the angels of mons the bowmen and other legends of the war by arthur machen introduction i have been asked to write an introduction to the story of "the bowmen", on its publication in book form together with three other tales of similar fashion. and i hesitate. this affair of "the bowmen" has been such an odd one from first to last, so many queer complications have entered into it, there have been so many and so divers currents and cross-currents of rumour and speculation concerning it, that i honestly do not know where to begin. i propose, then, to solve the difficulty by apologising for beginning at all. for, usually and fitly, the presence of an introduction is held to imply that there is something of consequence and importance to be introduced. if, for example, a man has made an anthology of great poetry, he may well write an introduction justifying his principle of selection, pointing out here and there, as the spirit moves him, high beauties and supreme excellencies, discoursing of the magnates and lords and princes of literature, whom he is merely serving as groom of the chamber. introductions, that is, belong to the masterpieces and classics of the world, to the great and ancient and accepted things; and i am here introducing a short, small story of my own which appeared in _the evening news_ about ten months ago. i appreciate the absurdity, nay, the enormity of the position in all its grossness. and my excuse for these pages must be this: that though the story itself is nothing, it has yet had such odd and unforeseen consequences and adventures that the tale of them may possess some interest. and then, again, there are certain psychological morals to be drawn from the whole matter of the tale and its sequel of rumours and discussions that are not, i think, devoid of consequence; and so to begin at the beginning. this was in last august, to be more precise, on the last sunday of last august. there were terrible things to be read on that hot sunday morning between meat and mass. it was in _the weekly dispatch_ that i saw the awful account of the retreat from mons. i no longer recollect the details; but i have not forgotten the impression that was then on my mind, i seemed to see a furnace of torment and death and agony and terror seven times heated, and in the midst of the burning was the british army. in the midst of the flame, consumed by it and yet aureoled in it, scattered like ashes and yet triumphant, martyred and for ever glorious. so i saw our men with a shining about them, so i took these thoughts with me to church, and, i am sorry to say, was making up a story in my head while the deacon was singing the gospel. this was not the tale of "the bowmen". it was the first sketch, as it were, of "the soldiers' rest". i only wish i had been able to write it as i conceived it. the tale as it stands is, i think, a far better piece of craft than "the bowmen", but the tale that came to me as the blue incense floated above the gospel book on the desk between the tapers: that indeed was a noble story--like all the stories that never get written. i conceived the dead men coming up through the flames and in the flames, and being welcomed in the eternal tavern with songs and flowing cups and everlasting mirth. but every man is the child of his age, however much he may hate it; and our popular religion has long determined that jollity is wicked. as far as i can make out modern protestantism believes that heaven is something like evensong in an english cathedral, the service by stainer and the dean preaching. for those opposed to dogma of any kind--even the mildest--i suppose it is held that a course of ethical lectures will be arranged. well, i have long maintained that on the whole the average church, considered as a house of preaching, is a much more poisonous place than the average tavern; still, as i say, one's age masters one, and clouds and bewilders the intelligence, and the real story of "the soldiers' rest", with its "sonus epulantium in æterno convivio", was ruined at the moment of its birth, and it was some time later that the actual story got written. and in the meantime the plot of "the bowmen" occurred to me. now it has been murmured and hinted and suggested and whispered in all sorts of quarters that before i wrote the tale i had heard something. the most decorative of these legends is also the most precise: "i know for a fact that the whole thing was given him in typescript by a lady-in-waiting." this was not the case; and all vaguer reports to the effect that i had heard some rumours or hints of rumours are equally void of any trace of truth. again i apologise for entering so pompously into the minutiæ of my bit of a story, as if it were the lost poems of sappho; but it appears that the subject interests the public, and i comply with my instructions. i take it, then, that the origins of "the bowmen" were composite. first of all, all ages and nations have cherished the thought that spiritual hosts may come to the help of earthly arms, that gods and heroes and saints have descended from their high immortal places to fight for their worshippers and clients. then kipling's story of the ghostly indian regiment got in my head and got mixed with the mediævalism that is always there; and so "the bowmen" was written. i was heartily disappointed with it, i remember, and thought it--as i still think it--an indifferent piece of work. however, i have tried to write for these thirty-five long years, and if i have not become practised in letters, i am at least a past master in the lodge of disappointment. such as it was, "the bowmen" appeared in _the evening news_ of september th, . now the journalist does not, as a rule, dwell much on the prospect of fame; and if he be an evening journalist, his anticipations of immortality are bounded by twelve o'clock at night at the latest; and it may well be that those insects which begin to live in the morning and are dead by sunset deem themselves immortal. having written my story, having groaned and growled over it and printed it, i certainly never thought to hear another word of it. my colleague "the londoner" praised it warmly to my face, as his kindly fashion is; entering, very properly, a technical caveat as to the language of the battle-cries of the bowmen. "why should english archers use french terms?" he said. i replied that the only reason was this--that a "monseigneur" here and there struck me as picturesque; and i reminded him that, as a matter of cold historical fact, most of the archers of agincourt were mercenaries from gwent, my native country, who would appeal to mihangel and to saints not known to the saxons--teilo, iltyd, dewi, cadwaladyr vendigeid. and i thought that that was the first and last discussion of "the bowmen". but in a few days from its publication the editor of _the occult review_ wrote to me. he wanted to know whether the story had any foundation in fact. i told him that it had no foundation in fact of any kind or sort; i forget whether i added that it had no foundation in rumour but i should think not, since to the best of my belief there were no rumours of heavenly interposition in existence at that time. certainly i had heard of none. soon afterwards the editor of _light_ wrote asking a like question, and i made him a like reply. it seemed to me that i had stifled any "bowmen" mythos in the hour of its birth. a month or two later, i received several requests from editors of parish magazines to reprint the story. i--or, rather, my editor-- readily gave permission; and then, after another month or two, the conductor of one of these magazines wrote to me, saying that the february issue containing the story had been sold out, while there was still a great demand for it. would i allow them to reprint "the bowmen" as a pamphlet, and would i write a short preface giving the exact authorities for the story? i replied that they might reprint in pamphlet form with all my heart, but that i could not give my authorities, since i had none, the tale being pure invention. the priest wrote again, suggesting--to my amazement--that i must be mistaken, that the main "facts" of "the bowmen" must be true, that my share in the matter must surely have been confined to the elaboration and decoration of a veridical history. it seemed that my light fiction had been accepted by the congregation of this particular church as the solidest of facts; and it was then that it began to dawn on me that if i had failed in the art of letters, i had succeeded, unwittingly, in the art of deceit. this happened, i should think, some time in april, and the snowball of rumour that was then set rolling has been rolling ever since, growing bigger and bigger, till it is now swollen to a monstrous size. it was at about this period that variants of my tale began to be told as authentic histories. at first, these tales betrayed their relation to their original. in several of them the vegetarian restaurant appeared, and st. george was the chief character. in one case an officer--name and address missing--said that there was a portrait of st. george in a certain london restaurant, and that a figure, just like the portrait, appeared to him on the battlefield, and was invoked by him, with the happiest results. another variant--this, i think, never got into print--told how dead prussians had been found on the battlefield with arrow wounds in their bodies. this notion amused me, as i had imagined a scene, when i was thinking out the story, in which a german general was to appear before the kaiser to explain his failure to annihilate the english. "all-highest," the general was to say, "it is true, it is impossible to deny it. the men were killed by arrows; the shafts were found in their bodies by the burying parties." i rejected the idea as over-precipitous even for a mere fantasy. i was therefore entertained when i found that what i had refused as too fantastical for fantasy was accepted in certain occult circles as hard fact. other versions of the story appeared in which a cloud interposed between the attacking germans and the defending british. in some examples the cloud served to conceal our men from the advancing enemy; in others, it disclosed shining shapes which frightened the horses of the pursuing german cavalry. st. george, it will he noted, has disappeared--he persisted some time longer in certain roman catholic variants--and there are no more bowmen, no more arrows. but so far angels are not mentioned; yet they are ready to appear, and i think that i have detected the machine which brought them into the story. in "the bowmen" my imagined soldier saw "a long line of shapes, with a shining about them." and mr. a.p. sinnett, writing in the may issue of _the occult review_, reporting what he had heard, states that "those who could see said they saw 'a row of shining beings' between the two armies." now i conjecture that the word "shining" is the link between my tale and the derivative from it. in the popular view shining and benevolent supernatural beings are angels, and so, i believe, the bowmen of my story have become "the angels of mons." in this shape they have been received with respect and credence everywhere, or almost everywhere. and here, i conjecture, we have the key to the large popularity of the delusion--as i think it. we have long ceased in england to take much interest in saints, and in the recent revival of the cultus of st. george, the saint is little more than a patriotic figurehead. and the appeal to the saints to succour us is certainly not a common english practice; it is held popish by most of our countrymen. but angels, with certain reservations, have retained their popularity, and so, when it was settled that the english army in its dire peril was delivered by angelic aid, the way was clear for general belief, and for the enthusiasms of the religion of the man in the street. and so soon as the legend got the title "the angels of mons" it became impossible to avoid it. it permeated the press: it would not be neglected; it appeared in the most unlikely quarters--in _truth_ and _town topics_, _the new church weekly_ (swedenborgian) and _john bull_. the editor of _the church times_ has exercised a wise reserve: he awaits that evidence which so far is lacking; but in one issue of the paper i noted that the story furnished a text for a sermon, the subject of a letter, and the matter for an article. people send me cuttings from provincial papers containing hot controversy as to the exact nature of the appearances; the "office window" of _the daily chronicle_ suggests scientific explanations of the hallucination; the _pall mall_ in a note about st. james says he is of the brotherhood of the bowmen of mons--this reversion to the bowmen from the angels being possibly due to the strong statements that i have made on the matter. the pulpits both of the church and of non-conformity have been busy: bishop welldon, dean hensley henson (a disbeliever), bishop taylor smith (the chaplain-general), and many other clergy have occupied themselves with the matter. dr. horton preached about the "angels" at manchester; sir joseph compton rickett (president of the national federation of free church councils) stated that the soldiers at the front had seen visions and dreamed dreams, and had given testimony of powers and principalities fighting for them or against them. letters come from all the ends of the earth to the editor of _the evening news_ with theories, beliefs, explanations, suggestions. it is all somewhat wonderful; one can say that the whole affair is a psychological phenomenon of considerable interest, fairly comparable with the great russian delusion of last august and september. * * * * * now it is possible that some persons, judging by the tone of these remarks of mine, may gather the impression that i am a profound disbeliever in the possibility of any intervention of the super-physical order in the affairs of the physical order. they will be mistaken if they make this inference; they will be mistaken if they suppose that i think miracles in judæa credible but miracles in france or flanders incredible. i hold no such absurdities. but i confess, very frankly, that i credit none of the "angels of mons" legends, partly because i see, or think i see, their derivation from my own idle fiction, but chiefly because i have, so far, not received one jot or tittle of evidence that should dispose me to belief. it is idle, indeed, and foolish enough for a man to say: "i am sure that story is a lie, because the supernatural element enters into it;" here, indeed, we have the maggot writhing in the midst of corrupted offal denying the existence of the sun. but if this fellow be a fool--as he is-- equally foolish is he who says, "if the tale has anything of the supernatural it is true, and the less evidence the better;" and i am afraid this tends to be the attitude of many who call themselves occultists. i hope that i shall never get to that frame of mind. so i say, not that super-normal interventions are impossible, not that they have not happened during this war--i know nothing as to that point, one way or the other--but that there is not one atom of evidence (so far) to support the current stories of the angels of mons. for, be it remarked, these stories are specific stories. they rest on the second, third, fourth, fifth hand stories told by "a soldier," by "an officer," by "a catholic correspondent," by "a nurse," by any number of anonymous people. indeed, names have been mentioned. a lady's name has been drawn, most unwarrantably as it appears to me, into the discussion, and i have no doubt that this lady has been subject to a good deal of pestering and annoyance. she has written to the editor of _the evening news_ denying all knowledge of the supposed miracle. the psychical research society's expert confesses that no real evidence has been proffered to her society on the matter. and then, to my amazement, she accepts as fact the proposition that some men on the battlefield have been "hallucinated," and proceeds to give the theory of sensory hallucination. she forgets that, by her own showing, there is no reason to suppose that anybody has been hallucinated at all. someone (unknown) has met a nurse (unnamed) who has talked to a soldier (anonymous) who has seen angels. but _that_ is not evidence; and not even sam weller at his gayest would have dared to offer it as such in the court of common pleas. so far, then, nothing remotely approaching proof has been offered as to any supernatural intervention during the retreat from mons. proof may come; if so, it will be interesting and more than interesting. but, taking the affair as it stands at present, how is it that a nation plunged in materialism of the grossest kind has accepted idle rumours and gossip of the supernatural as certain truth? the answer is contained in the question: it is precisely because our whole atmosphere is materialist that we are ready to credit anything--save the truth. separate a man from good drink, he will swallow methylated spirit with joy. man is created to be inebriated; to be "nobly wild, not mad." suffer the cocoa prophets and their company to seduce him in body and spirit, and he will get himself stuff that will make him ignobly wild and mad indeed. it took hard, practical men of affairs, business men, advanced thinkers, freethinkers, to believe in madame blavatsky and mahatmas and the famous message from the golden shore: "judge's plan is right; follow him and _stick_." and the main responsibility for this dismal state of affairs undoubtedly lies on the shoulders of the majority of the clergy of the church of england. christianity, as mr. w.l. courtney has so admirably pointed out, is a great mystery religion; it is _the_ mystery religion. its priests are called to an awful and tremendous hierurgy; its pontiffs are to be the pathfinders, the bridge-makers between the world of sense and the world of spirit. and, in fact, they pass their time in preaching, not the eternal mysteries, but a twopenny morality, in changing the wine of angels and the bread of heaven into gingerbeer and mixed biscuits: a sorry transubstantiation, a sad alchemy, as it seems to me. the bowmen it was during the retreat of the eighty thousand, and the authority of the censorship is sufficient excuse for not being more explicit. but it was on the most awful day of that awful time, on the day when ruin and disaster came so near that their shadow fell over london far away; and, without any certain news, the hearts of men failed within them and grew faint; as if the agony of the army in the battlefield had entered into their souls. on this dreadful day, then, when three hundred thousand men in arms with all their artillery swelled like a flood against the little english company, there was one point above all other points in our battle line that was for a time in awful danger, not merely of defeat, but of utter annihilation. with the permission of the censorship and of the military expert, this corner may, perhaps, be described as a salient, and if this angle were crushed and broken, then the english force as a whole would be shattered, the allied left would be turned, and sedan would inevitably follow. all the morning the german guns had thundered and shrieked against this corner, and against the thousand or so of men who held it. the men joked at the shells, and found funny names for them, and had bets about them, and greeted them with scraps of music-hall songs. but the shells came on and burst, and tore good englishmen limb from limb, and tore brother from brother, and as the heat of the day increased so did the fury of that terrific cannonade. there was no help, it seemed. the english artillery was good, but there was not nearly enough of it; it was being steadily battered into scrap iron. there comes a moment in a storm at sea when people say to one another, "it is at its worst; it can blow no harder," and then there is a blast ten times more fierce than any before it. so it was in these british trenches. there were no stouter hearts in the whole world than the hearts of these men; but even they were appalled as this seven-times-heated hell of the german cannonade fell upon them and overwhelmed them and destroyed them. and at this very moment they saw from their trenches that a tremendous host was moving against their lines. five hundred of the thousand remained, and as far as they could see the german infantry was pressing on against them, column upon column, a grey world of men, ten thousand of them, as it appeared afterwards. there was no hope at all. they shook hands, some of them. one man improvised a new version of the battlesong, "good-bye, good-bye to tipperary," ending with "and we shan't get there". and they all went on firing steadily. the officers pointed out that such an opportunity for high-class, fancy shooting might never occur again; the germans dropped line after line; the tipperary humorist asked, "what price sidney street?" and the few machine guns did their best. but everybody knew it was of no use. the dead grey bodies lay in companies and battalions, as others came on and on and on, and they swarmed and stirred and advanced from beyond and beyond. "world without end. amen," said one of the british soldiers with some irrelevance as he took aim and fired. and then he remembered--he says he cannot think why or wherefore--a queer vegetarian restaurant in london where he had once or twice eaten eccentric dishes of cutlets made of lentils and nuts that pretended to be steak. on all the plates in this restaurant there was printed a figure of st. george in blue, with the motto, _adsit anglis sanctus geogius_--may st. george be a present help to the english. this soldier happened to know latin and other useless things, and now, as he fired at his man in the grey advancing mass-- yards away--he uttered the pious vegetarian motto. he went on firing to the end, and at last bill on his right had to clout him cheerfully over the head to make him stop, pointing out as he did so that the king's ammunition cost money and was not lightly to be wasted in drilling funny patterns into dead germans. for as the latin scholar uttered his invocation he felt something between a shudder and an electric shock pass through his body. the roar of the battle died down in his ears to a gentle murmur; instead of it, he says, he heard a great voice and a shout louder than a thunder-peal crying, "array, array, array!" his heart grew hot as a burning coal, it grew cold as ice within him, as it seemed to him that a tumult of voices answered to his summons. he heard, or seemed to hear, thousands shouting: "st. george! st. george!" "ha! messire; ha! sweet saint, grant us good deliverance!" "st. george for merry england!" "harow! harow! monseigneur st. george, succour us." "ha! st. george! ha! st. george! a long bow and a strong bow." "heaven's knight, aid us!" and as the soldier heard these voices he saw before him, beyond the trench, a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. they were like men who drew the bow, and with another shout their cloud of arrows flew singing and tingling through the air towards the german hosts. the other men in the trench were firing all the while. they had no hope; but they aimed just as if they had been shooting at bisley. suddenly one of them lifted up his voice in the plainest english, "gawd help us!" he bellowed to the man next to him, "but we're blooming marvels! look at those grey... gentlemen, look at them! d'ye see them? they're not going down in dozens, nor in 'undreds; it's thousands, it is. look! look! there's a regiment gone while i'm talking to ye." "shut it!" the other soldier bellowed, taking aim, "what are ye gassing about!" but he gulped with astonishment even as he spoke, for, indeed, the grey men were falling by the thousands. the english could hear the guttural scream of the german officers, the crackle of their revolvers as they shot the reluctant; and still line after line crashed to the earth. all the while the latin-bred soldier heard the cry: "harow! harow! monseigneur, dear saint, quick to our aid! st. george help us!" "high chevalier, defend us!" the singing arrows fled so swift and thick that they darkened the air; the heathen horde melted from before them. "more machine guns!" bill yelled to tom. "don't hear them," tom yelled back. "but, thank god, anyway; they've got it in the neck." in fact, there were ten thousand dead german soldiers left before that salient of the english army, and consequently there was no sedan. in germany, a country ruled by scientific principles, the great general staff decided that the contemptible english must have employed shells containing an unknown gas of a poisonous nature, as no wounds were discernible on the bodies of the dead german soldiers. but the man who knew what nuts tasted like when they called themselves steak knew also that st. george had brought his agincourt bowmen to help the english. the soldiers' rest the soldier with the ugly wound in the head opened his eyes at last, and looked about him with an air of pleasant satisfaction. he still felt drowsy and dazed with some fierce experience through which he had passed, but so far he could not recollect much about it. but--an agreeable glow began to steal about his heart--such a glow as comes to people who have been in a tight place and have come through it better than they had expected. in its mildest form this set of emotions may be observed in passengers who have crossed the channel on a windy day without being sick. they triumph a little internally, and are suffused with vague, kindly feelings. the wounded soldier was somewhat of this disposition as he opened his eyes, pulled himself together, and looked about him. he felt a sense of delicious ease and repose in bones that had been racked and weary, and deep in the heart that had so lately been tormented there was an assurance of comfort--of the battle won. the thundering, roaring waves were passed; he had entered into the haven of calm waters. after fatigues and terrors that as yet he could not recollect he seemed now to be resting in the easiest of all easy chairs in a dim, low room. in the hearth there was a glint of fire and a blue, sweet-scented puff of wood smoke; a great black oak beam roughly hewn crossed the ceiling. through the leaded panes of the windows he saw a rich glow of sunlight, green lawns, and against the deepest and most radiant of all blue skies the wonderful far-lifted towers of a vast, gothic cathedral--mystic, rich with imagery. "good lord!" he murmured to himself. "i didn't know they had such places in france. it's just like wells. and it might be the other day when i was going past the swan, just as it might be past that window, and asked the ostler what time it was, and he says, 'what time? why, summer-time'; and there outside it looks like summer that would last for ever. if this was an inn they ought to call it _the soldiers' rest_." he dozed off again, and when he opened his eyes once more a kindly looking man in some sort of black robe was standing by him. "it's all right now, isn't it?" he said, speaking in good english. "yes, thank you, sir, as right as can be. i hope to be back again soon." "well well; but how did you come here? where did you get that?" he pointed to the wound on the soldier's forehead. the soldier put his hand: up to his brow and looked dazed and puzzled. "well, sir," he said at last, "it was like this, to begin at the beginning. you know how we came over in august, and there we were in the thick of it, as you might say, in a day or two. an awful time it was, and i don't know how i got through it alive. my best friend was killed dead beside me as we lay in the trenches. by cambrai, i think it was. "then things got a little quieter for a bit, and i was quartered in a village for the best part of a week. she was a very nice lady where i was, and she treated me proper with the best of everything. her husband he was fighting; but she had the nicest little boy i ever knew, a little fellow of five, or six it might be, and we got on splendid. the amount of their lingo that kid taught me--'we, we' and 'bong swot' and 'commong voo potty we' and all--and i taught him english. you should have heard that nipper say ''arf a mo', old un!' it was a treat. "then one day we got surprised. there was about a dozen of us in the village, and two or three hundred germans came down on us early one morning. they got us; no help for 'it. before we could shoot. "well there we were. they tied our hands behind our backs, and smacked our faces and kicked us a bit, and we were lined up opposite the house where i'd been staying. "and then that poor little chap broke away from his mother, and he run out and saw one of the boshes, as we call them, fetch me one over the jaw with his clenched fist. oh dear! oh dear! he might have done it a dozen times if only that little child hadn't seen him. "he had a poor bit of a toy i'd bought him at the village shop; a toy gun it was. and out he came running, as i say, crying out something in french like 'bad man! bad man! don't hurt my anglish or i shoot you'; and he pointed that gun at the german soldier. the german, he took his bayonet, and he drove it right through the poor little chap's throat." the soldier's face worked and twitched and twisted itself into a sort of grin, and he sat grinding his teeth and staring at the man in the black robe. he was silent for a little. and then he found his voice, and the oaths rolled terrible, thundering from him, as he cursed that murderous wretch, and bade him go down and burn for ever in hell. and the tears were raining down his face, and they choked him at last. "i beg your pardon, sir, i'm sure," he said, "especially you being a minister of some kind, i suppose; but i can't help it, he was such a dear little man." the man in black murmured something to himself: "_pretiosa in conspectu domini mors innocentium ejus_"--dear in the sight of the lord is the death of his innocents. then he put a hand very gently on the soldier's shoulder. "never mind," said he; "i've seen some service in my time, myself. but what about that wound?" "oh, that; that's nothing. but i'll tell you how i got it. it was just like this. the germans had us fair, as i tell you, and they shut us up in a barn in the village; just flung us on the ground and left us to starve seemingly. they barred up the big door of the barn, and put a sentry there, and thought we were all right. "there were sort of slits like very narrow windows in one of the walls, and on the second day it was, i was looking out of these slits down the street, and i could see those german devils were up to mischief. they were planting their machine-guns everywhere handy where an ordinary man coming up the street would never see them, but i see them, and i see the infantry lining up behind the garden walls. then i had a sort of a notion of what was coming; and presently, sure enough, i could hear some of our chaps singing 'hullo, hullo, hullo!' in the distance; and i says to myself, 'not this time.' "so i looked about me, and i found a hole under the wall; a kind of a drain i should think it was, and i found i could just squeeze through. and i got out and crept, round, and away i goes running down the street, yelling for all i was worth, just as our chaps were getting round the corner at the bottom. 'bang, bang!' went the guns, behind me and in front of me, and on each side of me, and then--bash! something hit me on the head and over i went; and i don't remember anything more till i woke up here just now." the soldier lay back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. when he opened them he saw that there were other people in the room besides the minister in the black robes. one was a man in a big black cloak. he had a grim old face and a great beaky nose. he shook the soldier by the hand. "by god! sir," he said, "you're a credit to the british army; you're a damned fine soldier and a good man, and, by god! i'm proud to shake hands with you." and then someone came out of the shadow, someone in queer clothes such as the soldier had seen worn by the heralds when he had been on duty at the opening of parliament by the king. "now, by _corpus domini_," this man said, "of all knights ye be noblest and gentlest, and ye be of fairest report, and now ye be a brother of the noblest brotherhood that ever was since this world's beginning, since ye have yielded dear life for your friends' sake." the soldier did not understand what the man was saying to him. there were others, too, in strange dresses, who came and spoke to him. some spoke in what sounded like french. he could not make it out; but he knew that they all spoke kindly and praised him. "what does it all mean?" he said to the minister. "what are they talking about? they don't think i'd let down my pals?" "drink this," said the minister, and he handed the soldier a great silver cup, brimming with wine. the soldier took a deep draught, and in that moment all his sorrows passed from him. "what is it?" he asked? "_vin nouveau du royaume_," said the minister. "new wine of the kingdom, you call it." and then he bent down and murmured in the soldier's ear. "what," said the wounded man, "the place they used to tell us about in sunday school? with such drink and such joy--" his voice was hushed. for as he looked at the minister the fashion of his vesture was changed. the black robe seemed to melt away from him. he was all in armour, if armour be made of starlight, of the rose of dawn, and of sunset fires; and he lifted up a great sword of flame. full in the midst, his cross of red triumphant michael brandished, and trampled the apostate's pride. the monstrance then it fell out in the sacring of the mass that right as the priest heaved up the host there came a beam redder than any rose and smote upon it, and then it was changed bodily into the shape and fashion of a child having his arms stretched forth, as he had been nailed upon the tree.--old romance. so far things were going very well indeed. the night was thick and black and cloudy, and the german force had come three-quarters of their way or more without an alarm. there was no challenge from the english lines; and indeed the english were being kept busy by a high shell-fire on their front. this had been the german plan; and it was coming off admirably. nobody thought that there was any danger on the left; and so the prussians, writhing on their stomachs over the ploughed field, were drawing nearer and nearer to the wood. once there they could establish themselves comfortably and securely during what remained of the night; and at dawn the english left would be hopelessly enfiladed--and there would be another of those movements which people who really understand military matters call "readjustments of our line." the noise made by the men creeping and crawling over the fields was drowned by the cannonade, from the english side as well as the german. on the english centre and right things were indeed very brisk; the big guns were thundering and shrieking and roaring, the machine-guns were keeping up the very devil's racket; the flares and illuminating shells were as good as the crystal palace in the old days, as the soldiers said to one another. all this had been thought of and thought out on the other side. the german force was beautifully organised. the men who crept nearer and nearer to the wood carried quite a number of machine guns in bits on their backs; others of them had small bags full of sand; yet others big bags that were empty. when the wood was reached the sand from the small bags was to be emptied into the big bags; the machine-gun parts were to be put together, the guns mounted behind the sandbag redoubt, and then, as major von und zu pleasantly observed, "the english pigs shall to gehenna-fire quickly come." the major was so well pleased with the way things had gone that he permitted himself a very low and guttural chuckle; in another ten minutes success would be assured. he half turned his head round to whisper a caution about some detail of the sandbag business to the big sergeant-major, karl heinz, who was crawling just behind him. at that instant karl heinz leapt into the air with a scream that rent through the night and through all the roaring of the artillery. he cried in a terrible voice, "the glory of the lord!" and plunged and pitched forward, stone dead. they said that his face as he stood up there and cried aloud was as if it had been seen through a sheet of flame. "they" were one or two out of the few who got back to the german lines. most of the prussians stayed in the ploughed field. karl heinz's scream had frozen the blood of the english soldiers, but it had also ruined the major's plans. he and his men, caught all unready, clumsy with the burdens that they carried, were shot to pieces; hardly a score of them returned. the rest of the force were attended to by an english burying party. according to custom the dead men were searched before they were buried, and some singular relies of the campaign were found upon them, but nothing so singular as karl heinz's diary. he had been keeping it for some time. it began with entries about bread and sausage and the ordinary incidents of the trenches; here and there karl wrote about an old grandfather, and a big china pipe, and pinewoods and roast goose. then the diarist seemed to get fidgety about his health. thus: april .--annoyed for some days by murmuring sounds in my head. i trust i shall not become deaf, like my departed uncle christopher. april .--the noise in my head grows worse; it is a humming sound. it distracts me; twice i have failed to hear the captain and have been reprimanded. april .--so bad is my head that i go to see the doctor. he speaks of tinnitus, and gives me an inhaling apparatus that shall reach, he says, the middle ear. april .--the apparatus is of no use. the sound is now become like the booming of a great church bell. it reminds me of the bell at st. lambart on that terrible day of last august. april .--i could swear that it is the bell of st. lambart that i hear all the time. they rang it as the procession came out of the church. the man's writing, at first firm enough, begins to straggle unevenly over the page at this point. the entries show that he became convinced that he heard the bell of st. lambart's church ringing, though (as he knew better than most men) there had been no bell and no church at st. lambart's since the summer of . there was no village either--the whole place was a rubbish-heap. then the unfortunate karl heinz was beset with other troubles. may .--i fear i am becoming ill. to-day joseph kleist, who is next to me in the trench, asked me why i jerked my head to the right so constantly. i told him to hold his tongue; but this shows that i am noticed. i keep fancying that there is something white just beyond the range of my sight on the right hand. may .--this whiteness is now quite clear, and in front of me. all this day it has slowly passed before me. i asked joseph kleist if he saw a piece of newspaper just beyond the trench. he stared at me solemnly--he is a stupid fool--and said, "there is no paper." may .--it looks like a white robe. there was a strong smell of incense to-day in the trench. no one seemed to notice it. there is decidedly a white robe, and i think i can see feet, passing very slowly before me at this moment while i write. there is no space here for continuous extracts from karl heinz's diary. but to condense with severity, it would seem that he slowly gathered about himself a complete set of sensory hallucinations. first the auditory hallucination of the sound of a bell, which the doctor called tinnitus. then a patch of white growing into a white robe, then the smell of incense. at last he lived in two worlds. he saw his trench, and the level before it, and the english lines; he talked with his comrades and obeyed orders, though with a certain difficulty; but he also heard the deep boom of st. lambart's bell, and saw continually advancing towards him a white procession of little children, led by a boy who was swinging a censer. there is one extraordinary entry: "but in august those children carried no lilies; now they have lilies in their hands. why should they have lilies?" it is interesting to note the transition over the border line. after may there is no reference in the diary to bodily illness, with two notable exceptions. up to and including that date the sergeant knows that he is suffering from illusions; after that he accepts his hallucinations as actualities. the man who cannot see what he sees and hear what he hears is a fool. so he writes: "i ask who is singing 'ave maria stella.' that blockhead friedrich schumacher raises his crest and answers insolently that no one sings, since singing is strictly forbidden for the present." a few days before the disastrous night expedition the last figure in the procession appeared to those sick eyes. the old priest now comes in his golden robe, the two boys holding each side of it. he is looking just as he did when he died, save that when he walked in st. lambart there was no shining round his head. but this is illusion and contrary to reason, since no one has a shining about his head. i must take some medicine. note here that karl heinz absolutely accepts the appearance of the martyred priest of st. lambart as actual, while he thinks that the halo must be an illusion; and so he reverts again to his physical condition. the priest held up both his hands, the diary states, "as if there were something between them. but there is a sort of cloud or dimness over this object, whatever it may be. my poor aunt kathie suffered much from her eyes in her old age." * * * * * one can guess what the priest of st. lambart carried in his hands when he and the little children went out into the hot sunlight to implore mercy, while the great resounding bell of st. lambart boomed over the plain. karl heinz knew what happened then; they said that it was he who killed the old priest and helped to crucify the little child against the church door. the baby was only three years old. he died calling piteously for "mummy" and "daddy." * * * * * and those who will may guess what karl heinz saw when the mist cleared from before the monstrance in the priest's hands. then he shrieked and died. the dazzling light the new head-covering is made of heavy steel, which has been specialty treated to increase its resisting power. the walls protecting the skull are particularly thick, and the weight of the helmet renders its use in open warfare out of the question. the rim is large, like that of the headpiece of mambrino, and the soldier can at will either bring the helmet forward and protect his eyes or wear it so as to protect the base of the skull . . . military experts admit that continuance of the present trench warfare may lead to those engaged in it, especially bombing parties and barbed wire cutters, being more heavily armoured than the knights, who fought at bouvines and at agincourt.--_the times_, july , the war is already a fruitful mother of legends. some people think that there are too many war legends, and a croydon gentleman--or lady, i am not sure which--wrote to me quite recently telling me that a certain particular legend, which i will not specify, had become the "chief horror of the war." there may be something to be said for this point of view, but it strikes me as interesting that the old myth-making faculty has survived into these days, a relic of noble, far-off homeric battles. and after all, what do we know? it does not do to be too sure that this, that, or the other hasn't happened and couldn't have happened. what follows, at any rate, has no claim to be considered either as legend or as myth. it is merely one of the odd circumstances of these times, and i have no doubt it can easily be "explained away." in fact, the rationalistic explanation of the whole thing is patent and on the surface. there is only one little difficulty, and that, i fancy, is by no means insuperable. in any case this one knot or tangle may be put down as a queer coincidence and nothing more. here, then, is the curiosity or oddity in question. a young fellow, whom we will call for avoidance of all identification delamere smith-- he is now lieutenant delamere smith--was spending his holidays on the coast of west south wales at the beginning of the war. he was something or other not very important in the city, and in his leisure hours he smattered lightly and agreeably a little literature, a little art, a little antiquarianism. he liked the italian primitives, he knew the difference between first, second, and third pointed, he had looked through boutell's "engraved brasses." he had been heard indeed to speak with enthusiasm of the brasses of sir robert de septvans and sir roger de trumpington. one morning--he thinks it must have been the morning of august , --the sun shone so brightly into his room that he woke early, and the fancy took him that it would be fine to sit on the cliffs in the pure sunlight. so he dressed and went out, and climbed up giltar point, and sat there enjoying the sweet air and the radiance of the sea, and the sight of the fringe of creaming foam about the grey foundations of st. margaret's island. then he looked beyond and gazed at the new white monastery on caldy, and wondered who the architect was, and how he had contrived to make the group of buildings look exactly like the background of a mediæval picture. after about an hour of this and a couple of pipes, smith confesses that he began to feel extremely drowsy. he was just wondering whether it would be pleasant to stretch himself out on the wild thyme that scented the high place and go to sleep till breakfast, when the mounting sun caught one of the monastery windows, and smith stared sleepily at the darting flashing light till it dazzled him. then he felt "queer." there was an odd sensation as if the top of his head were dilating and contracting, and then he says he had a sort of shock, something between a mild current of electricity and the sensation of putting one's hand into the ripple of a swift brook. now, what happened next smith cannot describe at all clearly. he knew he was on giltar, looking across the waves to caldy; he heard all the while the hollow, booming tide in the caverns of the rocks far below him, and yet he saw, as if in a glass, a very different country--a level fenland cut by slow streams, by long avenues of trimmed trees. "it looked," he says, "as if it ought to have been a lonely country, but it was swarming with men; they were thick as ants in an anthill. and they were all dressed in armour; that was the strange thing about it. "i thought i was standing by what looked as if it had been a farmhouse; but it was all battered to bits, just a heap of ruins and rubbish. all that was left was one tall round chimney, shaped very much like the fifteenth-century chimneys in pembrokeshire. and thousands and tens of thousands went marching by. "they were all in armour, and in all sorts of armour. some of them had overlapping tongues of bright metal fastened on their clothes, others were in chain mail from head to foot, others were in heavy plate armour. "they wore helmets of all shapes and sorts and sizes. one regiment had steel caps with wide trims, something like the old barbers' basins. another lot had knights' tilting helmets on, closed up so that you couldn't see their faces. most of them wore metal gauntlets, either of steel rings or plates, and they had steel over their boots. a great many had things like battle-maces swinging by their sides, and all these fellows carried a sort of string of big metal balls round their waist. then a dozen regiments went by, every man with a steel shield slung over his shoulder. the last to go by were cross-bowmen." in fact, it appeared to delamere smith that he watched the passing of a host of men in mediæval armour before him, and yet he knew--by the position of the sun and of a rosy cloud that was passing over the worm's head--that this vision, or whatever it was, only lasted a second or two. then that slight sense of shock returned, and smith returned to the contemplation of the physical phenomena of the pembrokeshire coast--blue waves, grey st. margaret's, and caldy abbey white in the sunlight. it will be said, no doubt, and very likely with truth, that smith fell asleep on giltar, and mingled in a dream the thought of the great war just begun with his smatterings of mediæval battle and arms and armour. the explanation seems tolerable enough. but there is the one little difficulty. it has been said that smith is now lieutenant smith. he got his commission last autumn, and went out in may. he happens to speak french rather well, and so he has become what is called, i believe, an officer of liaison, or some such term. anyhow, he is often behind the french lines. he was home on short leave last week, and said: "ten days ago i was ordered to ----. i got there early in the morning, and had to wait a bit before i could see the general. i looked about me, and there on the left of us was a farm shelled into a heap of ruins, with one round chimney standing, shaped like the 'flemish' chimneys in pembrokeshire. and then the men in armour marched by, just as i had seen them--french regiments. the things like battle-maces were bomb-throwers, and the metal balls round the men's waists were the bombs. they told me that the cross-bows were used for bomb-shooting. "the march i saw was part of a big movement; you will hear more of it before long." the bowmen and other noble ghosts by "the londoner" there was a journalist--and the _evening news_ reader well knows the initials of his name--who lately sat down to write a story. * * of course his story had to be about the war; there are no other stories nowadays. and so he wrote of english soldiers who, in the dusk on a field of france, faced the sullen mass of the oncoming huns. they were few against fearful odds, but, as they sent the breech-bolt home and aimed and fired, they became aware that others fought beside them. down the air came cries to st. george and twanging of the bow-string; the old bowmen of england had risen at england's need from their graves in that french earth and were fighting for england. * * he said that he made up that story by himself, that he sat down and wrote it out of his head. but others knew better. it must really have happened. there was, i remember, a clergyman of good credit who told him that he was clean mistaken; the archers had really and truly risen up to fight for england: the tale was all up and down the front. for my part i had thought that he wrote out of his head; i had seen him at the detestable job of doing it. i myself have hated this business of writing ever since i found out that it was not so easy as it looks, and i can always spare a little sympathy for a man who is driving a pen to the task of putting words in their right places. yet the clergyman persuaded me at last. who am i that i should doubt the faith of a clerk in holy orders? it must have happened. those archers fought for us, and the grey-goose feather has flown once again in english battle. * * since that day i look eagerly for the ghosts who must be taking their share in this world-war. never since the world began was such a war as this: surely marlborough and the duke, talbot and harry of monmouth, and many another shadowy captain must be riding among our horsemen. the old gods of war are wakened by this loud clamour of the guns. * * all the lands are astir. it is not enough that asia should be humming like an angry hive and the far islands in arms, australia sending her young men and canada making herself a camp. when we talk over the war news, we call up ancient names: we debate how rome stands and what is the matter with greece. * * as for greece, i have ceased to talk of her. if i wanted to say anything about greece i should get down the poetry book and quote lord byron's fine old ranting verse. "the mountains look on marathon--and marathon looks on the sea." but "standing on the persians' grave" greece seems in the same humour that made lord byron give her up as a hopelessly flabby country. * * "'tis greece, but living greece no more" is as true as ever it was. that last telegram of the kaiser must have done its soothing work. you remember how it ran: the kaiser was too busy to make up new phrases. he telegraphed to his sister the familiar potsdam sentence: "woe to those who dare to draw the sword against me." i am sure that i have heard that before. and he added--delightful and significant postscript!--"my compliments to tino." * * and tino--king constantine of the hellenes--understood. he is in bed now with a very bad cold, and like to stay in bed until the weather be more settled. but before going to bed he was able to tell a journalist that greece was going quietly on with her proper business; it was her mission to carry civilisation to the world. truly that was the mission of ancient greece. what we get from tino's modern greece is not civilisation but the little black currants for plum-cake. * * but rome. greece may be dead or in the currant trade. rome is alive and immortal. do not talk to me about signor giolitti, who is quite sure that the only things that matter in this new italy, which is old rome, are her commercial relations with germany. rome of the legions, our ancient mistress and conqueror, is alive to-day, and she cannot be for an ignoble peace. here in my newspaper is the speech of a poet spoken in rome to a shouting crowd: i will cut out the column and put it in the poetry book. * * he calls to the living and to the dead: "i saw the fire of vesta, o romans, lit yesterday in the great steel works of liguria, the fountain of juturna, o romans, i saw its water run to temper armour, to chill the drills that hollow out the bore of guns." this is poetry of the old roman sort. i imagine that scene in rome: the latest poet of rome calling upon the romans in the name of vesta's holy fire, in the name of the springs at which the great twin brethren washed their horses. i still believe in the power and the ancient charm of noble words. i do not think that giolitti and the stockbrokers will keep old rome off the old roads where the legions went. postscript while this volume was passing through the press, mr. ralph shirley, the editor of "the occult review" called my attention to an article that is appearing in the august issue of his magazine, and was kind enough to let me see the advance proof sheets. the article is called "the angelic leaders" it is written by miss phyllis campbell. i have read it with great care. miss campbell says that she was in france when the war broke out. she became a nurse, and while she was nursing the wounded she was informed that an english soldier wanted a "holy picture." she went to the man and found him to be a lancashire fusilier. he said that he was a wesleyan methodist, and asked "for a picture or medal (he didn't care which) of st. george... because he had seen him on a white horse, leading the british at vitry-le-françois, when the allies turned" this statement was corroborated by a wounded r.f.a. man who was present. he saw a tall man with yellow hair, in golden armour, on a white horse, holding his sword up, and his mouth open as if he was saying, "come on, boys! i'll put the kybosh on the devils" this figure was bareheaded--as appeared later from the testimony of other soldiers--and the r.f.a. man and the fusilier knew that he was st. george, because he was exactly like the figure of st. george on the sovereigns. "hadn't they seen him with his sword on every 'quid' they'd ever had?" from further evidence it seemed that while the english had seen the apparition of st. george coming out of a "yellow mist" or "cloud of light," to the french had been vouchsafed visions of st. michael the archangel and joan of arc. miss campbell says:-- "everybody has seen them who has fought through from mons to ypres; they all agree on them individually, and have no doubt at all as to the final issue of their interference" such are the main points of the article as it concerns the great legend of "the angels of mons." i cannot say that the author has shaken my incredulity--firstly, because the evidence is second-hand. miss campbell is perhaps acquainted with "pickwick" and i would remind her of that famous (and golden) ruling of stareleigh, j.: to the effect that you mustn't tell us what the soldier said; it's not evidence. miss campbell has offended against this rule, and she has not only told us what the soldier said, but she has omitted to give us the soldier's name and address. if miss campbell proffered herself as a witness at the old bailey and said, "john doe is undoubtedly guilty. a soldier i met told me that he had seen the prisoner put his hand into an old gentleman's pocket and take out a purse"--well, she would find that the stout spirit of mr. justice stareleigh still survives in our judges. the soldier must be produced. before that is done we are not technically aware that he exists at all. then there are one or two points in the article itself which puzzle me. the fusilier and the r.f.a. man had seen "st, george leading the british at vitry-le-françois, when the allies turned." thus the time of the apparition and the place of the apparition were firmly fixed in the two soldiers' minds. yet the very next paragraph in the article begins:-- "'where was this ?' i asked. but neither of them could tell" this is an odd circumstance. they knew, and yet they did not know; or, rather, they had forgotten a piece of information that they had themselves imparted a few seconds before. another point. the soldiers knew that the figure on the horse was st. george by his exact likeness to the figure of the saint on the english sovereign. this, again, is odd. the apparition was of a bareheaded figure in golden armour. the st. george of the coinage is naked, except for a short cape flying from the shoulders, and a helmet. he is not bareheaded, and has no armour--save the piece on his head. i do not quite see how the soldiers were so certain as to the identity of the apparition. lastly, miss campbell declares that "everybody" who fought from mons to ypres saw the apparitions. if that be so, it is again odd that nobody has come forward to testify at first hand to the most amazing event of his life. many men have been back on leave from the front, we have many wounded in hospital, many soldiers have written letters home. and they have all combined, this great host, to keep silence as to the most wonderful of occurrences, the most inspiring assurance, the surest omen of victory. it may be so, but-- arthur machen. proofreading team. the exploits of brigadier gerard sir arthur conan doyle _this book is published by arrangement with the estate of the late sir arthur conan doyle_ by sir arthur conan doyle _the adventures of sherlock holmes_ _the case-book of sherlock holmes_ _the memoirs of sherlock holmes_ _the return of sherlock holmes_ _his last bow_ _the hound of the baskervilles_ _the sign of four_ _the valley of fear_ _sir nigel_ _the white company_ _micah clarke_ _the refugees_ _rodney stone_ _uncle bernac_ _adventures of gerard_ _the exploits of brigadier gerard_ _the lost world_ _the tragedy of the korosko_ omnibus volumes _great stories_ _the conan doyle stories_ _the sherlock holmes short stories_ _the sherlock holmes long stories_ _the historical romances_ _the complete professor challenger stories_ _the complete napoleonic stories_ * * * * * _the life of sir arthur conan doyle_ by john dickson carr * * * * * contents . how the brigadier came to the castle of gloom . how the brigadier slew the brothers of ajaccio . how the brigadier held the king . how the king held the brigadier . how the brigadier took the field against the marshal millefleurs . how the brigadier played for a kingdom . how the brigadier won his medal . how the brigadier was tempted by the devil . how the brigadier came to the castle of gloom[a] you do very well, my friends, to treat me with some little reverence, for in honouring me you are honouring both france and yourselves. it is not merely an old, grey-moustached officer whom you see eating his omelette or draining his glass, but it is a fragment of history. in me you see one of the last of those wonderful men, the men who were veterans when they were yet boys, who learned to use a sword earlier than a razor, and who during a hundred battles had never once let the enemy see the colour of their knapsacks. for twenty years we were teaching europe how to fight, and even when they had learned their lesson it was only the thermometer, and never the bayonet, which could break the grand army down. berlin, naples, vienna, madrid, lisbon, moscow--we stabled our horses in them all. yes, my friends, i say again that you do well to send your children to me with flowers, for these ears have heard the trumpet calls of france, and these eyes have seen her standards in lands where they may never be seen again. even now, when i doze in my arm-chair, i can see those great warriors stream before me--the green-jacketed chasseurs, the giant cuirassiers, poniatowsky's lancers, the white-mantled dragoons, the nodding bearskins of the horse grenadiers. and then there comes the thick, low rattle of the drums, and through wreaths of dust and smoke i see the line of high bonnets, the row of brown faces, the swing and toss of the long, red plumes amid the sloping lines of steel. and there rides ney with his red head, and lefebvre with his bulldog jaw, and lannes with his gascon swagger; and then amidst the gleam of brass and the flaunting feathers i catch a glimpse of _him_, the man with the pale smile, the rounded shoulders, and the far-off eyes. there is an end of my sleep, my friends, for up i spring from my chair, with a cracked voice calling and a silly hand outstretched, so that madame titaux has one more laugh at the old fellow who lives among the shadows. although i was a full chief of brigade when the wars came to an end, and had every hope of soon being made a general of division, it is still rather to my earlier days that i turn when i wish to talk of the glories and the trials of a soldier's life. for you will understand that when an officer has so many men and horses under him, he has his mind full of recruits and remounts, fodder and farriers, and quarters, so that even when he is not in the face of the enemy, life is a very serious matter for him. but when he is only a lieutenant or a captain he has nothing heavier than his epaulettes upon his shoulders, so that he can clink his spurs and swing his dolman, drain his glass and kiss his girl, thinking of nothing save of enjoying a gallant life. that is the time when he is likely to have adventures, and it is often to that time that i shall turn in the stories which i may have for you. so it will be tonight when i tell you of my visit to the castle of gloom; of the strange mission of sub-lieutenant duroc, and of the horrible affair of the man who was once known as jean carabin, and afterwards as the baron straubenthal. you must know, then, that in the february of , immediately after the taking of danzig, major legendre and i were commissioned to bring four hundred remounts from prussia into eastern poland. the hard weather, and especially the great battle at eylau, had killed so many of the horses that there was some danger of our beautiful tenth of hussars becoming a battalion of light infantry. we knew, therefore, both the major and i, that we should be very welcome at the front. we did not advance very rapidly, however, for the snow was deep, the roads detestable, and we had but twenty returning invalids to assist us. besides, it is impossible, when you have a daily change of forage, and sometimes none at all, to move horses faster than a walk. i am aware that in the story-books the cavalry whirls past at the maddest of gallops; but for my own part, after twelve campaigns, i should be very satisfied to know that my brigade could always walk upon the march and trot in the presence of the enemy. this i say of the hussars and chasseurs, mark you, so that it is far more the case with cuirassiers or dragoons. for myself i am fond of horses, and to have four hundred of them, of every age and shade and character, all under my own hands, was a very great pleasure to me. they were from pomerania for the most part, though some were from normandy and some from alsace, and it amused us to notice that they differed in character as much as the people of those provinces. we observed also, what i have often proved since, that the nature of a horse can be told by his colour, from the coquettish light bay, full of fancies and nerves, to the hardy chestnut, and from the docile roan to the pig-headed rusty-black. all this has nothing in the world to do with my story, but how is an officer of cavalry to get on with his tale when he finds four hundred horses waiting for him at the outset? it is my habit, you see, to talk of that which interests myself and so i hope that i may interest you. we crossed the vistula opposite marienwerder, and had got as far as riesenberg, when major legendre came into my room in the post-house with an open paper in his hand. 