grand-children." "and felix?" cried phebe. "what could be better for felix than to come with us?" he asked; "there he will meet with the work he was born for, the work he is fretting his soul for. he will be at last a gallant soldier of the cross, unhampered by any dread of his father's sin rising up against him. and we could never part with alice--her mother and i. you would be the last to say no to that, phebe?" "oh, yes!" she answered, with tears standing in her eyes, "felix must go with you." "and hilda, too," he went on; "for what would become of hilda alone here, with her only brother settled at the antipodes? and here we shall want phebe marlowe's influence with old mr. clifford, who might prevent his ward from quitting england. i am counting also on phebe herself, as my pearl of deaconesses, with no vow to bind her, if the happiness and fuller life of marriage opened before her. still, to secure all these benefits i must give up all this." he paused for a minute or two, looking back up the narrow side aisle, and then, as if he could not tear himself away, he retraced his steps slowly and lingeringly; and phebe caught the glistening of tears in his eyes. "never to see it again," he murmured, "or if i see it, not to belong to it! to have no more right here than any other stranger! it feels like a home to me, dear phebe. i have had solemn glimpses of god here, as if it were indeed the gate of heaven. to the last hour of my life, wherever i go, my soul will cleave to these walls. but i shall give it up." "yes," she said, sighing, "but there is no bitterness of repentance to you in giving it up." "how sadly you spoke that," he went on, "as if a woman like you could know the bitterness of repentance! you have only looked at it through other men's eyes. yes, we shall go. felix and hilda and you are free to leave mr. clifford, now he is so admirably cared for by this jean merle. i like all that i hear of him, though i never saw him; surely it was a blessing from god that madame sefton's poor kinsman was brought to the old man. could we not leave him safely in merle's charge?" "quite safely," she answered. "i have a scheme for a new settlement in my head," he continued, "a settlement of our own, and we will invite emigrants to it. i can reckon on a few who will joyfully follow our lead, and it will not seem a strange land if we carry those whom we love with us. this hour even i have made up my mind to accept this bishopric. go on, dear phebe, and tell my wife. i must stay here alone a little longer." but phebe did not hasten with these tidings through the cloisters. she walked to and fro, pondering them and finding in them a solution of many difficulties. for felix it would be well, and it was not to be expected that alice would leave her invalid mother to remain behind in england as a curate's wife. hilda, too, what could be better or happier for her than to go with those who looked upon her as a daughter, who would take alice's place as soon as she was gone into a home of her own? there was little to keep them in england. she could not refuse to let them go. but herself? the strong strain of faithfulness in phebe's nature knitted her as closely with the past as with the present; and with some touch of pathetic clinging to the past which the present cannot possess. she could not separate herself from it. the little home where she was born, and the sterile fields surrounding it, with the wide moors encircling them, were as dear to her as the abbey was to canon pascal. in no other place did she feel herself so truly at home. if she cut herself adrift from it and all the subtly woven web of memories belonging to it, she fancied she might pine away of home-sickness in a foreign land. there was mr. clifford too, who depended so utterly upon her promise to be near him when he was dying, and to hold his hand in hers as he went down into the deep chill waters of death. and jean merle, whose terrible secret she shared, and would be the only one to share it when mr. clifford was gone. how was it possible for her to separate herself from these two? she loved felix and hilda with all the might of her unselfish heart; but felix had alice, and by and by hilda would give herself to some one who would claim most of her affection. she was not necessary to either of them. but if she went away she must leave a blank, too dreary to be thought of, in the clouded lives of mr. clifford and poor merle. for their sakes she must refuse to leave england. chapter xxix. farewell. but it was more difficult than phebe anticipated to resist the urgent entreaties of felix and hilda not to sever the bond that had existed between them so long. her devotion to them in the past had made them feel secure of its continuance, and to quit england, leaving her behind, seemed impossible. but mr. clifford's reiterated supplications that she would not forsake him in his old age drew her as powerfully the other way. scarcely a day passed without a few lines, written by his own feeble and shaking hand, reaching her, beseeching and demanding of her a solemn promise to stay in england as long as he lived. jean merle said nothing, even when she went down to visit them, urged by canon pascal to set before mr. clifford the strong reasons there were for her to accompany the party of emigrants; but phebe knew that jean merle's life, with its unshared memories and secrets, would be still more dreary if she went away. after she had seen these two she wavered no more. it was a larger party of emigrants than any one had foreseen; for it was no sooner known that canon pascal was leaving england as a colonial bishop, than many men and women came forward anxious to go out and found new homes under his auspices. he was a well-known advocate of emigration, and it was rightly deemed a singular advantage to have him as a leader as well as their spiritual chief. canon pascal threw himself into the movement with ardor, and the five months elapsing before he set sail were filled with incessant claims upon his time and thought, while all about him were drawn into the strong current of his work. phebe was occupied from early morning till late at night, and a few hours of deep sleep, which gave her no time for thinking of her own future, was all the rest she could command. even felix, who had scarcely shaken off the depression caused by his mother's sudden death, found a fresh fountain-head of energy and gladness in sharing canon pascal's new career, and in the immediate prospect of marrying alice. for in addition to all the other constant calls upon her, phebe was plunged into the preparations needed for this marriage, which was to take place before they left england. there was no longer any reason to defer it for lack of means, as felix had inherited his share of his mother's settlement. but phebe drew largely on her own resources to send out for them the complete furnishing of a home as full of comfort, and as far as possible, as full of real beauty, as their essex rectory had been. she almost stripped her studio of the sketches and the finished pictures which felix and hilda had admired, sighing sometimes, and smiling sometimes, as they vanished from her sight into the packing cases, for the times that were gone by, and for the pleasant surprise that would greet them, in that far-off land, when their eyes fell upon the old favorites from home. felix and hilda spent a few days at riversborough with mr. clifford, but phebe would not go with them, in spite of their earnest desire; and jean merle, their kinsman, was absent, only coming home the night before they bade their last farewell to their birth-place. he appeared to them a very silent and melancholy man, keeping himself quite in the background, and unwilling to talk much about his own country and his relationship with their grandmother's family. but they had not time to pay much attention to him; the engrossing interest of spending the few last hours amid these familiar places, so often and so fondly to be remembered in the coming years, made them less regardful of this stranger, who was watching them with undivided and despairing interest. no word or look escaped him, as he accompanied them from room to room, and about the garden walks, unable to keep himself away from this unspeakable torture. mr. clifford wept, as old men weep, when they bade him good-by; but felix was astonished by the fixed and mournful expression of inward anguish in jean merle's eyes, as he held his hand in a grasp that would not let him go. "i may never see you again," he said, "but i shall hear of you." "yes," answered felix, "we shall write frequently to mr. clifford, and you will answer our letters for him." "god bless you!" said jean merle. "god grant that you may be a truer and a happier man than your father was." felix started. this man, then, knew of his father's crime; probably knew more of it than he did. but there was no time to question him now; and what good would it do to hear more than he knew already? hilda was standing near to him waiting to say good-by, and jean merle, turning to her, took her into his arms, and pressed her closely to his heart. a sudden impulse prompted her to put her arm round his neck as she had done round old mr. clifford's, and to lift up her face for his kiss. he held her in his embrace for a few moments, and then, without another word spoken to them, he left them and they saw him no more. the marriage was celebrated a few days after this visit, and not long before the time fixed for the bishop and his large band of emigrants to sail. under these circumstances the ceremony was a quiet one. the old rectory was in disorder, littered with packing cases, and upset from cellar to garret. even when the wedding was over both phebe and hilda were too busy for sentimental indulgence. the few remaining days were flying swiftly past them all, and keeping them in constant fear that there would not be time enough for all that had to be done. but the last morning came, when phebe found herself standing amid those who were so dear to her on the landing-stage, with but a few minutes more before they parted from her for years, if not forever. bishop pascal was already gone on board the steamer standing out in the river, where the greater number of emigrants had assembled. but felix and alice and hilda lingered about phebe till the last moment. yet they said but little to one another; what could they say which would tell half the love or half the sorrow they felt? phebe's heart was full. how gladly would she have gone out with these dear children, even if she left behind her her little birth-place on the hills, if it had not been for mr. clifford and jean merle! "but they need me most," she said again and again to herself. "i stay, and must stay, for their sakes." as at length they said farewell to one another, hilda clinging to her as a child clings to the mother it is about to leave, phebe saw at a little distance jean merle himself, looking on. she could not be mistaken, though his sudden appearance there startled her; and he did not approach them, nor even address her when they were gone. for when her eyes, blinded with tears, lost sight of the outward-bound vessel amid the number of other craft passing up and down the river, and she turned to the spot where she had seen his gray head and sorrowful face he was no longer there. alone and sad at heart, she made her way through the tumult of the landing-stage and drove back to the desolate home she had shared so long with those who were now altogether parted from her. chapter xxx. quite alone. it was early in june, and the days were at the longest. never before had phebe found the daylight too long, but now it shone upon dismantled and disordered rooms, which reminded her too sharply of the separation and departure they indicated. the place was no longer a home: everything was gone which was made beautiful by association; and all that was left was simply the bare framework of a living habitation, articles that could be sold and scattered without regret. her own studio was a scene of litter and confusion, amid which it would be impossible to work; and it was useless to set it in order, for at midsummer she would leave the house, now far too large and costly for her occupation. what was she to do with herself? quite close at hand was the day when she would be absolutely homeless; but in the absorbing interest with which she had thrown herself into the affairs of those who were gone she had formed no plans for her own future. there was her profession, of course: that would give her employment, and bring in a larger income then she needed with her simple wants. but how was she to do without a home--she who most needed to fill a home with all the sweet charities of life? she had never felt before what it was to be altogether without ties of kinship to any fellow-being. this incompleteness in her lot had been perfectly filled up by her relationship with the whole family of the seftons. she had found in them all that was required for the full development and exercise of her natural affections. but she had lost them. death and the chance changes of life had taken them from her, and there was not one human creature in the world on whom she possessed the claim of being of the same blood. phebe could not dwell amid the crowds of london with such a thought oppressing her. this heart-sickness and loneliness made the busy streets utterly distasteful to her. to be here, with millions around her, all strangers to her, was intolerable. there was her own little homestead, surrounded by familiar scenes, where she would seek rest and quiet before laying any plans for herself. she put her affairs into the hands of a house-agent, and set out alone upon her yearly visit to her farm, which until now felix and hilda had always shared. she stayed on her way to spend a night at riversborough--her usual custom, that she might reach the unprepared home on the moors early in the day. but she would not prolong her stay; there was a fatigue and depression about her which she said could only be dispelled by the sweet fresh air of her native moorlands. "felix and hilda have been more to me than any words could tell," she said to mr. clifford and jean merle, "and now i have lost them i feel as if more than half my life was gone. i must get away by myself into my old home, where i began my life, and readjust it as well as i can. i shall do it best there with no one to distract me. you need not fear my wishing to be too long alone." "we ought to have let you go," answered mr. clifford. "jean merle said we ought to have let you go with them. but how could we part with you, phebe?" "i should not have been happy," she said, sighing, "as long as you need me most--you two. and i owe all i am to jean merle himself." the little homely cottage with its thatched roof and small lattice windows was more welcome to her than any other dwelling could have been. now her world had suffered such a change, it was pleasant to come here, where nothing had been altered since her childhood. both within and without the old home was as unchanged as the beautiful outline of the hills surrounding it and the vast hollow of the sky above. here she might live over again the past--the whole past. she was a woman, with a woman's sad experience of life; but there was much of the girl, even of the child, left in phebe marlowe still; and no spot on earth could have brought back her youth to her as this inheritance of hers. there was an unspoiled simplicity about her which neither time nor change could destroy--the childlikeness of one who had entered into the kingdom of heaven. it was a year since she had been here last, with hilda in her first grief for her mother's death; and everywhere she found traces of jean merle's handiwork. the half-shaped blocks of wood, left unfinished for years in her father's workshop, were completed. the hawk hovering over its prey, which the dumb old wood-carver had begun as a symbol of the feeling of vengeance he could not give utterance to when brooding over roland sefton's crime, had been brought to a marvellous perfection by jean merle's practised hand, and it had been placed by him under the crucifix which old marlowe had fastened in the window-frame, where the last rays of daylight fell upon the bowed head hidden by the crown of thorns. the first night that phebe sat alone, on the old hearth, her eyes rested upon these until the daylight faded away, and the darkness shut them out from her sight. had jean merle known what he did when he laid this emblem of vengeance beneath this symbol of perfect love and sacrifice? but after a few days, when she had visited every place of yearly pilgrimage, knitting up the slackened threads of memory, phebe began to realize the terrible solitude of this isolated home of hers. to live again where no step passed by and no voice spoke to her, where not even the smoke of a household hearth floated up into the sky, was intolerable to her genial nature, which was only satisfied in helpful and pleasant human intercourse. the utter silence became irksome to her, as it had been in her girlhood; but even then she had possessed the companionship of her dumb father: now there was not only silence, but utter loneliness. the necessity of forming some definite plan for her future life became every day a more pressing obligation, whilst every day the needful exertion grew more painful to her. until now she had met with no difficulty in deciding what she ought to do: her path of duty had been clearly traced for her. but there was neither call of duty now nor any strong inclination to lead her to choose one thing more than another. all whom she loved had gone from london, and this small solitary home had grown all too narrow in its occupations to satisfy her nature. mr. clifford himself did not need her constant companionship as he would have done if jean merle had not been living with him. she was perfectly free to do what she pleased and go where she pleased, but to no human being could such freedom be more oppressive than to phebe marlowe. she had sauntered out one evening, ankle-deep among the heather, aimless in her wanderings, and a little dejected in spirits. for the long summer day had been hot even up here on the hills, and a dull film had hidden the landscape from her eyes, shutting her in upon herself and her disquieting thoughts. "we are always happy when we can see far enough," says emerson; but phebe's horizon was all dim and overcast. she could see no distant and clear sky-line. the sight of jean merle's figure coming towards her through the dull haziness brought a quick throb to her pulse, and she ran down the rough wagon track to meet him. "a letter from felix," he called out before she reached him. "i came out with it because you could not have it before post-time to-morrow, and i am longing to have news of him and of hilda." they walked slowly back to the cottage, side by side, reading the letter together; for felix could have nothing to say to phebe which his father might not see. there was nothing of importance in it; only a brief journal dispatched by a homeward-bound vessel which had crossed the path of their steamer, but every word was read with deep and silent interest, neither of them speaking till they had read the last line. "and now you will have tea with me," said phebe joyfully. he entered the little kitchen, so dark and cool to him after his sultry walk up the steep, long lanes, and sat watching her absently, yet with a pleasant consciousness of her presence, as she kindled her fire of dry furze and wood, and hung a little kettle to it by a chain hooked to a staple in the chimney, and arranged her curious old china, picked up long years ago by her father at village sales, upon the quaintly carved table set in the coolest spot of the dusky room. there was an air of simple busy gladness in her face and in every quick yet graceful movement that was inexpressibly charming to him. maybe both of them glanced back at the dark past when roland sefton had been watching her with despairing eyes, yet neither of them spoke of it. that life was dead and buried. the present was altogether different. yet the meal was a silent one, and as soon as it was finished they went out again on to the hazy moorland. "are you quite rested yet, phebe?" asked jean merle. "quite," she answered, with unconscious emphasis. "and you have settled upon some plan for the future?" he said. "no," she replied; "i am altogether at a loss. there is no one in all the world who has a claim upon me, or whom i have a claim upon; no one to say to me 'go' or 'come.' when the world is all before you and it is an empty world, it is difficult to choose which way you will take in it." she had paused as she spoke; but now they walked on again in silence, jean merle looking down on her sweet yet somewhat sad face with attentive eyes. how little changed she was from the simple, faithful-hearted girl he had known long ago! there was the same candid and thoughtful expression on her face, and the same serene light in her blue eyes, as when she stood beside him, a little girl, patiently yet earnestly mastering the first difficulties of reading. there was no one in the wide world whom he knew as perfectly as he knew her; no one in the wide world who knew him as perfectly as she did. "tell me, phebe," he said gravely, "is it possible that you have lived so long and that no man has found out what a priceless treasure you might be to him?" "no one," she answered, with a little tremor in her voice; "only simon nixey," she added, laughing, as she thought of his perseverance from year to year. jean merle stopped and laid his hand on phebe's arm. "will you be my wife?" he asked. the brief question escaped him before he was aware of it. it was as utterly new to him as it was to her; yet the moment it was uttered he felt how much the happiness of his life depended upon it. without her all the future would be dreary and lonely for him. with her--jean merle did not dare to think of the gladness that might yet be his. "no, no," cried phebe, looking up into his face furrowed with deep lines; "it is impossible! you ought not to ask me." "why?" he said. she did not move or take away her eyes from his face. a rush of sad memories and associations was sweeping across her troubled heart. she saw him as he had been long ago, so far above her that it had seemed an honor to her to do him the meanest service. she thought of felicita in her unapproachable loveliness and stateliness; and of their