'you are to leave me,' said he, with despair upon his face. it was no very great grief to me to do that, for he was, if i may say so, hardly worthy to have such a subaltern. i saluted, however, in silence. 'it is an order from general lasalle,' he continued; 'you are to proceed to rossel instantly, and to report yourself at the headquarters of the regiment.' no message could have pleased me better. i was already very well thought of by my superior officers. it was evident to me, therefore, that this sudden order meant that the regiment was about to see service once more, and that lasalle understood how incomplete my squadron would be without me. it is true that it came at an inconvenient moment, for the keeper of the post-house had a daughter--one of those ivory-skinned, black-haired polish girls--with whom i had hoped to have some further talk. still, it is not for the pawn to argue when the fingers of the player move him from the square; so down i went, saddled my big black charger, rataplan, and set off instantly upon my lonely journey. my word, it was a treat for those poor poles and jews, who have so little to brighten their dull lives, to see such a picture as that before their doors! the frosty morning air made rataplan's great black limbs and the beautiful curves of his back and sides gleam and shimmer with every gambade. as for me, the rattle of hoofs upon a road, and the jingle of bridle chains which comes with every toss of a saucy head, would even now set my blood dancing through my veins. you may think, then, how i carried myself in my five-and-twentieth year--i, etienne gerard, the picked horseman and surest blade in the ten regiments of hussars. blue was our colour in the tenth--a sky-blue dolman and pelisse with a scarlet front--and it was said of us in the army that we could set a whole population running, the women towards us, and the men away. there were bright eyes in the riesenberg windows that morning which seemed to beg me to tarry; but what can a soldier do, save to kiss his hand and shake his bridle as he rides upon his way? it was a bleak season to ride through the poorest and ugliest country in europe, but there was a cloudless sky above, and a bright, cold sun, which shimmered on the huge snowfields. my breath reeked into the frosty air, and rataplan sent up two feathers of steam from his nostrils, while the icicles drooped from the side-irons of his bit. i let him trot to warm his limbs, while for my own part i had too much to think of to give much heed to the cold. to north and south stretched the great plains, mottled over with dark clumps of fir and lighter patches of larch. a few cottages peeped out here and there, but it was only three months since the grand army had passed that way, and you know what that meant to a country. the poles were our friends, it was true, but out of a hundred thousand men, only the guard had waggons, and the rest had to live as best they might. it did not surprise me, therefore, to see no signs of cattle and no smoke from the silent houses. a weal had been left across the country where the great host had passed, and it was said that even the rats were starved wherever the emperor had led his men. by midday i had got as far as the village of saalfeldt, but as i was on the direct road for osterode, where the emperor was wintering, and also for the main camp of the seven divisions of infantry, the highway was choked with carriages and carts. what with artillery caissons and waggons and couriers, and the ever-thickening stream of recruits and stragglers, it seemed to me that it would be a very long time before i should join my comrades. the plains, however, were five feet deep in snow, so there was nothing for it but to plod upon our way. it was with joy, therefore, that i found a second road which branched away from the other, trending through a fir-wood towards the north. there was a small auberge at the cross-roads, and a patrol of the third hussars of conflans--the very regiment of which i was afterwards colonel--were mounting their horses at the door. on the steps stood their officer, a slight, pale young man, who looked more like a young priest from a seminary than a leader of the devil-may-care rascals before him. 'good-day, sir,' said he, seeing that i pulled up my horse. 'good-day,' i answered. 'i am lieutenant etienne gerard, of the tenth.' i could see by his face that he had heard of me. everybody had heard of me since my duel with the six fencing masters. my manner, however, served to put him at his ease with me. 'i am sub-lieutenant duroc, of the third,' said he. 'newly joined?' i asked. 'last week.' i had thought as much, from his white face and from the way in which he let his men lounge upon their horses. it was not so long, however, since i had learned myself what it was like when a schoolboy has to give orders to veteran troopers. it made me blush, i remember, to shout abrupt commands to men who had seen more battles than i had years, and it would have come more natural for me to say, 'with your permission, we shall now wheel into line,' or, 'if you think it best, we shall trot.' i did not think the less of the lad, therefore, when i observed that his men were somewhat out of hand, but i gave them a glance which stiffened them in their saddles. 'may i ask, monsieur, whether you are going by this northern road?' i asked. 'my orders are to patrol it as far as arensdorf,' said he. 'then i will, with your permission, ride so far with you,' said i. 'it is very clear that the longer way will be the faster.' so it proved, for this road led away from the army into a country which was given over to cossacks and marauders, and it was as bare as the other was crowded. duroc and i rode in front, with our six troopers clattering in the rear. he was a good boy, this duroc, with his head full of the nonsense that they teach at st cyr, knowing more about alexander and pompey than how to mix a horse's fodder or care for a horse's feet. still, he was, as i have said, a good boy, unspoiled as yet by the camp. it pleased me to hear him prattle away about his sister marie and about his mother in amiens. presently we found ourselves at the village of hayenau. duroc rode up to the post-house and asked to see the master. 'can you tell me,' said he, 'whether the man who calls himself the baron straubenthal lives in these parts?' the postmaster shook his head, and we rode upon our way. i took no notice of this, but when, at the next village, my comrade repeated the same question, with the same result, i could not help asking him who this baron straubenthal might be. 'he is a man,' said duroc, with a sudden flush upon his boyish face, 'to whom i have a very important message to convey.' well, this was not satisfactory, but there was something in my companion's manner which told me that any further questioning would be distasteful to him. i said nothing more, therefore, but duroc would still ask every peasant whom we met whether he could give him any news of the baron straubenthal. for my own part i was endeavouring, as an officer of light cavalry should, to form an idea of the lay of the country, to note the course of the streams, and to mark the places where there should be fords. every step was taking us farther from the camp round the flanks of which we were travelling. far to the south a few plumes of grey smoke in the frosty air marked the position of some of our outposts. to the north, however, there was nothing between ourselves and the russian winter quarters. twice on the extreme horizon i caught a glimpse of the glitter of steel, and pointed it out to my companion. it was too distant for us to tell whence it came, but we had little doubt that it was from the lance-heads of marauding cossacks. the sun was just setting when we rode over a low hill and saw a small village upon our right, and on our left a high black castle, which jutted out from amongst the pine-woods. a farmer with his cart was approaching us--a matted-haired, downcast fellow, in a sheepskin jacket. 'what village is this?' asked duroc. 'it is arensdorf,' he answered, in his barbarous german dialect. 'then here i am to stay the night,' said my young companion. then, turning to the farmer, he asked his eternal question, 'can you tell me where the baron straubenthal lives?' 'why, it is he who owns the castle of gloom,' said the farmer, pointing to the dark turrets over the distant fir forest. duroc gave a shout like the sportsman who sees his game rising in front of him. the lad seemed to have gone off his head--his eyes shining, his face deathly white, and such a grim set about his mouth as made the farmer shrink away from him. i can see him now, leaning forward on his brown horse, with his eager gaze fixed upon the great black tower. 'why do you call it the castle of gloom?' i asked. 'well, it's the name it bears upon the countryside,' said the farmer. 'by all accounts there have been some black doings up yonder. it's not for nothing that the wickedest man in poland has been living there these fourteen years past.' 'a polish nobleman?' i asked. 'nay, we breed no such men in poland,' he answered. 'a frenchman, then?' cried duroc. 'they say that he came from france.' 'and with red hair?' 'as red as a fox.' 'yes, yes, it is my man,' cried my companion, quivering all over in his excitement. 'it is the hand of providence which has led me here. who can say that there is not justice in this world? come, monsieur gerard, for i must see the men safely quartered before i can attend to this private matter.' he spurred on his horse, and ten minutes later we were at the door of the inn of arensdorf, where his men were to find their quarters for the night. well, all this was no affair of mine, and i could not imagine what the meaning of it might be. rossel was still far off, but i determined to ride on for a few hours and take my chance of some wayside barn in which i could find shelter for rataplan and myself. i had mounted my horse, therefore, after tossing off a cup of wine, when young duroc came running out of the door and laid his hand upon my knee. 'monsieur gerard,' he panted, 'i beg of you not to abandon me like this!' 'my good sir,' said i, 'if you would tell me what is the matter and what you would wish me to do, i should be better able to tell you if i could be of any assistance to you.' 'you can be of the very greatest,' he cried. 'indeed, from all that i have heard of you, monsieur gerard, you are the one man whom i should wish to have by my side tonight.' 'you forget that i am riding to join my regiment.' 'you cannot, in any case, reach it tonight. tomorrow will bring you to rossel. by staying with me you will confer the very greatest kindness upon me, and you will aid me in a matter which concerns my own honour and the honour of my family. i am compelled, however, to confess to you that some personal danger may possibly be involved.' it was a crafty thing for him to say. of course, i sprang from rataplan's back and ordered the groom to lead him back into the stables. 'come into the inn,' said i, 'and let me know exactly what it is that you wish me to do.' he led the way into a sitting-room, and fastened the door lest we should be interrupted. he was a well-grown lad, and as he stood in the glare of the lamp, with the light beating upon his earnest face and upon his uniform of silver grey, which suited him to a marvel, i felt my heart warm towards him. without going so far as to say that he carried himself as i had done at his age, there was at least similarity enough to make me feel in sympathy with him. 'i can explain it all in a few words,' said he. 'if i have not already satisfied your very natural curiosity, it is because the subject is so painful a one to me that i can hardly bring myself to allude to it. i cannot, however, ask for your assistance without explaining to you exactly how the matter lies. 'you must know, then, that my father was the well-known banker, christophe duroc, who was murdered by the people during the september massacres. as you are aware, the mob took possession of the prisons, chose three so-called judges to pass sentence upon the unhappy aristocrats, and then tore them to pieces when they were passed out into the street. my father had been a benefactor of the poor all his life. there were many to plead for him. he had the fever, too, and was carried in, half-dead, upon a blanket. two of the judges were in favour of acquitting him; the third, a young jacobin, whose huge body and brutal mind had made him a leader among these wretches, dragged him, with his own hands, from the litter, kicked him again and again with his heavy boots, and hurled him out of the door, where in an instant he was torn limb from limb under circumstances which are too horrible for me to describe. this, as you perceive, was murder, even under their own unlawful laws, for two of their own judges had pronounced in my father's favour. 'well, when the days of order came back again, my elder brother began to make inquiries about this man. i was only a child then, but it was a family matter, and it was discussed in my presence. the fellow's name was carabin. he was one of sansterre's guard, and a noted duellist. a foreign lady named the baroness straubenthal having been dragged before the jacobins, he had gained her liberty for her on the promise that she with her money and estates should be his. he had married her, taken her name and title, and escaped out of france at the time of the fall of robespierre. what had become of him we had no means of learning. 'you will think, doubtless, that it would be easy for us to find him, since we had both his name and his title. you must remember, however, that the revolution left us without money, and that without money such a search is very difficult. then came the empire, and it became more difficult still, for, as you are aware, the emperor considered that the th brumaire brought all accounts to a settlement, and that on that day a veil had been drawn across the past. none the less, we kept our own family story and our own family plans. 'my brother joined the army, and passed with it through all southern europe, asking everywhere for the baron straubenthal. last october he was killed at jena, with his mission still unfulfilled. then it became my turn, and i have the good fortune to hear of the very man of whom i am in search at one of the first polish villages which i have to visit, and within a fortnight of joining my regiment. and then, to make the matter even better, i find myself in the company of one whose name is never mentioned throughout the army save in connection with some daring and generous deed.' this was all very well, and i listened to it with the greatest interest, but i was none the clearer as to what young duroc wished me to do. 'how can i be of service to you?' i asked. 'by coming up with me.' 'to the castle?' 'precisely.' 'when?' 'at once.' 'but what do you intend to do?' 'i shall know what to do. but i wish you to be with me, all the same.' well, it was never in my nature to refuse an adventure, and, besides, i had every sympathy with the lad's feelings. it is very well to forgive one's enemies, but one wishes to give them something to forgive also. i held out my hand to him, therefore. 'i must be on my way for rossel tomorrow morning, but tonight i am yours,' said i. we left our troopers in snug quarters, and, as it was but a mile to the castle, we did not disturb our horses. to tell the truth, i hate to see a cavalry man walk, and i hold that just as he is the most gallant thing upon earth when he has his saddle-flaps between his knees, so he is the most clumsy when he has to loop up his sabre and his sabre-tasche in one hand and turn in his toes for fear of catching the rowels of his spurs. still, duroc and i were of the age when one can carry things off, and i dare swear that no woman at least would have quarrelled with the appearance of the two young hussars, one in blue and one in grey, who set out that night from the arensdorf post-house. we both carried our swords, and for my own part i slipped a pistol from my holster into the inside of my pelisse, for it seemed to me that there might be some wild work before us. the track which led to the castle wound through a pitch-black fir-wood, where we could see nothing save the ragged patch of stars above our heads. presently, however, it opened up, and there was the castle right in front of us, about as far as a carbine would carry. it was a huge, uncouth place, and bore every mark of being exceedingly old, with turrets at every corner, and a square keep on the side which was nearest to us. in all its great shadow there was no sign of light save from a single window, and no sound came from it. to me there was something awful in its size and its silence, which corresponded so well with its sinister name. my companion pressed on eagerly, and i followed him along the ill-kept path which led to the gate. there was no bell or knocker upon the great iron-studded door, and it was only by pounding with the hilts of our sabres that we could attract attention. a thin, hawk-faced man, with a beard up to his temples, opened it at last. he carried a lantern in one hand, and in the other a chain which held an enormous black hound. his manner at the first moment was threatening, but the sight of our uniforms and of our faces turned it into one of sulky reserve. 'the baron straubenthal does not receive visitors at so late an hour,' said he, speaking in very excellent french. 'you can inform baron straubenthal that i have come eight hundred leagues to see him, and that i will not leave until i have done so,' said my companion. i could not myself have said it with a better voice and manner. the fellow took a sidelong look at us, and tugged at his black beard in his perplexity. 'to tell the truth, gentlemen,' said he, 'the baron has a cup or two of wine in him at this hour, and you would certainly find him a more entertaining companion if you were to come again in the morning.' he had opened the door a little wider as he spoke, and i saw by the light of the lamp in the hall behind him that three other rough fellows were standing there, one of whom held another of these monstrous hounds. duroc must have seen it also, but it made no difference to his resolution. 'enough talk,' said he, pushing the man to one side. 'it is with your master that i have to deal.' the fellows in the hall made way for him as he strode in among them, so great is the power of one man who knows what he wants over several who are not sure of themselves. my companion tapped one of them upon the shoulder with as much assurance as though he owned him. 'show me to the baron,' said he. the man shrugged his shoulders, and answered something in polish. the fellow with the beard, who had shut and barred the front door, appeared to be the only one among them who could speak french. 'well, you shall have your way,' said he, with a sinister smile. 'you shall see the baron. and perhaps, before you have finished, you will wish that you had taken my advice.' we followed him down the hall, which was stone-flagged and very spacious, with skins scattered upon the floor, and the heads of wild beasts upon the walls. at the farther end he threw open a door, and we entered. it was a small room, scantily furnished, with the same marks of neglect and decay which met us at every turn. the walls were hung with discoloured tapestry, which had come loose at one corner, so as to expose the rough stonework behind. a second door, hung with a curtain, faced us upon the other side. between lay a square table, strewn with dirty dishes and the sordid remains of a meal. several bottles were scattered over it. at the head of it, and facing us, there sat a huge man with a lion-like head and a great shock of orange-coloured hair. his beard was of the same glaring hue; matted and tangled and coarse as a horse's mane. i have seen some strange faces in my time, but never one more brutal than that, with its small, vicious, blue eyes, its white, crumpled cheeks, and the thick, hanging lip which protruded over his monstrous beard. his head swayed about on his shoulders, and he looked at us with the vague, dim gaze of a drunken man. yet he was not so drunk but that our uniforms carried their message to him. 'well, my brave boys,' he hiccoughed. 'what is the latest news from paris, eh? you're going to free poland, i hear, and have meantime all become slaves yourselves--slaves to a little aristocrat with his grey coat and his three-cornered hat. no more citizens either, i am told, and nothing but monsieur and madame. my faith, some more heads will have to roll into the sawdust basket some of these mornings.' duroc advanced in silence, and stood by the ruffian's side. 'jean carabin,' said he. the baron started, and the film of drunkenness seemed to be clearing from his eyes. 'jean carabin,' said duroc, once more. he sat up and grasped the arms of his chair. 'what do you mean by repeating that name, young man?' he asked. 'jean carabin, you are a man whom i have long wished to meet.' 'supposing that i once had such a name, how can it concern you, since you must have been a child when i bore it?' 'my name is duroc.' 'not the son of----?' 'the son of the man you murdered.' the baron tried to laugh, but there was terror in his eyes. 'we must let bygones be bygones, young man,' he cried. 'it was our life or theirs in those days: the aristocrats or the people. your father was of the gironde. he fell. i was of the mountain. most of my comrades fell. it was all the fortune of war. we must forget all this and learn to know each other better, you and i.' he held out a red, twitching hand as he spoke. 'enough,' said young duroc. 'if i were to pass my sabre through you as you sit in that chair, i should do what is just and right. i dishonour my blade by crossing it with yours. and yet you are a frenchman, and have even held a commission under the same flag as myself. rise, then, and defend yourself!' 'tut, tut!' cried the baron. 'it is all very well for you young bloods--' duroc's patience could stand no more. he swung his open hand into the centre of the great orange beard. i saw a lip fringed with blood, and two glaring blue eyes above it. 'you shall die for that blow.' 'that is better,' said duroc. 'my sabre!' cried the other. 'i will not keep you waiting, i promise you!' and he hurried from the room. i have said that there was a second door covered with a curtain. hardly had the baron vanished when there ran from behind it a woman, young and beautiful. so swiftly and noiselessly did she move that she was between us in an instant, and it was only the shaking curtains which told us whence she had come. 'i have seen it all,' she cried. 'oh, sir, you have carried yourself splendidly.' she stooped to my companion's hand, and kissed it again and again ere he could disengage it from her grasp. 'nay, madame, why should you kiss my hand?' he cried. 'because it is the hand which struck him on his vile, lying mouth. because it may be the hand which will avenge my mother. i am his step-daughter. the woman whose heart he broke was my mother. i loathe him, i fear him. ah, there is his step!' in an instant she had vanished as suddenly as she had come. a moment later, the baron entered with a drawn sword in his hand, and the fellow who had admitted us at his heels. 'this is my secretary,' said he. 'he will be my friend in this affair. but we shall need more elbow-room than we can find here. perhaps you will kindly come with me to a more spacious apartment.' it was evidently impossible to fight in a chamber which was blocked by a great table. we followed him out, therefore, into the dimly-lit hall. at the farther end a light was shining through an open door. 'we shall find what we want in here,' said the man with the dark beard. it was a large, empty room, with rows of barrels and cases round the walls. a strong lamp stood upon a shelf in the corner. the floor was level and true, so that no swordsman could ask for more. duroc drew his sabre and sprang into it. the baron stood back with a bow and motioned me to follow my companion. hardly were my heels over the threshold when the heavy door crashed behind us and the key screamed in the lock. we were taken in a trap. for a moment we could not realize it. such incredible baseness was outside all our experiences. then, as we understood how foolish we had been to trust for an instant a man with such a history, a flush of rage came over us, rage against his villainy and against our own stupidity. we rushed at the door together, beating it with our fists and kicking with our heavy boots. the sound of our blows and of our execrations must have resounded through the castle. we called to this villain, hurling at him every name which might pierce even into his hardened soul. but the door was enormous--such a door as one finds in mediaeval castles--made of huge beams clamped together with iron. it was as easy to break as a square of the old guard. and our cries appeared to be of as little avail as our blows, for they only brought for answer the clattering echoes from the high roof above us. when you have done some soldiering, you soon learn to put up with what cannot be altered. it was i, then, who first recovered my calmness, and prevailed upon duroc to join with me in examining the apartment which had become our dungeon. there was only one window, which had no glass in it, and was so narrow that one could not so much as get one's head through. it was high up, and duroc had to stand upon a barrel in order to see from it. 'what can you see?' i asked. 'fir-woods and an avenue of snow between them,' said he. 'ah!' he gave a cry of surprise. i sprang upon the barrel beside him. there was, as he said, a long, clear strip of snow in front. a man was riding down it, flogging his horse and galloping like a madman. as we watched, he grew smaller and smaller, until he was swallowed up by the black shadows of the forest. 'what does that mean?' asked duroc. 'no good for us,' said i. 'he may have gone for some brigands to cut our throats. let us see if we cannot find a way out of this mouse-trap before the cat can arrive.' the one piece of good fortune in our favour was that beautiful lamp. it was nearly full of oil, and would last us until morning. in the dark our situation would have been far more difficult. by its light we proceeded to examine the packages and cases which lined the walls. in some places there was only a single line of them, while in one corner they were piled nearly to the ceiling. it seemed that we were in the storehouse of the castle, for there were a great number of cheeses, vegetables of various kinds, bins full of dried fruits, and a line of wine barrels. one of these had a spigot in it, and as i had eaten little during the day, i was glad of a cup of claret and some food. as to duroc, he would take nothing, but paced up and down the room in a fever of anger and impatience. 'i'll have him yet!' he cried, every now and then. 'the rascal shall not escape me!' this was all very well, but it seemed to me, as i sat on a great round cheese eating my supper, that this youngster was thinking rather too much of his own family affairs and too little of the fine scrape into which he had got me. after all, his father had been dead fourteen years, and nothing could set that right; but here was etienne gerard, the most dashing lieutenant in the whole grand army, in imminent danger of being cut off at the very outset of his brilliant career. who was ever to know the heights to which i might have risen if i were knocked on the head in this hole-and-corner business, which had nothing whatever to do with france or the emperor? i could not help thinking what a fool i had been, when i had a fine war before me and everything which a man could desire, to go off on a hare-brained expedition of this sort, as if it were not enough to have a quarter of a million russians to fight against, without plunging into all sorts of private quarrels as well. 'that is all very well,' i said at last, as i heard duroc muttering his threats. 'you may do what you like to him when you get the upper hand. at present the question rather is, what is _he_ going to do to us?' 'let him do his worst!' cried the boy. 'i owe a duty to my father.' 'that is mere foolishness,' said i. 'if you owe a duty to your father, i owe one to my mother, which is to get out of this business safe and sound.' my remark brought him to his senses. 'i have thought too much of myself!' he cried. 'forgive me, monsieur gerard. give me your advice as to what i should do.' 'well,' said i, 'it is not for our health that they have shut us up here among the cheeses. they mean to make an end of us if they can. that is certain. they hope that no one knows that we have come here, and that none will trace us if we remain. do your hussars know where you have gone to?' 'i said nothing.' 'hum! it is clear that we cannot be starved here. they must come to us if they are to kill us. behind a barricade of barrels we could hold our own against the five rascals whom we have seen. that is, probably, why they have sent that messenger for assistance.' 'we must get out before he returns.' 'precisely, if we are to get out at all.' 'could we not burn down this door?' he cried. 'nothing could be easier,' said i. 'there are several casks of oil in the corner. my only objection is that we should ourselves be nicely toasted, like two little oyster pâtés.' 'can you not suggest something?' he cried, in despair. 'ah, what is that?' there had been a low sound at our little window, and a shadow came between the stars and ourselves. a small, white hand was stretched into the lamplight. something glittered between the fingers. 'quick! quick!' cried a woman's voice. we were on the barrel in an instant. 'they have sent for the cossacks. your lives are at stake. ah, i am lost! i am lost!' there was the sound of rushing steps, a hoarse oath, a blow, and the stars were once more twinkling through the window. we stood helpless upon the barrel with our blood cold with horror. half a minute afterwards we heard a smothered scream, ending in a choke. a great door slammed somewhere in the silent night. 'those ruffians have seized her. they will kill her,' i cried. duroc sprang down with the inarticulate shouts of one whose reason has left him. he struck the door so frantically with his naked hands that he left a blotch of blood with every blow. here is the key!' i shouted, picking one from the floor. 'she must have thrown it in at the instant that she was torn away.' my companion snatched it from me with a shriek of joy. a moment later he dashed it down upon the boards. it was so small that it was lost in the enormous lock. duroc sank upon one of the boxes with his head between his hands. he sobbed in his despair. i could have sobbed, too, when i thought of the woman and how helpless we were to save her. but i am not easily baffled. after all, this key must have been sent to us for a purpose. the lady could not bring us that of the door, because this murderous step-father of hers would most certainly have it in his pocket. yet this other must have a meaning, or why should she risk her life to place it in our hands? it would say little for our wits if we could not find out what that meaning might be. i set to work moving all the cases out from the wall, and duroc, gaining new hope from my courage, helped me with all his strength. it was no light task, for many of them were large and heavy. on we went, working like maniacs, slinging barrels, cheeses, and boxes pell-mell into the middle of the room. at last there only remained one huge barrel of vodka, which stood in the corner. with our united strength we rolled it out, and there was a little low wooden door in the wainscot behind it. the key fitted, and with a cry of delight we saw it swing open before us. with the lamp in my hand, i squeezed my way in, followed by my companion. we were in the powder-magazine of the castle--a rough, walled cellar, with barrels all round it, and one with the top staved in in the centre. the powder from it lay in a black heap upon the floor. beyond there was another door, but it was locked. 'we are no better off than before,' cried duroc. 'we have no key.' 'we have a dozen!' i cried. 'where?' i pointed to the line of powder barrels. 'you would blow this door open?' 'precisely.' 'but you would explode the magazine.' it was true, but i was not at the end of my resources. 'we will blow open the store-room door,' i cried. i ran back and seized a tin box which had been filled with candles. it was about the size of my busby--large enough to hold several pounds of powder. duroc filled it while i cut off the end of a candle. when we had finished, it would have puzzled a colonel of engineers to make a better petard. i put three cheeses on the top of each other and placed it above them, so as to lean against the lock. then we lit our candle-end and ran for shelter, shutting the door of the magazine behind us. it is no joke, my friends, to be among all those tons of powder, with the knowledge that if the flame of the explosion should penetrate through one thin door our blackened limbs would be shot higher than the castle keep. who could have believed that a half-inch of candle could take so long to burn? my ears were straining all the time for the thudding of the hoofs of the cossacks who were coming to destroy us. i had almost made up my mind that the candle must have gone out when there was a smack like a bursting bomb, our door flew to bits, and pieces of cheese, with a shower of turnips, apples, and splinters of cases, were shot in among us. as we rushed out we had to stagger through an impenetrable smoke, with all sorts of débris beneath our feet, but there was a glimmering square where the dark door had been. the petard had done its work. in fact, it had done more for us than we had even ventured to hope. it had shattered gaolers as well as gaol. the first thing that i saw as i came out into the hall was a man with a butcher's axe in his hand, lying flat upon his back, with a gaping wound across his forehead. the second was a huge dog, with two of its legs broken, twisting in agony upon the floor. as it raised itself up i saw the two broken ends flapping like flails. at the same instant i heard a cry, and there was duroc, thrown against the wall, with the other hound's teeth in his throat. he pushed it off with his left hand, while again and again he passed his sabre through its body, but it was not until i blew out its brains with my pistol that the iron jaws relaxed, and the fierce, bloodshot eyes were glazed in death. there was no time for us to pause. a woman's scream from in front--a scream of mortal terror--told us that even now we might be too late. there were two other men in the hall, but they cowered away from our drawn swords and furious faces. the blood was streaming from duroc's neck and dyeing the grey fur of his pelisse. such was the lad's fire, however, that he shot in front of me, and it was only over his shoulder that i caught a glimpse of the scene as we rushed into the chamber in which we had first seen the master of the castle of gloom. the baron was standing in the middle of the room, his tangled mane bristling like an angry lion. he was, as i have said, a huge man with enormous shoulders; and as he stood there, with his face flushed with rage and his sword advanced, i could not but think that, in spite of all his villainies, he had a proper figure for a grenadier. the lady lay cowering in a chair behind him. a weal across one of her white arms and a dog-whip upon the floor were enough to show that our escape had hardly been in time to save her from his brutality. he gave a howl like a wolf as we broke in, and was upon us in an instant, hacking and driving, with a curse at every blow. i have already said that the room gave no space for swordsmanship. my young companion was in front of me in the narrow passage between the table and the wall, so that i could only look on without being able to aid him. the lad knew something of his weapon, and was as fierce and active as a wild cat, but in so narrow a space the weight and strength of the giant gave him the advantage. besides, he was an admirable swordsman. his parade and riposte were as quick as lightning. twice he touched duroc upon the shoulder, and then, as the lad slipped on a lunge, he whirled up his sword to finish him before he could recover his feet. i was quicker than he, however, and took the cut upon the pommel of my sabre. 'excuse me,' said i, 'but you have still to deal with etienne gerard.' he drew back and leaned against the tapestry-covered wall, breathing in little, hoarse gasps, for his foul living was against him. 'take your breath,' said i. 'i will await your convenience.' 'you have no cause of quarrel against me,' he panted. 'i owe you some little attention,' said i, 'for having shut me up in your store-room. besides, if all other were wanting, i see cause enough upon that lady's arm.' 'have your way, then!' he snarled, and leaped at me like a madman. for a minute i saw only the blazing blue eyes, and the red glazed point which stabbed and stabbed, rasping off to right or to left, and yet ever back at my throat and my breast. i had never thought that such good sword-play was to be found at paris in the days of the revolution. i do not suppose that in all my little affairs i have met six men who had a better knowledge of their weapon. but he knew that i was his master. he read death in my eyes, and i could see that he read it. the flush died from his face. his breath came in shorter and in thicker gasps. yet he fought on, even after the final thrust had come, and died still hacking and cursing, with foul cries upon his lips, and his blood clotting upon his orange beard. i who speak to you have seen so many battles, that my old memory can scarce contain their names, and yet of all the terrible sights which these eyes have rested upon, there is none which i care to think of less than of that orange beard with the crimson stain in the centre, from which i had drawn my sword-point. it was only afterwards that i had time to think of all this. his monstrous body had hardly crashed down upon the floor before the woman in the corner sprang to her feet, clapping her hands together and screaming out in her delight. for my part i was disgusted to see a woman take such delight in a deed of blood, and i gave no thought as to the terrible wrongs which must have befallen her before she could so far forget the gentleness of her sex. it was on my tongue to tell her sharply to be silent, when a strange, choking smell took the breath from my nostrils, and a sudden, yellow glare brought out the figures upon the faded hangings. 'duroc, duroc!' i shouted, tugging at his shoulder. 'the castle is on fire!' the boy lay senseless upon the ground, exhausted by his wounds. i rushed out into the hall to see whence the danger came. it was our explosion which had set alight to the dry frame-work of the door. inside the store-room some of the boxes were already blazing. i glanced in, and as i did so my blood was turned to water by the sight of the powder barrels beyond, and of the loose heap upon the floor. it might be seconds, it could not be more than minutes, before the flames would be at the edge of it. these eyes will be closed in death, my friends, before they cease to see those crawling lines of fire and the black heap beyond. how little i can remember what followed. vaguely i can recall how i rushed into the chamber of death, how i seized duroc by one limp hand and dragged him down the hall, the woman keeping pace with me and pulling at the other arm. out of the gateway we rushed, and on down the snow-covered path until we were on the fringe of the fir forest. it was at that moment that i heard a crash behind me, and, glancing round, saw a great spout of fire shoot up into the wintry sky. an instant later there seemed to come a second crash, far louder than the first. i saw the fir trees and the stars whirling round me, and i fell unconscious across the body of my comrade. * * * * * it was some weeks before i came to myself in the post-house of arensdorf, and longer still before i could be told all that had befallen me. it was duroc, already able to go soldiering, who came to my bedside and gave me an account of it. he it was who told me how a piece of timber had struck me on the head and laid me almost dead upon the ground. from him, too, i learned how the polish girl had run to arensdorf, how she had roused our hussars, and how she had only just brought them back in time to save us from the spears of the cossacks who had been summoned from their bivouac by that same black-bearded secretary whom we had seen galloping so swiftly over the snow. as to the brave lady who had twice saved our lives, i could not learn very much about her at that moment from duroc, but when i chanced to meet him in paris two years later, after the campaign of wagram, i was not very much surprised to find that i needed no introduction to his bride, and that by the queer turns of fortune he had himself, had he chosen to use it, that very name and title of the baron straubenthal, which showed him to be the owner of the blackened ruins of the castle of gloom. footnotes: [footnote a: the term brigadier is used throughout in its english and not in its french sense.] . how the brigadier slew the brothers of ajaccio when the emperor needed an agent he was always very ready to do me the honour of recalling the name of etienne gerard, though it occasionally escaped him when rewards were to be distributed. still, i was a colonel at twenty-eight, and the chief of a brigade at thirty-one, so that i have no reason to be dissatisfied with my career. had the wars lasted another two or three years i might have grasped my bâton, and the man who had his hand upon that was only one stride from a throne. murat had changed his hussar's cap for a crown, and another light cavalry man might have done as much. however, all those dreams were driven away by waterloo, and, although i was not able to write my name upon history, it is sufficiently well known by all who served with me in the great wars of the empire. what i want to tell you tonight is about the very singular affair which first started me upon my rapid upward course, and which had the effect of establishing a secret bond between the emperor and myself. there is just one little word of warning which i must give you before i begin. when you hear me speak, you must always bear in mind that you are listening to one who has seen history from the inside. i am talking about what my ears have heard and my eyes have seen, so you must not try to confute me by quoting the opinions of some student or man of the pen, who has written a book of history or memoirs. there is much which is unknown by such people, and much which never will be known by the world. for my own part, i could tell you some very surprising things were it discreet to do so. the facts which i am about to relate to you tonight were kept secret by me during the emperor's lifetime, because i gave him my promise that it should be so, but i do not think that there can be any harm now in my telling the remarkable part which i played. you must know, then, that at the time of the treaty of tilsit i was a simple lieutenant in the th hussars, without money or interest. it is true that my appearance and my gallantry were in my favour, and that i had already won a reputation as being one of the best swordsmen in the army; but amongst the host of brave men who surrounded the emperor it needed more than this to insure a rapid career. i was confident, however, that my chance would come, though i never dreamed that it would take so remarkable a form. when the emperor returned to paris, after the declaration of peace in the year , he spent much of his time with the empress and the court at fontainebleau. it was the time when he was at the pinnacle of his career. he had in three successive campaigns humbled austria, crushed prussia, and made the russians very glad to get upon the right side of the niemen. the old bulldog over the channel was still growling, but he could not get very far from his kennel. if we could have made a perpetual peace at that moment, france would have taken a higher place than any nation since the days of the romans. so i have heard the wise folk say, though for my part i had other things to think of. all the girls were glad to see the army back after its long absence, and you may be sure that i had my share of any favours that were going. you may judge how far i was a favourite in those days when i say that even now, in my sixtieth year--but why should i dwell upon that which is already sufficiently well known? our regiment of hussars was quartered with the horse chasseurs of the guard at fontainebleau. it is, as you know, but a little place, buried in the heart of the forest, and it was wonderful at this time to see it crowded with grand dukes and electors and princes, who thronged round napoleon like puppies round their master, each hoping that some bone might be thrown to him. there was more german than french to be heard in the street, for those who had helped us in the late war had come to beg for a reward, and those who had opposed us had come to try and escape their punishment. and all the time our little man, with his pale face and his cold, grey eyes, was riding to the hunt every morning, silent and brooding, all of them following in his train, in the hope that some word would escape him. and then, when the humour seized him, he would throw a hundred square miles to that man, or tear as much off the other, round off one kingdom by a river, or cut off another by a chain of mountains. that was how he used to do business, this little artilleryman, whom we had raised so high with our sabres and our bayonets. he was very civil to us always, for he knew where his power came from. we knew also, and showed it by the way in which we carried ourselves. we were agreed, you understand, that he was the finest leader in the world, but we did not forget that he had the finest men to lead. well, one day i was seated in my quarters playing cards with young morat, of the horse chasseurs, when the door opened and in walked lasalle, who was our colonel. you know what a fine, swaggering fellow he was, and the sky-blue uniform of the tenth suited him to a marvel. my faith, we youngsters were so taken by him that we all swore and diced and drank and played the deuce whether we liked it or no, just that we might resemble our colonel! we forgot that it was not because he drank or gambled that the emperor was going to make him the head of the light cavalry, but because he had the surest eye for the nature of a position or for the strength of a column, and the best judgment as to when infantry could be broken, or whether guns were exposed, of any man in the army. we were too young to understand all that, however, so we waxed our moustaches and clicked our spurs and let the ferrules of our scabbards wear out by trailing them along the pavement in the hope that we should all become lasalles. when he came clanking into my quarters, both morat and i sprang to our feet. 'my boy,' said he, clapping me on the shoulder, 'the emperor wants to see you at four o'clock.' the room whirled round me at the words, and i had to lean my hands upon the edge of the card-table. 'what?' i cried. 'the emperor!' 'precisely,' said he, smiling at my astonishment. 'but the emperor does not know of my existence, colonel,' i protested. 'why should he send for me?' 'well, that's just what puzzles me,' cried lasalle, twirling his moustache. 'if he wanted the help of a good sabre, why should he descend to one of my lieutenants when he might have found all that he needed at the head of the regiment? however,' he added, clapping me on the shoulder again in his hearty fashion, 'every man has his chance. i have had mine, otherwise i should not be colonel of the tenth. i must not grudge you yours. forwards, my boy, and may it be the first step towards changing your busby for a cocked hat.' it was but two o'clock, so he left me, promising to come back and to accompany me to the palace. my faith, what a time i passed, and how many conjectures did i make as to what it was that the emperor could want of me! i paced up and down my little room in a fever of anticipation. sometimes i thought that perhaps he had heard of the guns which we had taken at austerlitz; but, then, there were so many who had taken guns at austerlitz, and two years had passed since the battle. or it might be that he wished to reward me for my affair with the _aide-de-camp_ of the russian emperor. but then again a cold fit would seize me, and i would fancy that he had sent for me to reprimand me. there were a few duels which he might have taken in ill part, and there were one or two little jokes in paris since the peace. but, no! i considered the words of lasalle. 'if he had need of a brave man,' said lasalle. it was obvious that my colonel had some idea of what was in the wind. if he had not known that it was to my advantage, he would not have been so cruel as to congratulate me. my heart glowed with joy as this conviction grew upon me, and i sat down to write to my mother and to tell her that the emperor was waiting, at that very moment, to have my opinion upon a matter of importance. it made me smile as i wrote it to think that, wonderful as it appeared to me, it would probably only confirm my mother in her opinion of the emperor's good sense. at half-past three i heard a sabre come clanking against every step of my wooden stair. it was lasalle, and with him was a lame gentleman, very neatly dressed in black with dapper ruffles and cuffs. we did not know many civilians, we of the army, but, my word, this was one whom we could not afford to ignore! i had only to glance at those twinkling eyes, the comical, upturned nose, and the straight, precise mouth, to know that i was in the presence of the one man in france whom even the emperor had to consider. 'this is monsieur etienne gerard, monsieur de talleyrand,' said lasalle. i saluted, and the statesman took me in from the top of my panache to the rowel of my spur, with a glance that played over me like a rapier point. 'have you explained to the lieutenant the circumstances under which he is summoned to the emperor's presence?' he asked, in his dry, creaking voice. they were such a contrast, these two men, that i could not help glancing from one to the other of them: the black, sly politician, and the big, sky-blue hussar with one fist on his hip and the other on the hilt of his sabre. they both took their seats as i looked, talleyrand without a sound, and lasalle with a clash and a jingle like a prancing charger. 'it's this way, youngster,' said he, in his brusque fashion; 'i was with the emperor in his private cabinet this morning when a note was brought in to him. he opened it, and as he did so he gave such a start that it fluttered down on to the floor. i handed it up to him again, but he was staring at the wall in front of him as if he had seen a ghost. "fratelli dell' ajaccio," he muttered; and then again, "fratelli dell' ajaccio." i don't pretend to know more italian than a man can pick up in two campaigns, and i could make nothing of this. it seemed to me that he had gone out of his mind; and you would have said so also, monsieur de talleyrand, if you had seen the look in his eyes. he read the note, and then he sat for half an hour or more without moving.' 'and you?' asked talleyrand. 'why, i stood there not knowing what i ought to do. presently he seemed to come back to his senses. '"i suppose, lasalle," said he, "that you have some gallant young officers in the tenth?" '"they are all that, sire," i answered. '"if you had to pick one who was to be depended upon for action, but who would not think too much--you understand me, lasalle--which would you select?" he asked. 'i saw that he needed an agent who would not penetrate too deeply into his plans. '"i have one," said i, "who is all spurs and moustaches, with never a thought beyond women and horses." '"that is the man i want," said napoleon. "bring him to my private cabinet at four o'clock." 'so, youngster, i came straight away to you at once, and mind that you do credit to the th hussars.' i was by no means flattered by the reasons which had led to my colonel's choice, and i must have shown as much in my face, for he roared with laughter and talleyrand gave a dry chuckle also. 'just one word of advice before you go, monsieur gerard,' said he: 'you are now coming into troubled waters, and you might find a worse pilot than myself. we have none of us any idea as to what this little affair means, and, between ourselves, it is very important for us, who have the destinies of france upon our shoulders, to keep ourselves in touch with all that goes on. you understand me, monsieur gerard?' i had not the least idea what he was driving at, but i bowed and tried to look as if it was clear to me. 'act very guardedly, then, and say nothing to anybody,' said talleyrand. 'colonel de lasalle and i will not show ourselves in public with you, but we will await you here, and we will give you our advice when you have told us what has passed between the emperor and yourself. it is time that you started now, for the emperor never forgives unpunctuality.' off i went on foot to the palace, which was only a hundred paces off. i made my way to the ante-chamber, where duroc, with his grand new scarlet and gold coat, was fussing about among the crowd of people who were waiting. i heard him whisper to monsieur de caulaincourt that half of them were german dukes who expected to be made kings, and the other half german dukes who expected to be made paupers. duroc, when he heard my name, showed me straight in, and i found myself in the emperor's presence. i had, of course, seen him in camp a hundred times, but i had never been face to face with him before. i have no doubt that if you had met him without knowing in the least who he was, you would simply have said that he was a sallow little fellow with a good forehead and fairly well-turned calves. his tight white cashmere breeches and white stockings showed off his legs to advantage. but even a stranger must have been struck by the singular look of his eyes, which could harden into an expression which would frighten a grenadier. it is said that even auguereau, who was a man who had never known what fear was, quailed before napoleon's gaze, at a time, too, when the emperor was but an unknown soldier. he looked mildly enough at me, however, and motioned me to remain by the door. de meneval was writing to his dictation, looking up at him between each sentence with his spaniel eyes. 'that will do. you can go,' said the emperor, abruptly. then, when the secretary had left the room, he strode across with his hands behind his back, and he looked me up and down without a word. though he was a small man himself, he was very fond of having fine-looking fellows about him, and so i think that my appearance gave him pleasure. for my own part, i raised one hand to the salute and held the other upon the hilt of my sabre, looking straight ahead of me, as a soldier should. 'well, monsieur gerard,' said he, at last, tapping his forefinger upon one of the brandebourgs of gold braid upon the front of my pelisse, 'i am informed that you are a very deserving young officer. your colonel gives me an excellent account of you.' i wished to make a brilliant reply, but i could think of nothing save lasalle's phrase that i was all spurs and moustaches, so it ended in my saying nothing at all. the emperor watched the struggle which must have shown itself upon my features, and when, finally, no answer came he did not appear to be displeased. 'i believe that you are the very man that i want,' said he. 'brave and clever men surround me upon every side. but a brave man who----' he did not finish his sentence, and for my own part i could not understand what he was driving at. i contented myself with assuring him that he could count upon me to the death. 'you are, as i understand, a good swordsman?' said he. 'tolerable, sire,' i answered. 'you were chosen by your regiment to fight the champion of the hussars of chambarant?' said he. i was not sorry to find that he knew so much of my exploits. 'my comrades, sire, did me that honour,' said i. 'and for the sake of practice you insulted six fencing masters in the week before your duel?' 'i had the privilege of being out seven times in as many days, sire,' said i. 'and escaped without a scratch?' 'the fencing master of the rd light infantry touched me on the left elbow, sire.' 'let us have no more child's play of the sort, monsieur,' he cried, turning suddenly to that cold rage of his which was so appalling. 'do you imagine that i place veteran soldiers in these positions that you may practise quarte and tierce upon them? how am i to face europe if my soldiers turn their points upon each other? another word of your duelling, and i break you between these fingers.' i saw his plump white hands flash before my eyes as he spoke, and his voice had turned to the most discordant hissing and growling. my word, my skin pringled all over as i listened to him, and i would gladly have changed my position for that of the first man in the steepest and narrowest breach that ever swallowed up a storming party. he turned to the table, drank off a cup of coffee, and then when he faced me again every trace of this storm had vanished, and he wore that singular smile which came from his lips but never from his eyes. 'i have need of your services, monsieur gerard,' said he. 'i may be safer with a good sword at my side, and there are reasons why yours should be the one which i select. but first of all i must bind you to secrecy. whilst i live what passes between us today must be known to none but ourselves.' i thought of talleyrand and of lasalle, but i promised. 'in the next place, i do not want your opinions or conjectures, and i wish you to do exactly what you are told.' i bowed. 'it is your sword that i need, and not your brains. i will do the thinking. is that clear to you?' 'yes, sire.' 'you know the chancellor's grove, in the forest?' i bowed. 'you know also the large double fir-tree where the hounds assembled on tuesday?' had he known that i met a girl under it three times a week, he would not have asked me. i bowed once more without remark. 'very good. you will meet me there at ten o'clock tonight.' i had got past being surprised at anything which might happen. if he had asked me to take his place upon the imperial throne i could only have nodded my busby. 'we shall then proceed into the wood together,' said the emperor. 'you will be armed with a sword, but not with pistols. you must address no remark to me, and i shall say nothing to you. we will advance in silence. you understand?' 'i understand, sire.' 'after a time we shall see a man, or more probably two men, under a certain tree. we shall approach them together. if i signal to you to defend me, you will have your sword ready. if, on the other hand, i speak to these men, you will wait and see what happens. if you are called upon to draw, you must see that neither of them, in the event of there being two, escapes from us. i shall myself assist you.' 'sire,' i cried, 'i have no doubt that two would not be too many for my sword; but would it not be better that i should bring a comrade than that you should be forced to join in such a struggle?' 'ta, ta, ta,' said he. 'i was a soldier before i was an emperor. do you think, then, that artillerymen have not swords as well as the hussars? but i ordered you not to argue with me. you will do exactly what i tell you. if swords are once out, neither of these men is to get away alive.' 'they shall not, sire,' said i. 'very good. i have no more instructions for you. you can go.' i turned to the door, and then an idea occurring to me i turned. 'i have been thinking, sire--' said i. he sprang at me with the ferocity of a wild beast. i really thought he would have struck me. 'thinking!' he cried. 'you, _you_! do you imagine i chose you out because you could think? let me hear of your doing such a thing again! you, the one man--but, there! you meet me at the fir-tree at ten o'clock.' my faith, i was right glad to get out of the room. if i have a good horse under me, and a sword clanking against my stirrup-iron, i know where i am. and in all that relates to green fodder or dry, barley and oats and rye, and the handling of squadrons upon the march, there is no one who can teach me very much. but when i meet a chamberlain and a marshal of the palace, and have to pick my words with an emperor, and find that everybody hints instead of talking straight out, i feel like a troop-horse who has been put in a lady's calèche. it is not my trade, all this mincing and pretending. i have learned the manners of a gentleman, but never those of a courtier. i was right glad then to get into the fresh air again, and i ran away up to my quarters like a schoolboy who has just escaped from the seminary master. but as i opened the door, the very first thing that my eye rested upon was a long pair of sky-blue legs with hussar boots, and a short pair of black ones with knee breeches and buckles. they both sprang up together to greet me. 'well, what news?' they cried, the two of them. 'none,' i answered. 'the emperor refused to see you?' 'no, i have seen him.' 'and what did he say?' 'monsieur de talleyrand,' i answered, 'i regret to say that it is quite impossible for me to tell you anything about it. i have promised the emperor.' 'pooh, pooh, my dear young man,' said he, sidling up to me, as a cat does when it is about to rub itself against you. 'this is all among friends, you understand, and goes no farther than these four walls. besides, the emperor never meant to include me in this promise.' 'it is but a minute's walk to the palace, monsieur de talleyrand,' i answered; 'if it would not be troubling you too much to ask you to step up to it and bring back the emperor's written statement that he did not mean to include you in this promise, i shall be happy to tell you every word that passed.' he showed his teeth at me then like the old fox that he was. 'monsieur gerard appears to be a little puffed up,' said he. 'he is too young to see things in their just proportion. as he grows older he may understand that it is not always very discreet for a subaltern of cavalry to give such very abrupt refusals.' i did not know what to say to this, but lasalle came to my aid in his downright fashion. 'the lad is quite right,' said he. 'if i had known that there was a promise i should not have questioned him. you know very well, monsieur de talleyrand, that if he had answered you, you would have laughed in your sleeve and thought as much about him as i think of the bottle when the burgundy is gone. as for me, i promise you that the tenth would have had no room for him, and that we should have lost our best swordsman if i had heard him give up the emperor's secret.' but the statesman became only the more bitter when he saw that i had the support of my colonel. 'i have heard, colonel de lasalle,' said he, with an icy dignity, 'that your opinion is of great weight upon the subject of light cavalry. should i have occasion to seek information about that branch of the army, i shall be very happy to apply to you. at present, however, the matter concerns diplomacy, and you will permit me to form my own views upon that question. as long as the welfare of france and the safety of the emperor's person are largely committed to my care, i will use every means in my power to secure them, even if it should be against the emperor's own temporary wishes. i have the honour, colonel de lasalle, to wish you a very good-day!' he shot a most unamiable glance in my direction, and, turning upon his heel, he walked with little, quick, noiseless steps out of the room. i could see from lasalle's face that he did not at all relish finding himself at enmity with the powerful minister. he rapped out an oath or two, and then, catching up his sabre and his cap, he clattered away down the stairs. as i looked out of the window i saw the two of them, the big blue man and the limping black one, going up the street together. talleyrand was walking very rigidly, and lasalle was waving his hands and talking, so i suppose he was trying to make his peace. the emperor had told me not to think, and i endeavoured to obey him. i took up the cards from the table where morat had left them, and i tried to work out a few combinations at écarté. but i could not remember which were trumps, and i threw them under the table in despair. then i drew my sabre and practised giving point until i was weary, but it was all of no use at all. my mind _would_ work, in spite of myself. at ten o'clock i was to meet the emperor in the forest. of all extraordinary combinations of events in the whole world, surely this was the last which would have occurred to me when i rose from my couch that morning. but the responsibility--- the dreadful responsibility! it was all upon my shoulders. there was no one to halve it with me. it made me cold all over. often as i have faced death upon the battle-field, i have never known what real fear was until that moment. but then i considered that after all i could but do my best like a brave and honourable gentleman, and above all obey the orders which i had received, to the very letter. and, if all went well, this would surely be the foundation of my fortunes. thus, swaying between my fears and my hopes, i spent the long, long evening until it was time to keep my appointment. i put on my military overcoat, as i did not know how much of the night i might have to spend in the woods, and i fastened my sword outside it. i pulled off my hussar boots also, and wore a pair of shoes and gaiters, that i might be lighter upon my feet. then i stole out of my quarters and made for the forest, feeling very much easier in my mind, for i am always at my best when the time of thought has passed and the moment for action arrived. i passed the barracks of the chasseurs of the guards, and the line of cafes all filled with uniforms. i caught a glimpse as i went by of the blue and gold of some of my comrades, amid the swarm of dark infantry coats and the light green of the guides. there they sat, sipping their wine and smoking their cigars, little dreaming what their comrade had on hand. one of them, the chief of my squadron, caught sight of me in the lamplight, and came shouting after me into the street. i hurried on, however, pretending not to hear him, so he, with a curse at my deafness, went back at last to his wine bottle. it is not very hard to get into the forest at fontainebleau. the scattered trees steal their way into the very streets, like the tirailleurs in front of a column. i turned into a path, which led to the edge of the woods, and then i pushed rapidly forward towards the old fir-tree. it was a place which, as i have hinted, i had my own reasons for knowing well, and i could only thank the fates that it was not one of the nights upon which léonie would be waiting for me. the poor child would have died of terror at sight of the emperor. he might have been too harsh with her--and worse still, he might have been too kind. there was a half moon shining, and, as i came up to our trysting-place, i saw that i was not the first to arrive. the emperor was pacing up and down, his hands behind him and his face sunk somewhat forward upon his breast. he wore a grey great-coat with a capote over his head. i had seen him in such a dress in our winter campaign in poland, and it was said that he used it because the hood was such an excellent disguise. he was always fond, whether in the camp or in paris, of walking round at night, and overhearing the talk in the cabarets or round the fires. his figure, however, and his way of carrying his head and his hands were so well known that he was always recognized, and then the talkers would say whatever they thought would please him best. my first thought was that he would be angry with me for having kept him waiting, but as i approached him, we heard the big church clock of fontainebleau clang out the hour of ten. it was evident, therefore, that it was he who was too soon, and not i too late. i remembered his order that i should make no remark, so contented myself with halting within four paces of him, clicking my spurs together, grounding my sabre, and saluting. he glanced at me, and then without a word he turned and walked slowly through the forest, i keeping always about the same distance behind him. once or twice he seemed to me to look apprehensively to right and to left, as if he feared that someone was observing us. i looked also, but although i have the keenest sight, it was quite impossible to see anything except the ragged patches of moonshine between the great black shadows of the trees. my ears are as quick as my eyes, and once or twice i thought that i heard a twig crack; but you know how many sounds there are in a forest at night, and how difficult it is even to say what direction they come from. we walked for rather more than a mile, and i knew exactly what our destination was, long before we got there. in the centre of one of the glades, there is the shattered stump of what must at some time have been a most gigantic tree. it is called the abbot's beech, and there are so many ghostly stories about it, that i know many a brave soldier who would not care about mounting sentinel over it. however, i cared as little for such folly as the emperor did, so we crossed the glade and made straight for the old broken trunk. as we approached, i saw that two men were waiting for us beneath it. when i first caught sight of them they were standing rather behind it, as if they were not anxious to be seen, but as we came nearer they emerged from its shadow and walked forward to meet us. the emperor glanced back at me, and slackened his pace a little so that i came within arm's length of him. you may think that i had my hilt well to the front, and that i had a very good look at these two people who were approaching us. the one was tall, remarkably so, and of very spare frame, while the other was rather below the usual height, and had a brisk, determined way of walking. they each wore black cloaks, which were slung right across their figures, and hung down upon one side, like the mantles of murat's dragoons. they had flat black caps, like those i have since seen in spain, which threw their faces into darkness, though i could see the gleam of their eyes from beneath them. with the moon behind them and their long black shadows walking in front, they were such figures as one might expect to meet at night near the abbot's beech. i can remember that they had a stealthy way of moving, and that as they approached, the moonshine formed two white diamonds between their legs and the legs of their shadows. the emperor had paused, and these two strangers came to a stand also within a few paces of us. i had drawn up close to my companion's elbow, so that the four of us were facing each other without a word spoken. my eyes were particularly fixed upon the taller one, because he was slightly the nearer to me, and i became certain as i watched him that he was in the last state of nervousness. his lean figure was quivering all over, and i heard a quick, thin panting like that of a tired dog. suddenly one of them gave a short, hissing signal. the tall man bent his back and his knees like a diver about to spring, but before he could move, i had jumped with drawn sabre in front of him. at the same instant the smaller man bounded past me, and buried a long poniard in the emperor's heart. my god! the horror of that moment! it is a marvel that i did not drop dead myself. as in a dream, i saw the grey coat whirl convulsively round, and caught a glimpse in the moonlight of three inches of red point which jutted out from between the shoulders. then down he fell with a dead man's gasp upon the grass, and the assassin, leaving his weapon buried in his victim, threw up both his hands and shrieked with joy. but i--i drove my sword through his midriff with such frantic force, that the mere blow of the hilt against the end of his breast-bone sent him six paces before he fell, and left my reeking blade ready for the other. i sprang round upon him with such a lust for blood upon me as i had never felt, and never have felt, in all my days. as i turned, a dagger flashed before my eyes, and i felt the cold wind of it pass my neck and the villain's wrist jar upon my shoulder. i shortened my sword, but he winced away from me, and an instant afterwards was in full flight, bounding like a deer across the glade in the moonlight. but he was not to escape me thus. i knew that the murderer's poniard had done its work. young as i was, i had seen enough of war to know a mortal blow. i paused but for an instant to touch the cold hand. 'sire! sire!' i cried, in an agony; and then as no sound came back and nothing moved, save an ever-widening dark circle in the moonlight, i knew that all was indeed over. i sprang madly to my feet, threw off my great-coat, and ran at the top of my speed after the remaining assassin. ah, how i blessed the wisdom which had caused me to come in shoes and gaiters! and the happy thought which had thrown off my coat. he could not get rid of his mantle, this wretch, or else he was too frightened to think of it. so it was that i gained upon him from the beginning. he must have been out of his wits, for he never tried to bury himself in the darker parts of the woods, but he flew on from glade to glade, until he came to the heath-land which leads up to the great fontainebleau quarry. there i had him in full sight, and knew that he could not escape me. he ran well, it is true--ran as a coward runs when his life is the stake. but i ran as destiny runs when it gets behind a man's heels. yard by yard i drew in upon him. he was rolling and staggering. i could hear the rasping and crackling of his breath. the great gulf of the quarry suddenly yawned in front of his path, and glancing at me over his shoulder, he gave a shriek of despair. the next instant he had vanished from my sight. vanished utterly, you understand. i rushed to the spot, and gazed down into the black abyss. had he hurled himself over? i had almost made up my mind that he had done so, when a gentle sound rising and falling came out of the darkness beneath me. it was his breathing once more, and it showed me where he must be. he was hiding in the tool-house. at the edge of the quarry and beneath the summit there is a small platform upon which stands a wooden hut for the use of the labourers. it was into this, then, that he had darted. perhaps he had thought, the fool, that, in the darkness, i would not venture to follow him. he little knew etienne gerard. with a spring i was on the platform, with another i was through the doorway, and then, hearing him in the corner, i hurled myself down upon the top of him. he fought like a wild cat, but he never had a chance with his shorter weapon. i think that i must have transfixed him with that first mad lunge, for, though he struck and struck, his blows had no power in them, and presently his dagger tinkled down upon the floor. when i was sure that he was dead, i rose up and passed out into the moonlight. i climbed on to the heath again, and wandered across it as nearly out of my mind as a man could be. with the blood singing in my ears, and my naked sword still clutched in my hand, i walked aimlessly on until, looking round me, i found that i had come as far as the glade of the abbot's beech, and saw in the distance that gnarled stump which must ever be associated with the most terrible moment of my life. i sat down upon a fallen trunk with my sword across my knees and my head between my hands, and i tried to think about what had happened and what would happen in the future. the emperor had committed himself to my care. the emperor was dead. those were the two thoughts which clanged in my head, until i had no room for any other ones. he had come with me and he was dead. i had done what he had ordered when living. i had revenged him when dead. but what of all that? the world would look upon me as responsible. they might even look upon me as the assassin. what could i prove? what witnesses had i? might i not have been the accomplice of these wretches? yes, yes, i was eternally dishonoured--the lowest, most despicable creature in all france. this, then, was the end of my fine military ambitions--of the hopes of my mother. i laughed bitterly at the thought. and what was i to do now? was i to go into fontainebleau, to wake up the palace, and to inform them that the great emperor had been murdered within a pace of me? i could not do it--no, i could not do it! there was but one course for an honourable gentleman whom fate had placed in so cruel a position. i would fall upon my dishonoured sword, and so share, since i could not avert, the emperor's fate. i rose with my nerves strung to this last piteous deed, and as i did so, my eyes fell upon something which struck the breath from my lips. the emperor was standing before me! he was not more than ten yards off, with the moon shining straight upon his cold, pale face. he wore his grey overcoat, but the hood was turned back, and the front open, so that i could see the green coat of the guides, and the white breeches. his hands were clasped behind his back, and his chin sunk forward upon his breast, in the way that was usual with him. 'well,' said he, in his hardest and most abrupt voice, 'what account do you give of yourself?' i believe that, if he had stood in silence for another minute, my brain would have given way. but those sharp military accents were exactly what i needed to bring me to myself. living or dead, here was the emperor standing before me and asking me questions. i sprang to the salute. 'you have killed one, i see,' said he, jerking his head towards the beech. 'yes, sire.' 'and the other escaped?' 'no, sire, i killed him also.' 'what!' he cried. 'do i understand that you have killed them both?' he approached me as he spoke with a smile which set his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. 'one body lies there, sire,' i answered. 'the other is in the tool-house at the quarry.' 'then the brothers of ajaccio are no more,' he cried, and after a pause, as if speaking to himself: 'the shadow has passed me for ever.' then he bent forward and laid his hand upon my shoulder. 'you have done very well, my young friend,' said he. 'you have lived up to your reputation.' he was flesh and blood, then, this emperor. i could feel the little, plump palm that rested upon me. and yet i could not get over what i had seen with my own eyes, and so i stared at him in such bewilderment that he broke once more into one of his smiles. 'no, no, monsieur gerard,' said he, 'i am not a ghost, and you have not seen me killed. you will come here, and all will be clear to you.' he turned as he spoke, and led the way towards the great beech stump. the bodies were still lying upon the ground, and two men were standing beside them. as we approached i saw from the turbans that they were roustem and mustafa, the two mameluke servants. the emperor paused when he came to the grey figure upon the ground, and turning back the hood which shrouded the features, he showed a face which was very different from his own. 'here lies a faithful servant who has given up his life for his master,' said he. 'monsieur de goudin resembles me in figure and in manner, as you must admit.' what a delirium of joy came upon me when these few words made everything clear to me. he smiled again as he saw the delight which urged me to throw my arms round him and to embrace him, but he moved a step away, as if he had divined my impulse. 'you are unhurt?' he asked. 'i am unhurt, sire. but in another minute i should in my despair----' 'tut, tut!' he interrupted. 'you did very well. he should himself have been more on his guard. i saw everything which passed.' 'you saw it, sire!' 'you did not hear me follow you through the wood, then? i hardly lost sight of you from the moment that you left your quarters until poor de goudin fell. the counterfeit emperor was in front of you and the real one behind. you will now escort me back to the palace.' he whispered an order to his mamelukes, who saluted in silence and remained where they were standing. for my part, i followed the emperor with my pelisse bursting with pride. my word, i have always carried myself as a hussar should, but lasalle himself never strutted and swung his dolman as i did that night. who should clink his spurs and clatter his sabre if it were not i--i, etienne gerard--the confidant of the emperor, the chosen swordsman of the light cavalry, the man who slew the would-be assassins of napoleon? but he noticed my bearing and turned upon me like a blight. 'is that the way you carry yourself on a secret mission?' he hissed, with that cold glare in his eyes. 'is it thus that you will make your comrades believe that nothing remarkable has occurred? have done with this nonsense, monsieur, or you will find yourself transferred to the sappers, where you would have harder work and duller plumage.' that was the way with the emperor. if ever he thought that anyone might have a claim upon him, he took the first opportunity to show him the gulf that lay between. i saluted and was silent, but i must confess to you that it hurt me after all that had passed between us. he led on to the palace, where we passed through the side door and up into his own cabinet. there were a couple of grenadiers at the staircase, and their eyes started out from under their fur caps, i promise you, when they saw a young lieutenant of hussars going up to the emperor's room at midnight. i stood by the door, as i had done in the afternoon, while he flung himself down in an arm-chair, and remained silent so long that it seemed to me that he had forgotten all about me. i ventured at last upon a slight cough to remind him. 'ah, monsieur gerard,' said he, 'you are very curious, no doubt, as to the meaning of all this?' 'i am quite content, sire, if it is your pleasure not to tell me,' i answered. 'ta, ta, ta,' said he impatiently. 'these are only words. the moment that you were outside that door you would begin making inquiries about what it means. in two days your brother officers would know about it, in three days it would be all over fontainebleau, and it would be in paris on the fourth. now, if i tell you enough to appease your curiosity, there is some reasonable hope that you may be able to keep the matter to yourself.' he did not understand me, this emperor, and yet i could only bow and be silent. 'a few words will make it clear to you,' said he, speaking very swiftly and pacing up and down the room. 'they were corsicans, these two men. i had known them in my youth. we had belonged to the same society--brothers of ajaccio, as we called ourselves. it was founded in the old paoli days, you understand, and we had some strict rules of our own which were not infringed with impunity.' a very grim look came over his face as he spoke, and it seemed to me that all that was french had gone out of him, and that it was the pure corsican, the man of strong passions and of strange revenges, who stood before me. his memory had gone back to those early days of his, and for five minutes, wrapped in thought, he paced up and down the room with his quick little tiger steps. then with an impatient wave of his hands he came back to his palace and to me. 'the rules of such a society,' he continued, 'are all very well for a private citizen. in the old days there was no more loyal brother than i. but circumstances change, and it would be neither for my welfare nor for that of france that i should now submit myself to them. they wanted to hold me to it, and so brought their fate upon their own heads. these were the two chiefs of the order, and they had come from corsica to summon me to meet them at the spot which they named. i knew what such a summons meant. no man had ever returned from obeying one. on the other hand, if i did not go, i was sure that disaster would follow. i am a brother myself, you remember, and i know their ways.' again there came that hardening of his mouth and cold glitter of his eyes. 'you perceive my dilemma, monsieur gerard,' said he. 'how would you have acted yourself, under such circumstances?' 'given the word to the l th hussars, sire,' i cried. 'patrols could have swept the woods from end to end, and brought these two rascals to your feet.' he smiled, but he shook his head. 'i had very excellent reasons why i did not wish them taken alive,' said he. 'you can understand that an assassin's tongue might be as dangerous a weapon as an assassin's dagger. i will not disguise from you that i wished to avoid scandal at all cost. that was why i ordered you to take no pistols with you. that also is why my mamelukes will remove all traces of the affair, and nothing more will be heard about it. i thought of all possible plans, and i am convinced that i selected the best one. had i sent more than one guard with de goudin into the woods, then the brothers would not have appeared. they would not change their plans nor miss their chance for the sake of a single man. it was colonel lasalle's accidental presence at the moment when i received the summons which led to my choosing one of his hussars for the mission. i selected you, monsieur gerard, because i wanted a man who could handle a sword, and who would not pry more deeply into the affair than i desired. i trust that, in this respect, you will justify my choice as well as you have done in your bravery and skill.' 'sire,' i answered, 'you may rely upon it.' 'as long as i live,' said he, 'you never open your lips upon this subject.' 'i dismiss it entirely from my mind, sire. i will efface it from my recollection as if it had never been. i will promise you to go out of your cabinet at this moment exactly as i was when i entered it at four o'clock.' 'you cannot do that,' said the emperor, smiling. 'you were a lieutenant at that time. you will permit me, captain, to wish you a very good-night.' . how the brigadier held the king here, upon the lapel of my coat, you may see the ribbon of my decoration, but the medal itself i keep in a leathern pouch at home, and i never venture to take it out unless one of the modern peace generals, or some foreigner of distinction who finds himself in our little town, takes advantage of the opportunity to pay his respects to the well-known brigadier gerard. then i place it upon my breast, and i give my moustache the old marengo twist which brings a grey point into either eye. yet with it all i fear that neither they, nor you either, my friends, will ever realize the man that i was. you know me only as a civilian--with an air and a manner, it is true--but still merely as a civilian. had you seen me as i stood in the doorway of the inn at alamo, on the st of july, in the year , you would then have known what the hussar may attain to. for a month i had lingered in that accursed village, and all on account of a lance-thrust in my ankle, which made it impossible for me to put my foot to the ground. there were three besides myself at first: old bouvet, of the hussars of bercheny, jacques regnier, of the cuirassiers, and a funny little voltigeur captain whose name i forget; but they all got well and hurried on to the front, while i sat gnawing my fingers and tearing my hair, and even, i must confess, weeping from time to time as i thought of my hussars of conflans, and the deplorable condition in which they must find themselves when deprived of their colonel. i was not a chief of brigade yet, you understand, although i already carried myself like one, but i was the youngest colonel in the whole service, and my regiment was wife and children to me. it went to my heart that they should be so bereaved. it is true that villaret, the senior major, was an excellent soldier; but still, even among the best there are degrees of merit. ah, that happy july day of which i speak, when first i limped to the door and stood in the golden spanish sunshine! it was but the evening before that i had heard from the regiment. they were at pastores, on the other side of the mountains, face to face with the english--not forty miles from me by road. but how was i to get to them? the same thrust which had pierced my ankle had slain my charger. i took advice both from gomez, the landlord, and from an old priest who had slept that night in the inn, but neither of them could do more than assure me that there was not so much as a colt left upon the whole countryside. the landlord would not hear of my crossing the mountains without an escort, for he assured me that el cuchillo, the spanish guerilla chief, was out that way with his band, and that it meant a death by torture to fall into his hands. the old priest observed, however, that he did not think a french hussar would be deterred by that, and if i had had any doubts, they would of course have been decided by his remark. but a horse! how was i to get one? i was standing in the doorway, plotting and planning, when i heard the clink of shoes, and, looking up, i saw a great bearded man, with a blue cloak frogged across in military fashion, coming towards me. he was riding a big black horse with one white stocking on his near fore-leg. 'halloa, comrade!' said i, as he came up to me. 'halloa!' said he. 'i am colonel gerard, of the hussars,' said i. 'i have lain here wounded for a month, and i am now ready to rejoin my regiment at pastores.' 'i am monsieur vidal, of the commissariat,' he answered, 'and i am myself upon my way to pastores. i should be glad to have your company, colonel, for i hear that the mountains are far from safe.' 'alas,' said i, 'i have no horse. but if you will sell me yours, i will promise that an escort of hussars shall be sent back for you.' he would not hear of it, and it was in vain that the landlord told him dreadful stories of the doings of el cuchillo, and that i pointed out the duty which he owed to the army and to the country. he would not even argue, but called loudly for a cup of wine. i craftily asked him to dismount and to drink with me, but he must have seen something in my face, for he shook his head; and then, as i approached him with some thought of seizing him by the leg, he jerked his heels into his horse's flanks, and was off in a cloud of dust. my faith! it was enough to make a man mad to see this fellow riding away so gaily to join his beef-barrels, and his brandy-casks, and then to think of my five hundred beautiful hussars without their leader. i was gazing after him with bitter thoughts in my mind, when who should touch me on the elbow but the little priest whom i have mentioned. 'it is i who can help you,' he said. 'i am myself travelling south.' i put my arms about him and, as my ankle gave way at the same moment, we nearly rolled upon the ground together. 'get me to pastores,' i cried, 'and you shall have a rosary of golden beads.' i had taken one from the convent of spiritu santo. it shows how necessary it is to take what you can when you are upon a campaign, and how the most unlikely things may become useful. 'i will take you,' he said, in very excellent french, 'not because i hope for any reward, but because it is my way always to do what i can to serve my fellow-man, and that is why i am so beloved wherever i go.' with that he led me down the village to an old cow-house, in which we found a tumble-down sort of diligence, such as they used to run early in this century, between some of our remote villages. there were three old mules, too, none of which were strong enough to carry a man, but together they might draw the coach. the sight of their gaunt ribs and spavined legs gave me more delight than the whole two hundred and twenty hunters of the emperor which i have seen in their stalls at fontainebleau. in ten minutes the owner was harnessing them into the coach, with no very good will, however, for he was in mortal dread of this terrible cuchillo. it was only by promising him riches in this world, while the priest threatened him with perdition in the next, that we at last got him safely upon the box with the reins between his fingers. then he was in such a hurry to get off, out of fear lest we should find ourselves in the dark in the passes, that he hardly gave me time to renew my vows to the innkeeper's daughter. i cannot at this moment recall her name, but we wept together as we parted, and i can remember that she was a very beautiful woman. you will understand, my friends, that when a man like me, who has fought the men and kissed the women in fourteen separate kingdoms, gives a word of praise to the one or the other, it has a little meaning of its own. the little priest had seemed a trifle grave when we kissed good-bye, but he soon proved himself the best of companions in the diligence. all the way he amused me with tales of his little parish up in the mountains, and i in my turn told him stories about the camp; but, my faith, i had to pick my steps, for when i said a word too much he would fidget in his seat and his face would show the pain that i had given him. and of course it is not the act of a gentleman to talk in anything but a proper manner to a religious man, though, with all the care in the world, one's words may get out of hand sometimes. he had come from the north of spain, as he told me, and was going to see his mother in a village of estremadura, and as he spoke about her little peasant home, and her joy in seeing him, it brought my own mother so vividly to my thoughts that the tears started to my eyes. in his simplicity he showed me the little gifts which he was taking to her, and so kindly was his manner that i could readily believe him when he said he was loved wherever he went. he examined my own uniform with as much curiosity as a child, admiring the plume of my busby, and passing his fingers through the sable with which my dolman was trimmed. he drew my sword, too, and then when i told him how many men i had cut down with it, and set my finger on the notch made by the shoulder-bone of the russian emperor's aide-de-camp, he shuddered and placed the weapon under the leathern cushion, declaring that it made him sick to look at it. well, we had been rolling and creaking on our way whilst this talk had been going forward, and as we reached the base of the mountains we could hear the rumbling of cannon far away upon the right. this came from massena, who was, as i knew, besieging ciudad rodrigo. there was nothing i should have wished better than to have gone straight to him, for if, as some said, he had jewish blood in his veins, he was the best jew that i have heard of since joshua's time. if you were in sight of his beaky nose and bold, black eyes, you were not likely to miss much of what was going on. still, a siege is always a poor sort of a pick-and-shovel business, and there were better prospects with my hussars in front of the english. every mile that passed, my heart grew lighter and lighter, until i found myself shouting and singing like a young ensign fresh from st cyr, just to think of seeing all my fine horses and my gallant fellows once more. as we penetrated the mountains the road grew rougher and the pass more savage. at first we had met a few muleteers, but now the whole country seemed deserted, which is not to be wondered at when you think that the french, the english, and the guerillas had each in turn had command over it. so bleak and wild was it, one great brown wrinkled cliff succeeding another, and the pass growing narrower and narrower, that i ceased to look out, but sat in silence, thinking of this and that, of women whom i had loved and of horses which i had handled. i was suddenly brought back from my dreams, however, by observing the difficulties of my companion, who was trying with a sort of brad-awl, which he had drawn out, to bore a hole through the leathern strap which held up his water-flask. as he worked with twitching fingers the strap escaped his grasp, and the wooden bottle fell at my feet. i stooped to pick it up, and as i did so the priest silently leaped upon my shoulders and drove his brad-awl into my eye! my friends, i am, as you know, a man steeled to face every danger. when one has served from the affair of zurich to that last fatal day of waterloo, and has had the special medal, which i keep at home in a leathern pouch, one can afford to confess when one is frightened. it may console some of you, when your own nerves play you tricks, to remember that you have heard even me, brigadier gerard, say that i have been scared. and besides my terror at this horrible attack, and the maddening pain of my wound, there was a sudden feeling of loathing such as you might feel were some filthy tarantula to strike its fangs into you. i clutched the creature in both hands, and, hurling him on to the floor of the coach, i stamped on him with my heavy boots. he had drawn a pistol from the front of his soutane, but i kicked it out of his hand, and again i fell with my knees upon his chest. then, for the first time, he screamed horribly, while i, half blinded, felt about for the sword which he had so cunningly concealed. my hand had just lighted upon it, and i was dashing the blood from my face to see where he lay that i might transfix him, when the whole coach turned partly over upon its side, and my weapon was jerked out of my grasp by the shock. before i could recover myself the door was burst open, and i was dragged by the heels on to the road. but even as i was torn out on to the flint stones, and realized that thirty ruffians were standing around me, i was filled with joy, for my pelisse had been pulled over my head in the struggle and was covering one of my eyes, and it was with my wounded eye that i was seeing this gang of brigands. you see for yourself by this pucker and scar how the thin blade passed between socket and ball, but it was only at that moment, when i was dragged from the coach, that i understood that my sight was not gone for ever. the creature's intention, doubtless, was to drive it through into my brain, and indeed he loosened some portion of the inner bone of my head, so that i afterwards had more trouble from that wound than from any one of the seventeen which i have received. they dragged me out, these sons of dogs, with curses and execrations, beating me with their fists and kicking me as i lay upon the ground. i had frequently observed that the mountaineers wore cloth swathed round their feet, but never did i imagine that i should have so much cause to be thankful for it. presently, seeing the blood upon my head, and that i lay quiet, they thought that i was unconscious, whereas i was storing every ugly face among them into my memory, so that i might see them all safely hanged if ever my chance came round. brawny rascals they were, with yellow handkerchiefs round their heads, and great red sashes stuffed with weapons. they had rolled two rocks across the path, where it took a sharp turn, and it was these which had torn off one of the wheels of the coach and upset us. as to this reptile, who had acted the priest so cleverly and had told me so much of his parish and his mother, he, of course, had known where the ambuscade was laid, and had attempted to put me beyond all resistance at the moment when we reached it. i cannot tell you how frantic their rage was when they drew him out of the coach and saw the state to which i had reduced him. if he had not got all his deserts, he had, at least, something as a souvenir of his meeting with etienne gerard, for his legs dangled aimlessly about, and though the upper part of his body was convulsed with rage and pain, he sat straight down upon his feet when they tried to set him upright. but all the time his two little black eyes, which had seemed so kindly and so innocent in the coach, were glaring at me like a wounded cat, and he spat, and spat, and spat in my direction. my faith! when the wretches jerked me on to my feet again, and when i was dragged off up one of the mountain paths, i understood that a time was coming when i was to need all my courage and resource. my enemy was carried upon the shoulders of two men behind me, and i could hear his hissing and his reviling, first in one ear and then in the other, as i was hurried up the winding track. i suppose that it must have been for an hour that we ascended, and what with my wounded ankle and the pain from my eye, and the fear lest this wound should have spoiled my appearance, i have made no journey to which i look back with less pleasure. i have never been a good climber at any time, but it is astonishing what you can do, even with a stiff ankle, when you have a copper-coloured brigand at each elbow and a nine-inch blade within touch of your whiskers. we came at last to a place where the path wound over a ridge, and descended upon the other side through thick pine-trees into a valley which opened to the south. in time of peace i had little doubt that the villains were all smugglers, and that these were the secret paths by which they crossed the portuguese frontier. there were many mule-tracks, and once i was surprised to see the marks of a large horse where a stream had softened the track. these were explained when, on reaching a place where there was a clearing in the fir wood, i saw the animal itself haltered to a fallen tree. my eyes had hardly rested upon it, when i recognized the great black limbs and the white near fore-leg. it was the very horse which i had begged for in the morning. what, then, had become of commissariat vidal? was it possible that there was another frenchman in as perilous a plight as myself? the thought had hardly entered my head when our party stopped and one of them uttered a peculiar cry. it was answered from among the brambles which lined the base of a cliff at one side of a clearing, and an instant later ten or a dozen more brigands came out from amongst them, and the two parties greeted each other. the new-comers surrounded my friend of the brad-awl with cries of grief and sympathy, and then, turning upon me, they brandished their knives and howled at me like the gang of assassins that they were. so frantic were their gestures that i was convinced that my end had come, and was just bracing myself to meet it in a manner which should be worthy of my past reputation, when one of them gave an order and i was dragged roughly across the little glade to the brambles from which this new band had emerged. a narrow pathway led through them to a deep grotto in the side of the cliff. the sun was already setting outside, and in the cave itself it would have been quite dark but for a pair of torches which blazed from a socket on either side. between them there was sitting at a rude table a very singular-looking person, whom i saw instantly, from the respect with which the others addressed him, could be none other than the brigand chief who had received, on account of his dreadful character, the sinister name of el cuchillo. the man whom i had injured had been carried in and placed upon the top of a barrel, his helpless legs dangling about in front of him, and his cat's eyes still darting glances of hatred at me. i understood, from the snatches of talk which i could follow between the chief and him, that he was the lieutenant of the band, and that part of his duties was to lie in wait with his smooth tongue and his peaceful garb for travellers like myself. when i thought of how many gallant officers may have been lured to their death by this monster of hypocrisy, it gave me a glow of pleasure to think that i had brought his villainies to an end--though i feared it would be at the price of a life which neither the emperor nor the army could well spare. as the injured man still supported upon the barrel by two comrades, was explaining in spanish all that had befallen him, i was held by several of the villains in front of the table at which the chief was seated, and had an excellent opportunity of observing him. i have seldom seen any man who was less like my idea of a brigand, and especially of a brigand with such a reputation that in a land of cruelty he had earned so dark a nickname. his face was bluff and broad and bland, with ruddy cheeks and comfortable little tufts of side-whiskers, which gave him the appearance of a well-to-do grocer of the rue st antoine. he had not any of those flaring sashes or gleaming weapons which distinguished his followers, but on the contrary he wore a good broadcloth coat like a respectable father of a family, and save for his brown leggings there was nothing to indicate a life among the mountains. his surroundings, too, corresponded with himself, and beside his snuff-box upon the table there stood a great brown book, which looked like a commercial ledger. many other books were ranged along a plank between two powder-casks, and there was a great litter of papers, some of which had verses scribbled upon them. all this i took in while he, leaning indolently back in his chair, was listening to the report of his lieutenant. having heard everything, he ordered the cripple to be carried out again, and i was left with my three guards, waiting to hear my fate. he took up his pen, and tapping his forehead with the handle of it, he pursed up his lips and looked out of the corner of his eyes at the roof of the grotto. 'i suppose,' said he at last, speaking very excellent french, 'that you are not able to suggest a rhyme for the word covilha.' i answered him that my acquaintance with the spanish language was so limited that i was unable to oblige him. 'it is a rich language,' said he, 'but less prolific in rhymes than either the german or the english. that is why our best work has been done in blank verse, a form of composition which is capable of reaching great heights. but i fear that such subjects are somewhat outside the range of a hussar.' i was about to answer that if they were good enough for a guerilla, they could not be too much for the light cavalry, but he was already stooping over his half-finished verse. presently he threw down the pen with an exclamation of satisfaction, and declaimed a few lines which drew a cry of approval from the three ruffians who held me. his broad face blushed like a young girl who receives her first compliment. 'the critics are in my favour, it appears,' said he; 'we amuse ourselves in our long evenings by singing our own ballads, you understand. i have some little facility in that direction, and i do not at all despair of seeing some of my poor efforts in print before long, and with "madrid" upon the title-page, too. but we must get back to business. may i ask what your name is?' 'etienne gerard.' 'rank?' 'colonel.' 'corps?' 'the third hussars of conflans.' 'you are young for a colonel.' 'my career has been an eventful one.' 'tut, that makes it the sadder,' said he, with his bland smile. i made no answer to that, but i tried to show him by my bearing that i was ready for the worst which could befall me. 'by the way, i rather fancy that we have had some of your corps here,' said he, turning over the pages of his big brown register. 'we endeavour to keep a record of our operations. here is a heading under june th. have you not a young officer named soubiron, a tall, slight youth with light hair?' 'certainly.' 'i see that we buried him upon that date.' 'poor lad!' i cried. 'and how did he die?' 'we buried him.' 'but before you buried him?' 'you misunderstand me, colonel. he was not dead before we buried him.' 'you buried him alive!' for a moment i was too stunned to act. then i hurled myself upon the man, as he sat with that placid smile of his upon his lips, and i would have torn his throat out had the three wretches not dragged me away from him. again and again i made for him, panting and cursing, shaking off this man and that, straining and wrenching, but never quite free. at last, with my jacket torn nearly off my back and blood dripping from my wrists, i was hauled backwards in the bight of a rope and cords passed round my ankles and my arms. 'you sleek hound!' i cried. 'if ever i have you at my sword's point, i will teach you to maltreat one of my lads. you will find, you bloodthirsty beast, that my emperor has long arms, and though you lie here like a rat in its hole, the time will come when he will tear you out of it, and you and your vermin will perish together.' my faith, i have a rough side to my tongue, and there was not a hard word that i had learned in fourteen campaigns which i did not let fly at him; but he sat with the handle of his pen tapping against his forehead and his eyes squinting up at the roof as if he had conceived the idea of some new stanza. it was this occupation of his which showed me how i might get my point into him. 'you spawn!' said i; 'you think that you are safe here, but your life may be as short as that of your absurd verses, and god knows that it could not be shorter than that.' ah, you should have seen him bound from his chair when i said the words. this vile monster, who dispensed death and torture as a grocer serves out his figs, had one raw nerve then which i could prod at pleasure. his face grew livid, and those little bourgeois side-whiskers quivered and thrilled with passion. 'very good, colonel. you have said enough,' he cried, in a choking voice. 'you say that you have had a very distinguished career. i promise you also a very distinguished ending. colonel etienne gerard of the third hussars shall have a death of his own.' 'and i only beg,' said i, 'that you will not commemorate it in verse.' i had one or two little ironies to utter, but he cut me short by a furious gesture which caused my three guards to drag me from the cave. our interview, which i have told you as nearly as i can remember it, must have lasted some time, for it was quite dark when we came out, and the moon was shining very clearly in the heavens. the brigands had lighted a great fire of the dried branches of the fir-trees; not, of course, for warmth, since the night was already very sultry, but to cook their evening meal. a huge copper pot hung over the blaze, and the rascals were lying all round in the yellow glare, so that the scene looked like one of those pictures which junot stole out of madrid. there are some soldiers who profess to care nothing for art and the like, but i have always been drawn towards it myself, in which respect i show my good taste and my breeding. i remember, for example, that when lefebvre was selling the plunder after the fall of danzig, i bought a very fine picture, called 'nymphs surprised in a wood,' and i carried it with me through two campaigns, until my charger had the misfortune to put his hoof through it. i only tell you this, however, to show you that i was never a mere rough soldier like rapp or ney. as i lay in that brigands' camp, i had little time or inclination to think about such matters. they had thrown me down under a tree, the three villains squatting round and smoking their cigarettes within hands' touch of me. what to do i could not imagine. in my whole career i do not suppose that i have ten times been in as hopeless a situation. 'but courage,' thought i. 'courage, my brave boy! you were not made a colonel of hussars at twenty-eight because you could dance a cotillon. you are a picked man, etienne; a man who has come through more than two hundred affairs, and this little one is surely not going to be the last.' i began eagerly to glance about for some chance of escape, and as i did so i saw something which filled me with great astonishment. i have already told you that a large fire was burning in the centre of the glade. what with its glare, and what with the moonlight, everything was as clear as possible. on the other side of the glade there was a single tall fir-tree which attracted my attention because its trunk and lower branches were discoloured, as if a large fire had recently been lit underneath it. a clump of bushes grew in front of it which concealed the base. well, as i looked towards it, i was surprised to see projecting above the bush, and fastened apparently to the tree, a pair of fine riding boots with the toes upwards. at first i thought that they were tied there, but as i looked harder i saw that they were secured by a great nail which was hammered through the foot of each. and then, suddenly, with a thrill of horror, i understood that these were not empty boots; and moving my head a little to the right, i was able to see who it was that had been fastened there, and why a fire had been lit beneath the tree. it is not pleasant to speak or to think of horrors, my friends, and i do not wish to give any of you bad dreams tonight--but i cannot take you among the spanish guerillas without showing you what kind of men they were, and the sort of warfare that they waged. i will only say that i understood why monsieur vidal's horse was waiting masterless in the grove, and that i hoped he had met this terrible fate with sprightliness and courage, as a good frenchman ought. it was not a very cheering sight for me, as you can imagine. when i had been with their chief in the grotto i had been so carried away by my rage at the cruel death of young soubiron, who was one of the brightest lads who ever threw his thigh over a charger, that i had never given a thought to my own position. perhaps it would have been more politic had i spoken the ruffian fair, but it was too late now. the cork was drawn and i must drain the wine. besides, if the harmless commissariat man were put to such a death, what hope was there for me, who had snapped the spine of their lieutenant? no, i was doomed in any case, and it was as well perhaps that i should have put the best face on the matter. this beast could bear witness that etienne gerard had died as he had lived, and that one prisoner at least had not quailed before him. i lay there thinking of the various girls who would mourn for me, and of my dear old mother, and of the deplorable loss which i should be, both to my regiment and to the emperor, and i am not ashamed to confess to you that i shed tears as i thought of the general consternation which my premature end would give rise to. but all the time i was taking the very keenest notice of everything which might possibly help me. i am not a man who would lie like a sick horse waiting for the farrier sergeant and the pole-axe. first i would give a little tug at my ankle cords, and then another at those which were round my wrists, and all the time that i was trying to loosen them i was peering round to see if i could find something which was in my favour. there was one thing which was very evident. a hussar is but half formed without a horse, and there was my other half quietly grazing within thirty yards of me. then i observed yet another thing. the path by which we had come over the mountains was so steep that a horse could only be led across it slowly and with difficulty, but in the other direction the ground appeared to be more open, and to lead straight down into a gently-sloping valley. had i but my feet in yonder stirrups and my sabre in my hand, a single bold dash might take me out of the power of these vermin of the rocks. i was still thinking it over and straining with my wrists and my ankles, when their chief came out from his grotto, and after some talk with his lieutenant, who lay groaning near the fire, they both nodded their heads and looked across at me. he then said some few words to the band, who clapped their hands and laughed uproariously. things looked ominous, and i was delighted to feel that my hands were so far free that i could easily slip them through the cords if i wished. but with my ankles i feared that i could do nothing, for when i strained it brought such pain into my lance-wound that i had to gnaw my moustache to keep from crying out. i could only lie still, half-free and half-bound, and see what turn things were likely to take. for a little i could not make out what they were after. one of the rascals climbed up a well-grown fir-tree upon one side of the glade, and tied a rope round the top of the trunk. he then fastened another rope in the same fashion to a similar tree upon the other side. the two loose ends were now dangling down, and i waited with some curiosity, and just a little trepidation also, to see what they would do next. the whole band pulled upon one of the ropes until they had bent the strong young tree down into a semi-circle, and they then fastened it to a stump, so as to hold it so. when they had bent the other tree down in a similar fashion, the two summits were within a few feet of each other, though, as you understand, they would each spring back into their original position the instant that they were released. i already saw the diabolical plan which these miscreants had formed. 