home, so full to her of exquisite refinement and luxury. in the true humility of her nature she had looked up to them as far above her, dwelling on a height to which she made no claim. and this dethroned king of her early days was a king yet, though he stood before her as jean merle, still fast bound in the chains his sins had riveted about him. "i am utterly unworthy of you," he said; "but let me justify myself if i can. i had no thought of asking you such a question when i came up here. but you spoke mournfully of your loneliness; and i, too, am lonely, with no human being on whom i have any claim. it is so by my own sin. but you, at least, have friends; and in a year or two, when my last friend, mr. clifford, dies, you will go out to them, to my children, whom i have forfeited and lost forever. there is no tie to bind me closely to my kind. i am older than you--poorer; a dishonor to my father's house! yet for an instant i fancied you might learn to love me, and no one but you can ever know me for what i am; only your faithful heart possesses my secret. forgive me, phebe, and forget it if you can." "i never can forget it," she answered, with a low sob. "then i have done you a wrong," he went on; "for we were friends, were we not? and you will never again be at home with me as you have hitherto been. i was no more worthy of your friendship than of your love, and i have lost both." "no, no," she cried, in a broken voice. "i never thought--it seems impossible. but, oh! i love you. i have never loved any one like you. only it seems impossible that you should wish me to be your wife." "cannot you see what you will be to me," he said passionately. "it will be like reaching home after a weary exile; like finding a fountain of living waters after crossing a burning wilderness. i ought not to ask it of you, phebe. but what man could doom himself to endless thirst and exile! if you love me so much that you do not see how unworthy i am of you, i cannot give you up again. you are all the world to me." "but i am only phebe marlowe," she said, still doubtfully. "and i am only jean merle," he replied. phebe walked down the old familiar lanes with jean merle, and returned to the moorlands alone whilst the sun was still above the horizon. but a soft west wind had risen, and the hazy heat was gone. she could see the sun sinking low behind riversborough, and its tall spires glistened in the level rays, while the fine cloud of smoke hanging over it this summer evening was tinged with gold. her future home lay there, under the shadow of those spires, and beneath the soft, floating veil ascending from a thousand hearths. the home roland sefton had forfeited and felicita had forsaken had become hers. there was deep sadness mingled with the strange, unanticipated happiness of the present hour; and phebe did not seek to put it away from her heart. chapter xxxi. last words. nothing could have delighted mr. clifford so much as a marriage between jean merle and phebe marlowe. the thought of it had more than once crossed his mind, but he had not dared to cherish it as a hope. when jean merle told him that night how phebe had consented to become his wife, the old man's gladness knew no bounds. "she is as dear to me as my own daughter," he said, in tremulous accents; "and now at last i shall have her under the same roof with me. i shall never be awake in the night again, fearing lest i should miss her on my death-bed. i should like phebe to hold my hand in hers as long as i am conscious of anything in this world. all the remaining years of my life i shall have you and her with me as my children. god is very good to me." but to felix and hilda it was a vexation and a surprise to hear that their phebe marlowe, so exclusively their own, was no longer to belong only to them. they could not tell, as none of us can tell with regard to our friends' marriages, what she could see in that man to make her willing to give herself to him. they never cordially forgave jean merle, though in the course of the following years he lavished upon them magnificent gifts. for once more he became a wealthy man, and stood high in the estimation of his fellow-townsmen. upon his marriage with phebe, at mr. clifford's request, he exchanged his foreign surname for the old english name of marlowe, and was made the manager of the old bank. some years later, when mr. clifford died, all his property, including his interest in the banking business, was left to john marlowe. no parents could have been more watchful over the interests of absent children than he and phebe were in the welfare of felix and hilda. but they could never quite reconcile themselves to this marriage. they had quitted england with no intention of dwelling here again, but they felt that phebe's shortcoming in her attachment to them made their old country less attractive to them. she had severed the last link that bound them to it. possibly, in the course of years, they might visit their old home; but it would never seem the same to them. canon pascal alone rejoiced cordially in the marriage, though feeling that there was some secret and mystery in it, which was to be kept from him as from all the world. jean merle, after his long and bitter exile, was at home again; after crossing a thirsty and burning wilderness, he had found a spring of living water. yet whilst he thanked god and felt his love for phebe growing and strengthening daily, there were times when in brief intervals of utter loneliness of spirit the long-buried past arose again and cried to him with sorrowful voice amid the tranquil happiness of the present. the children who called phebe mother looked up into his face with eyes like those of the little son and daughter whom he had once forsaken, and their voices at play in the garden sounded like the echo of those beloved voices that had first stirred his heart to its depths. the quiet room where felicita had been wont to shut herself in with her books and her writings remained empty and desolate amid the joyous occupancy of the old house, where little feet pattered everywhere except across that sacred threshold. it was never crossed but by phebe and himself. sometimes they entered it together, but oftener he went there alone, when his heart was heavy and his trust in god darkened. for there were times when jean merle had to pass through deep waters; when the sense of forgiveness forsook him and the light of god's countenance was withdrawn. he had sinned greatly and suffered greatly. he loved as he might never otherwise have loved the lord, whose disciple he professed to be; yet still there were seasons of bitter remembrance for him, and of vain regrets over the irrevocable past. it was no part of phebe's nature to inquire jealously if her husband loved her as much as she loved him. she knew that in this as in all other things "it is more blessed to give than to receive." she felt for him a perfectly unselfish and faithful tenderness, satisfied that she made him happier than he could have been in any other way. no one else in the world knew him as she knew him; felicita herself could never have been to him what she was. when she saw his grave face sadder than usual she had but to sit beside him with her hand in his, bringing to him the solace of her silent and tranquil sympathy; and by and by the sadness fled. this true heart of hers, that knew all and loved him in spite of all, was to him a sure token of the love of god. the end. a coffin for jacob by edward w. ludwig illustrated by emsh [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction may . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] with never a moment to rest, the pursuit through space felt like a game of hounds and hares ... or was it follow the leader? ben curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of the blast inn, the dead man following silently behind him. his fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined venusian gin mill. the place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whose ingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets. most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobacco smoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of martian devil's egg. here and there, ben saw moving figures. he could not tell if they were earthmen, martians or venusians. someone tugged at his greasy coat. he jumped, thinking absurdly that it was the dead man's hand. "_coma esta, senor?_" a small voice piped. "_speken die deutsch? desirez-vous d'amour? da? nyet?_" ben looked down. the speaker was an eager-eyed martian boy of about ten. he was like a red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a torn skivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees. "i'm american," ben muttered. "ah, _buena_! i speak english _tres_ fine, _senor_. i have martian friend, she _tres_ pretty and _tres_ fat. she weigh almost eighty pounds, _monsieur_. i take you to her, _si_?" ben shook his head. * * * * * he thought, _i don't want your martian wench. i don't want your opium or your devil's egg or your venusian kali. but if you had a drug that'd bring a dead man to life, i'd buy and pay with my soul._ "it is deal, _monsieur_? five dollars or twenty _keelis_ for visit martian friend. maybe you like house of dreams. for house of dreams--" "i'm not buying." the dirty-faced kid shrugged. "then i show you to good table,--_tres bien_. i do not charge you, _senor_." the boy grabbed his hand. because ben could think of no reason for resisting, he followed. they plunged into shifting layers of smoke and through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices. they passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed earthmen--merchant spacemen. they wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from venusian marble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketed tombstones. several times, ben glimpsed the bulky figures of co_{ }-breathing venusians, the first he'd ever seen. they were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape. they stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyes unblinking. they certainly didn't look like telepaths, as ben had heard they were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine. once he spied a white-uniformed officer of hoover city's security police. the man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-club against the stone booths. _keep walking_, ben told himself. _you look the same as anyone else here. keep walking. look straight ahead._ the officer passed. ben breathed easier. "here we are, _monsieur_," piped the martian boy. "a _tres_ fine table. close in the shadows." ben winced. how did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows? frowning, he sat down--he and the dead man. he listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece martian orchestra. the martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large for their spindly bodies. their long fingers played upon the strings of their _cirillas_ or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spider legs. their tune was sad. even when they played an earth tune, it still seemed a song of old mars, charged with echoes of lost voices and forgotten grandeur. for an instant, ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the dead man. he thought, _what are they doing here, these martians? here, in a smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world? couldn't they have played their music on mars? or had they, like me, felt the challenge of new worlds?