'i presume that you are a strong man, colonel,' said the chief, coming towards me with his hateful smile. 'if you will have the kindness to loosen these cords,' i answered, 'i will show you how strong i am.' 'we were all interested to see whether you were as strong as these two young saplings,' said he. 'it is our intention, you see, to tie one end of each rope round your ankles and then let the trees go. if you are stronger than the trees, then, of course, no harm would be done; if, on the other hand, the trees are stronger than you, why, in that case, colonel, we may have a souvenir of you upon each side of our little glade.' he laughed as he spoke, and at the sight of it the whole forty of them laughed also. even now if i am in my darker humour, or if i have a touch of my old lithuanian ague, i see in my sleep that ring of dark, savage faces, with their cruel eyes, and the firelight flashing upon their strong white teeth. it is astonishing--and i have heard many make the same remark--how acute one's senses become at such a crisis as this. i am convinced that at no moment is one living so vividly, so acutely, as at the instant when a violent and foreseen death overtakes one. i could smell the resinous fagots, i could see every twig upon the ground, i could hear every rustle of the branches, as i have never smelled or seen or heard save at such times of danger. and so it was that long before anyone else, before even the time when the chief had addressed me, i had heard a low, monotonous sound, far away indeed, and yet coming nearer at every instant. at first it was but a murmur, a rumble, but by the time he had finished speaking, while the assassins were untying my ankles in order to lead me to the scene of my murder, i heard, as plainly as ever i heard anything in my life, the clinking of horseshoes and the jingling of bridle-chains, with the clank of sabres against stirrup-irons. is it likely that i, who had lived with the light cavalry since the first hair shaded my lip, would mistake the sound of troopers on the march? 'help, comrades, help!' i shrieked, and though they struck me across the mouth and tried to drag me up to the trees, i kept on yelling, 'help me, my brave boys! help me, my children! they are murdering your colonel!' for the moment my wounds and my troubles had brought on a delirium, and i looked for nothing less than my five hundred hussars, kettle-drums and all, to appear at the opening of the glade. but that which really appeared was very different to anything which i had conceived. into the clear space there came galloping a fine young man upon a most beautiful roan horse. he was fresh-faced and pleasant-looking, with the most debonair bearing in the world and the most gallant way of carrying himself--a way which reminded me somewhat of my own. he wore a singular coat which had once been red all over, but which was now stained to the colour of a withered oak-leaf wherever the weather could reach it. his shoulder-straps, however, were of golden lace, and he had a bright metal helmet upon his head, with a coquettish white plume upon one side of its crest. he trotted his horse up the glade, while behind him rode four cavaliers in the same dress--all clean-shaven, with round, comely faces, looking to me more like monks than dragoons. at a short, gruff order they halted with a rattle of arms, while their leader cantered forward, the fire beating upon his eager face and the beautiful head of his charger. i knew, of course, by the strange coats that they were english. it was the first sight that i had ever had of them, but from their stout bearing and their masterful way i could see at a glance that what i had always been told was true, and that they were excellent people to fight against. 'well, well, well!' cried the young officer, in sufficiently bad french, 'what game are you up to here? who was that who was yelling for help, and what are you trying to do to him?' it was at that moment that i learned to bless those months which obriant, the descendant of the irish kings, had spent in teaching me the tongue of the english. my ankles had just been freed, so that i had only to slip my hands out of the cords, and with a single rush i had flown across, picked up my sabre where it lay by the fire, and hurled myself on to the saddle of poor vidal's horse. yes, for all my wounded ankle, i never put foot to stirrup, but was in the seat in a single bound. i tore the halter from the tree, and before these villains could so much as snap a pistol at me i was beside the english officer. 'i surrender to you, sir,' i cried; though i daresay my english was not very much better than his french. 'if you will look at that tree to the left you will see what these villains do to the honourable gentlemen who fall into their hands.' the fire had flared up at that moment, and there was poor vidal exposed before them, as horrible an object as one could see in a nightmare. 'godam!' cried the officer, and 'godam!' cried each of the four troopers, which is the same as with us when we cry 'mon dieu!' out rasped the five swords, and the four men closed up. one, who wore a sergeant's chevrons, laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. 'fight for your skin, froggy,' said he. ah, it was so fine to have a horse between my thighs and a weapon in my grip. i waved it above my head and shouted in my exultation. the chief had come forward with that odious smiling face of his. 'your excellency will observe that this frenchman is our prisoner,' said he. 'you are a rascally robber,' said the englishman, shaking his sword at him. 'it is a disgrace to us to have such allies. by my faith, if lord wellington were of my mind we would swing you up on the nearest tree.' 'but my prisoner?' said the brigand, in his suave voice. 'he shall come with us to the british camp.' 'just a word in your ear before you take him.' he approached the young officer, and then turning as quick as a flash, he fired his pistol in my face. the bullet scored its way through my hair and burst a hole on each side of my busby. seeing that he had missed me, he raised the pistol and was about to hurl it at me when the english sergeant, with a single back-handed cut, nearly severed his head from his body. his blood had not reached the ground, nor the last curse died on his lips, before the whole horde was upon us, but with a dozen bounds and as many slashes we were all safely out of the glade, and galloping down the winding track which led to the valley. it was not until we had left the ravine far behind us and were right out in the open fields that we ventured to halt, and to see what injuries we had sustained. for me, wounded and weary as i was, my heart was beating proudly, and my chest was nearly bursting my tunic to think that i, etienne gerard, had left this gang of murderers so much by which to remember me. my faith, they would think twice before they ventured again to lay hands upon one of the third hussars. so carried away was i that i made a small oration to these brave englishmen, and told them who it was that they had helped to rescue. i would have spoken of glory also, and of the sympathies of brave men, but the officer cut me short. 'that's all right,' said he. 'any injuries, sergeant?' 'trooper jones's horse hit with a pistol bullet on the fetlock.' 'trooper jones to go with us. sergeant halliday, with troopers harvey and smith, to keep to the right until they touch the vedettes of the german hussars.' so these three jingled away together, while the officer and i, followed at some distance by the trooper whose horse had been wounded, rode straight down in the direction of the english camp. very soon we had opened our hearts, for we each liked the other from the beginning. he was of the nobility, this brave lad, and he had been sent out scouting by lord wellington to see if there were any signs of our advancing through the mountains. it is one advantage of a wandering life like mine, that you learn to pick up those bits of knowledge which distinguish the man of the world. i have, for example, hardly ever met a frenchman who could repeat an english title correctly. if i had not travelled i should not be able to say with confidence that this young man's real name was milor the hon. sir russell, bart., this last being an honourable distinction, so that it was as the bart that i usually addressed him, just as in spanish one might say 'the don.' as we rode beneath the moonlight in the lovely spanish night, we spoke our minds to each other, as if we were brothers. we were both of an age, you see, both of the light cavalry also (the sixteenth light dragoons was his regiment), and both with the same hopes and ambitions. never have i learned to know a man so quickly as i did the bart. he gave me the name of a girl whom he had loved at a garden called vauxhall, and, for my own part, i spoke to him of little coralie, of the opera. he took a lock of hair from his bosom, and i a garter. then we nearly quarrelled over hussar and dragoon, for he was absurdly proud of his regiment, and you should have seen him curl his lip and clap his hand to his hilt when i said that i hoped it might never be its misfortune to come in the way of the third. finally, he began to speak about what the english call sport, and he told such stories of the money which he had lost over which of two cocks could kill the other, or which of two men could strike the other the most in a fight for a prize, that i was filled with astonishment. he was ready to bet upon anything in the most wonderful manner, and when i chanced to see a shooting star he was anxious to bet that he would see more than me, twenty-five francs a star, and it was only when i explained that my purse was in the hands of the brigands that he would give over the idea. well, we chatted away in this very amiable fashion until the day began to break, when suddenly we heard a great volley of musketry from somewhere in front of us. it was very rocky and broken ground, and i thought, although i could see nothing, that a general engagement had broken out. the bart laughed at my idea, however, and explained that the sound came from the english camp, where every man emptied his piece each morning so as to make sure of having a dry priming. 'in another mile we shall be up with the outposts,' said he. i glanced round at this, and i perceived that we had trotted along at so good a pace during the time that we were keeping up our pleasant chat, that the dragoon with the lame horse was altogether out of sight. i looked on every side, but in the whole of that vast rocky valley there was no one save only the bart and i--both of us armed, you understand, and both of us well mounted. i began to ask myself whether after all it was quite necessary that i should ride that mile which would bring me to the british outposts. now, i wish to be very clear with you on this point, my friends, for i would not have you think that i was acting dishonourably or ungratefully to the man who had helped me away from the brigands. you must remember that of all duties the strongest is that which a commanding officer owes to his men. you must also bear in mind that war is a game which is played under fixed rules, and when these rules are broken one must at once claim the forfeit. if, for example, i had given a parole, then i should have been an infamous wretch had i dreamed of escaping. but no parole had been asked of me. out of over-confidence, and the chance of the lame horse dropping behind, the bart had permitted me to get upon equal terms with him. had it been i who had taken him, i should have used him as courteously as he had me, but, at the same time, i should have respected his enterprise so far as to have deprived him of his sword, and seen that i had at least one guard beside myself. i reined up my horse and explained this to him, asking him at the same time whether he saw any breach of honour in my leaving him. he thought about it, and several times repeated that which the english say when they mean 'mon dieu.' 'you would give me the slip, would you?' said he. 'if you can give no reason against it.' 'the only reason that i can think of,' said the bart, 'is that i should instantly cut your head off if you were to attempt it.' 'two can play at that game, my dear bart,' said i. 'then we'll see who can play at it best,' he cried, pulling out his sword. i had drawn mine also, but i was quite determined not to hurt this admirable young man who had been my benefactor. 'consider,' said i, 'you say that i am your prisoner. i might with equal reason say that you are mine. we are alone here, and though i have no doubt that you are an excellent swordsman, you can hardly hope to hold your own against the best blade in the six light cavalry brigades.' his answer was a cut at my head. i parried and shore off half of his white plume. he thrust at my breast. i turned his point and cut away the other half of his cockade. 'curse your monkey-tricks!' he cried, as i wheeled my horse away from him. 'why should you strike at me?' said i. 'you see that i will not strike back.' 'that's all very well,' said he; 'but you've got to come along with me to the camp.' 'i shall never see the camp,' said i. 'i'll lay you nine to four you do,' he cried, as he made at me, sword in hand. but those words of his put something new into my head. could we not decide the matter in some better way than fighting? the bart was placing me in such a position that i should have to hurt him, or he would certainly hurt me. i avoided his rush, though his sword-point was within an inch of my neck. 'i have a proposal,' i cried. 'we shall throw dice as to which is the prisoner of the other.' he smiled at this. it appealed to his love of sport. 'where are your dice?' he cried. 'i have none.' 'nor i. but i have cards.' 'cards let it be,' said i. 'and the game?' 'i leave it to you.' 'Ã�carté, then--the best of three.' i could not help smiling as i agreed, for i do not suppose that there were three men in france who were my masters at the game. i told the bart as much as we dismounted. he smiled also as he listened. 'i was counted the best player at watier's,' said he. 'with even luck you deserve to get off if you beat me.' so we tethered our two horses and sat down one on either side of a great flat rock. the bart took a pack of cards out of his tunic, and i had only to see him shuffle to convince me that i had no novice to deal with. we cut, and the deal fell to him. my faith, it was a stake worth playing for. he wished to add a hundred gold pieces a game, but what was money when the fate of colonel etienne gerard hung upon the cards? i felt as though all those who had reason to be interested in the game--my mother, my hussars, the sixth corps d'armée, ney, massena, even the emperor himself--were forming a ring round us in that desolate valley. heavens, what a blow to one and all of them should the cards go against me! but i was confident, for my écarté play was as famous as my swordsmanship, and save old bouvet of the hussars of bercheny, who won seventy-six out of one hundred and fifty games off me, i have always had the best of a series. the first game i won right off, though i must confess that the cards were with me, and that my adversary could have done no more. in the second, i never played better and saved a trick by a finesse, but the bart voled me once, marked the king, and ran out in the second hand. my faith, we were so excited that he laid his helmet down beside him and i my busby. 'i'll lay my roan mare against your black horse,' said he. 'done!' said i. 'sword against sword.' 'done!' said i. 'saddle, bridle, and stirrups!' he cried. 'done!' i shouted. i had caught this spirit of sport from him. i would have laid my hussars against his dragoons had they been ours to pledge. and then began the game of games. oh, he played, this englishman--he played in a way that was worthy of such a stake. but i, my friends, i was superb! of the five which i had to make to win, i gained three on the first hand. the bart bit his moustache and drummed his hands, while i already felt myself at the head of my dear little rascals. on the second, i turned the king, but lost two tricks--and my score was four to his two. when i saw my next hand i could not but give a cry of delight. 'if i cannot gain my freedom on this,' thought i, 'i deserve to remain for ever in chains.' give me the cards, landlord, and i will lay them out on the table for you. here was my hand: knave and ace of clubs, queen and knave of diamonds, and king of hearts. clubs were trumps, mark you, and i had but one point between me and freedom. he knew it was the crisis, and he undid his tunic. i threw my dolman on the ground. he led the ten of spades. i took it with my ace of trumps. one point in my favour. the correct play was to clear the trumps, and i led the knave. down came the queen upon it, and the game was equal. he led the eight of spades, and i could only discard my queen of diamonds. then came the seven of spades, and the hair stood straight up on my head. we each threw down a king at the final. he had won two points, and my beautiful hand had been mastered by his inferior one. i could have rolled on the ground as i thought of it. they used to play very good écarté at watier's in the year ' . i say it--i, brigadier gerard. the last game was now four all. this next hand must settle it one way or the other. he undid his sash, and i put away my sword-belt. he was cool, this englishman, and i tried to be so also, but the perspiration would trickle into my eyes. the deal lay with him, and i may confess to you, my friends, that my hands shook so that i could hardly pick my cards from the rock. but when i raised them, what was the first thing that my eyes rested upon? it was the king, the king, the glorious king of trumps! my mouth was open to declare it when the words were frozen upon my lips by the appearance of my comrade. he held his cards in his hand, but his jaw had fallen, and his eyes were staring over my shoulder with the most dreadful expression of consternation and surprise. i whisked round, and i was myself amazed at what i saw. three men were standing quite close to us--fifteen mètres at the farthest. the middle one was of a good height, and yet not too tall--about the same height, in fact, that i am myself. he was clad in a dark uniform with a small cocked hat, and some sort of white plume upon the side. but i had little thought of his dress. it was his face, his gaunt cheeks, his beak-like nose, his masterful blue eyes, his thin, firm slit of a mouth which made one feel that this was a wonderful man, a man of a million. his brows were tied into a knot, and he cast such a glance at my poor bart from under them that one by one the cards came fluttering down from his nerveless fingers. of the two other men, one, who had a face as brown and hard as though it had been carved out of old oak, wore a bright red coat, while the other, a fine portly man with bushy side-whiskers, was in a blue jacket with gold facings. some little distance behind, three orderlies were holding as many horses, and an escort of dragoons was waiting in the rear. 'heh, crauford, what the deuce is this?' asked the thin man. 'd'you hear, sir?' cried the man with the red coat. 'lord wellington wants to know what this means.' my poor bart broke into an account of all that had occurred, but that rock-face never softened for an instant. 'pretty fine, 'pon my word, general crauford,' he broke in. 'the discipline of this force must be maintained, sir. report yourself at headquarters as a prisoner.' it was dreadful to me to see the bart mount his horse and ride off with hanging head. i could not endure it. i threw myself before this english general. i pleaded with him for my friend. i told him how i, colonel gerard, would witness what a dashing young officer he was. ah, my eloquence might have melted the hardest heart; i brought tears to my own eyes, but none to his. my voice broke, and i could say no more. 'what weight do you put on your mules, sir, in the french service?' he asked. yes, that was all this phlegmatic englishman had to answer to these burning words of mine. that was his reply to what would have made a frenchman weep upon my shoulder. 'what weight on a mule?' asked the man with the red coat. 'two hundred and ten pounds,' said i. 'then you load them deucedly badly,' said lord wellington. 'remove the prisoner to the rear.' his dragoons closed in upon me, and i--i was driven mad, as i thought that the game had been in my hands, and that i ought at that moment to be a free man. i held the cards up in front of the general. 'see, my lord!' i cried; 'i played for my freedom and i won, for, as you perceive, i hold the king.' for the first time a slight smile softened his gaunt face. 'on the contrary,' said he, as he mounted his horse, 'it is i who won, for, as you perceive, my king holds you.' . how the king held the brigadier murat was undoubtedly an excellent cavalry officer, but he had too much swagger, which spoils many a good soldier. lasalle, too, was a very dashing leader, but he ruined himself with wine and folly. now i, etienne gerard, was always totally devoid of swagger, and at the same time i was very abstemious, except, maybe, at the end of a campaign, or when i met an old comrade-in-arms. for these reasons i might, perhaps, had it not been for a certain diffidence, have claimed to be the most valuable officer in my own branch of the service. it is true that i never rose to be more than a chief of brigade, but then, as everyone knows, no one had a chance of rising to the top unless he had the good fortune to be with the emperor in his early campaigns. except lasalle, and labau, and drouet, i can hardly remember any one of the generals who had not already made his name before the egyptian business. even i, with all my brilliant qualities, could only attain the head of my brigade, and also the special medal of honour, which i received from the emperor himself, and which i keep at home in a leathern pouch. but though i never rose higher than this, my qualities were very well known to those who had served with me, and also to the english. after they had captured me in the way which i described to you the other night, they kept a very good guard over me at oporto, and i promise you that they did not give such a formidable opponent a chance of slipping through their fingers. it was on the th of august that i was escorted on board the transport which was to take us to england, and behold me before the end of the month in the great prison which had been built for us at dartmoor! 'l'hôtel français, et pension,' we used to call it, for you understand that we were all brave men there, and that we did not lose our spirits because we were in adversity. it was only those officers who refused to give their parole who were confined at dartmoor, and most of the prisoners were seamen, or from the ranks. you ask me, perhaps, why it was that i did not give this parole, and so enjoy the same good treatment as most of my brother officers. well, i had two reasons, and both of them were sufficiently strong. in the first place, i had so much confidence in myself, that i was quite convinced that i could escape. in the second, my family, though of good repute, has never been wealthy, and i could not bring myself to take anything from the small income of my mother. on the other hand, it would never do for a man like me to be outshone by the bourgeois society of an english country town, or to be without the means of showing courtesies and attentions to those ladies whom i should attract. it was for these reasons that i preferred to be buried in the dreadful prison of dartmoor. i wish now to tell you of my adventures in england, and how far milor wellington's words were true when he said that his king would hold me. and first of all i may say that if it were not that i have set off to tell you about what befell myself, i could keep you here until morning with my stories about dartmoor itself, and about the singular things which occurred there. it was one of the very strangest places in the whole world, for there, in the middle of that great desolate waste, were herded together seven or eight thousand men--warriors, you understand, men of experience and courage. around there were a double wall and a ditch, and warders and soldiers; but, my faith! you could not coop men like that up like rabbits in a hutch! they would escape by twos and tens and twenties, and then the cannon would boom, and the search parties run, and we, who were left behind, would laugh and dance and shout 'vive l'empereur' until the warders would turn their muskets upon us in their passion. and then we would have our little mutinies, too, and up would come the infantry and the guns from plymouth, and that would set us yelling 'vive l'empereur' once more, as though we wished them to hear us in paris. we had lively moments at dartmoor, and we contrived that those who were about us should be lively also. you must know that the prisoners there had their own courts of justice, in which they tried their own cases, and inflicted their own punishments. stealing and quarrelling were punished--but most of all treachery. when i came there first there was a man, meunier, from rheims, who had given information of some plot to escape. well, that night, owing to some form or other which had to be gone through, they did not take him out from among the other prisoners, and though he wept and screamed, and grovelled upon the ground, they left him there amongst the comrades whom he had betrayed. that night there was a trial with a whispered accusation and a whispered defence, a gagged prisoner, and a judge whom none could see. in the morning, when they came for their man with papers for his release, there was not as much of him left as you could put upon your thumb-nail. they were ingenious people, these prisoners, and they had their own way of managing. we officers, however, lived in a separate wing, and a very singular group of people we were. they had left us our uniforms, so that there was hardly a corps which had served under victor, or massena, or ney, which was not represented there, and some had been there from the time when junot was beaten at vimiera. we had chasseurs in their green tunics, and hussars, like myself, and blue-coated dragoons, and white-fronted lancers, and voltigeurs, and grenadiers, and the men of the artillery and engineers. but the greater part were naval officers, for the english had had the better of us upon the seas. i could never understand this until i journeyed myself from oporto to plymouth, when i lay for seven days upon my back, and could not have stirred had i seen the eagle of the regiment carried off before my eyes. it was in perfidious weather like this that nelson took advantage of us. i had no sooner got into dartmoor than i began to plan to get out again, and you can readily believe that, with wits sharpened by twelve years of warfare, it was not very long before i saw my way. you must know, in the first place, that i had a very great advantage in having some knowledge of the english language. i learned it during the months that i spent before danzig, from adjutant obriant, of the regiment irlandais, who was sprung from the ancient kings of the country. i was quickly able to speak it with some facility, for i do not take long to master anything to which i set my mind. in three months i could not only express my meaning, but i could use the idioms of the people. it was obriant who taught me to say 'be jabers,' just as we might say 'ma foi'; and also 'the curse of crummle!' which means 'ventre bleu!' many a time i have seen the english smile with pleasure when they have heard me speak so much like one of themselves. we officers were put two in a cell, which was very little to my taste, for my room-mate was a tall, silent man named beaumont, of the flying artillery, who had been taken by the english cavalry at astorga. it is seldom i meet a man of whom i cannot make a friend, for my disposition and manners are--as you know them. but this fellow had never a smile for my jests, nor an ear for my sorrows, but would sit looking at me with his sullen eyes, until sometimes i thought that his two years of captivity had driven him crazy. ah, how i longed that old bouvet, or any of my comrades of the hussars, was there, instead of this mummy of a man. but such as he was i had to make the best of him, and it was very evident that no escape could be made unless he were my partner in it, for what could i possibly do without him observing me? i hinted at it, therefore, and then by degrees i spoke more plainly, until it seemed to me that i had prevailed upon him to share my lot. i tried the walls, and i tried the floor, and i tried the ceiling, but though i tapped and probed, they all appeared to be very thick and solid. the door was of iron, shutting with a spring lock, and provided with a small grating, through which a warder looked twice in every night. within there were two beds, two stools, two washstands--nothing more. it was enough for my wants, for when had i had as much during those twelve years spent in camps? but how was i to get out? night after night i thought of my five hundred hussars, and had dreadful nightmares, in which i fancied that the whole regiment needed shoeing, or that my horses were all bloated with green fodder, or that they were foundered from bogland, or that six squadrons were clubbed in the presence of the emperor. then i would awake in a cold sweat, and set to work picking and tapping at the walls once more; for i knew very well that there is no difficulty which cannot be overcome by a ready brain and a pair of cunning hands. there was a single window in our cell, which was too small to admit a child. it was further defended by a thick iron bar in the centre. it was not a very promising point of escape, as you will allow, but i became more and more convinced that our efforts must be directed towards it. to make matters worse, it only led out into the exercise yard, which was surrounded by two high walls. still, as i said to my sullen comrade, it is time to talk of the vistula when you are over the rhine. i got a small piece of iron, therefore, from the fittings of my bed, and i set to work to loosen the plaster at the top and the bottom of the bar. three hours i would work, and then leap into my bed upon the sound of the warder's step. then another three hours, and then very often another yet, for i found that beaumont was so slow and clumsy at it that it was on myself only that i could rely. i pictured to myself my third of hussars waiting just outside that window, with kettle-drums and standards and leopard-skin schabraques all complete. then i would work like a madman, until my iron was crusted with blood, as if with rust. and so, night by night, i loosened that stony plaster, and hid it away in the stuffing of my pillow, until the hour came when the iron shook; and then with one good wrench it came off in my hand, and my first step had been made towards freedom. you will ask me what better off i was, since, as i have said, a child could not have fitted through the opening. i will tell you. i had gained two things--a tool and a weapon. with the one i might loosen the stone which flanked the window. with the other i might defend myself when i had scrambled through. so now i turned my attention to that stone, and i picked and picked with the sharpened end of my bar until i had worked out the mortar all round. you understand, of course, that during the day i replaced everything in its position, and that the warder was never permitted to see a speck upon the floor. at the end of three weeks i had separated the stone, and had the rapture of drawing it through, and seeing a hole left with ten stars shining through it, where there had been but four before. all was ready for us now, and i had replaced the stone, smearing the edges of it round with a little fat and soot, so as to hide the cracks where the mortar should have been. in three nights the moon would be gone, and that seemed the best time for our attempt. i had now no doubt at all about getting into the yards, but i had very considerable misgivings as to how i was to get out again. it would be too humiliating, after trying here, and trying there, to have to go back to my hole again in despair, or to be arrested by the guards outside, and thrown into those damp underground cells which are reserved for prisoners who are caught in escaping. i set to work, therefore, to plan what i should do. i have never, as you know, had the chance of showing what i could do as a general. sometimes, after a glass or two of wine, i have found myself capable of thinking out surprising combinations, and have felt that if napoleon had intrusted me with an army corps, things might have gone differently with him. but however that may be, there is no doubt that in the small stratagems of war, and in that quickness of invention which is so necessary for an officer of light cavalry, i could hold my own against anyone. it was now that i had need of it, and i felt sure that it would not fail me. the inner wall which i had to scale was built of bricks, ft. high, with a row of iron spikes, in. apart upon the top. the outer i had only caught a glimpse of once or twice, when the gate of the exercise yard was open. it appeared to be about the same height, and was also spiked at the top. the space between the walls was over twenty feet, and i had reason to believe that there were no sentries there, except at the gates. on the other hand, i knew that there was a line of soldiers outside. behold the little nut, my friends, which i had to open with no crackers, save these two hands. one thing upon which i relied was the height of my comrade beaumont. i have already said that he was a very tall man, six feet at least, and it seemed to me that if i could mount upon his shoulders, and get my hands upon the spikes, i could easily scale the wall. could i pull my big companion up after me? that was the question, for when i set forth with a comrade, even though it be one for whom i bear no affection, nothing on earth would make me abandon him. if i climbed the wall and he could not follow me, i should be compelled to return to him. he did not seem to concern himself much about it, however, so i hoped that he had confidence in his own activity. then another very important matter was the choice of the sentry who should be on duty in front of my window at the time of our attempt. they were changed every two hours to insure their vigilance, but i, who watched them closely each night out of my window, knew that there was a great difference between them. there were some who were so keen that a rat could not cross the yard unseen, while others thought only of their own ease, and could sleep as soundly leaning upon a musket as if they were at home upon a feather bed. there was one especially, a fat, heavy man, who would retire into the shadow of the wall and doze so comfortably during his two hours, that i have dropped pieces of plaster from my window at his very feet, without his observing it. by good luck, this fellow's watch was due from twelve to two upon the night which we had fixed upon for our enterprise. as the last day passed, i was so filled with nervous agitation that i could not control myself, but ran ceaselessly about my cell, like a mouse in a cage. every moment i thought that the warder would detect the looseness of the bar, or that the sentry would observe the unmortared stone, which i could not conceal outside, as i did within. as for my companion, he sat brooding upon the end of his bed, looking at me in a sidelong fashion from time to time, and biting his nails like one who is deep in thought. 'courage, my friend!' i cried, slapping him upon the shoulder. 'you will see your guns before another month be past.' 'that is very well,' said he. 'but whither will you fly when you get free?' 'to the coast,' i answered. 'all comes right for a brave man, and i shall make straight for my regiment.' 'you are more likely to make straight for the underground cells, or for the portsmouth hulks,' said he. 'a soldier takes his chances,' i remarked. 'it is only the poltroon who reckons always upon the worst.' i raised a flush in each of his sallow cheeks at that, and i was glad of it, for it was the first sign of spirit which i had ever observed in him. for a moment he put his hand out towards his water-jug, as though he would have hurled it at me, but then he shrugged his shoulders and sat in silence once more, biting his nails, and scowling down at the floor. i could not but think, as i looked at him, that perhaps i was doing the flying artillery a very bad service by bringing him back to them. i never in my life have known an evening pass as slowly as that one. towards nightfall a wind sprang up, and as the darkness deepened it blew harder and harder, until a terrible gale was whistling over the moor. as i looked out of my window i could not catch a glimpse of a star, and the black clouds were flying low across the heavens. the rain was pouring down, and what with its hissing and splashing, and the howling and screaming of the wind, it was impossible for me to hear the steps of the sentinels. 'if i cannot hear them,' thought i, 'then it is unlikely that they can hear me'; and i waited with the utmost impatience until the time when the inspector should have come round for his nightly peep through our grating. then having peered through the darkness, and seen nothing of the sentry, who was doubtless crouching in some corner out of the rain, i felt that the moment was come. i removed the bar, pulled out the stone, and motioned to my companion to pass through. 'after you, colonel,' said he. 'will you not go first?' i asked. 'i had rather you showed me the way.' 'come after me, then, but come silently, as you value your life.' in the darkness i could hear the fellow's teeth chattering, and i wondered whether a man ever had such a partner in a desperate enterprise. i seized the bar, however, and mounting upon my stool, i thrust my head and shoulders into the hole. i had wriggled through as far as my waist, when my companion seized me suddenly by the knees, and yelled at the top of his voice: 'help! help! a prisoner is escaping!' ah, my friends, what did i not feel at that moment! of course, i saw in an instant the game of this vile creature. why should he risk his skin in climbing walls when he might be sure of a free pardon from the english for having prevented the escape of one so much more distinguished than himself? i had recognized him as a poltroon and a sneak, but i had not understood the depth of baseness to which he could descend. one who has spent his life among gentlemen and men of honour does not think of such things until they happen. the blockhead did not seem to understand that he was lost more certainly than i. i writhed back in the darkness, and seizing him by the throat, i struck him twice with my iron bar. at the first blow he yelped as a little cur does when you tread upon its paw. at the second, down he fell with a groan upon the floor. then i seated myself upon my bed, and waited resignedly for whatever punishment my gaolers might inflict upon me. but a minute passed and yet another, with no sound save the heavy, snoring breathing of the senseless wretch upon the floor. was it possible, then, that amid the fury of the storm his warning cries had passed unheeded? at first it was but a tiny hope, another minute and it was probable, another and it was certain. there was no sound in the corridor, none in the courtyard. i wiped the cold sweat from my brow, and asked myself what i should do next. one thing seemed certain. the man on the floor must die. if i left him i could not tell how short a time it might be before he gave the alarm. i dare not strike a light, so i felt about in the darkness until my hand came upon something wet, which i knew to be his head. i raised my iron bar, but there was something, my friends, which prevented me from bringing it down. in the heat of fight i have slain many men--men of honour, too, who had done me no injury. yet here was this wretch, a creature too foul to live, who had tried to work me so great a mischief, and yet i could not bring myself to crush his skull in. such deeds are very well for a spanish partida--or for that matter a sansculotte of the faubourg st antoine--but not for a soldier and a gentleman like me. however, the heavy breathing of the fellow made me hope that it might be a very long time before he recovered his senses. i gagged him, therefore, and bound him with strips of blanket to the bed, so that in his weakened condition there was good reason to think that, in any case, he might not get free before the next visit of the warder. but now again i was faced with new difficulties, for you will remember that i had relied upon his height to help me over the walls. i could have sat down and shed tears of despair had not the thought of my mother and of the emperor come to sustain me. 'courage!' said i. 'if it were anyone but etienne gerard he would be in a bad fix now; that is a young man who is not so easily caught.' i set to work therefore upon beaumont's sheet as well as my own, and by tearing them into strips and then plaiting them together, i made a very excellent rope. this i tied securely to the centre of my iron bar, which was a little over a foot in length. then i slipped out into the yard, where the rain was pouring and the wind screaming louder than ever. i kept in the shadow of the prison wall, but it was as black as the ace of spades, and i could not see my own hand in front of me. unless i walked into the sentinel i felt that i had nothing to fear from him. when i had come under the wall i threw up my bar, and to my joy it stuck the very first time between the spikes at the top. i climbed up my rope, pulled it after me, and dropped down on the other side. then i scaled the second wall, and was sitting astride among the spikes upon the top, when i saw something twinkle in the darkness beneath me. it was the bayonet of the sentinel below, and so close was it (the second wall being rather lower than the first) that i could easily, by leaning over, have unscrewed it from its socket. there he was, humming a tune to himself, and cuddling up against the wall to keep himself warm, little thinking that a desperate man within a few feet of him was within an ace of stabbing him to the heart with his own weapon. i was already bracing myself for the spring when the fellow, with an oath, shouldered his musket, and i heard his steps squelching through the mud as he resumed his beat. i slipped down my rope, and, leaving it hanging, i ran at the top of my speed across the moor. heavens, how i ran! the wind buffeted my face and buzzed in my nostrils. the rain pringled upon my skin and hissed past my ears. i stumbled into holes. i tripped over bushes. i fell among brambles. i was torn and breathless and bleeding. my tongue was like leather, my feet like lead, and my heart beating like a kettle-drum. still i ran, and i ran, and i ran. but i had not lost my head, my friends. everything was done with a purpose. our fugitives always made for the coast. i was determined to go inland, and the more so as i had told beaumont the opposite. i would fly to the north, and they would seek me in the south. perhaps you will ask me how i could tell which was which on such a night. i answer that it was by the wind. i had observed in the prison that it came from the north, and so, as long as i kept my face to it, i was going in the right direction. well, i was rushing along in this fashion when, suddenly, i saw two yellow lights shining out of the darkness in front of me. i paused for a moment, uncertain what i should do. i was still in my hussar uniform, you understand, and it seemed to me that the very first thing that i should aim at was to get some dress which should not betray me. if these lights came from a cottage, it was probable enough that i might find what i wanted there. i approached, therefore, feeling very sorry that i had left my iron bar behind; for i was determined to fight to the death before i should be retaken. but very soon i found that there was no cottage there. the lights were two lamps hung upon each side of a carriage, and by their glare i saw that a broad road lay in front of me. crouching among the bushes, i observed that there were two horses to the equipage, that a small post-boy was standing at their heads, and that one of the wheels was lying in the road beside him. i can see them now, my friends: the steaming creatures, the stunted lad with his hands to their bits, and the big, black coach, all shining with the rain, and balanced upon its three wheels. as i looked, the window was lowered, and a pretty little face under a bonnet peeped out from it. 'what shall i do?' the lady cried to the post-boy, in a voice of despair. 'sir charles is certainly lost, and i shall have to spend the night upon the moor.' 'perhaps i can be of some assistance to madame,' said i, scrambling out from among the bushes into the glare of the lamps. a woman in distress is a sacred thing to me, and this one was beautiful. you must not forget that, although i was a colonel, i was only eight-and-twenty years of age. my word, how she screamed, and how the post-boy stared! you will understand that after that long race in the darkness, with my shako broken in, my face smeared with dirt, and my uniform all stained and torn with brambles, i was not entirely the sort of gentleman whom one would choose to meet in the middle of a lonely moor. still, after the first surprise, she soon understood that i was her very humble servant, and i could even read in her pretty eyes that my manner and bearing had not failed to produce an impression upon her. 'i am sorry to have startled you, madame,' said i. 'i chanced to overhear your remark, and i could not refrain from offering you my assistance.' i bowed as i spoke. you know my bow, and can realize what its effect was upon the lady. 'i am much indebted to you, sir,' said she. 'we have had a terrible journey since we left tavistock. finally, one of our wheels came off, and here we are helpless in the middle of the moor. my husband, sir charles, has gone on to get help, and i much fear that he must have lost his way.' i was about to attempt some consolation, when i saw beside the lady a black travelling coat, faced with astrakhan, which her companion must have left behind him. it was exactly what i needed to conceal my uniform. it is true that i felt very much like a highway robber, but then, what would you have? necessity has no law, and i was in an enemy's country. 'i presume, madame, that this is your husband's coat,' i remarked. 'you will, i am sure, forgive me, if i am compelled to--' i pulled it through the window as i spoke. i could not bear to see the look of surprise and fear and disgust which came over her face. 'oh, i have been mistaken in you!' she cried. 'you came to rob me, then, and not to help me. you have the bearing of a gentleman, and yet you steal my husband's coat.' 'madame,' said i, 'i beg that you will not condemn me until you know everything. it is quite necessary that i should take this coat, but if you will have the goodness to tell me who it is who is fortunate enough to be your husband, i shall see that the coat is sent back to him.' her face softened a little, though she still tried to look severe. 'my husband,' she answered, 'is sir charles meredith, and he is travelling to dartmoor prison, upon important government business. i only ask you, sir, to go upon your way, and to take nothing which belongs to him.' 'there is only one thing which belongs to him that i covet,' said i. 'and you have taken it from the carriage,' she cried. 'no,' i answered. 'it still remains there.' she laughed in her frank english way. 'if, instead of paying me compliments, you were to return my husband's coat--' she began. 'madame,' i answered, 'what you ask is quite impossible. if you will allow me to come into the carriage, i will explain to you how necessary this coat is to me.' heaven knows into what foolishness i might have plunged myself had we not, at this instant, heard a faint halloa in the distance, which was answered by a shout from the little post-boy. in the rain and the darkness, i saw a lantern some distance from us, but approaching rapidly. 'i am sorry, madame, that i am forced to leave you,' said i. 'you can assure your husband that i shall take every care of his coat.' hurried as i was, i ventured to pause a moment to salute the lady's hand, which she snatched through the window with an admirable pretence of being offended at my presumption. then, as the lantern was quite close to me, and the post-boy seemed inclined to interfere with my flight, i tucked my precious overcoat under my arm, and dashed off into the darkness. and now i set myself to the task of putting as broad a stretch of moor between the prison and myself as the remaining hours of darkness would allow. setting my face to the wind once more, i ran until i fell from exhaustion. then, after five minutes of panting among the heather, i made another start, until again my knees gave way beneath me. i was young and hard, with muscles of steel, and a frame which had been toughened by twelve years of camp and field. thus i was able to keep up this wild flight for another three hours, during which i still guided myself, you understand, by keeping the wind in my face. at the end of that time i calculated that i had put nearly twenty miles between the prison and myself. day was about to break, so i crouched down among the heather upon the top of one of those small hills which abound in that country, with the intention of hiding myself until nightfall. it was no new thing for me to sleep in the wind and the rain, so, wrapping myself up in my thick warm cloak, i soon sank into a doze. but it was not a refreshing slumber. i tossed and tumbled amid a series of vile dreams, in which everything seemed to go wrong with me. at last, i remember, i was charging an unshaken square of hungarian grenadiers, with a single squadron upon spent horses, just as i did at elchingen. i stood in my stirrups to shout 'vive l'empereur!' and as i did so, there came the answering roar from my hussars, 'vive l'empereur!' i sprang from my rough bed, with the words still ringing in my ears, and then, as i rubbed my eyes, and wondered if i were mad, the same cry came again, five thousand voices in one long-drawn yell. i looked out from my screen of brambles, and saw in the clear light of morning the very last thing that i should either have expected or chosen. it was dartmoor prison! there it stretched, grim and hideous, within a furlong of me. had i run on for a few more minutes in the dark, i should have butted my shako against the wall. i was so taken aback at the sight, that i could scarcely realize what had happened. then it all became clear to me, and i struck my head with my hands in my despair. the wind had veered from north to south during the night, and i, keeping my face always towards it, had run ten miles out and ten miles in, winding up where i had started. when i thought of my hurry, my falls, my mad rushing and jumping, all ending in this, it seemed so absurd, that my grief changed suddenly to amusement, and i fell among the brambles, and laughed, and laughed, until my sides were sore. then i rolled myself up in my cloak and considered seriously what i should do. one lesson which i have learned in my roaming life, my friends, is never to call anything a misfortune until you have seen the end of it. is not every hour a fresh point of view? in this case i soon perceived that accident had done for me as much as the most profound cunning. my guards naturally commenced their search from the place where i had taken sir charles meredith's coat, and from my hiding-place i could see them hurrying along the road to that point. not one of them ever dreamed that i could have doubled back from there, and i lay quite undisturbed in the little bush-covered cup at the summit of my knoll. the prisoners had, of course, learned of my escape, and all day exultant yells, like that which had aroused me in the morning, resounded over the moor, bearing a welcome message of sympathy and companionship to my ears. how little did they dream that on the top of that very mound, which they could see from their windows, was lying the comrade whose escape they were celebrating? as for me--i could look down upon this poor herd of idle warriors, as they paced about the great exercise yard, or gathered in little groups, gesticulating joyfully over my success. once i heard a howl of execration, and i saw beaumont, his head all covered with bandages, being led across the yard by two of the warders. i cannot tell you the pleasure which this sight gave me, for it proved that i had not killed him, and also that the others knew the true story of what had passed. they had all known me too well to think that i could have abandoned him. all that long day i lay behind my screen of bushes, listening to the bells which struck the hours below. my pockets were filled with bread which i had saved out of my allowance, and on searching my borrowed overcoat i came upon a silver flask, full of excellent brandy and water, so that i was able to get through the day without hardship. the only other things in the pockets were a red silk handkerchief, a tortoise-shell snuff-box, and a blue envelope, with a red seal, addressed to the governor of dartmoor prison. as to the first two, i determined to send them back when i should return the coat itself. the letter caused me more perplexity, for the governor had always shown me every courtesy, and it offended my sense of honour that i should interfere with his correspondence. i had almost made up my mind to leave it under a stone upon the roadway within musket-shot of the gate. this would guide them in their search for me, however, and so, on the whole, i saw no better way than just to carry the letter with me in the hope that i might find some means of sending it back to him. meanwhile i packed it safely away in my inner-most pocket. there was a warm sun to dry my clothes, and when night fell i was ready for my journey. i promise you that there were no mistakes this time. i took the stars for my guides, as every hussar should be taught to do, and i put eight good leagues between myself and the prison. my plan now was to obtain a complete suit of clothes from the first person whom i could waylay, and i should then find my way to the north coast, where there were many smugglers and fishermen who would be ready to earn the reward which was paid by the emperor to those who brought escaping prisoners across the channel. i had taken the panache from my shako so that it might escape notice, but even with my fine overcoat i feared that sooner or later my uniform would betray me. my first care must be to provide myself with a complete disguise. when day broke, i saw a river upon my right and a small town upon my left--the blue smoke reeking up above the moor. i should have liked well to have entered it, because it would have interested me to see something of the customs of the english, which differ very much from those of other nations. much as i should have wished, however, to have seen them eat their raw meat and sell their wives, it would have been dangerous until i had got rid of my uniform. my cap, my moustache, and my speech would all help to betray me. i continued to travel towards the north therefore, looking about me continually, but never catching a glimpse of my pursuers. about midday i came to where, in a secluded valley, there stood a single small cottage without any other building in sight. it was a neat little house, with a rustic porch and a small garden in front of it, with a swarm of cocks and hens. i lay down among the ferns and watched it, for it seemed to be exactly the kind of place where i might obtain what i wanted. my bread was finished, and i was exceedingly hungry after my long journey; i determined, therefore, to make a short reconnaissance, and then to march up to this cottage, summon it to surrender, and help myself to all that i needed. it could at least provide me with a chicken and with an omelette. my mouth watered at the thought. as i lay there, wondering who could live in this lonely place, a brisk little fellow came out through the porch, accompanied by another older man, who carried two large clubs in his hands. these he handed to his young companion, who swung them up and down, and round and round, with extraordinary swiftness. the other, standing beside him, appeared to watch him with great attention, and occasionally to advise him. finally he took a rope, and began skipping like a girl, the other still gravely observing him. as you may think, i was utterly puzzled as to what these people could be, and could only surmise that the one was a doctor, and the other a patient who had submitted himself to some singular method of treatment. well, as i lay watching and wondering, the older man brought out a great-coat, and held it while the other put it on and buttoned it to his chin. the day was a warmish one, so that this proceeding amazed me even more than the other. 'at least,' thought i, 'it is evident that his exercise is over'; but, far from this being so, the man began to run, in spite of his heavy coat, and as it chanced, he came right over the moor in my direction. his companion had re-entered the house, so that this arrangement suited me admirably. i would take the small man's clothing, and hurry on to some village where i could buy provisions. the chickens were certainly tempting, but still there were at least two men in the house, so perhaps it would be wiser for me, since i had no arms, to keep away from it. i lay quietly then among the ferns. presently i heard the steps of the runner, and there he was quite close to me, with his huge coat, and the perspiration running down his face. he seemed to be a very solid man--but small--so small that i feared that his clothes might be of little use to me. when i jumped out upon him he stopped running, and looked at me in the greatest astonishment. 'blow my dickey,' said he, 'give it a name, guv'nor! is it a circus, or what?' that was how he talked, though i cannot pretend to tell you what he meant by it. 'you will excuse me, sir,' said i, 'but i am under the necessity of asking you to give me your clothes.' 'give you what?' he cried. 'your clothes.' 'well, if this don't lick cock-fighting!' said he. 'what am i to give you my clothes for?' 'because i need them.' 'and suppose i won't?' 'be jabers,' said i, 'i shall have no choice but to take them.' he stood with his hands in the pockets of his great-coat, and a most amused smile upon his square-jawed, clean-shaven face. 'you'll take them, will you?' said he. 'you're a very leery cove, by the look of you, but i can tell you that you've got the wrong sow by the ear this time. i know who you are. you're a runaway frenchy, from the prison yonder, as anyone could tell with half an eye. but you don't know who i am, else you wouldn't try such a plant as that. why, man, i'm the bristol bustler, nine stone champion, and them's my training quarters down yonder.' he stared at me as if this announcement of his would have crushed me to the earth, but i smiled at him in my turn, and looked him up and down, with a twirl of my moustache. 'you may be a very brave man, sir,' said i, 'but when i tell you that you are opposed to colonel etienne gerard, of the hussars of conflans, you will see the necessity of giving up your clothes without further parley.' 'look here, mounseer, drop it!' he cried; 'this'll end by your getting pepper.' 'your clothes, sir, this instant!' i shouted, advancing fiercely upon him. for answer he threw off his heavy great-coat, and stood in a singular attitude, with one arm out, and the other across his chest, looking at me with a curious smile. for myself, i knew nothing of the methods of fighting which these people have, but on horse or on foot, with arms or without them, i am always ready to take my own part. you understand that a soldier cannot always choose his own methods, and that it is time to howl when you are living among wolves. i rushed at him, therefore, with a warlike shout, and kicked him with both my feet. at the same moment my heels flew into the air, i saw as many flashes as at austerlitz, and the back of my head came down with a crash upon a stone. after that i can remember nothing more. when i came to myself i was lying upon a truckle-bed, in a bare, half-furnished room. my head was ringing like a bell, and when i put up my hand, there was a lump like a walnut over one of my eyes. my nose was full of a pungent smell, and i soon found that a strip of paper soaked in vinegar was fastened across my brow. at the other end of the room this terrible little man was sitting with his knee bare, and his elderly companion was rubbing it with some liniment. the latter seemed to be in the worst of tempers, and he kept up a continual scolding, which the other listened to with a gloomy face. 'never heard tell of such a thing in my life,' he was saying. 'in training for a month with all the weight of it on my shoulders, and then when i get you as fit as a trout, and within two days of fighting the likeliest man on the list, you let yourself into a by-battle with a foreigner.' 'there, there! stow your gab!' said the other, sulkily. 'you're a very good trainer, jim, but you'd be better with less jaw.' 'i should think it was time to jaw,' the elderly man answered. 'if this knee don't get well before next wednesday, they'll have it that you fought a cross, and a pretty job you'll have next time you look for a backer.' 'fought a cross!' growled the other. 'i've won nineteen battles, and no man ever so much as dared to say the word "cross" in my hearin'. how the deuce was i to get out of it when the cove wanted the very clothes off my back?' 'tut, man; you knew that the beak and the guards were within a mile of you. you could have set them on to him as well then as now. you'd have got your clothes back again all right.' 'well, strike me!' said the bustler. 'i don't often break my trainin', but when it comes to givin' up my clothes to a frenchy who couldn't hit a dint in a pat o' butter, why, it's more than i can swaller.' 'pooh, man, what are the clothes worth? d'you know that lord rufton alone has five thousand pounds on you? when you jump the ropes on wednesday, you'll carry every penny of fifty thousand into the ring. a pretty thing to turn up with a swollen knee and a story about a frenchman!' 'i never thought he'd ha' kicked,' said the bustler. 'i suppose you expected he'd fight broughton's rules, and strict p.r.? why, you silly, they don't know what fighting is in france.' 'my friends,' said i, sitting up on my bed, 'i do not understand very much of what you say, but when you speak like that it is foolishness. we know so much about fighting in france, that we have paid our little visit to nearly every capital in europe, and very soon we are coming to london. but we fight like soldiers, you understand, and not like gamins in the gutter. you strike me on the head. i kick you on the knee. it is child's play. but if you will give me a sword, and take another one, i will show you how we fight over the water.' they both stared at me in their solid, english way. 'well, i'm glad you're not dead, mounseer,' said the elder one at last. 'there wasn't much sign of life in you when the bustler and me carried you down. that head of yours ain't thick enough to stop the crook of the hardest hitter in bristol.' 'he's a game cove, too, and he came for me like a bantam,' said the other, still rubbing his knee. 'i got my old left-right in, and he went over as if he had been pole-axed. it wasn't my fault, mounseer. i told you you'd get pepper if you went on.' 'well, it's something to say all your life, that you've been handled by the finest light-weight in england,' said the older man, looking at me with an expression of congratulation upon his face. 'you've had him at his best, too--in the pink of condition, and trained by jim hunter.' 'i am used to hard knocks,' said i, unbuttoning my tunic, and showing my two musket wounds. then i bared my ankle also, and showed the place in my eye where the guerilla had stabbed me. 'he can take his gruel,' said the bustler. 'what a glutton he'd have made for the middle-weights,' remarked the trainer; 'with six months' coaching he'd astonish the fancy. it's a pity he's got to go back to prison.' i did not like that last remark at all. i buttoned up my coat and rose from the bed. 'i must ask you to let me continue my journey,' said i. 'there's no help for it, mounseer,' the trainer answered. 'it's a hard thing to send such a man as you back to such a place, but business is business, and there's a twenty pound reward. they were here this morning, looking for you, and i expect they'll be round again.' his words turned my heart to lead. 'surely, you would not betray me!' i cried. 'i will send you twice twenty pounds on the day that i set foot upon france. i swear it upon the honour of a french gentleman.' but i only got head-shakes for a reply. i pleaded, i argued, i spoke of the english hospitality and the fellowship of brave men, but i might as well have been addressing the two great wooden clubs which stood balanced upon the floor in front of me. there was no sign of sympathy upon their bull-faces. 'business is business, mounseer,' the old trainer repeated. 'besides, how am i to put the bustler into the ring on wednesday if he's jugged by the beak for aidin' and abettin' a prisoner of war? i've got to look after the bustler, and i take no risks.' this, then, was the end of all my struggles and strivings. i was to be led back again like a poor silly sheep who has broken through the hurdles. they little knew me who could fancy that i should submit to such a fate. i had heard enough to tell me where the weak point of these two men was, and i showed, as i have often showed before, that etienne gerard is never so terrible as when all hope seems to have deserted him. with a single spring i seized one of the clubs and swung it over the head of the bustler. 'come what may,' i cried, '_you_ shall be spoiled for wednesday.' the fellow growled out an oath, and would have sprung at me, but the other flung his arms round him and pinned him to the chair. 'not if i know it, bustler,' he screamed. 'none of your games while i am by. get away out of this, frenchy. we only want to see your back. run away, run away, or he'll get loose!' it was good advice, i thought, and i ran to the door, but as i came out into the open air my head swam round and i had to lean against the porch to save myself from falling. consider all that i had been through, the anxiety of my escape, the long, useless flight in the storm, the day spent amid wet ferns, with only bread for food, the second journey by night, and now the injuries which i had received in attempting to deprive the little man of his clothes. was it wonderful that even i should reach the limits of my endurance? i stood there in my heavy coat and my poor battered shako, my chin upon my chest, and my eyelids over my eyes. i had done my best, and i could do no more. it was the sound of horses' hoofs which made me at last raise my head, and there was the grey-moustached governor of dartmoor prison not ten paces in front of me, with six mounted warders behind him! 'so, colonel,' said he, with a bitter smile, 'we have found you once more.' when a brave man has done his utmost, and has failed, he shows his breeding by the manner in which he accepts his defeat. for me, i took the letter which i had in my pocket, and stepping forward, i handed it with such grace of manner as i could summon to the governor. 'it has been my misfortune, sir, to detain one of your letters,' said i. he looked at me in amazement, and beckoned to the warders to arrest me. then he broke the seal of the letter. i saw a curious expression come over his face as he read it. 'this must be the letter which sir charles meredith lost,' said he. 'it was in the pocket of his coat.' 'you have carried it for two days?' 'since the night before last.' 'and never looked at the contents?' i showed him by my manner that he had committed an indiscretion in asking a question which one gentleman should not have put to another. to my surprise he burst out into a roar of laughter. 'colonel,' said he, wiping the tears from his eyes, 'you have really given both yourself and us a great deal of unnecessary trouble. allow me to read the letter which you carried with you in your flight.' and this was what i heard:-- 'on receipt of this you are directed to release colonel etienne gerard, of the rd hussars, who has been exchanged against colonel mason, of the horse artillery, now in verdun.' and as he read it, he laughed again, and the warders laughed, and the two men from the cottage laughed, and then, as i heard this universal merriment, and thought of all my hopes and fears, and my struggles and dangers, what could a debonair soldier do but lean against the porch once more, and laugh as heartily as any of them? and of them all was it not i who had the best reason to laugh, since in front of me i could see my dear france, and my mother, and the emperor, and my horsemen; while behind lay the gloomy prison, and the heavy hand of the english king? . how the brigadier took the field against the marshal millefleurs massena was a thin, sour little fellow, and after his hunting accident he had only one eye, but when it looked out from under his cocked hat there was not much upon a field of battle which escaped it. he could stand in front of a battalion, and with a single sweep tell you if a buckle or a gaiter button were out of place. neither the officers nor the men were very fond of him, for he was, as you know, a miser, and soldiers love that their leaders should be free-handed. at the same time, when it came to work they had a very high respect for him, and they would rather fight under him than under anyone except the emperor himself, and lannes, when he was alive. after all, if he had a tight grasp upon his money-bags, there was a day also, you must remember, when that same grip was upon zurich and genoa. he clutched on to his positions as he did to his strong box, and it took a very clever man to loosen him from either. when i received his summons i went gladly to his headquarters, for i was always a great favourite of his, and there was no officer of whom he thought more highly. that was the best of serving with those good old generals, that they knew enough to be able to pick out a fine soldier when they saw one. he was seated alone in his tent, with his chin upon his hand, and his brow as wrinkled as if he had been asked for a subscription. he smiled, however, when he saw me before him. 'good day, colonel gerard.' 'good day, marshal.' 'how is the third of hussars?' 'seven hundred incomparable men upon seven hundred excellent horses.' 'and your wounds--are they healed?' 'my wounds never heal, marshal,' i answered. 'and why?' 'because i have always new ones.' 'general rapp must look to his laurels,' said he, his face all breaking into wrinkles as he laughed. 'he has had twenty-one from the enemy's bullets, and as many from larrey's knives and probes. knowing that you were hurt, colonel, i have spared you of late.' 'which hurt me most of all.' 'tut, tut! since the english got behind these accursed lines of torres vedras, there has been little for us to do. you did not miss much during your imprisonment at dartmoor. but now we are on the eve of action.' 'we advance?' 'no, retire.' my face must have shown my dismay. what, retire before this sacred dog of a wellington--he who had listened unmoved to my words, and had sent me to his land of fogs? i could have sobbed as i thought of it. 'what would you have?' cried massena impatiently. 'when one is in check, it is necessary to move the king.' 'forwards,' i suggested. he shook his grizzled head. 'the lines are not to be forced,' said he. 'i have already lost general st. croix and more men than i can replace. on the other hand, we have been here at santarem for nearly six months. there is not a pound of flour nor a jug of wine on the countryside. we must retire.' 'there are flour and wine in lisbon,' i persisted. 'tut, you speak as if an army could charge in and charge out again like your regiment of hussars. if soult were here with thirty thousand men--but he will not come. i sent for you, however, colonel gerard, to say that i have a very singular and important expedition which i intend to place under your direction.' i pricked up my ears, as you can imagine. the marshal unrolled a great map of the country and spread it upon the table. he flattened it out with his little, hairy hands. 'this is santarem,' he said pointing. i nodded. 'and here, twenty-five miles to the east, is almeixal, celebrated for its vintages and for its enormous abbey.' again i nodded; i could not think what was coming. 'have you heard of the marshal millefleurs?' asked massena. 'i have served with all the marshals,' said i, 'but there is none of that name.' 'it is but the nickname which the soldiers have given him,' said massena. 'if you had not been away from us for some months, it would not be necessary for me to tell you about him. he is an englishman, and a man of good breeding. it is on account of his manners that they have given him his title. i wish you to go to this polite englishman at almeixal.' 'yes, marshal.' 'and to hang him to the nearest tree.' 'certainly, marshal.' i turned briskly upon my heels, but massena recalled me before i could reach the opening of his tent. 'one moment, colonel,' said he; 'you had best learn how matters stand before you start. you must know, then, that this marshal millefleurs, whose real name is alexis morgan, is a man of very great ingenuity and bravery. he was an officer in the english guards, but having been broken for cheating at cards, he left the army. in some manner he gathered a number of english deserters round him and took to the mountains. french stragglers and portuguese brigands joined him, and he found himself at the head of five hundred men. with these he took possession of the abbey of almeixal, sent the monks about their business, fortified the place, and gathered in the plunder of all the country round.' 'for which it is high time he was hanged,' said i, making once more for the door. 'one instant!' cried the marshal, smiling at my impatience. 'the worst remains behind. only last week the dowager countess of la ronda, the richest woman in spain, was taken by these ruffians in the passes as she was journeying from king joseph's court to visit her grandson. she is now a prisoner in the abbey, and is only protected by her----' 'grandmotherhood,' i suggested. 'her power of paying a ransom,' said massena. 'you have three missions, then: to rescue this unfortunate lady; to punish this villain; and, if possible, to break up this nest of brigands. it will be a proof of the confidence which i have in you when i say that i can only spare you half a squadron with which to accomplish all this.' my word, i could hardly believe my ears! i thought that i should have had my regiment at the least. 'i would give you more,' said he, 'but i commence my retreat today, and wellington is so strong in horse that every trooper becomes of importance. i cannot spare you another man. you will see what you can do, and you will report yourself to me at abrantes not later than tomorrow night.' it was very complimentary that he should rate my powers so high, but it was also a little embarrassing. i was to rescue an old lady, to hang an englishman, and to break up a band of five hundred assassins--all with fifty men. but after all, the fifty men were hussars of conflans, and they had an etienne gerard to lead them. as i came out into the warm portuguese sunshine my confidence had returned to me, and i had already begun to wonder whether the medal which i had so often deserved might not be waiting for me at almeixal. you may be sure that i did not take my fifty men at hap-hazard. they were all old soldiers of the german wars, some of them with three stripes, and most of them with two. oudet and papilette, two of the best sub-officers in the regiment, were at their head. when i had them formed up in fours, all in silver grey and upon chestnut horses, with their leopard skin shabracks and their little red panaches, my heart beat high at the sight. i could not look at their weather-stained faces, with the great moustaches which bristled over their chin-straps, without feeling a glow of confidence, and, between ourselves, i have no doubt that that was exactly how they felt when they saw their young colonel on his great black war-horse riding at their head. well, when we got free of the camp and over the tagus, i threw out my advance and my flankers, keeping my own place at the head of the main body. looking back from the hills above santarem, we could see the dark lines of massena's army, with the flash and twinkle of the sabres and bayonets as he moved his regiments into position for their retreat. to the south lay the scattered red patches of the english outposts, and behind the grey smoke-cloud which rose from wellington's camp--thick, oily smoke, which seemed to our poor starving fellows to bear with it the rich smell of seething camp-kettles. away to the west lay a curve of blue sea flecked with the white sails of the english ships. you will understand that as we were riding to the east, our road lay away from both armies. our own marauders, however, and the scouting parties of the english, covered the country, and it was necessary with my small troop that i should take every precaution. during the whole day we rode over desolate hill-sides, the lower portions covered by the budding vines, but the upper turning from green to grey, and jagged along the skyline like the back of a starved horse. mountain streams crossed our path, running west to the tagus, and once we came to a deep, strong river, which might have checked us had i not found the ford by observing where houses had been built opposite each other upon either bank. between them, as every scout should know, you will find your ford. there was none to give us information, for neither man nor beast, nor any living thing except great clouds of crows, was to be seen during our journey. the sun was beginning to sink when we came to a valley clear in the centre, but shrouded by huge oak trees upon either side. we could not be more than a few miles from almeixal, so it seemed to me to be best to keep among the groves, for the spring had been an early one and the leaves were already thick enough to conceal us. we were riding then in open order among the great trunks, when one of my flankers came galloping up. 'there are english across the valley, colonel,' he cried, as he saluted. 'cavalry or infantry?' 'dragoons, colonel,' said he; 'i saw the gleam of their helmets, and heard the neigh of a horse.' halting my men i hastened to the edge of the wood. there could be no doubt about it. a party of english cavalry was travelling in a line with us, and in the same direction. i caught a glimpse of their red coats and of their flashing arms glowing and twinkling among the tree-trunks. once, as they passed through a small clearing, i could see their whole force, and i judged that they were of about the same strength as my own--a half squadron at the most. you who have heard some of my little adventures will give me credit for being quick in my decisions, and prompt in carrying them out. but here i must confess that i was in two minds. on the one hand there was the chance of a fine cavalry skirmish with the english. on the other hand, there was my mission at the abbey of almeixal, which seemed already to be so much above my power. if i were to lose any of my men, it was certain that i should be unable to carry out my orders. i was sitting my horse, with my chin in my gauntlet, looking across at the rippling gleams of light from the further wood, when suddenly one of these red-coated englishmen rode out from the cover, pointing at me and breaking into a shrill whoop and halloa as if i had been a fox. three others joined him, and one who was a bugler sounded a call, which brought the whole of them into the open. they were, as i had thought, a half squadron, and they formed a double line with a front of twenty-five, their officer--the one who had whooped at me--at their head. for my own part, i had instantly brought my own troopers into the same formation, so that there we were, hussars and dragoons, with only two hundred yards of grassy sward between us. they carried themselves well, those red-coated troopers, with their silver helmets, their high white plumes, and their long, gleaming swords; while, on the other hand, i am sure that they would acknowledge that they had never looked upon finer light horsemen than the fifty hussars of conflans who were facing them. they were heavier, it is true, and they may have seemed the smarter, for wellington used to make them burnish their metal work, which was not usual among us. on the other hand, it is well known that the english tunics were too tight for the sword-arm, which gave our men an advantage. as to bravery, foolish, inexperienced people of every nation always think that their own soldiers are braver than any others. there is no nation in the world which does not entertain this idea. but when one has seen as much as i have done, one understands that there is no very marked difference, and that although nations differ very much in discipline, they are all equally brave--except that the french have rather more courage than the rest. well, the cork was drawn and the glasses ready, when suddenly the english officer raised his sword to me as if in a challenge, and cantered his horse across the grassland. my word, there is no finer sight upon earth than that of a gallant man upon a gallant steed! i could have halted there just to watch him as he came with such careless grace, his sabre down by his horse's shoulder, his head thrown back, his white plume tossing--youth and strength and courage, with the violet evening sky above and the oak trees behind. but it was not for me to stand and stare. etienne gerard may have his faults, but, my faith, he was never accused of being backward in taking his own part. the old horse, rataplan, knew me so well that he had started off before ever i gave the first shake to the bridle. there are two things in this world that i am very slow to forget: the face of a pretty woman, and the legs of a fine horse. well, as we drew together, i kept on saying, 'where have i seen those great roan shoulders? where have i seen that dainty fetlock?' then suddenly i remembered, and as i looked up at the reckless eyes and the challenging smile, whom should i recognize but the man who had saved me from the brigands and played me for my freedom--he whose correct title was milor the hon. sir russell bart! 'bart!' i shouted. he had his arm raised for a cut, and three parts of his body open to my point, for he did not know very much about the use of the sword. as i brought my hilt to the salute he dropped his hand and stared at me. 'halloa!' said he. 'it's gerard!' you would have thought by his manner that i had met him by appointment. for my own part, i would have embraced him had he but come an inch of the way to meet me. 'i thought we were in for some sport,' said he. 'i never dreamed that it was you.' i found this tone of disappointment somewhat irritating. instead of being glad at having met a friend, he was sorry at having missed an enemy. 'i should have been happy to join in your sport, my dear bart,' said i. 'but i really cannot turn my sword upon a man who saved my life.' 'tut, never mind about that.' 'no, it is impossible. i should never forgive myself.' 'you make too much of a trifle.' 'my mother's one desire is to embrace you. if ever you should be in gascony----' 'lord wellington is coming there with , men.' 'then one of them will have a chance of surviving,' said i, laughing. 'in the meantime, put your sword in your sheath!' our horses were standing head to tail, and the bart put out his hand and patted me on the thigh. 'you're a good chap, gerard,' said he. 'i only wish you had been born on the right side of the channel.' 'i was,' said i. 'poor devil!' he cried, with such an earnestness of pity that he set me laughing again. 'but look here, gerard,' he continued; 'this is all very well, but it is not business, you know. i don't know what massena would say to it, but our chief would jump out of his riding-boots if he saw us. we weren't sent out here for a picnic--either of us.' 'what would you have?' 'well, we had a little argument about our hussars and dragoons, if you remember. i've got fifty of the sixteenth all chewing their carbine bullets behind me. you've got as many fine-looking boys over yonder, who seem to be fidgeting in their saddles. if you and i took the right flanks we should not spoil each other's beauty--though a little blood-letting is a friendly thing in this climate.' there seemed to me to be a good deal of sense in what he said. for the moment mr alexis morgan and the countess of la ronda and the abbey of almeixal went right out of my head, and i could only think of the fine level turf and of the beautiful skirmish which we might have. 'very good, bart,' said i. 'we have seen the front of your dragoons. we shall now have a look at their backs.' 'any betting?' he asked. 'the stake,' said i, 'is nothing less than the honour of the hussars of conflans.' 'well, come on!' he answered. 'if we break you, well and good--if you break us, it will be all the better for marshal millefleurs.' when he said that i could only stare at him in astonishment. 'why for marshal millefleurs?' i asked. 'it is the name of a rascal who lives out this way. my dragoons have been sent by lord wellington to see him safely hanged.' 'name of a name!' i cried. 'why, my hussars have been sent by massena for that very object.' we burst out laughing at that, and sheathed our swords. there was a whirr of steel from behind us as our troopers followed our example. 'we are allies!' he cried. 'for a day.' 'we must join forces.' 'there is no doubt of it.' and so, instead of fighting, we wheeled our half squadrons round and moved in two little columns down the valley, the shakos and the helmets turned inwards, and the men looking their neighbours up and down, like old fighting dogs with tattered ears who have learned to respect each other's teeth. the most were on the broad grin, but there were some on either side who looked black and challenging, especially the english sergeant and my own sub-officer papilette. they were men of habit, you see, who could not change all their ways of thinking in a moment. besides, papilette had lost his only brother at busaco. as for the bart and me, we rode together at the head and chatted about all that had occurred to us since that famous game of écarté of which i have told you. for my own part, i spoke to him of my adventures in england. they are a very singular people, these english. although he knew that i had been engaged in twelve campaigns, yet i am sure that the bart thought more highly of me because i had had an affair with the bristol bustler. he told me, too, that the colonel who presided over his court-martial for playing cards with a prisoner acquitted him of neglect of duty, but nearly broke him because he thought that he had not cleared his trumps before leading his suit. yes, indeed, they are a singular people. at the end of the valley the road curved over some rising ground before winding down into another wider valley beyond. we called a halt when we came to the top; for there, right in front of us, at the distance of about three miles, was a scattered, grey town, with a single enormous building upon the flank of the mountain which overlooked it. we could not doubt that we were at last in sight of the abbey that held the gang of rascals whom we had come to disperse. it was only now, i think, that we fully understood what a task lay in front of us, for the place was a veritable fortress, and it was evident that cavalry should never have been sent out upon such an errand. 'that's got nothing to do with us,' said the bart; wellington and massena can settle that between them.' 'courage!' i answered. 'piré took leipzig with fifty hussars.' 'had they been dragoons,' said the bart, laughing, 'he would have had berlin. but you are senior officer; give us a lead, and we'll see who will be the first to flinch.' 'well,' said i, 'whatever we do must be done at once, for my orders are to be on my way to abrantes by tomorrow night. but we must have some information first, and here is someone who should be able to give it to us.' there was a square, whitewashed house standing by the roadside, which appeared, from the bush hanging over the door, to be one of those wayside tabernas which are provided for the muleteers. a lantern was hung in the porch, and by its light we saw two men, the one in the brown habit of a capuchin monk, and the other girt with an apron, which showed him to be the landlord. they were conversing together so earnestly that we were upon them before they were aware of us. the innkeeper turned to fly, but one of the englishmen seized him by the hair, and held him tight. 'for mercy's sake, spare me,' he yelled. 'my house has been gutted by the french and harried by the english, and my feet have been burned by the brigands. i swear by the virgin that i have neither money nor food in my inn, and the good father abbot, who is starving upon my doorstep, will be witness to it.' 'indeed, sir,' said the capuchin, in excellent french, 'what this worthy man says is very true. he is one of the many victims to these cruel wars, although his loss is but a feather-weight compared to mine. let him go,' he added, in english, to the trooper, 'he is too weak to fly, even if he desired to.' in the light of the lantern i saw that this monk was a magnificent man, dark and bearded, with the eyes of a hawk, and so tall that his cowl came up to rataplan's ears. he wore the look of one who had been through much suffering, but he carried himself like a king, and we could form some opinion of his learning when we each heard him talk our own language as fluently as if he were born to it. 'you have nothing to fear,' said i, to the trembling innkeeper. 'as to you, father, you are, if i am not mistaken, the very man who can give us the information which we require.' 'all that i have is at your service, my son. but,' he added, with a wan smile, 'my lenten fare is always somewhat meagre, and this year it has been such that i must ask you for a crust of bread if i am to have the strength to answer your questions.' we bore two days' rations in our haversacks, so that he soon had the little he asked for. it was dreadful to see the wolfish way in which he seized the piece of dried goat's flesh which i was able to offer him. 'time presses, and we must come to the point,' said i. 'we want your advice as to the weak points of yonder abbey, and concerning the habits of the rascals who infest it.' he cried out something which i took to be latin, with his hands clasped and his eyes upturned. 'the prayer of the just availeth much,' said he, 'and yet i had not dared to hope that mine would have been so speedily answered. in me you see the unfortunate abbot of almeixal, who has been cast out by this rabble of three armies with their heretical leader. oh! to think of what i have lost!' his voice broke, and the tears hung upon his lashes. 'cheer up, sir,' said the bart. 'i'll lay nine to four that we have you back again by tomorrow night.' it is not of my own welfare that i think,' said he, 'nor even of that of my poor, scattered flock. but it is of the holy relics which are left in the sacrilegious hands of these robbers.' 'it's even betting whether they would ever bother their heads about them,' said the bart. 'but show us the way inside the gates, and we'll soon clear the place out for you.' in a few short words the good abbot gave us the very points that we wished to know. but all that he said only made our task more formidable. the walls of the abbey were forty feet high. the lower windows were barricaded, and the whole building loopholed for musketry fire. the gang preserved military discipline, and their sentries were too numerous for us to hope to take them by surprise. it was more than ever evident that a battalion of grenadiers and a couple of breaching pieces were what was needed. i raised my eyebrows, and the bart began to whistle. 'we must have a shot at it, come what may,' said he. the men had already dismounted, and, having watered their horses, were eating their suppers. for my own part i went into the sitting-room of the inn with the abbot and the bart, that we might talk about our plans. i had a little cognac in my _sauve vie_, and i divided it among us--just enough to wet our moustaches. 'it is unlikely,' said i, 'that those rascals know anything about our coming. i have seen no signs of scouts along the road. my own plan is that we should conceal ourselves in some neighbouring wood, and then, when they open their gates, charge down upon them and take them by surprise.' the bart was of opinion that this was the best that we could do, but, when we came to talk it over, the abbot made us see that there were difficulties in the way. 'save on the side of the town, there is no place within a mile of the abbey where you could shelter man or horse,' said he. 'as to the townsfolk, they are not to be trusted. i fear, my son, that your excellent plan would have little chance of success in the face of the vigilant guard which these men keep.' 'i see no other way,' answered i. 'hussars of conflans are not so plentiful that i can afford to run half a squadron of them against a forty-foot wall with five hundred infantry behind it.' 'i am a man of peace,' said the abbot, 'and yet i may, perhaps, give a word of counsel. i know these villains and their ways. who should do so better, seeing that i have stayed for a month in this lonely spot, looking down in weariness of heart at the abbey which was my own? i will tell you now what i should myself do if i were in your place.' 'pray tell us, father,' we cried, both together. 'you must know that bodies of deserters, both french and english, are continually coming in to them, carrying their weapons with them. now, what is there to prevent you and your men from pretending to be such a body, and so making your way into the abbey?' i was amazed at the simplicity of the thing, and i embraced the good abbot. the bart, however, had some objections to offer. 'that is all very well,' said he, 'but if these fellows are as sharp as you say, it is not very likely that they are going to let a hundred armed strangers into their crib. from all i have heard of mr morgan, or marshal millefleurs, or whatever the rascal's name is, i give him credit for more sense than that.' 'well, then,' i cried, 'let us send fifty in, and let them at daybreak throw open the gates to the other fifty, who will be waiting outside.' we discussed the question at great length and with much foresight and discretion. if it had been massena and wellington instead of two young officers of light cavalry, we could not have weighed it all with more judgment. at last we agreed, the bart and i, that one of us should indeed go with fifty men, under pretence of being deserters, and that in the early morning he should gain command of the gate and admit the others. the abbot, it is true, was still of opinion that it was dangerous to divide our force, but finding that we were both of the same mind, he shrugged his shoulders and gave in. 'there is only one thing that i would ask,' said he. 'if you lay hands upon this marshal millefleurs--this dog of a brigand--what will you do with him?' 'hang him,' i answered. 'it is too easy a death,' cried the capuchin, with a vindictive glow in his dark eyes. 'had i my way with him--but, oh, what thoughts are these for a servant of god to harbour!' he clapped his hands to his forehead like one who is half demented by his troubles, and rushed out of the room. there was an important point which we had still to settle, and that was whether the french or the english party should have the honour of entering the abbey first. my faith, it was asking a great deal of etienne gerard that he should give place to any man at such a time! but the poor bart pleaded so hard, urging the few skirmishes which he had seen against my four-and-seventy engagements, that at last i consented that he should go. we had just clasped hands over the matter when there broke out such a shouting and cursing and yelling from the front of the inn, that out we rushed with our drawn sabres in our hands, convinced that the brigands were upon us. you may imagine our feelings when, by the light of the lantern which hung from the porch, we saw a score of our hussars and dragoons all mixed in one wild heap, red coats and blue, helmets and busbies, pommelling each other to their hearts' content. we flung ourselves upon them, imploring, threatening, tugging at a lace collar, or at a spurred heel, until, at last, we had dragged them all apart. there they stood, flushed and bleeding, glaring at each other, and all panting together like a line of troop horses after a ten-mile chase. it was only with our drawn swords that we could keep them from each other's throats. the poor capuchin stood in the porch in his long brown habit, wringing his hands and calling upon all the saints for mercy. he was, indeed, as i found upon inquiry, the innocent cause of all the turmoil, for, not understanding how soldiers look upon such things, he had made some remark to the english sergeant that it was a pity that his squadron was not as good as the french. the words were not out of his mouth before a dragoon knocked down the nearest hussar, and then, in a moment, they all flew at each other like tigers. we would trust them no more after that, but the bart moved his men to the front of the inn, and i mine to the back, the english all scowling and silent, and our fellows shaking their fists and chattering, each after the fashion of their own people. well, as our plans were made, we thought it best to carry them out at once, lest some fresh cause of quarrel should break out between our followers. the bart and his men rode off, therefore, he having first torn the lace from his sleeves, and the gorget and sash from his uniform, so that he might pass as a simple trooper. he explained to his men what it was that was expected of them, and though they did not raise a cry or wave their weapons as mine might have done, there was an expression upon their stolid and clean-shaven faces which filled me with confidence. their tunics were left unbuttoned, their scabbards and helmets stained with dirt, and their harness badly fastened, so that they might look the part of deserters, without order or discipline. at six o'clock next morning they were to gain command of the main gate of the abbey, while at that same hour my hussars were to gallop up to it from outside. the bart and i pledged our words to it before he trotted off with his detachment. my sergeant, papilette, with two troopers, followed the english at a distance, and returned in half an hour to say that, after some parley, and the flashing of lanterns upon them from the grille, they had been admitted into the abbey. so far, then, all had gone well. it was a cloudy night with a sprinkling of rain, which was in our favour, as there was the less chance of our presence being discovered. my vedettes i placed two hundred yards in every direction, to guard against a surprise, and also to prevent any peasant who might stumble upon us from carrying the news to the abbey. oudin and papilette were to take turns of duty, while the others with their horses had snug quarters in a great wooden granary. having walked round and seen that all was as it should be, i flung myself upon the bed which the innkeeper had set apart for me, and fell into a dreamless sleep. no doubt you have heard my name mentioned as being the beau-ideal of a soldier, and that not only by friends and admirers like our fellow-townsfolk, but also by old officers of the great wars who have shared the fortunes of those famous campaigns with me. truth and modesty compel me to say, however, that this is not so. there are some gifts which i lack--very few, no doubt--but, still, amid the vast armies of the emperor there may have been some who were free from those blemishes which stood between me and perfection. of bravery i say nothing. those who have seen me in the field are best fitted to speak about that. i have often heard the soldiers discussing round the camp-fires as to who was the bravest man in the grand army. some said murat, and some said lasalle, and some ney; but for my own part, when they asked me, i merely shrugged my shoulders and smiled. it would have seemed mere conceit if i had answered that there was no man braver than brigadier gerard. at the same time, facts are facts, and a man knows best what his own feelings are. but there are other gifts besides bravery which are necessary for a soldier, and one of them is that he should be a light sleeper. now, from my boyhood onwards, i have been hard to wake, and it was this which brought me to ruin upon that night. it may have been about two o'clock in the morning that i was suddenly conscious of a feeling of suffocation. i tried to call out, but there was something which prevented me from uttering a sound. i struggled to rise, but i could only flounder like a hamstrung horse. i was strapped at the ankles, strapped at the knees, and strapped again at the wrists. only my eyes were free to move, and there at the foot of my couch, by the light of a portuguese lamp, whom should i see but the abbot and the innkeeper! the latter's heavy, white face had appeared to me when i looked upon it the evening before to express nothing but stupidity and terror. now, on the contrary, every feature bespoke brutality and ferocity. never have i seen a more dreadful-looking villain. in his hand he held a long, dull-coloured knife. the abbot, on the other hand, was as polished and as dignified as ever. his capuchin gown had been thrown open, however, and i saw beneath it a black, frogged coat, such as i have seen among the english officers. as our eyes met he leaned over the wooden end of the bed and laughed silently until it creaked again. 'you will, i am sure, excuse my mirth, my dear colonel gerard,' said he. 'the fact is, that the expression upon your face when you grasped the situation was just a little funny. i have no doubt that you are an excellent soldier, but i hardly think that you are fit to measure wits with the marshal millefleurs, as your fellows have been good enough to call me. you appear to have given me credit for singularly little intelligence, which argues, if i may be allowed to say so, a want of acuteness upon your own part. indeed, with the single exception of my thick-headed compatriot, the british dragoon, i have never met anyone who was less competent to carry out such a mission.' you can imagine how i felt and how i looked, as i listened to this insolent harangue, which was all delivered in that flowery and condescending manner which had gained this rascal his nickname. i could say nothing, but they must have read my threat in my eyes, for the fellow who had played the part of the innkeeper whispered something to his companion. 'no, no, my dear chenier, he will be infinitely more valuable alive,' said he. 'by the way, colonel, it is just as well that you are a sound sleeper, for my friend here, who is a little rough in his ways, would certainly have cut your throat if you had raised any alarm. i should recommend you to keep in his good graces, for sergeant chenier, late of the th imperial light infantry, is a much more dangerous person than captain alexis morgan, of his majesty's foot-guards.' chenier grinned and shook his knife at me, while i tried to look the loathing which i felt at the thought that a soldier of the emperor could fall so low. 'it may amuse you to know,' said the marshal, in that soft, suave voice of his, 'that both your expeditions were watched from the time that you left your respective camps. i think that you will allow that chenier and i played our parts with some subtlety. we had made every arrangement for your reception at the abbey, though we had hoped to receive the whole squadron instead of half. when the gates are secured behind them, our visitors will find themselves in a very charming little mediaeval quadrangle, with no possible exit, commanded by musketry fire from a hundred windows. they may choose to be shot down; or they may choose to surrender. between ourselves, i have not the slightest doubt that they have been wise enough to do the latter. but since you are naturally interested in the matter, we thought that you would care to come with us and to see for yourself. i think i can promise you that you will find your titled friend waiting for you at the abbey with a face as long as your own.' the two villains began whispering together, debating, as far as i could hear, which was the best way of avoiding my vedettes. 'i will make sure that it is all clear upon the other side of the barn,' said the marshal at last. 'you will stay here, my good chenier, and if the prisoner gives any trouble you will know what to do.' so we were left together, this murderous renegade and i--he sitting at the end of the bed, sharpening his knife upon his boot in the light of the single smoky little oil-lamp. as to me, i only wonder now, as i look back upon it, that i did not go mad with vexation and self-reproach as i lay helplessly upon the couch, unable to utter a word or move a finger, with the knowledge that my fifty gallant lads were so close to me, and yet with no means of letting them know the straits to which i was reduced. it was no new thing for me to be a prisoner; but to be taken by these renegades, and to be led into their abbey in the midst of their jeers, befooled and out-witted by their insolent leaders--that was indeed more than i could endure. the knife of the butcher beside me would cut less deeply than that. i twitched softly at my wrists, and then at my ankles, but whichever of the two had secured me was no bungler at his work. i could not move either of them an inch. then i tried to work the handkerchief down over my mouth, but the ruffian beside me raised his knife with such a threatening snarl that i had to desist. i was lying still looking at his bull neck, and wondering whether it would ever be my good fortune to fit it for a cravat, when i heard returning steps coming down the inn passage and up the stair. what word would the villain bring back? if he found it impossible to kidnap me, he would probably murder me where i lay. for my own part, i was indifferent which it might be, and i looked at the doorway with the contempt and defiance which i longed to put into words. but you can imagine my feelings, my dear friends, when, instead of the tall figure and dark, sneering face of the capuchin, my eyes fell upon the grey pelisse and huge moustaches of my good little sub-officer, papilette! the french soldier of those days had seen too much to be ever taken by surprise. his eyes had hardly rested upon my bound figure and the sinister face beside me before he had seen how the matter lay. 'sacred name of a dog!' he growled, and out flashed his great sabre. chenier sprang forward at him with his knife, and then, thinking better of it, he darted back and stabbed frantically at my heart. for my own part, i had hurled myself off the bed on the side opposite to him, and the blade grazed my side before ripping its way through blanket and sheet. an instant later i heard the thud of a heavy fall, and then almost simultaneously a second object struck the floor--something lighter but harder, which rolled under the bed. i will not horrify you with details, my friends. suffice it that papilette was one of the strongest swordsmen in the regiment, and that his sabre was heavy and sharp. it left a red blotch upon my wrists and my ankles, as it cut the thongs which bound me. when i had thrown off my gag, the first use which i made of my lips was to kiss the sergeant's scarred cheeks. the next was to ask him if all was well with the command. yes, they had had no alarms. oudin had just relieved him, and he had come to report. had he seen the abbot? no, he had seen nothing of him. then we must form a cordon and prevent his escape. i was hurrying out to give the orders, when i heard a slow and measured step enter the door below, and come creaking up the stairs. papilette understood it all in an instant. 'you are not to kill him,' i whispered, and thrust him into the shadow on one side of the door; i crouched on the other. up he came, up and up, and every footfall seemed to be upon my heart. the brown skirt of his gown was not over the threshold before we were both on him, like two wolves on a buck. down we crashed, the three of us, he fighting like a tiger, and with such amazing strength that he might have broken away from the two of us. thrice he got to his feet, and thrice we had him over again, until papilette made him feel that there was a point to his sabre. he had sense enough then to know that the game was up, and to lie still while i lashed him with the very cords which had been round my own limbs. 'there has been a fresh deal, my fine fellow,' said i, 'and you will find that i have some of the trumps in _my_ hand this time.' 'luck always comes to the aid of a fool,' he answered. 'perhaps it is as well, otherwise the world would fall too completely into the power of the astute. so, you have killed chenier, i see. he was an insubordinate dog, and always smelt abominably of garlic. might i trouble you to lay me upon the bed? the floor of these portuguese tabernas is hardly a fitting couch for anyone who has prejudices in favour of cleanliness.' i could not but admire the coolness of the man, and the way in which he preserved the same insolent air of condescension in spite of this sudden turning of the tables. i dispatched papilette to summon a guard, whilst i stood over our prisoner with my drawn sword, never taking my eyes off him for an instant, for i must confess that i had conceived a great respect for his audacity and resource. 'i trust,' said he, 'that your men will treat me in a becoming manner.' 'you will get your deserts--you may depend upon that.' 'i ask nothing more. you may not be aware of my exalted birth, but i am so placed that i cannot name my father without treason, nor my mother without a scandal. i cannot _claim_ royal honours, but these things are so much more graceful when they are conceded without a claim. the thongs are cutting my skin. might i beg you to loosen them?' 'you do not give me credit for much intelligence,' i remarked, repeating his own words. '_touché_,' he cried, like a pinked fencer. 'but here come your men, so it matters little whether you loosen them or not.' i ordered the gown to be stripped from him and placed him under a strong guard. then, as morning was already breaking, i had to consider what my next step was to be. the poor bart and his englishmen had fallen victims to the deep scheme which might, had we adopted all the crafty suggestions of our adviser, have ended in the capture of the whole instead of the half of our force. i must extricate them if it were still possible. then there was the old lady, the countess of la ronda, to be thought of. as to the abbey, since its garrison was on the alert it was hopeless to think of capturing that. all turned now upon the value which they placed upon their leader. the game depended upon my playing that one card. i will tell you how boldly and how skilfully i played it. it was hardly light before my bugler blew the assembly, and out we trotted on to the plain. my prisoner was placed on horseback in the very centre of the troops. it chanced that there was a large tree just out of musket-shot from the main gate of the abbey, and under this we halted. had they opened the great doors in order to attack us, i should have charged home upon them; but, as i had expected, they stood upon the defensive, lining the long wall and pouring down a torrent of hootings and taunts and derisive laughter upon us. a few fired their muskets, but finding that we were out of reach they soon ceased to waste their powder. it was the strangest sight to see that mixture of uniforms, french, english, and portuguese, cavalry, infantry, and artillery, all wagging their heads and shaking their fists at us. my word, their hubbub soon died away when we opened our ranks, and showed whom we had got in the midst of us! there was silence for a few seconds, and then such a howl of rage and grief! i could see some of them dancing like mad-men upon the wall. he must have been a singular person, this prisoner of ours, to have gained the affection of such a gang. i had brought a rope from the inn, and we slung it over the lower bough of the tree. 'you will permit me, monsieur, to undo your collar,' said papilette, with mock politeness. 'if your hands are perfectly clean,' answered our prisoner, and set the whole half-squadron laughing. there was another yell from the wall, followed by a profound hush as the noose was tightened round marshal millefleurs' neck. then came a shriek from a bugle, the abbey gates flew open, and three men rushed out waving white cloths in their hands. ah, how my heart bounded with joy at the sight of them. and yet i would not advance an inch to meet them, so that all the eagerness might seem to be upon their side. i allowed my trumpeter, however, to wave a handkerchief in reply, upon which the three envoys came running towards us. the marshal, still pinioned, and with the rope round his neck, sat his horse with a half smile, as one who is slightly bored and yet strives out of courtesy not to show it. if i were in such a situation i could not wish to carry myself better, and surely i can say no more than that. they were a singular trio, these ambassadors. the one was a portuguese caçadore in his dark uniform, the second a french chasseur in the lightest green, and the third a big english artilleryman in blue and gold. they saluted, all three, and the frenchman did the talking. 'we have thirty-seven english dragoons in our hands,' said he. 'we give you our most solemn oath that they shall all hang from the abbey wall within five minutes of the death of our marshal.' 'thirty-seven!' i cried. 'you have fifty-one.' 'fourteen were cut down before they could be secured.' 'and the officer?' 'he would not surrender his sword save with his life. it was not our fault. we would have saved him if we could.' alas for my poor bart! i had met him but twice, and yet he was a man very much after my heart. i have always had a regard for the english for the sake of that one friend. a braver man and a worse swordsman i have never met. i did not, as you may think, take these rascals' word for anything. papilette was dispatched with one of them, and returned to say that it was too true. i had now to think of the living. 'you will release the thirty-seven dragoons if i free your leader?' 'we will give you ten of them.' 'up with him!' i cried. 'twenty,' shouted the chasseur. 'no more words,' said i. 'pull on the rope!' 'all of them,' cried the envoy, as the cord tightened round the marshal's neck. 'with horses and arms?' they could see that i was not a man to jest with. 'all complete,' said the chasseur, sulkily. 'and the countess of la ronda as well?' said i. but here i met with firmer opposition. no threats of mine could induce them to give up the countess. we tightened the cord. we moved the horse. we did all but leave the marshal suspended. if once i broke his neck the dragoons were dead men. it was as precious to me as to them. 'allow me to remark,' said the marshal, blandly, 'that you are exposing me to a risk of a quinsy. do you not think, since there is a difference of opinion upon this point, that it would be an excellent idea to consult the lady herself? we would neither of us, i am sure, wish to override her own inclinations.' nothing could be more satisfactory. you can imagine how quickly i grasped at so simple a solution. in ten minutes she was before us, a most stately dame, with her grey curls peeping out from under her mantilla. her face was as yellow as though it reflected the countless doubloons of her treasury. 'this gentleman,' said the marshal, 'is exceedingly anxious to convey you to a place where you will never see us more. it is for you to decide whether you would wish to go with him, or whether you prefer to remain with me.' she was at his horse's side in an instant. 'my own alexis,' she cried, 'nothing can ever part us.' he looked at me with a sneer upon his handsome face. 'by the way, you made a small slip of the tongue, my dear colonel,' said he. 'except by courtesy, no such person exists as the dowager countess of la ronda. the lady whom i have the honour to present to you is my very dear wife, mrs alexis morgan--or shall i say madame la marèchale millefleurs?' it was at this moment that i came to the conclusion that i was dealing with the cleverest, and also the most unscrupulous, man whom i had ever met. as i looked upon this unfortunate old woman my soul was filled with wonder and disgust. as for her, her eyes were raised to his face with such a look as a young recruit might give to the emperor. 'so be it,' said i at last; 'give me the dragoons and let me go.' they were brought out with their horses and weapons, and the rope was taken from the marshal's neck. 'good-bye, my dear colonel,' said he. 'i am afraid that you will have rather a lame account to give of your mission, when you find your way back to massena, though, from all i hear, he will probably be too busy to think of you. i am free to confess that you have extricated yourself from your difficulties with greater ability than i had given you credit for. i presume that there is nothing which i can do for you before you go?' 'there is one thing.' 'and that is?' 'to give fitting burial to this young officer and his men.' 'i pledge my word to it.' 'and there is one other.' 'name it.' 'to give me five minutes in the open with a sword in your hand and a horse between your legs.' 'tut, tut!' said he. 'i should either have to cut short your promising career, or else to bid adieu to my own bonny bride. it is unreasonable to ask such a request of a man in the first joys of matrimony.' i gathered my horsemen together and wheeled them into column. 'au revoir,' i cried, shaking my sword at him. 