_ he sobered. it didn't matter. he ordered a whiskey from a chinese waiter. he wet his lips but did not drink. his gaze wandered over the faces of the inn's other occupants. _you've got to find him_, he thought. _you've got to find the man with the red beard. it's the only way you can escape the dead man._ * * * * * the dead man was real. his name was cobb. he was stout and flabby and about forty and he hated spacemen. his body was buried now--probably in the silent gray wastes outside luna city. but he'd become a kind of invisible siamese twin, as much a part of ben as sight in his eyes. sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lips spitting whiskey-slurred curses. again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as ben's fist thudded into its jaw. more often, the face would be frozen in the whiteness of death. the large eyes would stare. blood would trickle from a corner of the gaping mouth. you can forget a living man. you can defeat him or submit to him or ignore him, and the matter is over and done. you can't escape from a memory that has burned into your mind. it had begun a week ago in luna city. the flight from white sands had been successful. ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate. he stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. the man named cobb plopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him. "spacemen," he muttered, "are getting like flies. everywhere, all you see's spacemen." he was a neatly dressed civilian. ben smiled. "if it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here." "the name's cobb." the man hiccoughed. "spacemen in their white monkey suits. they think they're little tin gods. betcha you think you're a little tin god." he downed a shot of whiskey. ben stiffened. he was twenty-four and dressed in the white, crimson-braided uniform of the _odyssey's_ junior astrogation officer. he was three months out of the academy at white sands and the shining uniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the universe. he'd sought long for that key. * * * * * at the age of five--perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents' death in a recent strato-jet crash--he'd spent hours watching the night sky for streaking flame-tails of moon rockets. at ten, he'd ground his first telescope. at fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed on the government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed his collection of astronomy and rocketry books. at sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from boys town no. in the catskills to long island spaceport. there, among the grizzled veterans of the old moon patrol, he'd found friends who understood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to the u. s. academy for the conquest of space. and a month ago, he'd signed aboard the _odyssey_--the first ship, it was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps beyond. cobb was persistent: "damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on earth. what the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?" _the guy's drunk_, ben thought. he took his drink and moved three stools down the bar. cobb followed. "you don't like the truth, eh, kid? you don't like people to call you a sucker." ben rose and started to leave the bar, but cobb grabbed his arm and held him there. "thas what you are--a sucker. you're young now. wait ten years. you'll be dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. wait and see, sucker!" until this instant, ben had suppressed his anger. now, suddenly and without warning, it welled up into savage fury. his fist struck the man on the chin. cobb's eyes gaped in shocked horror. he spun backward. his head cracked sickeningly on the edge of the bar. the sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end of life. he sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw. ben knew that he was dead. then, for a single absurd second, ben was seized with terror--just as, a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger. he ran. * * * * * for some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare world of dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet. at last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. he saw that he was still on the rocketfront, but in the tycho-ward side of the city. he huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette. a thousand stars--a thousand motionless balls of silver fire--shone above him through luna city's transparent dome. he was sorry he'd hit cobb, of course. he was not sorry he'd run. escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision. _you can do two things_, he thought. _you can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do. that would eliminate the escape charge. you'd get off with voluntary manslaughter. under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years in prison and a dishonorable discharge. and then you'd be free._ _but you'd be through with rockets and space. they don't want new men over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-class jet-men on beat-up freighters--they don't want convicted killers. you'd get the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and by peeking through electric fences of spaceports._ _or--_ there were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen who operated from the solar system's frontiers. the spacemen weren't outlaws. they were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on earth. and whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past mars, the souped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. their headquarters was venus. their leader--a subject of popular and fantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines--was rumored to be a red-bearded giant. _so_, ben reflected, _you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously. you can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change your name. you can wait for a chance to get to venus. to hell with your duty. you can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself from earth._ after all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificant second, to destroy a man's life and his dream? * * * * * he was lucky. he found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his last flight before retirement. discipline was lax, investigation of new personnel even more so. ben curtis made it to venus. there was just one flaw in his decision. he hadn't realized that the memory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow him as constantly as breath flowed into his lungs. but might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring dead voice? might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spaceways obscure the dead face? so now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant, and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once. "you look for someone, _senor_?" he jumped. "oh. you still here?" "_oui._" the martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. "i keep you company on your first night in hoover city, _n'est-ce-pas_?" "this isn't my first night here," ben lied. "i've been around a while." "you are spacemen?" ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. "here. take off, will you?" spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin. "_ich danke, senor._ you know why city is called hoover city?" ben didn't answer. "they say it is because after women come, they want first thing a thousand vacuum cleaners for dust. what is vacuum cleaner, _monsieur_?" ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy. "_ai-yee_, i go. you keep listen to good martian music." the toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness. minutes passed. there were two more whiskeys. a ceaseless parade of faces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him--reddish balloon faces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, and occasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. but nowhere was there a face with a red beard. a sense of hopelessness gripped ben curtis. hoover city was but one of a dozen cities of venus. each had twenty dives such as this. he needed help. but his picture must have been 'scoped to venusian visiscreens. a reward must have been offered for his capture. whom could he trust? the martian kid, perhaps? far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash of white. he tensed. like the uniform of a security policeman, he thought. his gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness. and then he saw another and another and another. each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of a wheel with ben as their focal point. _you idiot! the damned martian kid! you should have known!_ * * * * * light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. ben, half blinded, realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had been turned on. the light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of brooding wickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor. eyes blinked and squinted. there were swift, frightened movements and a chorus of angry murmurs. the patrons of the blast inn were like tatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away. ben curtis twisted his lean body erect. his chair tumbled backward, falling. the white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised. a woman screamed. the music ceased. the martian orchestra slunk with feline stealth to a rear exit. only the giant venusians remained undisturbed. they stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily in ben's direction. "curtis!" one of the policemen yelled. "you're covered! hold it!" ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit into which the musicians had disappeared. a hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed air escaping from a container. a dime-sized section of the concrete wall ahead of him crumbled. he stumbled forward. they were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not the mildly stunning neuro-clubs. another hiss passed his cheek. he was about twelve feet from the exit. _another second_, his brain screamed. _just another second--_ or would the exits be guarded? he heard the hiss. it hit directly in the small of his back. there was no pain, just a slight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle. * * * * * he froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. his body seemed to be growing, swelling into balloon proportions. he knew that the tiny needle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzing mortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle of his body. he staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. he'd have fifteen--maybe twenty--seconds before complete lethargy of mind and body overpowered him. in the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voice yell, "turn on the damn lights!" then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. he realized that someone had seized it. a soft feminine voice spoke to him. "you're wounded? they hit you?" "yes." his thick lips wouldn't let go of the word. "you want to escape--even now?" "yes." "you may die if you don't give yourself up." "no, no." he tried to stumble toward the exit. "all right then. not that way. here, this way." heavy footsteps thudded toward them. a few yards away, a flashlight flicked on. hands were guiding him. he was aware of being pushed and pulled. a door closed behind him. the glare of the flashlight faded from his vision--if he still had vision. "you're sure?" the voice persisted. "i'm sure," ben managed to say. "i have no antidote. you may die." his mind fought to comprehend. with the anti-paralysis injection, massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocain within half a day. without treatment, the paralysis could spread to heart and lungs. it could become a paralysis of death. an effective weapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrender at once. "anti ... anti ..." the words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forced from his throat. "no ... i'm sure ... sure." he didn't hear the answer or anything else. * * * * * ben curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. return to consciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of black nothingness to a dream-like state of awareness. he felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders, hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation and sensitivity. he knew they were strong hands. their strength seemed to transfer itself to his own body. for a long time, he tried to open his eyes. his lids felt welded shut. but after a while, they opened. his world of darkness gave way to a translucent cloak of mist. a round, featureless shape hovered constantly above him--a face, he supposed. he tried to talk. although his lips moved slightly, the only sound was a deep, staccato grunting. but he heard someone say, "don't try to talk." it was the same gentle voice he'd heard in the blast inn. "don't talk. just lie still and rest. everything'll be all right." _everything all right_, he thought dimly. there were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. there were periods of light and of darkness. gradually he grew aware of things. he realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygen mask was clamped over his nose. he felt the heat of electric blankets swathed about his body. occasionally a tube would be in his mouth and he would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach. always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuring mist. always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears: "swallow this now. that's it. you must have food." or, "close your eyes. don't strain. it won't be long. you're getting better." _better_, he'd think. _getting better...._ at last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. the mist brightened, then dissolved. he beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorless walls broken with a single, round window. he saw the footboard of his aluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket. finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side. "you are better?" the kind voice asked. * * * * * the face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-looking pallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. yet, at the same time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. her straight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, and drawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck. "i--i am better," he murmured. his words were still slow and thick. "i am going to live?" "you will live." he thought for a moment. "how long have i been here?" "nine days." "you took care of me?" he noted the deep, dark circles beneath her sleep-robbed eyes. she nodded. "you're the one who carried me when i was shot?" "yes." "why?" suddenly he began to cough. breath came hard. she held the oxygen mask in readiness. he shook his head, not wanting it. "why?" he asked again. "it would be a long story. perhaps i'll tell you tomorrow." a new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness. "tell me, will--will i be well again? will i be able to walk?" he lay back then, panting, exhausted. "you have nothing to worry about," the girl said softly. her cool hand touched his hot forehead. "rest. we'll talk later." his eyes closed and breath came easier. he slept. when he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. there was light outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noon or afternoon--or on what planet. he saw no white-domed buildings of hoover city, no formal lines of green-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. there was only a translucent and infinite whiteness. it was as if the window were set on the edge of the universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterless void. the girl entered the room. "hi," she said, smiling. the dark half-moons under her eyes were less prominent. her face was relaxed. she increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him rise to a sitting position. "where are we?" he asked. "venus." "we're not in hoover city?" "no." he looked at her, wondering. "you won't tell me?" "not yet. later, perhaps." "then how did you get me here? how did we escape from the inn?" * * * * * she shrugged. "we have friends who can be bribed. a hiding place in the city, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city--these can be had for a price." "you'll tell me your name?" "maggie." "why did you save me?" her eyes twinkled mischievously. "because you're a good astrogator." his own eyes widened. "how did you know that?" she sat on a plain chair beside his bed. "i know everything about you, lieutenant curtis." "how did you learn my name? i destroyed all my papers--" "i know that you're twenty-four. born july , . orphaned at four, you attended boys town in the catskills till you were . you graduated from the academy at white sands last june with a major in astrogation. your rating for the five-year period was . --the second highest in a class of fifty-seven. your only low mark in the five years was a . in history of martian civilization. want me to go on?" fascinated, ben nodded. "you were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the _odyssey_. you did well on your flight from roswell to luna city. in a barroom fight in luna city, you struck and killed a man named arthur cobb, a pre-fab salesman. you've been charged with second degree murder and escape. a reward of , credits has been offered for your capture. you came to hoover city in the hope of finding a renegade group of spacemen who operate beyond mars. you were looking for them in the blast inn." he gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. "i--don't get it." "there are ways of finding out what we want to know. as i told you, we have many friends." he fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. she rose quickly. "i'm sorry," she said. "i shouldn't have told you yet. i felt so happy because you're alive. rest now. we'll talk again soon." "maggie, you--you said i'd live. you didn't say i'd be able to walk again." she lowered her gaze. "i hope you'll be able to." "but you don't think i will, do you?" "i don't know. we'll try walking tomorrow. don't think about it now. rest." he tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture. "just one more question," he almost whispered. "yes?" "the man i killed--did he have a wife?" she hesitated. he thought, _damn it, of all the questions, why did i ask that?_ finally she said, "he had a wife." "children?" "two. i don't know their ages." she left the room. * * * * * he sank into the softness of his bed. as he turned over on his side, his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. he sat straight up, his chest heaving. the object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in a merchant spaceman's uniform. he was a giant of a man with a neatly trimmed _red beard_! ben stared at the photo for a long time. at length, he slipped into restless sleep. images of faces and echoes of words spun through his brain. the dead man returned to him. bloodied lips cursed at him. glassy eyes accused him. somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. and towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reached down and beckoned to him. ben crawled through the night on hands and knees, his legs numb and useless. the crying of the children was a chilling wail in his ears. his head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. his pleading voice screamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. yet even as he screamed, the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stomping relentlessly toward him. he awoke still screaming.... a night without darkness passed. ben lay waiting for maggie's return, a question already formed in his mind. she came and at once he asked, "who is the man with the red beard?" she smiled. "i was right then when i gave you that thumbnail biog. you _were_ looking for him, weren't you?" "who is he?" she sat on the chair beside him. "my husband," she said softly. he began to understand. "and your husband needs an astrogator? that's why you saved me?" "we need all the good men we can get." "where is he?" she cocked her head in mock suspicion. "somewhere between mercury and pluto. he's building a new base for us--and a home for me. when his ship returns, i'll be going to him." "why aren't you with him now?" "he said unexplored space is no place for a woman. so i've been studying criminal reports and photos from the interplanetary bureau of investigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. you know how we operate?" he told her the tales he'd heard. * * * * * she nodded. "there are quite a few of us now--about a thousand--and a dozen ships. our base used to be here on venus, down toward the pole. the dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years ago after we got pushed off mars. we lost a few men in the construction, but with almost every advance in space, someone dies." "venus is getting too civilized. we're moving out and this dome is only a temporary base when we have cases like yours. the new base--i might as well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. i won't say which one." "don't get the idea that we're outlaws. sure, about half our group is wanted by the bureau, but we make honest livings. we're just people like yourself and jacob." "jacob? your husband?" she laughed. "makes you think of a biblical character, doesn't it? jacob's anything but that. and just plain 'jake' reminds one of a grizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either." she lit a cigarette. "anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond the frontiers. jacob and those like him can never return to earth--not even to hoover city--except dead. the others are physical or psycho rejects who couldn't get clearance if they went back to earth. they know nothing but rocketing and won't give up. they bring in our ships to frontier ports like hoover city to unload cargo and take on supplies." "don't the authorities object?" "not very strongly. the i. b. i. has too many problems right here to search the whole system for a few two-bit crooks. besides, we carry cargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that's scarce on earth and mars and venus. nobody really cares whether it comes from the asteroids or hades. if we want to risk our lives mining it, that's our business." she pursed her lips. "but if they guessed how strong we are or that we have friends planted in the i. b. i.