'the next time you may not escape so easily.' 'au revoir,' he answered. 'when you are weary of the emperor, you will always find a commission waiting for you in the service of the marshal millefleurs.' . how the brigadier played for a kingdom it has sometimes struck me that some of you, when you have heard me tell these little adventures of mine, may have gone away with the impression that i was conceited. there could not be a greater mistake than this, for i have always observed that really fine soldiers are free from this failing. it is true that i have had to depict myself sometimes as brave, sometimes as full of resource, always as interesting; but, then, it really was so, and i had to take the facts as i found them. it would be an unworthy affectation if i were to pretend that my career has been anything but a fine one. the incident which i will tell you tonight, however, is one which you will understand that only a modest man would describe. after all, when one has attained such a position as mine, one can afford to speak of what an ordinary man might be tempted to conceal. you must know, then, that after the russian campaign the remains of our poor army were quartered along the western bank of the elbe, where they might thaw their frozen blood and try, with the help of the good german beer, to put a little between their skin and their bones. there were some things which we could not hope to regain, for i daresay that three large commissariat fourgons would not have sufficed to carry the fingers and the toes which the army had shed during that retreat. still, lean and crippled as we were, we had much to be thankful for when we thought of our poor comrades whom we had left behind, and of the snowfields--the horrible, horrible snowfields. to this day, my friends, i do not care to see red and white together. even my red cap thrown down upon my white counterpane has given me dreams in which i have seen those monstrous plains, the reeling, tortured army, and the crimson smears which glared upon the snow behind them. you will coax no story out of me about that business, for the thought of it is enough to turn my wine to vinegar and my tobacco to straw. of the half-million who crossed the elbe in the autumn of the year ' about forty thousand infantry were left in the spring of ' . but they were terrible men, these forty thousand: men of iron, eaters of horses, and sleepers in the snow; filled, too, with rage and bitterness against the russians. they would hold the elbe until the great army of conscripts, which the emperor was raising in france, should be ready to help them to cross it once more. but the cavalry was in a deplorable condition. my own hussars were at borna, and when i paraded them first, i burst into tears at the sight of them. my fine men and my beautiful horses--it broke my heart to see the state to which they were reduced. 'but, courage,' i thought, 'they have lost much, but their colonel is still left to them.' i set to work, therefore, to repair their disasters, and had already constructed two good squadrons, when an order came that all colonels of cavalry should repair instantly to the depôts of the regiments in france to organize the recruits and the remounts for the coming campaign. you will think, doubtless, that i was over-joyed at this chance of visiting home once more. i will not deny that it was a pleasure to me to know that i should see my mother again, and there were a few girls who would be very glad at the news; but there were others in the army who had a stronger claim. i would have given my place to any who had wives and children whom they might not see again. however, there is no arguing when the blue paper with the little red seal arrives, so within an hour i was off upon my great ride from the elbe to the vosges. at last i was to have a period of quiet. war lay behind my mare's tail and peace in front of her nostrils. so i thought, as the sound of the bugles died in the distance, and the long, white road curled away in front of me through plain and forest and mountain, with france somewhere beyond the blue haze which lay upon the horizon. it is interesting, but it is also fatiguing, to ride in the rear of an army. in the harvest time our soldiers could do without supplies, for they had been trained to pluck the grain in the fields as they passed, and to grind it for themselves in their bivouacs. it was at that time of year, therefore, that those swift marches were performed which were the wonder and the despair of europe. but now the starving men had to be made robust once more, and i was forced to draw into the ditch continually as the coburg sheep and the bavarian bullocks came streaming past with waggon loads of berlin beer and good french cognac. sometimes, too, i would hear the dry rattle of the drums and the shrill whistle of the fifes, and long columns of our good little infantry men would swing past me with the white dust lying thick upon their blue tunics. these were old soldiers drawn from the garrisons of our german fortresses, for it was not until may that the new conscripts began to arrive from france. well, i was rather tired of this eternal stopping and dodging, so that i was not sorry when i came to altenburg to find that the road divided, and that i could take the southern and quieter branch. there were few wayfarers between there and greiz, and the road wound through groves of oaks and beeches, which shot their branches across the path. you will think it strange that a colonel of hussars should again and again pull up his horse in order to admire the beauty of the feathery branches and the little, green, new-budded leaves, but if you had spent six months among the fir trees of russia you would be able to understand me. there was something, however, which pleased me very much less than the beauty of the forests, and that was the words and looks of the folk who lived in the woodland villages. we had always been excellent friends with the germans, and during the last six years they had never seemed to bear us any malice for having made a little free with their country. we had shown kindnesses to the men and received them from the women, so that good, comfortable germany was a second home to all of us. but now there was something which i could not understand in the behaviour of the people. the travellers made no answer to my salute; the foresters turned their heads away to avoid seeing me; and in the villages the folk would gather into knots in the roadway and would scowl at me as i passed. even women would do this, and it was something new for me in those days to see anything but a smile in a woman's eyes when they were turned upon me. it was in the hamlet of schmolin, just ten miles out of altenburg, that the thing became most marked. i had stopped at the little inn there just to damp my moustache and to wash the dust out of poor violette's throat. it was my way to give some little compliment, or possibly a kiss, to the maid who served me; but this one would have neither the one nor the other, but darted a glance at me like a bayonet-thrust. then when i raised my glass to the folk who drank their beer by the door they turned their backs on me, save only one fellow, who cried, 'here's a toast for you, boys! here's to the letter t!' at that they all emptied their beer mugs and laughed; but it was not a laugh that had good-fellowship in it. i was turning this over in my head and wondering what their boorish conduct could mean, when i saw, as i rode from the village, a great t new carved upon a tree. i had already seen more than one in my morning's ride, but i had given no thought to them until the words of the beer-drinker gave them an importance. it chanced that a respectable-looking person was riding past me at the moment, so i turned to him for information. 'can you tell me, sir,' said i, 'what this letter t is?' he looked at it and then at me in the most singular fashion. 'young man,' said he, 'it is not the letter n.' then before i could ask further he clapped his spurs into his horses ribs and rode, stomach to earth, upon his way. at first his words had no particular significance in my mind, but as i trotted onwards violette chanced to half turn her dainty head, and my eyes were caught by the gleam of the brazen n's at the end of the bridle-chain. it was the emperor's mark. and those t's meant something which was opposite to it. things had been happening in germany, then, during our absence, and the giant sleeper had begun to stir. i thought of the mutinous faces that i had seen, and i felt that if i could only have looked into the hearts of these people i might have had some strange news to bring into france with me. it made me the more eager to get my remounts, and to see ten strong squadrons behind my kettle-drums once more. while these thoughts were passing through my head i had been alternately walking and trotting, as a man should who has a long journey before, and a willing horse beneath, him. the woods were very open at this point, and beside the road there lay a great heap of fagots. as i passed there came a sharp sound from among them, and, glancing round, i saw a face looking out at me--a hot, red face, like that of a man who is beside himself with excitement and anxiety. a second glance told me that it was the very person with whom i had talked an hour before in the village. 'come nearer!' he hissed. 'nearer still! now dismount and pretend to be mending the stirrup leather. spies may be watching us, and it means death to me if i am seen helping you.' 'death!' i whispered. 'from whom?' 'from the tugendbund. from lutzow's night-riders. you frenchmen are living on a powder magazine, and the match has been struck that will fire it.' 'but this is all strange to me,' said i, still fumbling at the leathers of my horse. 'what is this tugendbund?' 'it is the secret society which has planned the great rising which is to drive you out of germany, just as you have been driven out of russia.' 'and these t's stand for it?' 'they are the signal. i should have told you all this in the village, but i dared not be seen speaking with you. i galloped through the woods to cut you off, and concealed both my horse and myself.' 'i am very much indebted to you,' said i, 'and the more so as you are the only german that i have met today from whom i have had common civility.' 'all that i possess i have gained through contracting for the french armies,' said he. 'your emperor has been a good friend to me. but i beg that you will ride on now, for we have talked long enough. beware only of lutzow's night-riders!' 'banditti?' i asked. 'all that is best in germany,' said he. 'but for god's sake ride forwards, for i have risked my life and exposed my good name in order to carry you this warning.' well, if i had been heavy with thought before, you can think how i felt after my strange talk with the man among the fagots. what came home to me even more than his words was his shivering, broken voice, his twitching face, and his eyes glancing swiftly to right and left, and opening in horror whenever a branch cracked upon a tree. it was clear that he was in the last extremity of terror, and it is possible that he had cause, for shortly after i had left him i heard a distant gunshot and a shouting from somewhere behind me. it may have been some sportsman halloaing to his dogs, but i never again heard of or saw the man who had given me my warning. i kept a good look-out after this, riding swiftly where the country was open, and slowly where there might be an ambuscade. it was serious for me, since good miles of german soil lay in front of me; but somehow i did not take it very much to heart, for the germans had always seemed to me to be a kindly, gentle people, whose hands closed more readily round a pipe-stem than a sword-hilt--not out of want of valour, you understand, but because they are genial, open souls, who would rather be on good terms with all men. i did not know then that beneath that homely surface there lurks a devilry as fierce as, and far more persistent than, that of the castilian or the italian. and it was not long before i had shown to me that there was something more serious abroad than rough words and hard looks. i had come to a spot where the road runs upwards through a wild tract of heath-land and vanishes into an oak wood. i may have been half-way up the hill when, looking forward, i saw something gleaming under the shadow of the tree-trunks, and a man came out with a coat which was so slashed and spangled with gold that he blazed like a fire in the sunlight. he appeared to be very drunk, for he reeled and staggered as he came towards me. one of his hands was held up to his ear and clutched a great red handkerchief, which was fixed to his neck. i had reined up the mare and was looking at him with some disgust, for it seemed strange to me that one who wore so gorgeous a uniform should show himself in such a state in broad daylight. for his part, he looked hard in my direction and came slowly onwards, stopping from time to time and swaying about as he gazed at me. suddenly, as i again advanced, he screamed out his thanks to christ, and, lurching forwards, he fell with a crash upon the dusty road. his hands flew forward with the fall, and i saw that what i had taken for a red cloth was a monstrous wound, which had left a great gap in his neck, from which a dark blood-clot hung, like an epaulette upon his shoulder. 'my god!' i cried, as i sprang to his aid. 'and i thought that you were drunk!' 'not drunk, but dying,' said he. 'but thank heaven that i have seen a french officer while i have still strength to speak.' i laid him among the heather and poured some brandy down his throat. all round us was the vast countryside, green and peaceful, with nothing living in sight save only the mutilated man beside me. 'who has done this?' i asked, 'and what are you? you are french, and yet the uniform is strange to me.' 'it is that of the emperor's new guard of honour. i am the marquis of château st arnaud, and i am the ninth of my blood who has died in the service of france. i have been pursued and wounded by the night-riders of lutzow, but i hid among the brushwood yonder, and waited in the hope that a frenchman might pass. i could not be sure at first if you were friend or foe, but i felt that death was very near, and that i must take the chance.' 'keep your heart up, comrade,' said i; 'i have seen a man with a worse wound who has lived to boast of it.' 'no, no,' he whispered; 'i am going fast.' he laid his hand upon mine as he spoke, and i saw that his finger-nails were already blue. 'but i have papers here in my tunic which you must carry at once to the prince of saxe-felstein, at his castle of hof. he is still true to us, but the princess is our deadly enemy. she is striving to make him declare against us. if he does so, it will determine all those who are wavering, for the king of prussia is his uncle and the king of bavaria his cousin. these papers will hold him to us if they can only reach him before he takes the last step. place them in his hands tonight, and, perhaps, you will have saved all germany for the emperor. had my horse not been shot, i might, wounded as i am----' he choked, and the cold hand tightened into a grip, which left mine as bloodless as itself. then, with a groan, his head jerked back, and it was all over with him. here was a fine start for my journey home. i was left with a commission of which i knew little, which would lead me to delay the pressing needs of my hussars, and which at the same time was of such importance that it was impossible for me to avoid it. i opened the marquis's tunic, the brilliance of which had been devised by the emperor in order to attract those young aristocrats from whom he hoped to raise these new regiments of his guard. it was a small packet of papers which i drew out, tied up with silk, and addressed to the prince of saxe-felstein. in the corner, in a sprawling, untidy hand, which i knew to be the emperor's own, was written: 'pressing and most important.' it was an order to me, those four words--an order as clear as if it had come straight from the firm lips with the cold grey eyes looking into mine. my troopers might wait for their horses, the dead marquis might lie where i had laid him amongst the heather, but if the mare and her rider had a breath left in them the papers should reach the prince that night. i should not have feared to ride by the road through the wood, for i have learned in spain that the safest time to pass through a guerilla country is after an outrage, and that the moment of danger is when all is peaceful. when i came to look upon my map, however, i saw that hof lay further to the south of me, and that i might reach it more directly by keeping to the moors. off i set, therefore, and had not gone fifty yards before two carbine shots rang out of the brushwood and a bullet hummed past me like a bee. it was clear that the night-riders were bolder in their ways than the brigands of spain, and that my mission would have ended where it had begun if i had kept to the road. it was a mad ride, that--a ride with a loose rein, girth-deep in heather and in gorse, plunging through bushes, flying down hill-sides, with my neck at the mercy of my dear little violette. but she--she never slipped, she never faltered, as swift and as surefooted as if she knew that her rider carried the fate of all germany beneath the buttons of his pelisse. and i--i had long borne the name of being the best horseman in the six brigades of light cavalry, but i never rode as i rode then. my friend the bart had told me of how they hunt the fox in england, but the swiftest fox would have been captured by me that day. the wild pigeons which flew overhead did not take a straighter course than violette and i below. as an officer, i have always been ready to sacrifice myself for my men, though the emperor would not have thanked me for it, for he had many men, but only one--well, cavalry leaders of the first class are rare. but here i had an object which was indeed worth a sacrifice, and i thought no more of my life than of the clods of earth that flew from my darling's heels. we struck the road once more as the light was failing, and galloped into the little village of lobenstein. but we had hardly got upon the cobblestones when off came one of the mare's shoes, and i had to lead her to the village smithy. his fire was low, and his day's work done, so that it would be an hour at the least before i could hope to push on to hof. cursing at the delay, i strode into the village inn and ordered a cold chicken and some wine to be served for my dinner. it was but a few miles to hof, and i had every hope that i might deliver my papers to the prince on that very night, and be on my way for france next morning with despatches for the emperor in my bosom. i will tell you now what befell me in the inn of lobenstein. the chicken had been served and the wine drawn, and i had turned upon both as a man may who has ridden such a ride, when i was aware of a murmur and a scuffling in the hall outside my door. at first i thought that it was some brawl between peasants in their cups, and i left them to settle their own affairs. but of a sudden there broke from among the low, sullen growl of the voices such a sound as would send etienne gerard leaping from his death-bed. it was the whimpering cry of a woman in pain. down clattered my knife and my fork, and in an instant i was in the thick of the crowd which had gathered outside my door. the heavy-cheeked landlord was there and his flaxen-haired wife, the two men from the stables, a chambermaid, and two or three villagers. all of them, women and men, were flushed and angry, while there in the centre of them, with pale cheeks and terror in her eyes, stood the loveliest woman that ever a soldier would wish to look upon. with her queenly head thrown back, and a touch of defiance mingled with her fear, she looked as she gazed round her like a creature of a different race from the vile, coarse-featured crew who surrounded her. i had not taken two steps from my door before she sprang to meet me, her hand resting upon my arm and her blue eyes sparkling with joy and triumph. 'a french soldier and gentleman!' she cried. 'now at last i am safe.' 'yes, madam, you are safe,' said i, and i could not resist taking her hand in mine in order that i might reassure her. 'you have only to command me,' i added, kissing the hand as a sign that i meant what i was saying. 'i am polish,' she cried; 'the countess palotta is my name. they abuse me because i love the french. i do not know what they might have done to me had heaven not sent you to my help.' i kissed her hand again lest she should doubt my intentions. then i turned upon the crew with such an expression as i know how to assume. in an instant the hall was empty. 'countess,' said i, 'you are now under my protection. you are faint, and a glass of wine is necessary to restore you.' i offered her my arm and escorted her into my room, where she sat by my side at the table and took the refreshment which i offered her. how she blossomed out in my presence, this woman, like a flower before the sun! she lit up the room with her beauty. she must have read my admiration in my eyes, and it seemed to me that i also could see something of the sort in her own. ah! my friends, i was no ordinary-looking man when i was in my thirtieth year. in the whole light cavalry it would have been hard to find a finer pair of whiskers. murat's may have been a shade longer, but the best judges are agreed that murat's were a shade too long. and then i had a manner. some women are to be approached in one way and some in another, just as a siege is an affair of fascines and gabions in hard weather and of trenches in soft. but the man who can mix daring with timidity, who can be outrageous with an air of humility, and presumptuous with a tone of deference, that is the man whom mothers have to fear. for myself, i felt that i was the guardian of this lonely lady, and knowing what a dangerous man i had to deal with, i kept strict watch upon myself. still, even a guardian has his privileges, and i did not neglect them. but her talk was as charming as her face. in a few words she explained that she was travelling to poland, and that her brother who had been her escort had fallen ill upon the way. she had more than once met with ill-treatment from the country folk because she could not conceal her good-will towards the french. then turning from her own affairs she questioned me about the army, and so came round to myself and my own exploits. they were familiar to her, she said, for she knew several of poniatowski's officers, and they had spoken of my doings. yet she would be glad to hear them from my own lips. never have i had so delightful a conversation. most women make the mistake of talking rather too much about their own affairs, but this one listened to my tales just as you are listening now, ever asking for more and more and more. the hours slipped rapidly by, and it was with horror that i heard the village clock strike eleven, and so learned that for four hours i had forgotten the emperor's business. 'pardon me, my dear lady,' i cried, springing to my feet, 'but i must go on instantly to hof.' she rose also, and looked at me with a pale, reproachful face. 'and me?' she said. 'what is to become of me?' 'it is the emperor's affair. i have already stayed far too long. my duty calls me, and i must go.' 'you must go? and i must be abandoned alone to these savages? oh, why did i ever meet you? why did you ever teach me to rely upon your strength?' her eyes glazed over, and in an instant she was sobbing upon my bosom. here was a trying moment for a guardian! here was a time when he had to keep a watch upon a forward young officer. but i was equal to it. i smoothed her rich brown hair and whispered such consolations as i could think of in her ear, with one arm round her, it is true, but that was to hold her lest she should faint. she turned her tear-stained face to mine. 'water,' she whispered. 'for god's sake, water!' i saw that in another moment she would be senseless. i laid the drooping head upon the sofa, and then rushed furiously from the room, hunting from chamber to chamber for a carafe. it was some minutes before i could get one and hurry back with it. you can imagine my feelings to find the room empty and the lady gone. not only was she gone, but her cap and silver-mounted riding switch which had lain upon the table were gone also. i rushed out and roared for the landlord. he knew nothing of the matter, had never seen the woman before, and did not care if he never saw her again. had the peasants at the door seen anyone ride away? no, they had seen nobody. i searched here and searched there, until at last i chanced to find myself in front of a mirror, where i stood with my eyes staring and my jaw as far dropped as the chin-strap of my shako would allow. four buttons of my pelisse were open, and it did not need me to put my hand up to know that my precious papers were gone. oh! the depth of cunning that lurks in a woman's heart. she had robbed me, this creature, robbed me as she clung to my breast. even while i smoothed her hair, and whispered kind words into her ear, her hands had been at work beneath my dolman. and here i was, at the very last step of my journey, without the power of carrying out this mission which had already deprived one good man of his life, and was likely to rob another one of his credit. what would the emperor say when he heard that i had lost his despatches? would the army believe it of etienne gerard? and when they heard that a woman's hand had coaxed them from me, what laughter there would be at mess-table and at camp-fire! i could have rolled upon the ground in my despair. but one thing was certain--all this affair of the fracas in the hall and the persecution of the so-called countess was a piece of acting from the beginning. this villainous innkeeper must be in the plot. from him i might learn who she was and where my papers had gone. i snatched my sabre from the table and rushed out in search of him. but the scoundrel had guessed what i would do, and had made his preparations for me. it was in the corner of the yard that i found him, a blunderbuss in his hands and a mastiff held upon a leash by his son. the two stable-hands, with pitchforks, stood upon either side, and the wife held a great lantern behind him, so as to guide his aim. 'ride away, sir, ride away!' he cried, with a crackling voice. 'your horse is at the door, and no one will meddle with you if you go your way; but if you come against us, you are alone against three brave men.' i had only the dog to fear, for the two forks and the blunderbuss were shaking about like branches in a wind. still, i considered that, though i might force an answer with my sword-point at the throat of this fat rascal, still i should have no means of knowing whether that answer was the truth. it would be a struggle, then, with much to lose and nothing certain to gain. i looked them up and down, therefore, in a way that set their foolish weapons shaking worse than ever, and then, throwing myself upon my mare, i galloped away with the shrill laughter of the landlady jarring upon my ears. i had already formed my resolution. although i had lost my papers, i could make a very good guess as to what their contents would be, and this i would say from my own lips to the prince of saxe-felstein, as though the emperor had commissioned me to convey it in that way. it was a bold stroke and a dangerous one, but if i went too far i could afterwards be disavowed. it was that or nothing, and when all germany hung on the balance the game should not be lost if the nerve of one man could save it. it was midnight when i rode into hof, but every window was blazing, which was enough it itself, in that sleepy country, to tell the ferment of excitement in which the people were. there was hooting and jeering as i rode through the crowded streets, and once a stone sang past my head, but i kept upon my way, neither slowing nor quickening my pace, until i came to the palace. it was lit from base to battlement, and the dark shadows, coming and going against the yellow glare, spoke of the turmoil within. for my part, i handed my mare to a groom at the gate, and striding in i demanded, in such a voice as an ambassador should have, to see the prince instantly, upon business which would brook no delay. the hall was dark, but i was conscious as i entered of a buzz of innumerable voices, which hushed into silence as i loudly proclaimed my mission. some great meeting was being held then--a meeting which, as my instincts told me, was to decide this very question of war and peace. it was possible that i might still be in time to turn the scale for the emperor and for france. as to the major-domo, he looked blackly at me, and showing me into a small ante-chamber he left me. a minute later he returned to say that the prince could not be disturbed at present, but that the princess would take my message. the princess! what use was there in giving it to her? had i not been warned that she was german in heart and soul, and that it was she who was turning her husband and her state against us? 'it is the prince that i must see,' said i. 'nay, it is the princess,' said a voice at the door, and a woman swept into the chamber. 'von rosen, you had best stay with us. now, sir, what is it that you have to say to either prince or princess of saxe-felstein?' at the first sound of the voice i had sprung to my feet. at the first glance i had thrilled with anger. not twice in a lifetime does one meet that noble figure, that queenly head, and those eyes as blue as the garonne, and as chilling as her winter waters. 'time presses, sir!' she cried, with an impatient tap of her foot. 'what have you to say to me?' 'what have i to say to you?' i cried. 'what can i say, save that you have taught me never to trust a woman more? you have ruined and dishonoured me for ever.' she looked with arched brows at her attendant. 'is this the raving of fever, or does it come from some less innocent cause?' said she. 'perhaps a little blood-letting--' 'ah, you can act!' i cried. 'you have shown me that already.' 'do you mean that we have met before?' 'i mean that you have robbed me within the last two hours.' 'this is past all bearing,' she cried, with an admirable affectation of anger. 'you claim, as i understand, to be an ambassador, but there are limits to the privileges which such an office brings with it.' 'you brazen it admirably,' said i. 'your highness will not make a fool of me twice in one night.' i sprang forward and, stooping down, caught up the hem of her dress. 'you would have done well to change it after you had ridden so far and so fast,' said i. it was like the dawn upon a snow-peak to see her ivory cheeks flush suddenly to crimson. 'insolent!' she cried. 'call the foresters and have him thrust from the palace' 'i will see the prince first.' 'you will never see the prince. ah! hold him, von rosen, hold him.' she had forgotten the man with whom she had to deal--was it likely that i would wait until they could bring their rascals? she had shown me her cards too soon. her game was to stand between me and her husband. mine was to speak face to face with him at any cost. one spring took me out of the chamber. in another i had crossed the hall. an instant later i had burst into the great room from which the murmur of the meeting had come. at the far end i saw a figure upon a high chair under a daïs. beneath him was a line of high dignitaries, and then on every side i saw vaguely the heads of a vast assembly. into the centre of the room i strode, my sabre clanking, my shako under my arm. 'i am the messenger of the emperor,' i shouted. 'i bear his message to his highness the prince of saxe-felstein.' the man beneath the daïs raised his head, and i saw that his face was thin and wan, and that his back was bowed as though some huge burden was balanced between his shoulders. 'your name, sir?' he asked. 'colonel etienne gerard, of the third hussars.' every face in the gathering was turned upon me, and i heard the rustle of the innumerable necks and saw countless eyes without meeting one friendly one amongst them. the woman had swept past me, and was whispering, with many shakes of her head and dartings of her hands, into the prince's ear. for my own part i threw out my chest and curled my moustache, glancing round in my own debonair fashion at the assembly. they were men, all of them, professors from the college, a sprinkling of their students, soldiers, gentlemen, artisans, all very silent and serious. in one corner there sat a group of men in black, with riding-coats drawn over their shoulders. they leaned their heads to each other, whispering under their breath, and with every movement i caught the clank of their sabres or the clink of their spurs. 'the emperor's private letter to me informs me that it is the marquis château st arnaud who is bearing his despatches,' said the prince. 'the marquis has been foully murdered,' i answered, and a buzz rose up from the people as i spoke. many heads were turned, i noticed, towards the dark men in the cloaks. 'where are your papers?' asked the prince. 'i have none.' a fierce clamour rose instantly around me. 'he is a spy! he plays a part!' they cried. 'hang him!' roared a deep voice from the corner, and a dozen others took up the shout. for my part, i drew out my handkerchief and nicked the dust from the fur of my pelisse. the prince held out his thin hands, and the tumult died away. 'where, then, are your credentials, and what is your message?' 'my uniform is my credential, and my message is for your private ear.' he passed his hand over his forehead with the gesture of a weak man who is at his wits' end what to do. the princess stood beside him with her hand upon his throne, and again whispered in his ear. 'we are here in council together, some of my trusty subjects and myself,' said he. 'i have no secrets from them, and whatever message the emperor may send to me at such a time concerns their interests no less than mine.' there was a hum of applause at this, and every eye was turned once more upon me. my faith, it was an awkward position in which i found myself, for it is one thing to address eight hundred hussars, and another to speak to such an audience on such a subject. but i fixed my eyes upon the prince, and tried to say just what i should have said if we had been alone, shouting it out, too, as though i had my regiment on parade. 'you have often expressed friendship for the emperor,' i cried. 'it is now at last that this friendship is about to be tried. if you will stand firm, he will reward you as only he can reward. it is an easy thing for him to turn a prince into a king and a province into a power. his eyes are fixed upon you, and though you can do little to harm him, you can ruin yourself. at this moment he is crossing the rhine with two hundred thousand men. every fortress in the country is in his hands. he will be upon you in a week, and if you have played him false, god help both you and your people. you think that he is weakened because a few of us got the chilblains last winter. look there!' i cried, pointing to a great star which blazed through the window above the prince's head. 'that is the emperor's star. when it wanes, he will wane--but not before.' you would have been proud of me, my friends, if you could have seen and heard me, for i clashed my sabre as i spoke, and swung my dolman as though my regiment was picketed outside in the courtyard. they listened to me in silence, but the back of the prince bowed more and more as though the burden which weighed upon it was greater than his strength. he looked round with haggard eyes. 'we have heard a frenchman speak for france,' said he. 'let us have a german speak for germany.' the folk glanced at each other, and whispered to their neighbours. my speech, as i think, had its effect, and no man wished to be the first to commit himself in the eyes of the emperor. the princess looked round her with blazing eyes, and her clear voice broke the silence. 'is a woman to give this frenchman his answer?' she cried. 'is it possible, then, that among the night-riders of lutzow there is none who can use his tongue as well as his sabre?' over went a table with a crash, and a young man had bounded upon one of the chairs. he had the face of one inspired--pale, eager, with wild hawk eyes, and tangled hair. his sword hung straight from his side, and his riding-boots were brown with mire. 'it is korner!' the people cried. 'it is young korner, the poet! ah, he will sing, he will sing.' and he sang! it was soft, at first, and dreamy, telling of old germany, the mother of nations, of the rich, warm plains, and the grey cities, and the fame of dead heroes. but then verse after verse rang like a trumpet-call. it was of the germany of now, the germany which had been taken unawares and overthrown, but which was up again, and snapping the bonds upon her giant limbs. what was life that one should covet it? what was glorious death that one should shun it? the mother, the great mother, was calling. her sigh was in the night wind. she was crying to her own children for help. would they come? would they come? would they come? ah, that terrible song, the spirit face and the ringing voice! where were i, and france, and the emperor? they did not shout, these people--they howled. they were up on the chairs and the tables. they were raving, sobbing, the tears running down their faces. korner had sprung from the chair, and his comrades were round him with their sabres in the air. a flush had come into the pale face of the prince, and he rose from his throne. 'colonel gerard,' said he, 'you have heard the answer which you are to carry to your emperor. the die is cast, my children. your prince and you must stand or fall together.' he bowed to show that all was over, and the people with a shout made for the door to carry the tidings into the town. for my own part, i had done all that a brave man might, and so i was not sorry to be carried out amid the stream. why should i linger in the palace? i had had my answer and must carry it, such as it was. i wished neither to see hof nor its people again until i entered it at the head of a vanguard. i turned from the throng, then, and walked silently and sadly in the direction in which they had led the mare. it was dark down there by the stables, and i was peering round for the hostler, when suddenly my two arms were seized from behind. there were hands at my wrists and at my throat, and i felt the cold muzzle of a pistol under my ear. 'keep your lips closed, you french dog,' whispered a fierce voice. 'we have him, captain.' 'have you the bridle?' 'here it is.' 'sling it over his head.' i felt the cold coil of leather tighten round my neck. an hostler with a stable lantern had come out and was gazing upon the scene. in its dim light i saw stern faces breaking everywhere through the gloom, with the black caps and dark cloaks of the night-riders. 'what would you do with him, captain?' cried a voice. 'hang him at the palace gate.' 'an ambassador?' 'an ambassador without papers.' 'but the prince?' 'tut, man, do you not see that the prince will then be committed to our side? he will be beyond all hope of forgiveness. at present he may swing round tomorrow as he has done before. he may eat his words, but a dead hussar is more than he can explain.' 'no, no, von strelitz, we cannot do it,' said another voice. 'can we not? i shall show you that!' and there came a jerk on the bridle which nearly pulled me to the ground. at the same instant a sword flashed and the leather was cut through within two inches of my neck. 'by heaven, korner, this is rank mutiny,' cried the captain. 'you may hang yourself before you are through with it.' 'i have drawn my sword as a soldier and not as a brigand,' said the young poet. 'blood may dim its blade, but never dishonour. comrades, will you stand by and see this gentleman mishandled?' a dozen sabres flew from their sheaths, and it was evident that my friends and my foes were about equally balanced. but the angry voices and the gleam of steel had brought the folk running from all parts. 'the princess!' they cried. 'the princess is coming!' and even as they spoke i saw her in front of us, her sweet face framed in the darkness. i had cause to hate her, for she had cheated and befooled me, and yet it thrilled me then and thrills me now to think that my arms have embraced her, and that i have felt the scent of her hair in my nostrils. i know not whether she lies under her german earth, or whether she still lingers, a grey-haired woman in her castle of hof, but she lives ever, young and lovely, in the heart and memory of etienne gerard. 'for shame!' she cried, sweeping up to me, and tearing with her own hands the noose from my neck. 'you are fighting in god's own quarrel, and yet you would begin with such a devil's deed as this. this man is mine, and he who touches a hair of his head will answer for it to me.' they were glad enough to slink off into the darkness before those scornful eyes. then she turned once more to me. 'you can follow me, colonel gerard,' she said. 'i have a word that i would speak to you.' i walked behind her to the chamber into which i had originally been shown. she closed the door, and then looked at me with the archest twinkle in her eyes. 'is it not confiding of me to trust myself with you?' said she. 'you will remember that it is the princess of saxe-felstein and not the poor countess palotta of poland.' 'be the name what it might,' i answered, 'i helped a lady whom i believed to be in distress, and i have been robbed of my papers and almost of my honour as a reward.' 'colonel gerard,' said she, 'we have been playing a game, you and i, and the stake was a heavy one. you have shown by delivering a message which was never given to you that you would stand at nothing in the cause of your country. my heart is german and yours is french, and i also would go all lengths, even to deceit and to theft, if at this crisis i could help my suffering fatherland. you see how frank i am.' 'you tell me nothing that i have not seen.' 'but now that the game is played and won, why should we bear malice? i will say this, that if ever i were in such a plight as that which i pretended in the inn of lobenstein, i should never wish to meet a more gallant protector or a truer-hearted gentleman than colonel etienne gerard. i had never thought that i could feel for a frenchman as i felt for you when i slipped the papers from your breast.' 'but you took them, none the less.' 'they were necessary to me and to germany. i knew the arguments which they contained and the effect which they would have upon the prince. if they had reached him all would have been lost.' 'why should your highness descend to such expedients when a score of these brigands, who wished to hang me at your castle gate, would have done the work as well?' 'they are not brigands, but the best blood of germany,' she cried, hotly. 'if you have been roughly used, you will remember the indignities to which every german has been subjected, from the queen of prussia downwards. as to why i did not have you waylaid upon the road, i may say that i had parties out on all sides, and that i was waiting at lobenstein to hear of their success. when instead of their news you yourself arrived i was in despair, for there was only the one weak woman betwixt you and my husband. you see the straits to which i was driven before i used the weapon of my sex.' 'i confess that you have conquered me, your highness, and it only remains for me to leave you in possession of the field.' 'but you will take your papers with you.' she held them out to me as she spoke. 'the prince has crossed the rubicon now, and nothing can bring him back. you can return these to the emperor, and tell him that we refused to receive them. no one can accuse you then of having lost your despatches. good-bye, colonel gerard, and the best i can wish you is that when you reach france you may remain there. in a year's time there will be no place for a frenchman upon this side of the rhine.' and thus it was that i played the princess of saxe-felstein with all germany for a stake, and lost my game to her. i had much to think of as i walked my poor, tired violette along the highway which leads westward from hof. but amid all the thoughts there came back to me always the proud, beautiful face of the german woman, and the voice of the soldier-poet as he sang from the chair. and i understood then that there was something terrible in this strong, patient germany--this mother root of nations--and i saw that such a land, so old and so beloved, never could be conquered. and as i rode i saw that the dawn was breaking, and that the great star at which i had pointed through the palace window was dim and pale in the western sky. . how the brigadier won his medal the duke of tarentum, or macdonald, as his old comrades prefer to call him, was, as i could perceive, in the vilest of tempers. his grim, scotch face was like one of those grotesque door-knockers which one sees in the faubourg st germain. we heard afterwards that the emperor had said in jest that he would have sent him against wellington in the south, but that he was afraid to trust him within the sound of the pipes. major charpentier and i could plainly see that he was smouldering with anger. 'brigadier gerard of the hussars,' said he, with the air of the corporal with the recruit. i saluted. 'major charpentier of the horse grenadiers.' my companion answered to his name. 'the emperor has a mission for you.' without more ado he flung open the door and announced us. i have seen napoleon ten times on horseback to once on foot, and i think that he does wisely to show himself to the troops in this fashion, for he cuts a very good figure in the saddle. as we saw him now he was the shortest man out of six by a good hand's breadth, and yet i am no very big man myself, though i ride quite heavy enough for a hussar. it is evident, too, that his body is too long for his legs. with his big, round head, his curved shoulders, and his clean-shaven face, he is more like a professor at the sorbonne than the first soldier in france. every man to his taste, but it seems to me that, if i could clap a pair of fine light cavalry whiskers, like my own, on to him, it would do him no harm. he has a firm mouth, however, and his eyes are remarkable. i have seen them once turned on me in anger, and i had rather ride at a square on a spent horse than face them again. i am not a man who is easily daunted, either. he was standing at the side of the room, away from the window, looking up at a great map of the country which was hung upon the wall. berthier stood beside him, trying to look wise, and just as we entered, napoleon snatched his sword impatiently from him and pointed with it on the map. he was talking fast and low, but i heard him say, 'the valley of the meuse,' and twice he repeated 'berlin.' as we entered, his aide-de-camp advanced to us, but the emperor stopped him and beckoned us to his side. 'you have not yet received the cross of honour, brigadier gerard?' he asked. i replied that i had not, and was about to add that it was not for want of having deserved it, when he cut me short in his decided fashion. 'and you, major?' he asked. 'no, sire.' 'then you shall both have your opportunity now.' he led us to the great map upon the wall and placed the tip of berthier's sword on rheims. 'i will be frank with you, gentlemen, as with two comrades. you have both been with me since marengo, i believe?' he had a strangely pleasant smile, which used to light up his pale face with a kind of cold sunshine. 'here at rheims are our present headquarters on this the th of march. very good. here is paris, distant by road a good twenty-five leagues. blucher lies to the north, schwarzenberg to the south.' he prodded at the map with the sword as he spoke. 'now,' said he, 'the further into the country these people march, the more completely i shall crush them. they are about to advance upon paris. very good. let them do so. my brother, the king of spain, will be there with a hundred thousand men. it is to him that i send you. you will hand him this letter, a copy of which i confide to each of you. it is to tell him that i am coming at once, in two days' time, with every man and horse and gun to his relief. i must give them forty-eight hours to recover. then straight to paris! you understand me, gentlemen?' ah, if i could tell you the glow of pride which it gave me to be taken into the great man's confidence in this way. as he handed our letters to us i clicked my spurs and threw out my chest, smiling and nodding to let him know that i saw what he would be after. he smiled also, and rested his hand for a moment upon the cape of my dolman. i would have given half my arrears of pay if my mother could have seen me at that instant. 'i will show you your route,' said he, turning back to the map. 'your orders are to ride together as far as bazoches. you will then separate, the one making for paris by oulchy and neuilly, and the other to the north by braine, soissons, and senlis. have you anything to say, brigadier gerard?' i am a rough soldier, but i have words and ideas. i had begun to speak about glory and the peril of france when he cut me short. 'and you, major charpentier?' 'if we find our route unsafe, are we at liberty to choose another?' said he. 'soldiers do not choose, they obey.' he inclined his head to show that we were dismissed, and turned round to berthier. i do not know what he said, but i heard them both laughing. well, as you may think, we lost little time in getting upon our way. in half an hour we were riding down the high street of rheims, and it struck twelve o'clock as we passed the cathedral. i had my little grey mare, violette, the one which sebastiani had wished to buy after dresden. it is the fastest horse in the six brigades of light cavalry, and was only beaten by the duke of rovigo's racer from england. as to charpentier, he had the kind of horse which a horse grenadier or a cuirassier would be likely to ride: a back like a bedstead, you understand, and legs like the posts. he is a hulking fellow himself, so that they looked a singular pair. and yet in his insane conceit he ogled the girls as they waved their handkerchiefs to me from the windows, and he twirled his ugly red moustache up into his eyes, just as if it were to him that their attention was addressed. when we came out of the town we passed through the french camp, and then across the battle-field of yesterday, which was still covered both by our own poor fellows and by the russians. but of the two the camp was the sadder sight. our army was thawing away. the guards were all right, though the young guard was full of conscripts. the artillery and the heavy cavalry were also good if there were more of them, but the infantry privates with their under officers looked like schoolboys with their masters. and we had no reserves. when one considered that there were , prussians to the north and , russians and austrians to the south, it might make even the bravest man grave. for my own part, i confess that i shed a tear until the thought came that the emperor was still with us, and that on that very morning he had placed his hand upon my dolman and had promised me a medal of honour. this set me singing, and i spurred violette on, until charpentier had to beg me to have mercy on his great, snorting, panting camel. the road was beaten into paste and rutted two feet deep by the artillery, so that he was right in saying that it was not the place for a gallop. i have never been very friendly with this charpentier; and now for twenty miles of the way i could not draw a word from him. he rode with his brows puckered and his chin upon his breast, like a man who is heavy with thought. more than once i asked him what was on his mind, thinking that, perhaps, with my quicker intelligence i might set the matter straight. his answer always was that it was his mission of which he was thinking, which surprised me, because, although i had never thought much of his intelligence, still it seemed to me to be impossible that anyone could be puzzled by so simple and soldierly a task. well, we came at last to bazoches, where he was to take the southern road and i the northern. he half turned in his saddle before he left me, and he looked at me with a singular expression of inquiry in his face. 'what do you make of it, brigadier?' he asked. 'of what?' 'of our mission.' 'surely it is plain enough.' 'you think so? why should the emperor tell us his plans?' 'because he recognized our intelligence.' my companion laughed in a manner which i found annoying. 'may i ask what you intend to do if you find these villages full of prussians?' he asked. 'i shall obey my orders.' 'but you will be killed.' 'very possibly.' he laughed again, and so offensively that i clapped my hand to my sword. but before i could tell him what i thought of his stupidity and rudeness he had wheeled his horse, and was lumbering away down the other road. i saw his big fur cap vanish over the brow of the hill, and then i rode upon my way, wondering at his conduct. from time to time i put my hand to the breast of my tunic and felt the paper crackle beneath my fingers. ah, my precious paper, which should be turned into the little silver medal for which i had yearned so long. all the way from braine to sermoise i was thinking of what my mother would say when she saw it. i stopped to give violette a meal at a wayside auberge on the side of a hill not far from soissons--a place surrounded by old oaks, and with so many crows that one could scarce hear one's own voice. it was from the innkeeper that i learned that marmont had fallen back two days before, and that the prussians were over the aisne. an hour later, in the fading light, i saw two of their vedettes upon the hill to the right, and then, as darkness gathered, the heavens to the north were all glimmering from the lights of a bivouac. when i heard that blucher had been there for two days, i was much surprised that the emperor should not have known that the country through which he had ordered me to carry my precious letter was already occupied by the enemy. still, i thought of the tone of his voice when he said to charpentier that a soldier must not choose, but must obey. i should follow the route he had laid down for me as long as violette could move a hoof or i a finger upon her bridle. all the way from sermoise to soissons, where the road dips up and down, curving among fir woods, i kept my pistol ready and my sword-belt braced, pushing on swiftly where the path was straight, and then coming slowly round the corners in the way we learned in spain. when i came to the farmhouse which lies to the right of the road just after you cross the wooden bridge over the crise, near where the great statue of the virgin stands, a woman cried to me from the field, saying that the prussians were in soissons. a small party of their lancers, she said, had come in that very afternoon, and a whole division was expected before midnight. i did not wait to hear the end of her tale, but clapped spurs into violette, and in five minutes was galloping her into the town. three uhlans were at the mouth of the main street, their horses tethered, and they gossiping together, each with a pipe as long as my sabre. i saw them well in the light of an open door, but of me they could have seen only the flash of violette's grey side and the black flutter of my cloak. a moment later i flew through a stream of them rushing from an open gateway. violette's shoulder sent one of them reeling, and i stabbed at another but missed him. pang, pang, went two carbines, but i had flown round the curve of the street, and never so much as heard the hiss of the balls. ah, we were great, both violette and i. she lay down to it like a coursed hare, the fire flying from her hoofs. i stood in my stirrups and brandished my sword. someone sprang for my bridle. i sliced him through the arm, and i heard him howling behind me. two horsemen closed upon me. i cut one down and outpaced the other. a minute later i was clear of the town, and flying down a broad white road with the black poplars on either side. for a time i heard the rattle of hoofs behind me, but they died and died until i could not tell them from the throbbing of my own heart. soon i pulled up and listened, but all was silent. they had given up the chase. well, the first thing that i did was to dismount and to lead my mare into a small wood through which a stream ran. there i watered her and rubbed her down, giving her two pieces of sugar soaked in cognac from my flask. she was spent from the sharp chase, but it was wonderful to see how she came round with a half-hour's rest. when my thighs closed upon her again, i could tell by the spring and the swing of her that it would not be her fault if i did not win my way safe to paris. i must have been well within the enemy's lines now, for i heard a number of them shouting one of their rough drinking songs out of a house by the roadside, and i went round by the fields to avoid it. at another time two men came out into the moonlight (for by this time it was a cloudless night) and shouted something in german, but i galloped on without heeding them, and they were afraid to fire, for their own hussars are dressed exactly as i was. it is best to take no notice at these times, and then they put you down as a deaf man. it was a lovely moon, and every tree threw a black bar across the road. i could see the countryside just as if it were daytime, and very peaceful it looked, save that there was a great fire raging somewhere in the north. in the silence of the night-time, and with the knowledge that danger was in front and behind me, the sight of that great distant fire was very striking and awesome. but i am not easily clouded, for i have seen too many singular things, so i hummed a tune between my teeth and thought of little lisette, whom i might see in paris. my mind was full of her when, trotting round a corner, i came straight upon half-a-dozen german dragoons, who were sitting round a brushwood fire by the roadside. i am an excellent soldier. i do not say this because i am prejudiced in my own favour, but because i really am so. i can weigh every chance in a moment, and decide with as much certainty as though i had brooded for a week. now i saw like a flash that, come what might, i should be chased, and on a horse which had already done a long twelve leagues. but it was better to be chased onwards than to be chased back. on this moonlit night, with fresh horses behind me, i must take my risk in either case; but if i were to shake them off, i preferred that it should be near senlis than near soissons. all this flashed on me as if by instinct, you understand. my eyes had hardly rested on the bearded faces under the brass helmets before my rowels had touched violette, and she was off with a rattle like a pas-de-charge. oh, the shouting and rushing and stamping from behind us! three of them fired and three swung themselves on to their horses. a bullet rapped on the crupper of my saddle with a noise like a stick on a door. violette sprang madly forward, and i thought she had been wounded, but it was only a graze above the near fore-fetlock. ah, the dear little mare, how i loved her when i felt her settle down into that long, easy gallop of hers, her hoofs going like a spanish girl's castanets. i could not hold myself. i turned on my saddle and shouted and raved, 'vive l'empereur!' i screamed and laughed at the gust of oaths that came back to me. but it was not over yet. if she had been fresh she might have gained a mile in five. now she could only hold her own with a very little over. there was one of them, a young boy of an officer, who was better mounted than the others. he drew ahead with every stride. two hundred yards behind him were two troopers, but i saw every time that i glanced round that the distance between them was increasing. the other three who had waited to shoot were a long way in the rear. the officer's mount was a bay--a fine horse, though not to be spoken of with violette; yet it was a powerful brute, and it seemed to me that in a few miles its freshness might tell. i waited until the lad was a long way in front of his comrades, and then i eased my mare down a little--a very, very little, so that he might think he was really catching me. when he came within pistol-shot of me i drew and cocked my own pistol, and laid my chin upon my shoulder to see what he would do. he did not offer to fire, and i soon discerned the cause. the silly boy had taken his pistols from his holsters when he had camped for the night. he wagged his sword at me now and roared some threat or other. he did not seem to understand that he was at my mercy. i eased violette down until there was not the length of a long lance between the grey tail and the bay muzzle. 