--well, things might be different. there probably would be a crackdown." ben scowled. "what happens if there _is_ a crackdown? and what will you do when space corps ships officially reach the asteroids? they can't ignore you then." "then we move on. we dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take them to jupiter, saturn, uranus, neptune, pluto. in time, maybe, we'll be pushed out of the system itself. maybe it won't be the white-suited boys who'll make that first hop to the stars. it _could_ be us, you know--if we live long enough. but that asteroid belt is murder. you can't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. you make up your own." * * * * * ben stiffened. "and that's why you want me for an astrogator." maggie rose, her eyes wistful. "if you want to come--and if you get well." she looked at him strangely. "suppose--" he fought to find the right words. "suppose i got well and decided not to join jacob. what would happen to me? would you let me go?" her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion--alarm, then bewilderment, then fear. "i don't know. that would be up to jacob." he lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of jacob. she touched his hand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotion that had coursed through her. "the only thing that matters, really," she murmured, "is your walking again. we'll try this afternoon. okay?" "okay," he said. when she left, his eyes were still turned toward jacob's photo. he was like two people, he thought. half of him was an officer of the space corps. perhaps one single starry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal. he remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when she was alive. under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions: "a space officer is honest" "a space officer is loyal." "a space officer is dutiful." honesty, loyalty, duty. trite words, but without those concepts, mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held it prisoner for half a million years. without them, everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead, would never have landed on the moon twenty-seven years ago. * * * * * ben sighed. he had a debt to pay. a good officer would pay that debt. he'd surrender and take his punishment. he'd rip the crimson braid from his uniform. he'd prevent the academy for the conquest of space from being labeled the school of a murderer and a coward. and by doing these things, the haunting image of a dead man would disappear from his vision. but the other half of ben curtis was the boy who'd stood trembling beneath a night sky of beckoning stars. the eyes in jacob's photo seemed to be staring at the boy in him, not at the officer. they appeared both pleading and hopeful. they were like echoes of cold, barren worlds and limitless space, of lurking and savage death. they held the terror of loneliness and of exile, of constant flight and hiding. but, too, they represented a strength that could fulfill a boy's dream, that could carry a man to new frontiers. they, rather than the neat white uniform, now offered the key to shining miracles. that key was what ben wanted. but he asked himself, as he had a thousand times, "if i follow jacob, can i leave the dead man behind?" he tried to stretch his legs and he cursed their numbness. he smiled grimly. for a moment, he'd forgotten. how futile now to think of stars! what if he were to be like this always? jacob would not want a man with dead legs. jacob would either send him back to earth or--ben shuddered--see that he was otherwise disposed of. and disposal would be the easier course. * * * * * this was the crisis. he sat on the side of the bed, maggie before him, her strong arm about his waist. "afraid?" she asked. "afraid," he repeated, shaking. it was as if all time had been funneled into this instant, as if this moment lay at the very vortex of all a man's living and desiring. there was no room in ben's mind for thoughts of jacob now. "you can walk," maggie said confidently. "i _know_ you can." he moved his toes, ankles, legs. he began to rise, slowly, falteringly. the firm pressure around his waist increased. he stood erect. his legs felt like tree stumps, but here and there were a tingling and a warmth, a sensitivity. "can you make it to the window?" maggie asked. "no, no, not that far." "try! please try!" she guided him forward. his feet shuffled. stomp, stomp. the pressure left his waist. maggie stepped away, walked to the window, turned back toward him. he halted, swaying. "not alone," he mouthed fearfully. "i can't get there by myself." "of course you can!" maggie's voice contained unexpected impatience. ashamed, he forced his feet to move. at times, he thought he was going to crash to the floor. he lumbered on, hesitating, fighting to retain his balance. maggie waited tensely, as if ready to leap to his side. then his eyes turned straight ahead to the window. this was the first time he'd actually seen the arid, dust-cloaked plains of the second planet. he straightened, face aglow, as though a small-boy enthusiasm had been reborn in him. his tree-stump legs carried him to the window. he raised shaking hands against the thick glassite pane. outside, the swirling white dust was omnipresent and unchallenged. it cut smooth the surfaces of dust-veiled rocks. it clung to the squat desert shrubbery, to the tall skeletal shapes of venusian needle-plants and to the swish-tailed lizards that skittered beneath them. the shrill of wind, audible through the glassite, was like the anguished complaint of the planet itself, like the wail of an entity imprisoned in a dark tomb of dust. venus was a planet of fury, eternally howling its wrath at being isolated from sunlight and greenery, from the clean blackness of space and the warm glow of sister-planet and star. the dust covered all, absorbed all, eradicated all. the dust was master. the dome, ben felt, was as transitory as a tear-drop of fragile glass falling down, down, to crash upon stone. "is it always like this?" he asked. "doesn't the wind ever stop?" "sometimes the wind dies. sometimes, at night, you can see the lights from the city." * * * * * he kept staring. the dome, he thought, was a symbol of man's littleness in a hostile universe. but, too, it was a symbol of his courage and defiance. and perhaps man's greatest strength lay in the very audacity that drove him to build such domes. "you like it, don't you?" maggie asked. "it's lonely and ugly and wild, but you like it." he nodded, breathless. she murmured, "jacob used to say it isn't the strange sights that thrill spacemen--it's the thoughts that the sights inspire." he nodded again, still staring. she began to laugh. softly at first, then more loudly. it was the kind of laughter that is close to crying. "you've been standing there for ten minutes! you're going to walk again! you're going to be well!" he turned to her, smiling with the joyous realization that he had actually stood that long without being aware of it. then his smile died. standing behind maggie, in an open doorway, was a gray, scaly, toadlike monster--a six-and-a-half-foot venusian. he was motionless as a statue, his green-lidded eyes staring curiously at ben. his scaly hand was tight about the butt of an old-fashioned heat pistol holstered to his hip. maggie suppressed a smile. "don't be frightened, ben. this is simon--simple simon, we call him. his i. q. isn't too high, but he makes a good helper and guard for me. he's been so anxious to see you, but i thought it'd be better if he waited until you were well." ben nodded, fascinated by the apparent muscular solidity of the creature. it hadn't occurred to his numbed mind that he and maggie were not the sole occupants of the dome. but maggie had acted wisely, he thought. his nightmares had been terrifying enough without bringing simple simon into them. "shake hands with ben," she told the venusian. simple simon lumbered forward, then paused. his eyes blinked. "no," he grated. maggie gasped. "why, simple simon, what's the matter?" the gray creature rasped, "ben--he not one of us. he thinks--different. in thoughts--thinks escape. earth." * * * * * maggie paled. "he _is_ one of us, simon." she stepped forward and seized the venusian's arm. "you go to your room. stand guard. you guard ben just like you guard me. understand?" simple simon grunted, "i guard. if ben go--i stop him. i stop him good." he raised his huge hands suggestively. "no, simon! remember what jacob told you. we hurt no one. ben is our friend. you help him!" the venusian thought for a long moment. then he nodded. "i help ben. but if go--stop." she led the creature out of the room and closed the door. "whew," ben sighed. "i'd heard those fellows were telepaths. now i _know_." maggie's trembling hands reached for a cigarette. "i--i guess i didn't think, ben. venusians can't really read your mind, but they see your feelings, your emotions. it's a logical evolutionary development, i suppose. auditory and visual communication are difficult here, so evolution turned to empathy. and that's why jacob keeps a few venusians in our group. they can detect any feeling of disloyalty before it becomes serious." ben remembered simple simon's icy gaze and the way his rough hand had gripped his heat pistol. "they could be dangerous." "not really. they're as loyal as earth dogs to their masters. i mean they wouldn't be dangerous to anyone who's loyal to us." silently, she helped him back to his bed. "i'm sorry, maggie--sorry i haven't decided yet." she neither answered nor looked at him. grimly, he realized that his status had changed. he was no longer a patient; he was a prisoner. a venusian day passed, and a venusian night. the dust swirled and wind blew, as constant as the whirl of indecision in ben's mind. maggie was patient. once, when she caught him gazing at jacob's photo, she asked, "not yet?" he looked away. "not yet." * * * * * he learned that the little dome consisted of three rooms, each shaped like pieces of a fluffy pie with narrow concrete hallways between. his room served as a bedroom and he discovered that maggie slept on a pneumatic cot in the kitchen. the third room, opening into the airlock, housed a small hydroponics garden, sunlamp, short-wave visi-radio, and such emergency equipment as oxygen tanks, windsuits, and vita-rations. it was here that simple simon remained most of the time, tending the garden or peering into the viewscreen that revealed the terrain outside the dome. maggie prepared ben's meals, bringing them to him on a tray until he was able to sit at a table. as his paralysis diminished, he helped her with cooking--with simple simon standing by as a mute, motionless observer. occasionally maggie would talk of her girlhood in a small town in missouri and how she'd dreamed of journeying to the stars. "'stars are for boys,' they'd tell me, but i was a queer one. while other gals were dressing for their junior proms, i'd be in sloppy slacks down at the spaceport with jacob." she laughed often--perhaps in a deliberate attempt to disguise the omnipresent tension. and her laughter was like laughter on earth, floating through comfortable houses and over green fields and through clear blue sky. when she laughed, she possessed a beauty. despite her pale face and lack of makeup, ben realized that she was no older than he. _if i'd only known her back on earth_, he thought. _if i_--and then he told himself, _you've got enough problems. don't create another one!_ finally, except for a stiffness in his leg joints, he'd fully recovered. "how much time do i have?" he asked. "before you decide?" "yes." "very little. jacob's ship is on its way. it'll be here--well, you can't tell about these things. two or three earth days, maybe even tomorrow. it'll stay in hoover city long enough to discharge and load cargo. then it'll stop here for us and return to--to our new base." "what do you think jacob would do if i didn't want to go with him?" * * * * * she shook her head. "you asked me that before. i said i didn't know." ben thought, _i know a lot about you, jacob. i know you're based on an asteroid. i know how many men you have, how many ships. i know where this dome is. i know you have men planted in the i. b. i. would you let me go, knowing these things? how great is your immunity from the law? do you love freedom so much that you'd kill to help preserve it?_ fear crawled through his mind on icy legs. "maggie," he said, "what would jacob do if he were me?" she looked amused. "jacob wouldn't have gotten into your situation. he wouldn't have struck cobb. jacob is--" "a man? and i'm still a boy? is that what you mean?" "not exactly. i think you'll be a man after you make your decision." he frowned, not liking her answer. "you think the dream of going into space is a boy's dream, that it can't belong to a man, too?" "oh, no. jacob still has the dream. most of our men do. and in a man, it's even more wonderful than in a boy." then her face became more serious. "ben, you've got to decide soon. and it's got to be a _complete_ decision. you can have no doubt in your mind." he nodded. "on account of simon, you mean." she motioned for him to come to the window in his room. he gazed outward, following the line of her finger as she pointed. he saw a man-sized mound of stones, dimly visible beneath the wind-whipped dust. a grave. "he was a man like you," maggie said softly. "god knows simon didn't _try_ to kill him. but he was escaping. he--he made the decision not to join us. simon sensed it. there was a struggle. simon's hands--well, he doesn't realize--" she didn't have to explain further. ben knew what those mighty scaly paws could do. * * * * * the moments were now like bits of eternity cloaked in frozen fear. somewhere in the blackness of interplanetary space, jacob's rocket was streaking closer and closer to venus. how far away was it? a million miles? fifty thousand? or was it now--right now--ripping through the murky venusian atmosphere above the dome? a _complete_ decision, maggie had said. jacob didn't want a potential deserter in his group. and you couldn't _pretend_ that you were loyal to jacob--not with monstrosities like simple simon about. soon jacob, not ben, might have to make a decision--a decision that could result in a second cairn of stones on the wind-swept desert. ben shivered. before retiring, he wandered nervously into the supply room. maggie was poised over the visi-radio. simple simon was intently scanning the night-shrouded terrain in the viewscreen. "any news?" ben asked maggie. the girl grunted negatively without looking up. ben's gaze fell upon the array of oxygen masks, windsuits, vita-rations. then, on a littered shelf, he spied a small venusian compass. almost automatically, his hand closed over it. his brain stirred with a single thought: _a compass could keep a man traveling in a straight line._ simple simon restlessly shifted. he turned to ben, blinking in the frighteningly alien equivalent of a suspicious scowl. ben's hand tightened about the compass. he tried to relax, to force all thought of it from his mind. he stared at the viewscreen, concentrating on the ceaseless drift of dust. the venusian's eyes studied him curiously, as if searching his mind for the illusive echo of a feeling that had given him alarm. "i think i'll turn in," yawned ben. "'night, maggie." simon frowned, apparently frustrated in his mental search. "ben--not one of us. i--watch." * * * * * without answering, ben returned to his room, the compass hot and moist from the perspiration in his hand. he took a deep breath. why had he taken the compass? he wasn't sure. perhaps, he reflected, his decision had already been made, deep beneath the surface of consciousness. he stood before the window, peering into the night. he knew that to attempt to sleep was futile. sleep, for the past few days an ever-ready friend, had become a hostile stranger. _god_, his brain cried, _what shall i do?_ slowly, the dust outside the window settled. the scream of wind was no longer audible. his startled eyes beheld dim, faraway lights--those of hoover city, he guessed. it was as if, for the space of a few seconds, some cosmic power had silenced the venusian fury, had guided him toward making his decision. he whipped up his compass. he barely had time to complete the measurement. "sixty-eight degrees," he read. "northeast by east." fresh wind descended onto the plain. dancing dust erased the vision of the lights. "sixty-eight, sixty-eight," he kept muttering. but now there was nothing to do--except try to sleep and be ready. strong hands shook him out of restless sleep. he opened his eyes and saw complete darkness. he thought at first that his eyesight had failed. "ben! wake up!" maggie's voice came to him, crisp, commanding. "the rocket's coming. i've decoded the message. we only have a few minutes." the girl snapped on a small bulkhead light. she left him alone to dress. he slid out of bed, a drowsiness still in him. he reached for his clothing. abruptly, the full implication of what she had said struck him. jacob's rocket was coming. this was the time for decision, yet within his taut body there was only a jungle of conflicting impulses. * * * * * maggie returned, her face hard, her eyes asking the silent question. ben stood frozen. the slow seconds beat against his brain like waves of ice. at last she said, "ready, ben?" she spoke evenly, but her searching gaze belied the all-important significance of her words. in the dim light, the photograph of jacob was indistinguishable, but ben could still see the image of the dead man. he thought, _i can't run away with jacob like a selfish, cowardly kid! no matter how bright the stars would be, that brightness couldn't destroy the image of a dead man with staring eyes. no matter what jacob and simon do to me, i've got to try to get back to earth._ he suddenly felt clean inside. he was no longer ashamed to hold his head high. "maggie," he said. "yes?" "i've made my decision." outside the window, a waterfall of flame cascaded onto the desert, pushing aside the dust and the darkness. the deep-throated sound of rocket engines grumbled above the whining wind. the floor of the dome vibrated. "the rocket's here!" maggie cried. the flaming exhaust from the ship dissolved into the night. the rocket thunder faded into the wind. the alarm on the dome's inner airlock bulkhead rang. maggie ran like a happy child through the concrete corridor, ben following. she bounded into the supply room, pushed simple simon aside, stopped before a control panel. her fingers flew over switches and levers. the airlock door slid open. a short, stubble-bearded man clad in windsuit and transparalite helmet stomped in. he unscrewed the face plate of his helmet. his ears were too big and he looked like a fat doll. "we're ready for you, mrs. pierce," he said. maggie nodded eagerly. she whirled back to ben. "_hurry!_ get your helmet and suit on!" she spun back to the big-eared little man. "cargo unloaded? all set for the flight home?" _home_, ben thought. _she calls a place she's never seen home._ "cargo's unloaded." "no trouble with the i. b. i.? no investigation?" "not yet. we're good for a few more hauls, i guess." * * * * * ben slipped on his windsuit. he glanced at the control panel for the airlock. yes, he could manipulate it easily. he contemplated the heat pistol at simple simon's hip. a tempting idea--but, no, he wanted no more of violence. then he bit his lip. he cleared his mind of all thought. simple simon evidently had not noted the impulse that flicked his adrenals into pumping. the big-eared man stared strangely at maggie. "mrs. pierce, before we go, i'd better tell you something." "you can do that on the rocket." maggie stepped forward to seize her helmet. the man blocked her movement. "mrs. pierce, your husband--jacob--was on the rocket." "what?" the girl released a broken, unbelieving little laugh. "why, he wouldn't dare! that idiot, taking a chance like--" alarm twisted her features. "he--he wasn't captured--" "no, he wasn't captured. and he took no chance, mrs. pierce." a moment of silence. then she sucked in her breath. ben understood. words echoed in his mind: "jacob and those like him can never return to earth, not even to hoover city--except dead." maggie swayed. ben and the big-eared little man jumped to her side, guided her back into the compartment used as a kitchen. they helped her to a chair. ben turned on the fire beneath a coffee pot. simple simon watched silently. her eyes empty and staring, maggie asked, "how did it happen?" "we were heading into a clump of baby asteroids the size of peas. the radar warning was too slow. we couldn't pull away; we had to stop. the deceleration got him--crushed him. he lived for five minutes afterward." the little man produced a folded paper from a pocket of his suit. "jacob said he had some ideas he had to get down on paper. god knows why, but during those five minutes he drew up this plan for improving our deceleration compensator." "plans for--" she gasped. "he was a spaceman, mrs. pierce." the man handed her the paper. ben caught a glimpse of scribbled circuits, relays, cathodes. "when he finished," the man continued, "he said to tell you that he loved you." she started to hand the paper back. the spaceman shook his head. "no, the original is yours. i've made copies for our own ships and for the brass in hoover city." * * * * * maggie kept talking to the little man, lost in the world he was creating for her. ben was excluded from that world, a stranger. then ben saw his opportunity. simple simon's face was expressionless, but tears were zig-zagging down his gray, reptilian features. ben stared for several seconds, wondering if his vision had deceived him. till this instant, he'd somehow assumed that the big venusian was devoid of emotion. but simple simon was crying. it was unlikely that the creature would peer into his mind at a moment like this. step by step, ben backed toward the open door in the rear of the compartment. silently, he slipped through it. he attempted to move