'rendez-vous!' he yelled. 'i must compliment monsieur upon his french,' said i, resting the barrel of my pistol upon my bridle-arm, which i have always found best when shooting from the saddle. i aimed at his face, and could see, even in the moonlight, how white he grew when he understood that it was all up with him. but even as my finger pressed the trigger i thought of his mother, and i put my ball through his horse's shoulder. i fear he hurt himself in the fall, for it was a fearful crash, but i had my letter to think of, so i stretched the mare into a gallop once more. but they were not so easily shaken off, these brigands. the two troopers thought no more of their young officer than if he had been a recruit thrown in the riding-school. they left him to the others and thundered on after me. i had pulled up on the brow of a hill, thinking that i had heard the last of them; but, my faith, i soon saw there was no time for loitering, so away we went, the mare tossing her head and i my shako, to show what we thought of two dragoons who tried to catch a hussar. but at this moment, even while i laughed at the thought, my heart stood still within me, for there at the end of the long white road was a black patch of cavalry waiting to receive me. to a young soldier it might have seemed the shadow of the trees, but to me it was a troop of hussars, and, turn where i could, death seemed to be waiting for me. well, i had the dragoons behind me and the hussars in front. never since moscow have i seemed to be in such peril. but for the honour of the brigade i had rather be cut down by a light cavalryman than by a heavy. i never drew bridle, therefore, or hesitated for an instant, but i let violette have her head. i remember that i tried to pray as i rode, but i am a little out of practice at such things, and the only words i could remember were the prayer for fine weather which we used at the school on the evening before holidays. even this seemed better than nothing, and i was pattering it out, when suddenly i heard french voices in front of me. ah, mon dieu, but the joy went through my heart like a musket-ball. they were ours--our own dear little rascals from the corps of marmont. round whisked my two dragoons and galloped for their lives, with the moon gleaming on their brass helmets, while i trotted up to my friends with no undue haste, for i would have them understand that though a hussar may fly, it is not in his nature to fly very fast. yet i fear that violette's heaving flanks and foam-spattered muzzle gave the lie to my careless bearing. who should be at the head of the troop but old bouvet, whom i saved at leipzig! when he saw me his little pink eyes filled with tears, and, indeed, i could not but shed a few myself at the sight of his joy. i told him of my mission, but he laughed when i said that i must pass through senlis. 'the enemy is there,' said he. 'you cannot go.' 'i prefer to go where the enemy is,' i answered. 'but why not go straight to paris with your despatch? why should you choose to pass through the one place where you are almost sure to be taken or killed?' 'a soldier does not choose--he obeys,' said i, just as i had heard napoleon say it. old bouvet laughed in his wheezy way, until i had to give my moustachios a twirl and look him up and down in a manner which brought him to reason. 'well', said he, 'you had best come along with us, for we are all bound for senlis. our orders are to reconnoitre the place. a squadron of poniatowski's polish lancers are in front of us. if you must ride through it, it is possible that we may be able to go with you.' so away we went, jingling and clanking through the quiet night until we came up with the poles--fine old soldiers all of them, though a trifle heavy for their horses. it was a treat to see them, for they could not have carried themselves better if they had belonged to my own brigade. we rode together, until in the early morning we saw the lights of senlis. a peasant was coming along with a cart, and from him we learned how things were going there. his information was certain, for his brother was the mayor's coachman, and he had spoken with him late the night before. there was a single squadron of cossacks--or a polk, as they call it in their frightful language--quartered upon the mayor's house, which stands at the corner of the market-place, and is the largest building in the town. a whole division of prussion infantry was encamped in the woods to the north, but only the cossacks were in senlis. ah, what a chance to avenge ourselves upon these barbarians, whose cruelty to our poor countryfolk was the talk at every camp fire. we were into the town like a torrent, hacked down the vedettes, rode over the guard, and were smashing in the doors of the mayor's house before they understood that there was a frenchman within twenty miles of them. we saw horrid heads at the windows--heads bearded to the temples, with tangled hair and sheepskin caps, and silly, gaping mouths. 'hourra! hourra!' they shrieked, and fired with their carbines, but our fellows were into the house and at their throats before they had wiped the sleep out of their eyes. it was dreadful to see how the poles flung themselves upon them, like starving wolves upon a herd of fat bucks--for, as you know, the poles have a blood feud against the cossacks. the most were killed in the upper rooms, whither they had fled for shelter, and the blood was pouring down into the hall like rain from a roof. they are terrible soldiers, these poles, though i think they are a trifle heavy for their horses. man for man, they are as big as kellerman's cuirassiers. their equipment is, of course, much lighter, since they are without the cuirass, back-plate, and helmet. well, it was at this point that i made an error--a very serious error it must be admitted. up to this moment i had carried out my mission in a manner which only my modesty prevents me from describing as remarkable. but now i did that which an official would condemn and a soldier excuse. there is no doubt that the mare was spent, but still it is true that i might have galloped on through senlis and reached the country, where i should have had no enemy between me and paris. but what hussar can ride past a fight and never draw rein? it is to ask too much of him. besides, i thought that if violette had an hour of rest i might have three hours the better at the other end. then on the top of it came those heads at the windows, with their sheepskin hats and their barbarous cries. i sprang from my saddle, threw violette's bridle over a rail-post, and ran into the house with the rest. it is true that i was too late to be of service, and that i was nearly wounded by a lance-thrust from one of these dying savages. still, it is a pity to miss even the smallest affair, for one never knows what opportunity for advancement may present itself. i have seen more soldierly work in outpost skirmishes and little gallop-and-hack affairs of the kind than in any of the emperor's big battles. when the house was cleared i took a bucket of water out for violette, and our peasant guide showed me where the good mayor kept his fodder. my faith, but the little sweetheart was ready for it. then i sponged down her legs, and leaving her still tethered i went back into the house to find a mouthful for myself, so that i should not need to halt again until i was in paris. and now i come to the part of my story which may seem singular to you, although i could tell you at least ten things every bit as queer which have happened to me in my lifetime. you can understand that, to a man who spends his life in scouting and vedette duties on the bloody ground which lies between two great armies, there are many chances of strange experiences. i'll tell you, however, exactly what occurred. old bouvet was waiting in the passage when i entered, and he asked me whether we might not crack a bottle of wine together. 'my faith, we must not be long,' said he. 'there are ten thousand of theilmann's prussians in the woods up yonder.' 'where is the wine?' i asked. 'ah, you may trust two hussars to find where the wine is,' said he, and taking a candle in his hand, he led the way down the stone stairs into the kitchen. when we got there we found another door, which opened on to a winding stair with the cellar at the bottom. the cossacks had been there before us, as was easily seen by the broken bottles littered all over it. however, the mayor was a _bon-vivant_, and i do not wish to have a better set of bins to pick from. chambertin, graves, alicant, white wine and red, sparkling and still, they lay in pyramids peeping coyly out of sawdust. old bouvet stood with his candle looking here and peeping there, purring in his throat like a cat before a milk-pail. he had picked upon a burgundy at last, and had his hand outstretched to the bottle when there came a roar of musketry from above us, a rush of feet, and such a yelping and screaming as i have never listened to. the prussians were upon us! bouvet is a brave man: i will say that for him. he flashed out his sword and away he clattered up the stone steps, his spurs clinking as he ran. i followed him, but just as we came out into the kitchen passage a tremendous shout told us that the house had been recaptured. 'it is all over,' i cried, grasping at bouvet's sleeve. 'there is one more to die,' he shouted, and away he went like a madman up the second stair. in effect, i should have gone to my death also had i been in his place, for he had done very wrong in not throwing out his scouts to warn him if the germans advanced upon him. for an instant i was about to rush up with him, and then i bethought myself that, after all, i had my own mission to think of, and that if i were taken the important letter of the emperor would be sacrificed. i let bouvet die alone, therefore, and i went down into the cellar again, closing the door behind me. well, it was not a very rosy prospect down there either. bouvet had dropped the candle when the alarm came, and i, pawing about in the darkness, could find nothing but broken bottles. at last i came upon the candle, which had rolled under the curve of a cask, but, try as i would with my tinderbox, i could not light it. the reason was that the wick had been wet in a puddle of wine, so suspecting that this might be the case, i cut the end off with my sword. then i found that it lighted easily enough. but what to do i could not imagine. the scoundrels upstairs were shouting themselves hoarse, several hundred of them from the sound, and it was clear that some of them would soon want to moisten their throats. there would be an end to a dashing soldier, and of the mission and of the medal. i thought of my mother and i thought of the emperor. it made me weep to think that the one would lose so excellent a son and the other the best light cavalry officer he ever had since lasalle's time. but presently i dashed the tears from my eyes. 'courage!' i cried, striking myself upon the chest. 'courage, my brave boy. is it possible that one who has come safely from moscow without so much as a frost-bite will die in a french wine-cellar?' at the thought i was up on my feet and clutching at the letter in my tunic, for the crackle of it gave me courage. my first plan was to set fire to the house, in the hope of escaping in the confusion. my second to get into an empty wine-cask. i was looking round to see if i could find one, when suddenly, in the corner, i espied a little low door, painted of the same grey colour as the wall, so that it was only a man with quick sight who would have noticed it. i pushed against it, and at first i imagined that it was locked. presently, however, it gave a little, and then i understood that it was held by the pressure of something on the other side. i put my feet against a hogshead of wine, and i gave such a push that the door flew open and i came down with a crash upon my back, the candle flying out of my hands, so that i found myself in darkness once more. i picked myself up and stared through the black archway into the gloom beyond. there was a slight ray of light coming from some slit or grating. the dawn had broken outside, and i could dimly see the long, curving sides of several huge casks, which made me think that perhaps this was where the mayor kept his reserves of wine while they were maturing. at any rate, it seemed to be a safer hiding-place than the outer cellar, so gathering up my candle, i was just closing the door behind me, when i suddenly saw something which filled me with amazement, and even, i confess, with the smallest little touch of fear. i have said that at the further end of the cellar there was a dim grey fan of light striking downwards from somewhere near the roof. well, as i peered through the darkness, i suddenly saw a great, tall man skip into this belt of daylight, and then out again into the darkness at the further end. my word, i gave such a start that my shako nearly broke its chin-strap! it was only a glance, but, none the less, i had time to see that the fellow had a hairy cossack cap on his head, and that he was a great, long-legged, broad-shouldered brigand, with a sabre at his waist. my faith, even etienne gerard was a little staggered at being left alone with such a creature in the dark. but only for a moment. 'courage!' i thought. 'am i not a hussar, a brigadier, too, at the age of thirty-one, and the chosen messenger of the emperor?' after all, this skulker had more cause to be afraid of me than i of him. and then suddenly i understood that he was afraid--horribly afraid. i could read it from his quick step and his bent shoulders as he ran among the barrels, like a rat making for its hole. and, of course, it must have been he who had held the door against me, and not some packing-case or wine-cask as i had imagined. he was the pursued then, and i the pursuer. aha, i felt my whiskers bristle as i advanced upon him through the darkness! he would find that he had no chicken to deal with, this robber from the north. for the moment i was magnificent. at first i had feared to light my candle lest i should make a mark of myself, but now, after cracking my shin over a box, and catching my spurs in some canvas, i thought the bolder course the wiser. i lit it, therefore, and then i advanced with long strides, my sword in my hand. 'come out, you rascal!' i cried. 'nothing can save you. you will at last meet with your deserts.' i held my candle high, and presently i caught a glimpse of the man's head staring at me over a barrel. he had a gold chevron on his black cap, and the expression of his face told me in an instant that he was an officer and a man of refinement. 'monsieur,' he cried, in excellent french, 'i surrender myself on a promise of quarter. but if i do not have your promise, i will then sell my life as dearly as i can.' 'sir,' said i, 'a frenchman knows how to treat an unfortunate enemy. your life is safe.' with that he handed his sword over the top of the barrel, and i bowed with the candle on my heart. 'whom have i the honour of capturing?' i asked. 'i am the count boutkine, of the emperor's own don cossacks,' said he. 'i came out with my troop to reconnoitre senlis, and as we found no sign of your people we determined to spend the night here.' 'and would it be an indiscretion,' i asked, 'if i were to inquire how you came into the back cellar?' 'nothing more simple,' said he. 'it was our intention to start at early dawn. feeling chilled after dressing, i thought that a cup of wine would do me no harm, so i came down to see what i could find. as i was rummaging about, the house was suddenly carried by assault so rapidly that by the time i had climbed the stairs it was all over. it only remained for me to save myself, so i came down here and hid myself in the back cellar, where you have found me.' i thought of how old bouvet had behaved under the same conditions, and the tears sprang to my eyes as i contemplated the glory of france. then i had to consider what i should do next. it was clear that this russian count, being in the back cellar while we were in the front one, had not heard the sounds which would have told him that the house was once again in the hands of his own allies. if he should once understand this the tables would be turned, and i should be his prisoner instead of he being mine. what was i to do? i was at my wits' end, when suddenly there came to me an idea so brilliant that i could not but be amazed at my own invention. 'count boutkine,' said i, 'i find myself in a most difficult position.' 'and why?' he asked. 'because i have promised you your life.' his jaw dropped a little. 'you would not withdraw your promise?' he cried. 'if the worst comes to the worst i can die in your defence,' said i; 'but the difficulties are great.' 'what is it, then?' he asked. 'i will be frank with you,' said i. 'you must know that our fellows, and especially the poles, are so incensed against the cossacks that the mere sight of the uniform drives them mad. they precipitate themselves instantly upon the wearer and tear him limb from limb. even their officers cannot restrain them.' the russian grew pale at my words and the way in which i said them. 'but this is terrible,' said he. 'horrible!' said i. 'if we were to go up together at this moment i cannot promise how far i could protect you.' 'i am in your hands,' he cried. 'what would you suggest that we should do? would it not be best that i should remain here?' 'that worst of all.' 'and why?' 'because our fellows will ransack the house presently, and then you would be cut to pieces. no, no, i must go and break it to them. but even then, when once they see that accursed uniform, i do not know what may happen.' 'should i then take the uniform off?' 'excellent!' i cried. 'hold, we have it! you will take your uniform off and put on mine. that will make you sacred to every french soldier.' 'it is not the french i fear so much as the poles.' 'but my uniform will be a safeguard against either.' 'how can i thank you?' he cried. 'but you--what are you to wear?' 'i will wear yours.' 'and perhaps fall a victim to your generosity?' 'it is my duty to take the risk,' i answered; 'but i have no fears. i will ascend in your uniform. a hundred swords will be turned upon me. "hold!" i will shout, "i am the brigadier gerard!" then they will see my face. they will know me. and i will tell them about you. under the shield of these clothes you will be sacred.' his fingers trembled with eagerness as he tore off his tunic. his boots and breeches were much like my own, so there was no need to change them, but i gave him my hussar jacket, my dolman, my shako, my sword-belt, and my sabre-tasche, while i took in exchange his high sheepskin cap with the gold chevron, his fur-trimmed coat, and his crooked sword. be it well understood that in changing the tunics i did not forget to change my thrice-precious letter also from my old one to my new. 'with your leave,' said i, 'i shall now bind you to a barrel.' he made a great fuss over this, but i have learned in my soldiering never to throw away chances, and how could i tell that he might not, when my back was turned, see how the matter really stood, and break in upon my plans? he was leaning against a barrel at the time, so i ran six times round it with a rope, and then tied it with a big knot behind. if he wished to come upstairs he would, at least, have to carry a thousand litres of good french wine for a knapsack. i then shut the door of the back cellar behind me, so that he might not hear what was going forward, and tossing the candle away i ascended the kitchen stair. there were only about twenty steps, and yet, while i came up them, i seemed to have time to think of everything that i had ever hoped to do. it was the same feeling that i had at eylau when i lay with my broken leg and saw the horse artillery galloping down upon me. of course, i knew that if i were taken i should be shot instantly as being disguised within the enemy's lines. still, it was a glorious death--in the direct service of the emperor--and i reflected that there could not be less than five lines, and perhaps seven, in the _moniteur_ about me. palaret had eight lines, and i am sure that he had not so fine a career. when i made my way out into the hall, with all the nonchalance in my face and manner that i could assume, the very first thing that i saw was bouvet's dead body, with his legs drawn up and a broken sword in his hand. i could see by the black smudge that he had been shot at close quarters. i should have wished to salute as i went by, for he was a gallant man, but i feared lest i should be seen, and so i passed on. the front of the hall was full of prussian infantry, who were knocking loopholes in the wall, as though they expected that there might be yet another attack. their officer, a little man, was running about giving directions. they were all too busy to take much notice of me, but another officer, who was standing by the door with a long pipe in his mouth, strode across and clapped me on the shoulder, pointing to the dead bodies of our poor hussars, and saying something which was meant for a jest, for his long beard opened and showed every fang in his head. i laughed heartily also, and said the only russian words that i knew. i learned them from little sophie, at wilna, and they meant: 'if the night is fine we shall meet under the oak tree, but if it rains we shall meet in the byre.' it was all the same to this german, however, and i have no doubt that he gave me credit for saying something very witty indeed, for he roared laughing, and slapped me on my shoulder again. i nodded to him and marched out of the hall-door as coolly as if i were the commandant of the garrison. there were a hundred horses tethered about outside, most of them belonging to the poles and hussars. good little violette was waiting with the others, and she whinnied when she saw me coming towards her. but i would not mount her. no. i was much too cunning for that. on the contrary, i chose the most shaggy little cossack horse that i could see, and i sprang upon it with as much assurance as though it had belonged to my father before me. it had a great bag of plunder slung over its neck, and this i laid upon violette's back, and led her along beside me. never have you seen such a picture of the cossack returning from the foray. it was superb. well, the town was full of prussians by this time. they lined the side-walks and pointed me out to each other, saying, as i could judge from their gestures, 'there goes one of those devils of cossacks. they are the boys for foraging and plunder.' one or two officers spoke to me with an air of authority, but i shook my head and smiled, and said, 'if the night is fine we shall meet under the oak tree, but if it rains we shall meet in the byre,' at which they shrugged their shoulders and gave the matter up. in this way i worked along until i was beyond the northern outskirt of the town. i could see in the roadway two lancer vedettes with their black and white pennons, and i knew that when i was once past these i should be a free man once more. i made my pony trot, therefore, violette rubbing her nose against my knee all the time, and looking up at me to ask how she had deserved that this hairy doormat of a creature should be preferred to her. i was not more than a hundred yards from the uhlans when, suddenly, you can imagine my feelings when i saw a real cossack coming galloping along the road towards me. ah, my friend, you who read this, if you have any heart, you will feel for a man like me, who had gone through so many dangers and trials, only at this very last moment to be confronted with one which appeared to put an end to everything. i will confess that for a moment i lost heart, and was inclined to throw myself down in my despair, and to cry out that i had been betrayed. but, no; i was not beaten even now. i opened two buttons of my tunic so that i might get easily at the emperor's message, for it was my fixed determination when all hope was gone to swallow the letter and then die sword in hand. then i felt that my little, crooked sword was loose in its sheath, and i trotted on to where the vedettes were waiting. they seemed inclined to stop me, but i pointed to the other cossack, who was still a couple of hundred yards off, and they, understanding that i merely wished to meet him, let me pass with a salute. i dug my spurs into my pony then, for if i were only far enough from the lancers i thought i might manage the cossack without much difficulty. he was an officer, a large, bearded man, with a gold chevron in his cap, just the same as mine. as i advanced he unconsciously aided me by pulling up his horse, so that i had a fine start of the vedettes. on i came for him, and i could see wonder changing to suspicion in his brown eyes as he looked at me and at my pony, and at my equipment. i do not know what it was that was wrong, but he saw something which was as it should not be. he shouted out a question, and then when i gave no answer he pulled out his sword. i was glad in my heart to see him do so, for i had always rather fight than cut down an unsuspecting enemy. now i made at him full tilt, and, parrying his cut, i got my point in just under the fourth button of his tunic. down he went, and the weight of him nearly took me off my horse before i could disengage. i never glanced at him to see if he were living or dead, for i sprang off my pony and on to violette, with a shake of my bridle and a kiss of my hand to the two uhlans behind me. they galloped after me, shouting, but violette had had her rest, and was just as fresh as when she started. i took the first side road to the west and then the first to the south, which would take me away from the enemy's country. on we went and on, every stride taking me further from my foes and nearer to my friends. at last, when i reached the end of a long stretch of road, and looking back from it could see no sign of any pursuers, i understood that my troubles were over. and it gave me a glow of happiness, as i rode, to think that i had done to the letter what the emperor had ordered. what would he say when he saw me? what could he say which would do justice to the incredible way in which i had risen above every danger? he had ordered me to go through sermoise, soissons, and senlis, little dreaming that they were all three occupied by the enemy. and yet i had done it. i had borne his letter in safety through each of these towns. hussars, dragoons, lancers, cossacks, and infantry--i had run the gauntlet of all of them, and had come out unharmed. when i had got as far as dammartin i caught a first glimpse of our own outposts. there was a troop of dragoons in a field, and of course i could see from the horsehair crests that they were french. i galloped towards them in order to ask them if all was safe between there and paris, and as i rode i felt such a pride at having won my way back to my friends again, that i could not refrain from waving my sword in the air. at this a young officer galloped out from among the dragoons, also brandishing his sword, and it warmed my heart to think that he should come riding with such ardour and enthusiasm to greet me. i made violette caracole, and as we came together i brandished my sword more gallantly than ever, but you can imagine my feelings when he suddenly made a cut at me which would certainly have taken my head off if i had not fallen forward with my nose in violette's mane. my faith, it whistled just over my cap like an east wind. of course, it came from this accursed cossack uniform which, in my excitement, i had forgotten all about, and this young dragoon had imagined that i was some russian champion who was challenging the french cavalry. my word, he was a frightened man when he understood how near he had been to killing the celebrated brigadier gerard. well, the road was clear, and about three o'clock in the afternoon i was at st denis, though it took me a long two hours to get from there to paris, for the road was blocked with commissariat waggons and guns of the artillery reserve, which was going north to marmont and mortier. you cannot conceive the excitement which my appearance in such a costume made in paris, and when i came to the rue de rivoli i should think i had a quarter of a mile of folk riding or running behind me. word had got about from the dragoons (two of whom had come with me), and everybody knew about my adventures and how i had come by my uniform. it was a triumph--men shouting and women waving their handkerchiefs and blowing kisses from the windows. although i am a man singularly free from conceit, still i must confess that, on this one occasion, i could not restrain myself from showing that this reception gratified me. the russian's coat had hung very loose upon me, but now i threw out my chest until it was as tight as a sausage-skin. and my little sweetheart of a mare tossed her mane and pawed with her front hoofs, frisking her tail about as though she said, 'we've done it together this time. it is to us that commissions should be intrusted.' when i kissed her between the nostrils as i dismounted at the gate of the tuileries, there was as much shouting as if a bulletin had been read from the grand army. i was hardly in costume to visit a king; but, after all, if one has a soldierly figure one can do without all that. i was shown up straight away to joseph, whom i had often seen in spain. he seemed as stout, as quiet, and as amiable as ever. talleyrand was in the room with him, or i suppose i should call him the duke of benevento, but i confess that i like old names best. he read my letter when joseph buonaparte handed it to him, and then he looked at me with the strangest expression in those funny little, twinkling eyes of his. 'were you the only messenger?' he asked. 'there was one other, sir,' said i. 'major charpentier, of the horse grenadiers.' 'he has not yet arrived,' said the king of spain. 'if you had seen the legs of his horse, sire, you would not wonder at it,' i remarked. 'there may be other reasons,' said talleyrand, and he gave that singular smile of his. well, they paid me a compliment or two, though they might have said a good deal more and yet have said too little. i bowed myself out, and very glad i was to get away, for i hate a court as much as i love a camp. away i went to my old friend chaubert, in the rue miromesnil, and there i got his hussar uniform, which fitted me very well. he and lisette and i supped together in his rooms, and all my dangers were forgotten. in the morning i found violette ready for another twenty-league stretch. it was my intention to return instantly to the emperor's headquarters, for i was, as you may well imagine, impatient to hear his words of praise, and to receive my reward. i need not say that i rode back by a safe route, for i had seen quite enough of uhlans and cossacks. i passed through meaux and château thierry, and so in the evening i arrived at rheims, where napoleon was still lying. the bodies of our fellows and of st prest's russians had all been buried, and i could see changes in the camp also. the soldiers looked better cared for; some of the cavalry had received remounts, and everything was in excellent order. it was wonderful what a good general can effect in a couple of days. when i came to the headquarters i was shown straight into the emperor's room. he was drinking coffee at a writing-table, with a big plan drawn out on paper in front of him. berthier and macdonald were leaning, one over each shoulder, and he was talking so quickly that i don't believe that either of them could catch a half of what he was saying. but when his eyes fell upon me he dropped the pen on to the chart, and he sprang up with a look in his pale face which struck me cold. 'what the deuce are you doing here?' he shouted. when he was angry he had a voice like a peacock. 'i have the honour to report to you, sire,' said i, 'that i have delivered your despatch safely to the king of spain.' 'what!' he yelled, and his two eyes transfixed me like bayonets. oh, those dreadful eyes, shifting from grey to blue, like steel in the sunshine. i can see them now when i have a bad dream. 'what has become of charpentier?' he asked. 'he is captured,' said macdonald. 'by whom?' 'the russians.' 'the cossacks?' 'no, a single cossack.' 'he gave himself up?' 'without resistance.' 'he is an intelligent officer. you will see that the medal of honour is awarded to him.' when i heard those words i had to rub my eyes to make sure that i was awake. 'as to you,' cried the emperor, taking a step forward as if he would have struck me, 'you brain of a hare, what do you think that you were sent upon this mission for? do you conceive that i would send a really important message by such a hand as yours, and through every village which the enemy holds? how you came through them passes my comprehension; but if your fellow-messenger had had but as little sense as you, my whole plan of campaign would have been ruined. can you not see, coglione, that this message contained false news, and that it was intended to deceive the enemy whilst i put a very different scheme into execution?' when i heard those cruel words and saw the angry, white face which glared at me, i had to hold the back of a chair, for my mind was failing me and my knees would hardly bear me up. but then i took courage as i reflected that i was an honourable gentleman, and that my whole life had been spent in toiling for this man and for my beloved country. 'sire,' said i, and the tears would trickle down my cheeks whilst i spoke, 'when you are dealing with a man like me you would find it wiser to deal openly. had i known that you had wished the despatch to fall into the hands of the enemy, i would have seen that it came there. as i believed that i was to guard it, i was prepared to sacrifice my life for it. i do not believe, sire, that any man in the world ever met with more toils and perils than i have done in trying to carry out what i thought was your will.' i dashed the tears from my eyes as i spoke, and with such fire and spirit as i could command i gave him an account of it all, of my dash through soissons, my brush with the dragoons, my adventure in senlis, my rencontre with count boutkine in the cellar, my disguise, my meeting with the cossack officer, my flight, and how at the last moment i was nearly cut down by a french dragoon. the emperor, berthier, and macdonald listened with astonishment on their faces. when i had finished napoleon stepped forward and he pinched me by the ear. 'there, there!' said he. 'forget anything which i may have said. i would have done better to trust you. you may go.' i turned to the door, and my hand was upon the handle, when the emperor called upon me to stop. 'you will see,' said he, turning to the duke of tarentum, 'that brigadier gerard has the special medal of honour, for i believe that if he has the thickest head he has also the stoutest heart in my army.' . how the brigadier was tempted by the devil the spring is at hand, my friends. i can see the little green spear-heads breaking out once more upon the chestnut trees, and the cafe tables have all been moved into the sunshine. it is more pleasant to sit there, and yet i do not wish to tell my little stories to the whole town. you have heard my doings as a lieutenant, as a squadron officer, as a colonel, as the chief of a brigade. but now i suddenly become something higher and more important. i become history. if you have read of those closing years of the life of the emperor which were spent in the island of st helena, you will remember that, again and again, he implored permission to send out one single letter which should be unopened by those who held him. many times he made this request, and even went so far as to promise that he would provide for his own wants and cease to be an expense to the british government if it were granted to him. but his guardians knew that he was a terrible man, this pale, fat gentleman in the straw hat, and they dared not grant him what he asked. many have wondered who it was to whom he could have had anything so secret to say. some have supposed that it was to his wife, and some that it was to his father-in-law; some that it was to the emperor alexander, and some to marshal soult. what will you think of me, my friends, when i tell you it was to me--to me, the brigadier gerard--that the emperor wished to write? yes, humble as you see me, with only my francs a month of half-pay between me and hunger, it is none the less true that i was always in the emperor's mind, and that he would have given his left hand for five minutes' talk with me. i will tell you tonight how this came about. it was after the battle of fére-champenoise where the conscripts in their blouses and their sabots made such a fine stand, that we, the more long-headed of us, began to understand that it was all over with us. our reserve ammunition had been taken in the battle, and we were left with silent guns and empty caissons. our cavalry, too, was in a deplorable condition, and my own brigade had been destroyed in the charge at craonne. then came the news that the enemy had taken paris, that the citizens had mounted the white cockade; and finally, most terrible of all, that marmont and his corps had gone over to the bourbons. we looked at each other and asked how many more of our generals were going to turn against us. already there were jourdan, marmont, murat, bernadotte, and jomini--though nobody minded much about jomini, for his pen was always sharper than his sword. we had been ready to fight europe, but it looked now as though we were to fight europe and half of france as well. we had come to fontainebleau by a long, forced march, and there we were assembled, the poor remnants of us, the corps of ney, the corps of my cousin gerard, and the corps of macdonald: twenty-five thousand in all, with seven thousand of the guard. but we had our prestige, which was worth fifty thousand, and our emperor, who was worth fifty thousand more. he was always among us, serene, smiling, confident, taking his snuff and playing with his little riding-whip. never in the days of his greatest victories have i admired him as much as i did during the campaign of france. one evening i was with a few of my officers, drinking a glass of wine of suresnes. i mention that it was wine of suresnes just to show you that times were not very good with us. suddenly i was disturbed by a message from berthier that he wished to see me. when i speak of my old comrades-in-arms, i will, with your permission, leave out all the fine foreign titles which they had picked up during the wars. they are excellent for a court, but you never heard them in the camp, for we could not afford to do away with our ney, our rapp, or our soult--names which were as stirring to our ears as the blare of our trumpets blowing the reveille. it was berthier, then, who sent to say that he wished to see me. he had a suite of rooms at the end of the gallery of francis the first, not very far from those of the emperor. in the ante-chamber were waiting two men whom i knew well: colonel despienne, of the th of the line, and captain tremeau, of the voltigeurs. they were both old soldiers--tremeau had carried a musket in egypt--and they were also both famous in the army for their courage and their skill with weapons. tremeau had become a little stiff in the wrist, but despienne was capable at his best of making me exert myself. he was a tiny fellow, about three inches short of the proper height for a man--he was exactly three inches shorter than myself--but both with the sabre and with the small-sword he had several times almost held his own against me when we used to exhibit at verron's hall of arms in the palais royal. you may think that it made us sniff something in the wind when we found three such men called together into one room. you cannot see the lettuce and dressing without suspecting a salad. 'name of a pipe!' said tremeau, in his barrack-room fashion. 'are we then expecting three champions of the bourbons?' to all of us the idea appeared not improbable. certainly in the whole army we were the very three who might have been chosen to meet them. 'the prince of neufchâtel desires to speak with the brigadier gerard,' said a footman, appearing at the door. in i went, leaving my two companions consumed with impatience behind me. it was a small room, but very gorgeously furnished. berthier was seated opposite to me at a little table, with a pen in his hand and a note-book open before him. he was looking weary and slovenly--very different from that berthier who used to give the fashion to the army, and who had so often set us poorer officers tearing our hair by trimming his pelisse with fur one campaign, and with grey astrakhan the next. on his clean-shaven, comely face there was an expression of trouble, and he looked at me as i entered his chamber in a way which had in it something furtive and displeasing. 'chief of brigade gerard!' said he. 'at your service, your highness!' i answered. 'i must ask you, before i go further, to promise me, upon your honour as a gentleman and a soldier, that what is about to pass between us shall never be mentioned to any third person.' my word, this was a fine beginning! i had no choice but to give the promise required. 'you must know, then, that it is all over with the emperor,' said he, looking down at the table and speaking very slowly, as if he had a hard task in getting out the words. 'jourdan at rouen and marmont at paris have both mounted the white cockade, and it is rumoured that talleyrand has talked ney into doing the same. it is evident that further resistance is useless, and that it can only bring misery upon our country. i wish to ask you, therefore, whether you are prepared to join me in laying hands upon the emperor's person, and bringing the war to a conclusion by delivering him over to the allies?' i assure you that when i heard this infamous proposition put forward by the man who had been the earliest friend of the emperor, and who had received greater favours from him than any of his followers, i could only stand and stare at him in amazement. for his part he tapped his pen-handle against his teeth, and looked at me with a slanting head. 'well?' he asked. 'i am a little deaf on one side,' said i, coldly. 'there are some things which i cannot hear. i beg that you will permit me to return to my duties.' 'nay, but you must not be headstrong,' rising up and laying his hand upon my shoulder. 'you are aware that the senate has declared against napoleon, and that the emperor alexander refuses to treat with him.' 'sir,' i cried, with passion, 'i would have you know that i do not care the dregs of a wine-glass for the senate or for the emperor alexander either.' 'then for what do you care?' 'for my own honour and for the service of my glorious master, the emperor napoleon.' 'that is all very well,' said berthier, peevishly, shrugging his shoulders. 'facts are facts, and as men of the world, we must look them in the face. are we to stand against the will of the nation? are we to have civil war on the top of all our misfortunes? and, besides, we are thinning away. every hour comes the news of fresh desertions. we have still time to make our peace, and, indeed, to earn the highest regard, by giving up the emperor.' i shook so with passion that my sabre clattered against my thigh. 'sir,' i cried, 'i never thought to have seen the day when a marshal of france would have so far degraded himself as to put forward such a proposal. i leave you to your own conscience; but as for me, until i have the emperor's own order, there shall always be the sword of etienne gerard between his enemies and himself.' i was so moved by my own words and by the fine position which i had taken up, that my voice broke, and i could hardly refrain from tears. i should have liked the whole army to have seen me as i stood with my head so proudly erect and my hand upon my heart proclaiming my devotion to the emperor in his adversity. it was one of the supreme moments of my life. 'very good,' said berthier, ringing a bell for the lackey. 'you will show the chief of brigade gerard into the salon.' the footman led me into an inner room, where he desired me to be seated. for my own part, my only desire was to get away, and i could not understand why they should wish to detain me. when one has had no change of uniform during a whole winter's campaign, one does not feel at home in a palace. i had been there about a quarter of an hour when the footman opened the door again, and in came colonel despienne. good heavens, what a sight he was! his face was as white as a guardsman's gaiters, his eyes projecting, the veins swollen upon his forehead, and every hair of his moustache bristling like those of an angry cat. he was too angry to speak, and could only shake his hands at the ceiling and make a gurgling in his throat. 'parricide! viper!' those were the words that i could catch as he stamped up and down the room. of course it was evident to me that he had been subjected to the same infamous proposals as i had, and that he had received them in the same spirit. his lips were sealed to me, as mine were to him, by the promise which we had taken, but i contented myself with muttering 'atrocious! unspeakable!'--so that he might know that i was in agreement with him. well, we were still there, he striding furiously up and down, and i seated in the corner, when suddenly a most extraordinary uproar broke out in the room which we had just quitted. there was a snarling, worrying growl, like that of a fierce dog which has got his grip. then came a crash and a voice calling for help. in we rushed, the two of us, and, my faith, we were none too soon. old tremeau and berthier were rolling together upon the floor, with the table upon the top of them. the captain had one of his great, skinny yellow hands upon the marshal's throat, and already his face was lead-coloured, and his eyes were starting from their sockets. as to tremeau, he was beside himself, with foam upon the corners of his lips, and such a frantic expression upon him that i am convinced, had we not loosened his iron grip, finger by finger, that it would never have relaxed while the marshal lived. his nails were white with the power of his grasp. 'i have been tempted by the devil!' he cried, as he staggered to his feet. 'yes, i have been tempted by the devil!' as to berthier, he could only lean against the wall, and pant for a couple of minutes, putting his hands up to his throat and rolling his head about. then, with an angry gesture, he turned to the heavy blue curtain which hung behind his chair. the curtain was torn to one side and the emperor stepped out into the room. we sprang to the salute, we three old soldiers, but it was all like a scene in a dream to us, and our eyes were as far out as berthier's had been. napoleon was dressed in his green-coated chasseur uniform, and he held his little, silver-headed switch in his hand. he looked at us each in turn, with a smile upon his face--that frightful smile in which neither eyes nor brow joined--and each in turn had, i believe, a pringling on his skin, for that was the effect which the emperor's gaze had upon most of us. then he walked across to berthier and put his hand upon his shoulder. 'you must not quarrel with blows, my dear prince,' said he; 'they are your title to nobility.' he spoke in that soft, caressing manner which he could assume. there was no one who could make the french tongue sound so pretty as the emperor, and no one who could make it more harsh and terrible. 'i believe he would have killed me,' cried berthier, still rolling his head about. 'tut, tut! i should have come to your help had these officers not heard your cries. but i trust that you are not really hurt!' he spoke with earnestness, for he was in truth very fond of berthier--more so than of any man, unless it were of poor duroc. berthier laughed, though not with a very good grace. 'it is new for me to receive my injuries from french hands,' said he. 'and yet it was in the cause of france,' returned the emperor. then, turning to us, he took old tremeau by the ear. 'ah, old grumbler,' said he, 'you were one of my egyptian grenadiers, were you not, and had your musket of honour at marengo. i remember you very well, my good friend. so the old fires are not yet extinguished! they still burn up when you think that your emperor is wronged. and you, colonel despienne, you would not even listen to the tempter. and you, gerard, your faithful sword is ever to be between me and my enemies. well, well, i have had some traitors about me, but now at last we are beginning to see who are the true men.' you can fancy, my friends, the thrill of joy which it gave us when the greatest man in the whole world spoke to us in this fashion. tremeau shook until i thought he would have fallen, and the tears ran down his gigantic moustache. if you had not seen it, you could never believe the influence which the emperor had upon those coarse-grained, savage old veterans. 'well, my faithful friends,' said he, 'if you will follow me into this room, i will explain to you the meaning of this little farce which we have been acting. i beg, berthier, that you will remain in this chamber, and so make sure that no one interrupts us.' it was new for us to be doing business, with a marshal of france as sentry at the door. however, we followed the emperor as we were ordered, and he led us into the recess of the window, gathering us around him and sinking his voice as he addressed us. 'i have picked you out of the whole army,' said he, 'as being not only the most formidable but also the most faithful of my soldiers. i was convinced that you were all three men who would never waver in your fidelity to me. if i have ventured to put that fidelity to the proof, and to watch you while attempts were at my orders made upon your honour, it was only because, in the days when i have found the blackest treason amongst my own flesh and blood, it is necessary that i should be doubly circumspect. suffice it that i am well convinced now that i can rely upon your valour.' 'to the death, sire!' cried tremeau, and we both repeated it after him. napoleon drew us all yet a little closer to him, and sank his voice still lower. 'what i say to you now i have said to no one--not to my wife or my brothers; only to you. it is all up with us, my friends. we have come to our last rally. the game is finished, and we must make provision accordingly.' my heart seemed to have changed to a nine-pounder ball as i listened to him. we had hoped against hope, but now when he, the man who was always serene and who always had reserves--when he, in that quiet, impassive voice of his, said that everything was over, we realized that the clouds had shut for ever, and the last gleam gone. tremeau snarled and gripped at his sabre, despienne ground his teeth, and for my own part i threw out my chest and clicked my heels to show the emperor that there were some spirits which could rise to adversity. 'my papers and my fortune must be secured,' whispered the emperor. 'the whole course of the future may depend upon my having them safe. they are our base for the next attempt--for i am very sure that these poor bourbons would find that my footstool is too large to make a throne for them. where am i to keep these precious things? my belongings will be searched--so will the houses of my supporters. they must be secured and concealed by men whom i can trust with that which is more precious to me than my life. out of the whole of france, you are those whom i have chosen for this sacred trust. 'in the first place, i will tell you what these papers are. you shall not say that i have made you blind agents in the matter. they are the official proof of my divorce from josephine, of my legal marriage to marie louise, and of the birth of my son and heir, the king of rome. if we cannot prove each of these, the future claim of my family to the throne of france falls to the ground. then there are securities to the value of forty millions of francs--an immense sum, my friends, but of no more value than this riding-switch when compared to the other papers of which i have spoken. i tell you these things that you may realize the enormous importance of the task which i am committing to your care. listen, now, while i inform you where you are to get these papers, and what you are to do with them. 'they were handed over to my trusty friend, the countess walewski, at paris, this morning. at five o'clock she starts for fontainebleau in her blue berline. she should reach here between half-past nine and ten. the papers will be concealed in the berline, in a hiding-place which none know but herself. she has been warned that her carriage will be stopped outside the town by three mounted officers, and she will hand the packet over to your care. you are the younger man, gerard, but you are of the senior grade. i confide to your care this amethyst ring, which you will show the lady as a token of your mission, and which you will leave with her as a receipt for her papers. 'having received the packet, you will ride with it into the forest as far as the ruined dove-house--the colombier. it is possible that i may meet you there--but if it seems to me to be dangerous, i will send my body-servant, mustapha, whose directions you may take as being mine. there is no roof to the colombier, and tonight will be a full moon. at the right of the entrance you will find three spades leaning against the wall. with these you will dig a hole three feet deep in the north-eastern corner--that is, in the corner to the left of the door, and nearest to fontainebleau. having buried the papers, you will replace the soil with great care, and you will then report to me at the palace.' these were the emperor's directions, but given with an accuracy and minuteness of detail such as no one but himself could put into an order. when he had finished, he made us swear to keep his secret as long as he lived, and as long as the papers should remain buried. again and again he made us swear it before he dismissed us from his presence. colonel despienne had quarters at the 'sign of the pheasant,' and it was there that we supped together. we were all three men who had been trained to take the strangest turns of fortune as part of our daily life and business, yet we were all flushed and moved by the extraordinary interview which we had had, and by the thought of the great adventure which lay before us. for my own part, it had been my fate three several times to take my orders from the lips of the emperor himself, but neither the incident of the ajaccio murderers nor the famous ride which i made to paris appeared to offer such opportunities as this new and most intimate commission. 'if things go right with the emperor,' said despienne, 'we shall all live to be marshals yet.' we drank with him to our future cocked hats and our bâtons. it was agreed between us that we should make our way separately to our rendezvous, which was to be the first mile-stone upon the paris road. in this way we should avoid the gossip which might get about if three men who were so well known were to be seen riding out together. my little violette had cast a shoe that morning, and the farrier was at work upon her when i returned, so that my comrades were already there when i arrived at the trysting-place. i had taken with me not only my sabre, but also my new pair of english rifled pistols, with a mallet for knocking in the charges. they had cost me a hundred and fifty francs at trouvel's, in the rue de rivoli, but they would carry far further and straighter than the others. it was with one of them that i had saved old bouvet's life at leipzig. the night was cloudless, and there was a brilliant moon behind us, so that we always had three black horsemen riding down the white road in front of us. the country is so thickly wooded, however, that we could not see very far. the great palace clock had already struck ten, but there was no sign of the countess. we began to fear that something might have prevented her from starting. and then suddenly we heard her in the distance. very faint at first were the birr of wheels and the tat-tat-tat of the horses' feet. then they grew louder and clearer and louder yet, until a pair of yellow lanterns swung round the curve, and in their light we saw the two big brown horses tearing along the high, blue carriage at the back of them. the postilion pulled them up panting and foaming within a few yards of us. in a moment we were at the window and had raised our hands in a salute to the beautiful pale face which looked out at us. 'we are the three officers of the emperor, madame,' said i, in a low voice, leaning my face down to the open window. 'you have already been warned that we should wait upon you.' the countess had a very beautiful, cream-tinted complexion of a sort which i particularly admire, but she grew whiter and whiter as she looked up at me. harsh lines deepened upon her face until she seemed, even as i looked at her, to turn from youth into age. 'it is evident to me,' she said, 'that you are three impostors.' if she had struck me across the face with her delicate hand she could not have startled me more. it was not her words only, but the bitterness with which she hissed them out. 'indeed, madame,' said i. 'you do us less than justice. these are the colonel despienne and captain tremeau. for myself, my name is brigadier gerard, and i have only to mention it to assure anyone who has heard of me that----' 'oh, you villains!' she interrupted. 'you think that because i am only a woman i am very easily to be hoodwinked! you miserable impostors!' i looked at despienne, who had turned white with anger, and at tremeau, who was tugging at his moustache. 'madame,' said i, coldly, 'when the emperor did us the honour to intrust us with this mission, he gave me this amethyst ring as a token. i had not thought that three honourable gentlemen would have needed such corroboration, but i can only confute your unworthy suspicions by placing it in your hands.' she held it up in the light of the carriage lamp, and the most dreadful expression of grief and of horror contorted her face. 'it is his!' she screamed, and then, 'oh, my god, what have i done? what have i done?' i felt that something terrible had befallen. 'quick, madame, quick!' i cried. 'give us the papers!' 'i have already given them.' 'given them! to whom?' 'to three officers.' 'when?' 'within the half-hour.' 'where are they?' 'god help me, i do not know. they stopped the berline, and i handed them over to them without hesitation, thinking that they had come from the emperor.' it was a thunder-clap. but those are the moments when i am at my finest. 'you remain here,' said i, to my comrades. 'if three horsemen pass you, stop them at any hazard. the lady will describe them to you. i will be with you presently.' one shake of the bridle, and i was flying into fontainebleau as only violette could have carried me. at the palace i flung myself off, rushed up the stairs, brushed aside the lackeys who would have stopped me, and pushed my way into the emperor's own cabinet. he and macdonald were busy with pencil and compasses over a chart. he looked up with an angry frown at my sudden entry, but his face changed colour when he saw that it was i. 