automatically, without feeling. he darted into the supply room. the continued drone of voices told him his action had not been observed. he didn't like it at all. escaping this way was like crumpling maggie's grief into an acid ball and hurling it into her face. but he had no other choice. a few seconds later, he was dressed in windsuit and oxygen helmet. a can of vita-rations was strapped to his back and his compass was in his hand. heart refusing to stop pounding, he threw the levers and switches to open the airlock. he cringed under the grinding, scraping noise, as loud to him as the ringing clash of swords. but the murmur of voices continued. he stepped outside. the airlock door clanged shut. he was caught by the biting dust and the shrill banshee wind. he fell, then scrambled erect. to his right, he saw the silver sheen of jacob's rocket shining behind a row of golden, eyelike portholes. beneath it were black outlines of moving, helmeted figures. he bent low to study the luminous dial of his compass. behind him was a grating and a sliding of metal. a movement in the darkness. he turned. dimly illuminated by the glow from the rocket ports was the grim, stony face of simple simon. * * * * * the venusian was like a piece of the night itself, compressed and solidified to form a living creature. the impression was contradicted only by the glowing whiteness of his eyes. the reptilian body shuffled forward. the scales on his great face and chest reflected the lights from the rocket like christmas tree ornaments dusted with gold. his hands reached out. words thundered in ben's memory: _god knows simon didn't try to kill him. simon's hands--well, he doesn't realize--_ ben hopped away from the groping hands, slipped the compass into his pocket, balled his fists. the wind caught at his body. he stumbled, then recovered his balance. despite the wind and his suit's bulkiness, he was surprised at his own agility. he recalled that the gravitational pull of venus was only four-fifths of earth's. that was an advantage. crouching against the wind, he stepped to his left, away from the rocket. he was reluctant to enter an area of greater darkness, but neither did he want to risk observation by the men he'd seen near jacob's ship. simple simon followed. he moved like an automaton, functioning with awkward, methodical slowness. his hands, speckled with reflected light, rose up out of the darkness. ben stepped back, wiped the dust from his clouded face-plate. one swoop of those hands, he knew, could shatter his helmet, destroy his oxygen supply, leave him choking on deadly methane and carbon dioxide. but, so far, simon seemed bent on capture, not destruction. that fact gave ben a second advantage. scaly fingers, moving now with greater swiftness, closed over the shoulder of his suit. ben felt himself being pulled forward, a child in the grasp of a giant. his brief surge of confidence vanished. cold terror swept upon him. he lashed out wildly. his right fist found his target, found it so well that the skin split on his gloved knuckles. simon's head snapped back. the grasping fingers slipped from ben's suit. but still the venusian lumbered ahead, an irresistible juggernaut, the hands continually groping. ben ducked and slipped aside. the can of vita-rations was ripped from his back. he crouched low, fighting the wind, maneuvering for another blow. his lungs ached, but he had no opportunity to increase his helmet's oxygen flow. his weak leg muscles were beginning to pain as though with needles of fire. * * * * * the hands crashed down upon his shoulders. this time, his fist found simon's stomach. the creature released a grunt audible above the howling of wind. his body doubled up. ben struck again and again. his lungs throbbed as if they'd break through his chest. a fresh layer of dust coated his face-plate, nearly blinding him. he fought instinctively, gauntleted fists battering. simple simon fell. ben brushed away the dust from his face-plate, turned up his helmet's oxygen valve. then he knelt by the fallen creature. a new fear came to ben curtis--a fear almost as great as that of being caught in simon's crushing grip. it was the fear that he had killed again. but even in the near-darkness, he could distinguish the labored rise and fall of the massive chest. _thank god_, he thought. from the direction of jacob's ship, a flash of light caught his eye. the black shapes of helmeted men were becoming larger, nearer. ben tensed. the spacemen couldn't have heard sounds of the struggle, but they _might_ have noticed movement. puffing, ben plunged into the darkness to his left, slowing only long enough to consult the dial of his compass. "sixty-eight degrees," he breathed. the compass dial was now his only companion and his only hope. it was the one bit of reality in a world of black, screaming nightmare. * * * * * at first ben curtis fought the wind and the dust and the night. his fists were clenched as they had been while struggling with simon. each step forward was a challenge, a struggle and--so far, at any rate--a victory. but how far was the city? five miles? ten? how could you judge distance through a haze of alien sand? and were simple simon or jacob's men following? how good was a venusian's vision at night? would the scaly hands find him even now, descending on him from out of the blackness? he kept walking, walking. sixty-eight degrees. gradually his senses grew numb to the fear of recapture. he became oblivious to the wailing wind and the beat of dust against his face-plate. he moved like a robot. his mind wandered back through time and space, a pin-wheel spinning with unforgettable impressions, faces, voices. he saw the white features of a dead man, their vividness fading now and no longer terrifying. _a space officer is honest. a space officer is loyal. a space officer is dutiful._ the words were like clear, satisfying music. he cursed at the image of a pop-eyed martian boy. _a tres fine table, monsieur. close in the shadows._ and yet, he told himself, the boy really didn't do anything wrong. he was only helping to capture a murderer. maybe he was lonesome for mars and needed money to go home. ben thought of maggie: _while other gals were dressing for their junior proms, i'd be in sloppy slacks down at the spaceport with jacob.... if i'd only known her back on earth--_ maggie, sitting alone now with a wrinkled paper and its mass of scrawled circuits. alone and hollow with grief and needing help. ben's throat tightened. damn it, he didn't want to think about that. what was it the little big-eared man had said? _i've made copies for our own ships and for the brass in hoover city._ why had he said that? why would renegades give their secrets to the space corps? the corps would incorporate the discoveries in their ships. with them, they'd reach the asteroids. jacob's group would be pushed even further outward. ben stopped, the wind whipping at his suit and buffeting his helmet--but not as hard as the answer he had found. * * * * * jacob and his men had an existence to justify, a debt to pay. they justified that existence and paid that debt by helping humanity in its starward advance. maggie had said, _we carry cargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that's getting scarce on earth and mars and venus. if we want to risk our lives getting it, that's our business.... the dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years ago. we lost a few men in the construction, but with almost every advance in space, someone dies._ the wind pressed ben back. the coldness of the venusian night was seeping into his suit. it was as if his body were bathed, at once, in flame and ice. he slipped, fell, his face turned toward the sandy ground. he did not try to rise. yet his mind seemed to soar above the pain, to carry him into a wondrous valley of new awareness. man would never be content to stay on nine insignificant globes-not when his eyes had the power to stare into a night sky and when his brain had the ability to imagine. there would have to be pioneers to seek out the unknown horror, to face it and defeat it. there would have to be signposts lining the great road and helping others to follow without fear. for all the brilliancy of their dreams, those men would be the lonely ones, the men of no return. for all the glory of their brief adventure, they would give not only their cloaks, but ultimately their lives. ben lay trembling in the darkness. his brain cried, _you couldn't rig up a radar system or a deceleration compensator, but you could chart those asteroids. you can't bring a man named cobb back to life, but you could help a thousand men and women to stay alive five or ten or twenty years from now._ ben knew at last what decision jacob would have made. the reverse of sixty-eight on a compass is two-forty-eight. * * * * * like flashing knitting needles, strong hands moved about his face-plate, his windsuit, his helmet. then they were wiping perspiration from his white face and placing a wet cloth on the back of his neck. "you were coming back," a voice kept saying. "you were coming back." his mouth was full of hot coffee. he became aware of a gentle face hovering above him, just as it had a seeming eternity ago. he sat up on the bed, conscious now of his surroundings. "simon says you were coming back, ben. _why?_" he fought to grasp the meaning of maggie's words. "simon? simon found me? he brought me back?" "only a short way. he said you were almost here." ben closed his eyes, reliving the whirlwind of thought that had whipped through his brain. he mumbled something about pioneers and a scrawled paper and a debt and a decision. then he blinked and saw that he and maggie were not alone. simple simon stood at the foot of his bed--and was that a trace of a smile on his reptilian mouth? and three windsuited spacemen stood behind maggie, helmets in their hands. one was a lean-boned, reddish-skinned martian. simple simon said, "ben--changed. thinks--like us. good now. like--jacob." the little big-eared man stepped up and shook hands with ben. "if simon says so, that's good enough for me." a blond-haired earthman helped ben from the bed. "legs okay, fellow? think you're ready?" ben stood erect unassisted. "legs okay. and i'm ready." he thought for a moment. "but suppose i wasn't ready. suppose i didn't want to go with you. i know a lot about your organization. what would you do?" the blond man shrugged untroubledly. "we wouldn't kill you, if that's what you mean. we'd probably vote on whether to take you with us anyway or let you go." his smile was frank. "i'm glad we don't have to vote." ben nodded and turned to maggie. "you're still coming with us?" she shook her head, a mist shining in her sad eyes. "not on this trip. not without jacob. i'll get one of our desert taxis back to hoover city. then i'll be going to earth for a while. i've got some thinking to do and thinking is done best on earth. out here is the place for _feeling_." her eyes lost a little of their pain. "but i'll be back. jacob wouldn't stay on earth. neither will i. i'll be seeing you." the big-eared man put his hand on ben's shoulder. "think you can get us back to juno?" he asked. ben looked at maggie and then at the big-eared man. "you're as good as there," he said confidently.