'you can leave us, marshal,' said he, and then, the instant the door was closed: 'what news about the papers?' 'they are gone!' said i, and in a few curt words i told him what had happened. his face was calm, but i saw the compasses quiver in his hand. 'you must recover them, gerard!' he cried. 'the destinies of my dynasty are at stake. not a moment is to be lost! to horse, sir, to horse!' 'who are they, sire?' 'i cannot tell. i am surrounded with treason. but they will take them to paris. to whom should they carry them but to the villain talleyrand? yes, yes, they are on the paris road, and may yet be overtaken. with the three best mounts in my stables and----' i did not wait to hear the end of the sentence. i was already clattering down the stairs. i am sure that five minutes had not passed before i was galloping violette out of the town with the bridle of one of the emperor's own arab chargers in either hand. they wished me to take three, but i should have never dared to look my violette in the face again. i feel that the spectacle must have been superb when i dashed up to my comrades and pulled the horses on to their haunches in the moonlight. 'no one has passed?' 'no one.' 'then they are on the paris road. quick! up and after them!' they did not take long, those good soldiers. in a flash they were upon the emperor's horses, and their own left masterless by the roadside. then away we went upon our long chase, i in the centre, despienne upon my right, and tremeau a little behind, for he was the heavier man. heavens, how we galloped! the twelve flying hoofs roared and roared along the hard, smooth road. poplars and moon, black bars and silver streaks, for mile after mile our course lay along the same chequered track, with our shadows in front and our dust behind. we could hear the rasping of bolts and the creaking of shutters from the cottages as we thundered past them, but we were only three dark blurs upon the road by the time that the folk could look after us. it was just striking midnight as we raced into corbail; but an hostler with a bucket in either hand was throwing his black shadow across the golden fan which was cast from the open door of the inn. 'three riders!' i gasped. 'have they passed?' 'i have just been watering their horses,' said he. 'i should think they----' 'on, on, my friends!' and away we flew, striking fire from the cobblestones of the little town. a gendarme tried to stop up, but his voice was drowned by our rattle and clatter. the houses slid past, and we were out on the country road again, with a clear twenty miles between ourselves and paris. how could they escape us, with the finest horses in france behind them? not one of the three had turned a hair, but violette was always a head and shoulders to the front. she was going within herself too, and i knew by the spring of her that i had only to let her stretch herself, and the emperor's horses would see the colour of her tail. 'there they are!' cried despienne. 'we have them!' growled tremeau. 'on, comrades, on!' i shouted, once more. a long stretch of white road lay before us in the moonlight. far away down it we could see three cavaliers, lying low upon their horses' necks. every instant they grew larger and clearer as we gained upon them. i could see quite plainly that the two upon either side were wrapped in mantles and rode upon chestnut horses, whilst the man between them was dressed in a chasseur uniform and mounted upon a grey. they were keeping abreast, but it was easy enough to see from the way in which he gathered his legs for each spring that the centre horse was far the fresher of the three. and the rider appeared to be the leader of the party, for we continually saw the glint of his face in the moonshine as he looked back to measure the distance between us. at first it was only a glimmer, then it was cut across with a moustache, and at last when we began to feel their dust in our throats i could give a name to my man. 'halt, colonel de montluc!' i shouted. 'halt, in the emperor's name!' i had known him for years as a daring officer and an unprincipled rascal. indeed, there was a score between us, for he had shot my friend, treville, at warsaw, pulling his trigger, as some said, a good second before the drop of the handkerchief. well, the words were hardly out of my mouth when his two comrades wheeled round and fired their pistols at us. i heard despienne give a terrible cry, and at the same instant both tremeau and i let drive at the same man. he fell forward with his hands swinging on each side of his horse's neck. his comrade spurred on to tremeau, sabre in hand, and i heard the crash which comes when a strong cut is met by a stronger parry. for my own part i never turned my head, but i touched violette with the spur for the first time and flew after the leader. that he should leave his comrades and fly was proof enough that i should leave mine and follow. he had gained a couple of hundred paces, but the good little mare set that right before we could have passed two milestones. it was in vain that he spurred and thrashed like a gunner driver on a soft road. his hat flew off with his exertions, and his bald head gleamed in the moonshine. but do what he might, he still heard the rattle of the hoofs growing louder and louder behind him. i could not have been twenty yards from him, and the shadow head was touching the shadow haunch, when he turned with a curse in his saddle and emptied both his pistols, one after the other, into violette. i have been wounded myself so often that i have to stop and think before i can tell you the exact number of times. i have been hit by musket balls, by pistol bullets, and by bursting shells, besides being pierced by bayonet, lance, sabre, and finally by a brad-awl, which was the most painful of any. yet out of all these injuries i have never known the same deadly sickness as came over me when i felt the poor, silent, patient creature, which i had come to love more than anything in the world except my mother and the emperor, reel and stagger beneath me. i pulled my second pistol from my holster and fired point-blank between the fellow's broad shoulders. he slashed his horse across the flank with his whip, and for a moment i thought that i had missed him. but then on the green of his chasseur jacket i saw an ever-widening black smudge, and he began to sway in his saddle, very slightly at first, but more and more with every bound, until at last over he went, with his foot caught in the stirrup, and his shoulders thud-thud-thudding along the road, until the drag was too much for the tired horse, and i closed my hand upon the foam-spattered bridle-chain. as i pulled him up it eased the stirrup leather, and the spurred heel clinked loudly as it fell. 'your papers!' i cried, springing from my saddle. 'this instant!' but even as i said, it, the huddle of the green body and the fantastic sprawl of the limbs in the moonlight told me clearly enough that it was all over with him. my bullet had passed through his heart, and it was only his own iron will which had held him so long in the saddle. he had lived hard, this montluc, and i will do him justice to say that he died hard also. but it was the papers--always the papers--of which i thought. i opened his tunic and i felt in his shirt. then i searched his holsters and his sabre-tasche. finally i dragged off his boots, and undid his horse's girth so as to hunt under the saddle. there was not a nook or crevice which i did not ransack. it was useless. they were not upon him. when this stunning blow came upon me i could have sat down by the roadside and wept. fate seemed to be fighting against me, and that is an enemy from whom even a gallant hussar might not be ashamed to flinch. i stood with my arm over the neck of my poor wounded violette, and i tried to think it all out, that i might act in the wisest way. i was aware that the emperor had no great respect for my wits, and i longed to show him that he had done me an injustice. montluc had not the papers. and yet montluc had sacrificed his companions in order to make his escape. i could make nothing of that. on the other hand, it was clear that, if he had not got them, one or other of his comrades had. one of them was certainly dead. the other i had left fighting with tremeau, and if he escaped from the old swordsman he had still to pass me. clearly, my work lay behind me. i hammered fresh charges into my pistols after i had turned this over in my head. then i put them back in the holsters, and i examined my little mare, she jerking her head and cocking her ears the while, as if to tell me that an old soldier like herself did not make a fuss about a scratch or two. the first shot had merely grazed her off-shoulder, leaving a skin-mark, as if she had brushed a wall. the second was more serious. it had passed through the muscle of her neck, but already it had ceased to bleed. i reflected that if she weakened i could mount montluc's grey, and meanwhile i led him along beside us, for he was a fine horse, worth fifteen hundred francs at the least, and it seemed to me that no one had a better right to him than i. well, i was all impatience now to get back to the others, and i had just given violette her head, when suddenly i saw something glimmering in a field by the roadside. it was the brass-work upon the chasseur hat which had flown from montluc's head; and at the sight of it a thought made me jump in the saddle. how could the hat have flown off? with its weight, would it not have simply dropped? and here it lay, fifteen paces from the roadway! of course, he must have thrown it off when he had made sure that i would overtake him. and if he threw it off--i did not stop to reason any more, but sprang from the mare with my heart beating the _pas-de-charge_. yes, it was all right this time. there, in the crown of the hat was stuffed a roll of papers in a parchment wrapper bound round with yellow ribbon. i pulled it out with the one hand and, holding the hat in the other, i danced for joy in the moonlight. the emperor would see that he had not made a mistake when he put his affairs into the charge of etienne gerard. i had a safe pocket on the inside of my tunic just over my heart, where i kept a few little things which were dear to me, and into this i thrust my precious roll. then i sprang upon violette, and was pushing forward to see what had become of tremeau, when i saw a horseman riding across the field in the distance. at the same instant i heard the sound of hoofs approaching me, and there in the moonlight was the emperor upon his white charger, dressed in his grey overcoat and his three-cornered hat, just as i had seen him so often upon the field of battle. 'well!' he cried, in the sharp, sergeant-major way of his. 'where are my papers?' i spurred forward and presented them without a word. he broke the ribbon and ran his eyes rapidly over them. then, as we sat our horses head to tail, he threw his left arm across me with his hand upon my shoulder. yes, my friends, simple as you see me, i have been embraced by my great master. 'gerard,' he cried, 'you are a marvel!' i did not wish to contradict him, and it brought a flush of joy upon my cheeks to know that he had done me justice at last. 'where is the thief, gerard?' he asked. 'dead, sire.' 'you killed him?' 'he wounded my horse, sire, and would have escaped had i not shot him.' 'did you recognize him?' 'de montluc is his name, sire--a colonel of chasseurs.' 'tut,' said the emperor. 'we have got the poor pawn, but the hand which plays the game is still out of our reach.' he sat in silent thought for a little, with his chin sunk upon his chest. 'ah, talleyrand, talleyrand,' i heard him mutter, 'if i had been in your place and you in mine, you would have crushed a viper when you held it under your heel. for five years i have known you for what you are, and yet i have let you live to sting me. never mind, my brave,' he continued, turning to me, 'there will come a day of reckoning for everybody, and when it arrives, i promise you that my friends will be remembered as well as my enemies.' 'sire,' said i, for i had had time for thought as well as he, 'if your plans about these papers have been carried to the ears of your enemies, i trust you do not think that it was owing to any indiscretion upon the part of myself or of my comrades.' 'it would be hardly reasonable for me to do so,' he answered, 'seeing that this plot was hatched in paris, and that you only had your orders a few hours ago.' 'then how----?' 'enough,' he cried, sternly. 'you take an undue advantage of your position.' that was always the way with the emperor. he would chat with you as with a friend and a brother, and then when he had wiled you into forgetting the gulf which lay between you, he would suddenly, with a word or with a look, remind you that it was as impassable as ever. when i have fondled my old hound until he has been encouraged to paw my knees, and i have then thrust him down again, it has made me think of the emperor and his ways. he reined his horse round, and i followed him in silence and with a heavy heart. but when he spoke again his words were enough to drive all thought of myself out of my mind. 'i could not sleep until i knew how you had fared,' said he. 'i have paid a price for my papers. there are not so many of my old soldiers left that i can afford to lose two in one night.' when he said 'two' it turned me cold. 'colonel despienne was shot, sire,' i stammered. 'and captain tremeau cut down. had i been a few minutes earlier, i might have saved him. the other escaped across the fields.' i remembered that i had seen a horseman a moment before i had met the emperor. he had taken to the fields to avoid me, but if i had known, and violette been unwounded, the old soldier would not have gone unavenged. i was thinking sadly of his sword-play, and wondering whether it was his stiffening wrist which had been fatal to him, when napoleon spoke again. 'yes, brigadier,' said he, 'you are now the only man who will know where these papers are concealed.' it must have been imagination, my friends, but for an instant i may confess that it seemed to me that there was a tone in the emperor's voice which was not altogether one of sorrow. but the dark thought had hardly time to form itself in my mind before he let me see that i was doing him an injustice. 'yes, i have paid a price for my papers,' he said, and i heard them crackle as he put his hand up to his bosom. 'no man has ever had more faithful servants--no man since the beginning of the world.' as he spoke we came upon the scene of the struggle. colonel despienne and the man whom we had shot lay together some distance down the road, while their horses grazed contentedly beneath the poplars. captain tremeau lay in front of us upon his back, with his arms and legs stretched out, and his sabre broken short off in his hand. his tunic was open, and a huge blood-clot hung like a dark handkerchief out of a slit in his white shirt. i could see the gleam of his clenched teeth from under his immense moustache. the emperor sprang from his horse and bent down over the dead man. 'he was with me since rivoli,' said he, sadly. 'he was one of my old grumblers in egypt.' and the voice brought the man back from the dead. i saw his eyelids shiver. he twitched his arm, and moved the sword-hilt a few inches. he was trying to raise it in salute. then the mouth opened, and the hilt tinkled down on to the ground. 'may we all die as gallantly,' said the emperor, as he rose, and from my heart i added 'amen.' there was a farm within fifty yards of where we were standing, and the farmer, roused from his sleep by the clatter of hoofs and the cracking of pistols, had rushed out to the roadside. we saw him now, dumb with fear and astonishment, staring open-eyed at the emperor. it was to him that we committed the care of the four dead men and of the horses also. for my own part, i thought it best to leave violette with him and to take de montluc's grey with me, for he could not refuse to give me back my own mare, whilst there might be difficulties about the other. besides, my little friend's wound had to be considered, and we had a long return ride before us. the emperor did not at first talk much upon the way. perhaps the deaths of despienne and tremeau still weighed heavily upon his spirits. he was always a reserved man, and in those times, when every hour brought him the news of some success of his enemies or defection of his friends, one could not expect him to be a merry companion. nevertheless, when i reflected that he was carrying in his bosom those papers which he valued so highly, and which only a few hours ago appeared to be for ever lost, and when i further thought that it was i, etienne gerard, who had placed them there, i felt that i had deserved some little consideration. the same idea may have occurred to him, for when we had at last left the paris high road, and had entered the forest, he began of his own accord to tell me that which i should have most liked to have asked him. 'as to the papers,' said he, 'i have already told you that there is no one now, except you and me, who knows where they are to be concealed. my mameluke carried the spades to the pigeon-house, but i have told him nothing. our plans, however, for bringing the packet from paris have been formed since monday. there were three in the secret, a woman and two men. the woman i would trust with my life; which of the two men has betrayed us i do not know, but i think that i may promise to find out.' we were riding in the shadow of the trees at the time, and i could hear him slapping his riding-whip against his boot, and taking pinch after pinch of snuff, as was his way when he was excited. 'you wonder, no doubt,' said he, after a pause, 'why these rascals did not stop the carriage at paris instead of at the entrance to fontainebleau.' in truth, the objection had not occurred to me, but i did not wish to appear to have less wits than he gave me credit for, so i answered that it was indeed surprising. 'had they done so they would have made a public scandal, and run a chance of missing their end. short of taking the berline to pieces, they could not have discovered the hiding-place. he planned it well--he could always plan well--and he chose his agents well also. but mine were the better.' it is not for me to repeat to you, my friends, all that was said to me by the emperor as we walked our horses amid the black shadows and through the moon-silvered glades of the great forest. every word of it is impressed upon my memory, and before i pass away it is likely that i will place it all upon paper, so that others may read it in the days to come. he spoke freely of his past, and something also of his future; of the devotion of macdonald, of the treason of marmont, of the little king of rome, concerning whom he talked with as much tenderness as any bourgeois father of a single child; and, finally, of his father-in-law, the emperor of austria, who would, he thought, stand between his enemies and himself. for myself, i dared not say a word, remembering how i had already brought a rebuke upon myself; but i rode by his side, hardly able to believe that this was indeed the great emperor, the man whose glance sent a thrill through me, who was now pouring out his thoughts to me in short, eager sentences, the words rattling and racing like the hoofs of a galloping squadron. it is possible that, after the word-splittings and diplomacy of a court, it was a relief to him to speak his mind to a plain soldier like myself. in this way the emperor and i--even after years it sends a flush of pride into my cheeks to be able to put those words together--the emperor and i walked our horses through the forest of fontainebleau, until we came at last to the colombier. the three spades were propped against the wall upon the right-hand side of the ruined door, and at the sight of them the tears sprang to my eyes as i thought of the hands for which they were intended. the emperor seized one and i another. 'quick!' said he. 'the dawn will be upon us before we get back to the palace.' we dug the hole, and placing the papers in one of my pistol holsters to screen them from the damp, we laid them at the bottom and covered them up. we then carefully removed all marks of the ground having been disturbed, and we placed a large stone upon the top. i dare say that since the emperor was a young gunner, and helped to train his pieces against toulon, he had not worked so hard with his hands. he was mopping his forehead with his silk handkerchief long before we had come to the end of our task. the first grey cold light of morning was stealing through the tree trunks when we came out together from the old pigeon-house. the emperor laid his hand upon my shoulder as i stood ready to help him to mount. 'we have left the papers there,' said he, solemnly, 'and i desire that you shall leave all thought of them there also. let the recollection of them pass entirely from your mind, to be revived only when you receive a direct order under my own hand and seal. from this time onwards you forget all that has passed.' 'i forget it, sire,' said i. we rode together to the edge of the town, where he desired that i should separate from him. i had saluted, and was turning my horse, when he called me back. 'it is easy to mistake the points of the compass in the forest,' said he. 'would you not say that it was in the north-eastern corner that we buried them?' 'buried what, sire?' 'the papers, of course,' he cried, impatiently. 'what papers, sire?' 'name of a name! why, the papers that you have recovered for me.' 'i am really at a loss to know what your majesty is talking about.' he flushed with anger for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. 'very good, brigadier!' he cried. 'i begin to believe that you are as good a diplomatist as you are a soldier, and i cannot say more than that.' * * * * * so that was my strange adventure in which i found myself the friend and confident agent of the emperor. when he returned from elba he refrained from digging up the papers until his position should be secure, and they still remained in the corner of the old pigeon-house after his exile to st helena. it was at this time that he was desirous of getting them into the hands of his own supporters, and for that purpose he wrote me, as i afterwards learned, three letters, all of which were intercepted by his guardians. finally, he offered to support himself and his own establishment--which he might very easily have done out of the gigantic sum which belonged to him--if they would only pass one of his letters unopened. this request was refused, and so, up to his death in ' , the papers still remained where i have told you. how they came to be dug up by count bertrand and myself, and who eventually obtained them, is a story which i would tell you, were it not that the end has not yet come. some day you will hear of those papers, and you will see how, after he has been so long in his grave, that great man can still set europe shaking. when that day comes, you will think of etienne gerard, and you will tell your children that you have heard the story from the lips of the man who was the only one living of all who took part in that strange history--the man who was tempted by marshal berthier, who led that wild pursuit upon the paris road, who was honoured by the embrace of the emperor, and who rode with him by moonlight in the forest of fontainebleau. the buds are bursting and the birds are calling, my friends. you may find better things to do in the sunlight than listening to the stories of an old, broken soldier. and yet you may well treasure what i say, for the buds will have burst and the birds sung in many seasons before france will see such another ruler as he whose servants we were proud to be. the green flag. arthur conan doyle. contents. the green flag. captain sharkey. the croxley master. the lord of chateau noir. the striped chest. a shadow before. the king of the foxes. the three correspondents. the new catacomb. the debut of bimbashi joyce. a foreign office romance. the green flag when jack conolly, of the irish shotgun brigade, the rory of the hills inner circle, and the extreme left wing of the land league, was incontinently shot by sergeant murdoch of the constabulary, in a little moonlight frolic near kanturk, his twin-brother dennis joined the british army. the countryside had become too hot for him; and, as the seventy-five shillings were wanting which might have carried him to america, he took the only way handy of getting himself out of the way. seldom has her majesty had a less promising recruit, for his hot celtic blood seethed with hatred against britain and all things british. the sergeant, however, smiling complacently over his ft. of brawn and his in. chest, whisked him off with a dozen other of the boys to the depot at fermoy, whence in a few weeks they were sent on, with the spade-work kinks taken out of their backs, to the first battalion of the royal mallows, at the top of the roster for foreign service. the royal mallows, at about that date, were as strange a lot of men as ever were paid by a great empire to fight its battles. it was the darkest hour of the land struggle, when the one side came out with crow-bar and battering-ram by day, and the other with mask and with shot-gun by night. men driven from their homes and potato-patches found their way even into the service of the government, to which it seemed to them that they owed their troubles, and now and then they did wild things before they came. there were recruits in the irish regiments who would forget to answer to their own names, so short had been their acquaintance with them. of these the royal mallows had their full share; and, while they still retained their fame as being one of the smartest corps in the army, no one knew better than their officers that they were dry-rotted with treason and with bitter hatred of the flag under which they served. and the centre of all the disaffection was c company, in which dennis conolly found himself enrolled. they were celts, catholics, and men of the tenant class to a man; and their whole experience of the british government had been an inexorable landlord, and a constabulary who seemed to them to be always on the side of the rent-collector. dennis was not the only moonlighter in the ranks, nor was he alone in having an intolerable family blood-feud to harden his heart. savagery had begotten savagery in that veiled civil war. a landlord with an iron mortgage weighing down upon him had small bowels for his tenantry. he did but take what the law allowed, and yet, with men like jim holan, or patrick mcquire, or peter flynn, who had seen the roofs torn from their cottages and their folk huddled among their pitiable furniture upon the roadside, it was ill to argue about abstract law. what matter that in that long and bitter struggle there was many another outrage on the part of the tenant, and many another grievance on the side of the landowner! a stricken man can only feel his own wound, and the rank and file of the c company of the royal mallows were sore and savage to the soul. there were low whisperings in barrack-rooms and canteens, stealthy meetings in public-house parlours, bandying of passwords from mouth to mouth, and many other signs which made their officers right glad when the order came which sent them to foreign, and better still, to active service. for irish regiments have before now been disaffected, and have at a distance looked upon the foe as though he might, in truth, be the friend; but when they have been put face on to him, and when their officers have dashed to the front with a wave and halloo, those rebel hearts have softened and their gallant celtic blood has boiled with the mad joy of the fight, until the slower britons have marvelled that they ever could have doubted the loyalty of their irish comrades. so it would be again, according to the officers, and so it would not be if dennis conolly and a few others could have their way. it was a march morning upon the eastern fringe of the nubian desert. the sun had not yet risen, but a tinge of pink flushed up as far as the cloudless zenith, and the long strip of sea lay like a rosy ribbon across the horizon. from the coast inland stretched dreary sand-plains, dotted over with thick clumps at mimosa scrub and mottled patches of thorny bush. no tree broke the monotony of that vast desert. the dull, dusty hue of the thickets, and the yellow glare of the sand, were the only colours, save at one point, where, from a distance, it seemed that a land-slip of snow-white stones had shot itself across a low foot-hill. but as the traveller approached he saw, with a thrill, that these were no stones, but the bleaching bones of a slaughtered army. with its dull tints, its gnarled, viprous bushes, its arid, barren soil, and this death streak trailed across it, it was indeed a nightmare country. some eight or ten miles inland the rolling plain curved upwards with a steeper slope until it ran into a line of red basaltic rock which zigzagged from north to south, heaping itself up at one point into a fantastic knoll. on the summit of this there stood upon that march morning three arab chieftains--the sheik kadra of the hadendowas, moussa wad aburhegel, who led the berber dervishes, and hamid wad hussein, who had come northward with his fighting men from the land of the baggaras. they had all three just risen from their praying-carpets, and were peering out, with fierce, high-nosed faces thrust forwards, at the stretch of country revealed by the spreading dawn. the red rim of the sun was pushing itself now above the distant sea, and the whole coast-line stood out brilliantly yellow against the rich deep blue beyond. at one spot lay a huddle of white-walled houses, a mere splotch in the distance; while four tiny cock-boats, which lay beyond, marked the position of three of her majesty's , -ton troopers and the admiral's flagship. but it was not upon the distant town, nor upon the great vessels, nor yet upon the sinister white litter which gleamed in the plain beneath them, that the arab chieftains gazed. two miles from where they stood, amid the sand-hills and the mimosa scrub, a great parallelogram had been marked by piled-up bushes. from the inside of this dozens of tiny blue smoke-reeks curled up into the still morning air; while there rose from it a confused deep murmur, the voices of men and the gruntings of camels blended into the same insect buzz. "the unbelievers have cooked their morning food," said the baggara chief, shading his eyes with his tawny, sinewy hand. "truly their sleep has been scanty; for hamid and a hundred of his men have fired upon them since the rising of the moon." "so it was with these others," answered the sheik kadra, pointing with his sheathed sword towards the old battle-field. "they also had a day of little water and a night of little rest, and the heart was gone out of them ere ever the sons of the prophet had looked them in the eyes. this blade drank deep that day, and will again before the sun has travelled from the sea to the hill." "and yet these are other men," remarked the berber dervish. "well, i know that allah has placed them in the clutch of our fingers, yet it may be that they with the big hats will stand firmer than the cursed men of egypt." "pray allah that it may be so," cried the fierce baggara, with a flash of his black eyes. "it was not to chase women that i brought men from the river to the coast. see, my brother, already they are forming their array." a fanfare of bugle-calls burst from the distant camp. at the same time the bank of bushes at one side had been thrown or trampled down, and the little army within began to move slowly out on to the plain. once clear of the camp they halted, and the slant rays of the sun struck flashes from bayonet and from gun-barrel as the ranks closed up until the big pith helmets joined into a single long white ribbon. two streaks of scarlet glowed on either side of the square, but elsewhere the fringe of fighting-men was of the dull yellow khaki tint which hardly shows against the desert sand. inside their array was a dense mass of camels and mules bearing stores and ambulance needs. outside a twinkling clump of cavalry was drawn up on each flank, and in front a thin, scattered line of mounted infantry was already slowly advancing over the bush-strewn plain, halting on every eminence, and peering warily round as men might who have to pick their steps among the bones of those who have preceded them. the three chieftains still lingered upon the knoll, looking down with hungry eyes and compressed lips at the dark steel-tipped patch. "they are slower to start than the men of egypt," the sheik of the hadendowas growled in his beard. "slower also to go back, perchance, my brother," murmured the dervish. "and yet they are not many-- , at the most." "and we , , with the prophet's grip upon our spear-hafts and his words upon our banner. see to their chieftain, how he rides upon the right and looks up at us with the glass that sees from afar! it may be that he sees this also." the arab shook his sword at the small clump of horsemen who had spurred out from the square. "lo! he beckons," cried the dervish; "and see those others at the corner, how they bend and heave. ha! by the prophet, i had thought it." as he spoke, a little woolly puff of smoke spurted up at the corner of the square, and a lb. shell burst with a hard metallic smack just over their heads. the splinters knocked chips from the red rocks around them. "bismillah!" cried the hadendowa; "if the gun can carry thus far, then ours can answer to it. ride to the left, moussa, and tell ben ali to cut the skin from the egyptians if they cannot hit yonder mark. and you, hamid, to the right, and see that , men lie close in the wady that we have chosen. let the others beat the drum and show the banner of the prophet, for by the black stone their spears will have drunk deep ere they look upon the stars again." a long, straggling, boulder-strewn plateau lay on the summit of the red hills, sloping very precipitously to the plain, save at one point, where a winding gully curved downwards, its mouth choked with sand-mounds and olive-hued scrub. along the edge of this position lay the arab host--a motley crew of shock-headed desert clansmen, fierce predatory slave dealers of the interior, and wild dervishes from the upper nile, all blent together by their common fearlessness and fanaticism. two races were there, as wide as the poles apart--the thin-lipped, straight-haired arab and the thick-lipped, curly negro--yet the faith of islam had bound them closer than a blood tie. squatting among the rocks, or lying thickly in the shadow, they peered out at the slow-moving square beneath them, while women with water-skins and bags of dhoora fluttered from group to group, calling out to each other those fighting texts from the koran which in the hour of battle are maddening as wine to the true believer. a score of banners waved over the ragged, valiant crew, and among them, upon desert horses and white bishareen camels, were the emirs and sheiks who were to lead them against the infidels. as the sheik kadra sprang into his saddle and drew his sword there was a wild whoop and a clatter of waving spears, while the one-ended war-drums burst into a dull crash like a wave upon shingle. for a moment , men were up on the rocks with brandished arms and leaping figures; the next they were under cover again, waiting sternly and silently for their chieftain's orders. the square was less than half a mile from the ridge now, and shell after shell from the lb. guns were pitching over it. a deep roar on the right, and then a second one showed that the egyptian krupps were in action. sheik kadra's hawk eyes saw that the shells burst far beyond the mark, and he spurred his horse along to where a knot of mounted chiefs were gathered round the two guns, which were served by their captured crews. "how is this, ben ali?" he cried. "it was not thus that the dogs fired when it was their own brothers in faith at whom they aimed!" a chieftain reined his horse back, and thrust a blood-smeared sword into its sheath. beside him two egyptian artillerymen with their throats cut were sobbing out their lives upon the ground. "who lays the gun this time?" asked the fierce chief, glaring at the frightened gunners." here, thou black-browed child of shaitan, aim, and aim for thy life." it may have been chance, or it may have been skill, but the third and fourth shells burst over the square. sheik kadra smiled grimly and galloped back to the left, where his spearmen were streaming down into the gully. as he joined them a deep growling rose from the plain beneath, like the snarling of a sullen wild beast, and a little knot of tribesmen fell into a struggling heap, caught in the blast of lead from a gardner. their comrades pressed on over them, and sprang down into the ravine. from all along the crest burst the hard, sharp crackle of remington fire. the square had slowly advanced, rippling over the low sandhills, and halting every few minutes to re-arrange its formation. now, having made sure that there was no force of the enemy in the scrub, it changed its direction, and began to take a line parallel to the arab position. it was too steep to assail from the front, and if they moved far enough to the right the general hoped that he might turn it. on the top of those ruddy hills lay a baronetcy for him, and a few extra hundreds in his pension, and he meant having them both that day. the remington fire was annoying, and so were those two krupp guns; already there were more cacolets full than he cared to see. but on the whole he thought it better to hold his fire until he had more to aim at than a few hundred of fuzzy heads peeping over a razor-back ridge. he was a bulky, red-faced man, a fine whist-player, and a soldier who knew his work. his men believed in him, and he had good reason to believe in them, for he had excellent stuff under him that day. being an ardent champion of the short-service system, he took particular care to work with veteran first battalions, and his little force was the compressed essence of an army corps. the left front of the square was formed by four companies of the royal wessex, and the right by four of the royal mallows. on either side the other halves of the same regiments marched in quarter column of companies. behind them, on the right was a battalion of guards, and on the left one of marines, while the rear was closed in by a rifle battalion. two royal artillery lb. screw-guns kept pace with the square, and a dozen white-bloused sailors, under their blue-coated, tight-waisted officers, trailed their gardner in front, turning every now and then to spit up at the draggled banners which waved over the cragged ridge. hussars and lancers scouted in the scrub at each side, and within moved the clump of camels, with humorous eyes and supercilious lips, their comic faces a contrast to the blood-stained men who already lay huddled in the cacolets on either side. the square was now moving slowly on a line parallel with the rocks, stopping every few minutes to pick up wounded, and to allow the screw-guns and gardner to make themselves felt. the men looked serious, for that spring on to the rocks of the arab army had given them a vague glimpse of the number and ferocity of their foes; but their faces were set like stone, for they knew to a man that they must win or they must die--and die, too, in a particularly unlovely fashion. but most serious of all was the general, for he had seen that which brought a flush to his cheeks and a frown to his brow. "i say, stephen," said he to his galloper, "those mallows seem a trifle jumpy. the right flank company bulged a bit when the niggers showed on the hill." "youngest troops in the square, sir," murmured the aide, looking at them critically through his eye-glass. "tell colonel flanagan to see to it, stephen," said the general; and the galloper sped upon his way. the colonel, a fine old celtic warrior, was over at c company in an instant. "how are the men, captain foley?" "never better, sir," answered the senior captain, in the spirit that makes a madras officer look murder if you suggest recruiting his regiment from the punjab. "stiffen them up!" cried the colonel. as he rode away a colour-sergeant seemed to trip, and fell forward into a mimosa bush. he made no effort to rise, but lay in a heap among the thorns. "sergeant o'rooke's gone, sorr," cried a voice. "never mind, lads," said captain foley. "he's died like a soldier, fighting for his queen." "down with the queen!" shouted a hoarse voice from the ranks. but the roar of the gardner and the typewriter-like clicking of the hopper burst in at the tail of the words. captain foley heard them, and subalterns grice and murphy heard them; but there are times when a deaf ear is a gift from the gods. "steady, mallows!" cried the captain, in a pause of the grunting machine-gun. "we have the honour of ireland to guard this day." "and well we know how to guard it, captin!" cried the same ominous voice; and there was a buzz from the length of the company. the captain and the two subs. came together behind the marching line. "they seem a bit out of hand," murmured the captain. "bedad," said the galway boy, "they mean to scoot like redshanks." "they nearly broke when the blacks showed on the hill," said grice. "the first man that turns, my sword is through him," cried foley, loud enough to be heard by five files on either side of him. then, in a lower voice, "it's a bitter drop to swallow, but it's my duty to report what you think to the chief, and have a company of jollies put behind us." he turned away with the safety of the square upon his mind, and before he had reached his goal the square had ceased to exist. in their march in front of what looked like a face of cliff, they had come opposite to the mouth of the gully, in which, screened by scrub and boulders, , chosen dervishes, under hamid wad hussein, of the baggaras, were crouching. tat, tat, tat, went the rifles of three mounted infantrymen in front of the left shoulder of the square, and an instant later they wore spurring it for their lives, crouching over the manes of their horses, and pelting over the sandhills with thirty or forty galloping chieftains at their heels. rocks and scrub and mimosa swarmed suddenly into life. rushing black figures came and went in the gaps of the bushes. a howl that drowned the shouts of the officers, a long quavering yell, burst from the ambuscade. two rolling volleys from the royal wessex, one crash from the screw-gun firing shrapnel, and then before a second cartridge could be rammed in, a living, glistening black wave, tipped with steel, had rolled over the gun, the royal wessex had been dashed back among the camels, and , fanatics were hewing and hacking in the heart of what had been the square. the camels and mules in the centre, jammed more and more together as their leaders flinched from the rush of the tribesmen, shut out the view of the other three faces, who could only tell that the arabs had got in by the yells upon allah, which rose ever nearer and nearer amid the clouds of sand-dust, the struggling animals, and the dense mass of swaying, cursing men. some of the wessex fired back at the arabs who had passed them, as excited tommies will, and it is whispered among doctors that it was not always a remington bullet which was cut from a wound that day. some rallied in little knots, stabbing furiously with their bayonets at the rushing spearmen. others turned at bay with their backs against the camels, and others round the general and his staff, who, revolver in hand, had flung themselves into the heart of it. but the whole square was sidling slowly away from the gorge, pushed back by the pressure at the shattered corner. the officers and men at the other faces were glancing nervously to the rear, uncertain what was going on, and unable to take help to their comrades without breaking the formation. "by jove, they've got through the wessex!" cried grice of the mallows. "the divils have hurrooshed us, ted," said his brother subaltern, cocking his revolver. the ranks were breaking, and crowding towards private conolly, all talking together as the officers peered back through the veil of dust. the sailors had run their gardner out, and she was squirting death out of her five barrels into the flank of the rushing stream of savages. "oh, this bloody gun!" shouted a voice. "she's jammed again." the fierce metallic grunting had ceased, and her crew were straining and hauling at the breech. "this damned vertical feed!" cried an officer. "the spanner, wilson!--the spanner! stand to your cutlasses, boys, or they're into us." his voice rose into a shriek as he ended, for a shovel-headed spear had been buried in his chest. a second wave of dervishes lapped over the hillocks, and burst upon the machine-gun and the right front of the line. the sailors were overborne in an instant, but the mallows, with their fighting blood aflame, met the yell of the moslem with an even wilder, fiercer cry, and dropped two hundred of them with a single point-blank volley. the howling, leaping crew swerved away to the right, and dashed on into the gap which had already been made for them. but c company had drawn no trigger to stop that fiery rush. the men leaned moodily upon their martinis. some had even thrown them upon the ground. conolly was talking fiercely to those about him. captain foley, thrusting his way through the press, rushed up to him with a revolver in his hand. "this is your doing, you villain!" he cried. "if you raise your pistol, captin, your brains will be over your coat," said a low voice at his side. he saw that several rifles were turned on him. the two subs. had pressed forward, and were by his side. "what is it, then?" he cried, looking round from one fierce mutinous face to another. "are you irishmen? are you soldiers? what are you here for but to fight for your country?" "england is no country of ours," cried several. "you are not fighting for england. you are fighting for ireland, and for the empire of which it as part." "a black curse on the impire!" shouted private mcquire, throwing down his rifle. "'twas the impire that backed the man that druv me onto the roadside. may me hand stiffen before i draw trigger for it. "what's the impire to us, captain foley, and what's the widdy to us ayther?" cried a voice. "let the constabulary foight for her." "ay, be god, they'd be better imployed than pullin' a poor man's thatch about his ears." "or shootin' his brother, as they did mine." "it was the impire laid my groanin' mother by the wayside. her son will rot before he upholds it, and ye can put that in the charge-sheet in the next coort-martial." in vain the three officers begged, menaced, persuaded. the square was still moving, ever moving, with the same bloody fight raging in its entrails. even while they had been speaking they had been shuffling backwards, and the useless gardner, with her slaughtered crew, was already a good hundred yards from them. and the pace was accelerating. the mass of men, tormented and writhing, was trying, by a common instinct, to reach some clearer ground where they could re-form. three faces were still intact, but the fourth had been caved in, and badly mauled, without its comrades being able to help it. the guards had met a fresh rush of the hadendowas, and had blown back the tribesmen with a volley, and the cavalry had ridden over another stream of them, as they welled out of the gully. a litter of hamstrung horses, and haggled men behind them, showed that a spearman on his face among the bushes can show some sport to the man who charges him. but, in spite of all, the square was still reeling swiftly backwards, trying to shake itself clear of this torment which clung to its heart. would it break or would it re-form? the lives of five regiments and the honour of the flag hung upon the answer. some, at least, were breaking. the c company of the mallows had lost all military order, and was pushing back in spite of the haggard officers, who cursed, and shoved, and prayed in the vain attempt to hold them. the captain and the subs. were elbowed and jostled, while the men crowded towards private conolly for their orders. the confusion had not spread, for the other companies, in the dust and smoke and turmoil, had lost touch with their mutinous comrades. captain foley saw that even now there might be time to avert a disaster. "think what you are doing, man," he yelled, rushing towards the ringleader. "there are a thousand irish in the square, and they are dead men if we break." the words alone might have had little effect on the old moonlighter. it is possible that, in his scheming brain, he had already planned how he was to club his irish together and lead them to the sea. but at that moment the arabs broke through the screen of camels which had fended them off. there was a struggle, a screaming, a mule rolled over, a wounded man sprang up in a cacolet with a spear through him, and then through the narrow gap surged a stream of naked savages, mad with battle, drunk with slaughter, spotted and splashed with blood--blood dripping from their spears, their arms, their faces. their yells, their bounds, their crouching, darting figures, the horrid energy of their spear-thrusts, made them look like a blast of fiends from the pit. and were these the allies of ireland? were these the men who were to strike for her against her enemies? conolly's soul rose up in loathing at the thought. he was a man of firm purpose, and yet at the first sight of those howling fiends that purpose faltered, and at the second it was blown to the winds. he saw a huge coal-black negro seize a shrieking camel-driver and saw at his throat with a knife. he saw a shock-headed tribesman plunge his great spear through the back of their own little bugler from mill-street. he saw a dozen deeds of blood--the murder of the wounded, the hacking of the unarmed--and caught, too, in a glance, the good wholesome faces of the faced-about rear rank of the marines. the mallows, too, had faced about, and in an instant conolly had thrown himself into the heart of c company, striving with the officers to form the men up with their comrades. but the mischief had gone too far. the rank and file had no heart in their work. they had broken before, and this last rush of murderous savages was a hard thing for broken men to stand against. they flinched from the furious faces and dripping forearms. why should they throw away their lives for a flag for which they cared nothing? why should their leader urge them to break, and now shriek to them to re-form? they would not re-form. they wanted to get to the sea and to safety. he flung himself among them with outstretched arms, with words of reason, with shouts, with gaspings. it was useless; the tide was beyond his control. they were shredding out into the desert with their faces set for the coast. "bhoys, will ye stand for this?" screamed a voice. it was so ringing, so strenuous, that the breaking mallows glanced backwards. they were held by what they saw. private conolly had planted his rifle-stock downwards in a mimosa bush. from the fixed bayonet there fluttered a little green flag with the crownless harp. god knows for what black mutiny, for what signal of revolt, that flag had been treasured up within the corporal's tunic! now its green wisp stood amid the rush, while three proud regimental colours were reeling slowly backwards. "what for the flag?" yelled the private. "my heart's blood for it! and mine! and mine!" cried a score of voices. "god bless it! the flag, boys--the flag!" c company were rallying upon it. the stragglers clutched at each other, and pointed. "here, mcquire, flynn, o'hara," ran the shoutings. "close on the flag! back to the flag!" the three standards reeled backwards, and the seething square strove for a clearer space where they could form their shattered ranks; but c company, grim and powder-stained, choked with enemies and falling fast, still closed in on the little rebel ensign that flapped from the mimosa bush. it was a good half-hour before the square, having disentangled itself from its difficulties and dressed its ranks, began to slowly move forwards over the ground, across which in its labour and anguish it had been driven. the long trail of wessex men and arabs showed but too clearly the path they had come. "how many got into us, stephen?" asked the general, tapping his snuff-box. "i should put them down at a thousand or twelve hundred, sir." "i did not see any get out again. what the devil were the wessex thinking about? the guards stood well, though; so did the mallows." "colonel flanagan reports that his front flank company was cut off, sir." "why, that's the company that was out of hand when we advanced!" "colonel flanagan reports, sir, that the company took the whole brunt of the attack, and gave the square time to re-form." "tell the hussars to ride forward, stephen," said the general, "and try if they can see anything of them. there's no firing, and i fear that the mallows will want to do some recruiting. let the square take ground by the right, and then advance!" but the sheik kadra of the hadendowas saw from his knoll that the men with the big hats had rallied, and that they were coming back in the quiet business fashion of men whose work was before them. he took counsel with moussa the dervish and hussein the baggara, and a woestruck man was he when he learned that the third of his men were safe in the moslem paradise. so, having still some signs of victory to show, he gave the word, and the desert warriors flitted off unseen and unheard, even as they had come. a red rock plateau, a few hundred spears and remingtons, and a plain which for the second time was strewn with slaughtered men, was all that his day's fighting gave to the english general. it was a squadron of hussars which came first to the spot where the rebel flag had waved. a dense litter of arab dead marked the place. within, the flag waved no longer, but the rifle stood in the mimosa bush, and round it, with their wounds in front, lay the fenian private and the silent ranks of the irishry. sentiment is not an english failing, but the hussar captain raised his hilt in a salute as he rode past the blood-soaked ring. the british general sent home dispatches to his government, and so did the chief of the hadendowas, though the style and manner differed somewhat in each. the sheik kadra of the hadendowa people to mohammed ahmed, the chosen of allah, homage and greeting, (began the latter). know by this that on the fourth day of this moon we gave battle to the kaffirs who call themselves inglees, having with us the chief hussein with ten thousand of the faithful. by the blessing of allah we have broken them, and chased them for a mile, though indeed these infidels are different from the dogs of egypt, and have slain very many of our men. yet we hope to smite them again ere the new moon be come, to which end i trust that thou wilt send us a thousand dervishes from omdurman. in token of our victory i send you by this messenger a flag which we have taken. by the colour it might well seem to have belonged to those of the true faith, but the kaffirs gave their blood freely to save it, and so we think that, though small, it is very dear to them. captain sharkey. i how the governor of saint kitt's came home. when the great wars of the spanish succession had been brought to an end by the treaty of utrecht, the vast number of privateers which had been fitted out by the contending parties found their occupation gone. some took to the more peaceful but less lucrative ways of ordinary commerce, others were absorbed into the fishing fleets, and a few of the more reckless hoisted the jolly rodger at the mizzen, and the bloody flag at the main, declaring a private war upon their own account against the whole human race. with mixed crews, recruited from every nation, they scoured the seas, disappearing occasionally to careen in some lonely inlet, or putting in for a debauch at some outlying port, where they dazzled the inhabitants by their lavishness, and horrified them by their brutalities. on the coromandel coast, at madagascar, in the african waters, and above all in the west indian and american seas, the pirates were a constant menace. with an insolent luxury they would regulate their depredations by the comfort of the seasons, harrying new england in the summer, and dropping south again to the tropical islands in the winter. they were the more to be dreaded because they had none of that discipline and restraint which made their predecessors, the buccaneers, both formidable and respectable. these ishmaels of the sea rendered an account to no man, and treated their prisoners according to the drunken whim of the moment. flashes of grotesque generosity alternated with longer stretches of inconceivable ferocity, and the skipper who fell into their hands might find himself dismissed with his cargo, after serving as boon companion in some hideous debauch, or might sit at his cabin table with his own nose and his lips served up with pepper and salt in front of him. it took a stout seaman in those days to ply his calling in the caribbean gulf. such a man was captain john scarrow, of the ship _morning star_, and yet he breathed a long sigh of relief when he heard the splash of the falling anchor and swung at his moorings within a hundred yards of the guns of the citadel of basseterre. st. kitt's was his final port of call, and early next morning his bowsprit would be pointed for old england. he had had enough of those robber-haunted seas. ever since he had left maracaibo upon the main, with his full lading of sugar and red pepper, he had winced at every topsail which glimmered over the violet edge of the tropical sea. he had coasted up the windward islands, touching here and there, and assailed continually by stories of villainy and outrage. captain sharkey, of the twenty-gun pirate barque, _happy delivery_, had passed down the coast, and had littered it with gutted vessels and with murdered men. dreadful anecdotes were current of his grim pleasantries and of his inflexible ferocity. from the bahamas to the main his coal-black barque, with the ambiguous name, had been freighted with death and many things which are worse than death. so nervous was captain scarrow, with his new full-rigged ship, and her full and valuable lading, that he struck out to the west as far as bird's island to be out of the usual track of commerce. and yet even in those solitary waters he had been unable to shake off sinister traces of captain sharkey. one morning they had raised a single skiff adrift upon the face of the ocean. its only occupant was a delirious seaman, who yelled hoarsely as they hoisted him aboard, and showed a dried-up tongue like a black and wrinkled fungus at the back of his mouth. water and nursing soon transformed him into the strongest and smartest sailor on the ship. he was from marblehead, in new england, it seemed, and was the sole survivor of a schooner which had been scuttled by the dreadful sharkey. for a week hiram evanson, for that was his name, had been adrift beneath a tropical sun. sharkey had ordered the mangled remains of his late captain to be thrown into the boat, "as provisions for the voyage," but the seaman had at once committed it to the deep, lest the temptation should be more than he could bear. he had lived upon his own huge frame until, at the last moment, the _morning star_ had found him in that madness which is the precursor of such a death. it was no bad find for captain scarrow, for, with a short-handed crew, such a seaman as this big new englander was a prize worth having. he vowed that he was the only man whom captain sharkey had ever placed under an obligation. now that they lay under the guns of basseterre, all danger from the pirate was at an end, and yet the thought of him lay heavily upon the seaman's mind as he watched the agent's boat shooting out from the custom-house quay. "i'll lay you a wager, morgan," said he to the first mate, "that the agent will speak of sharkey in the first hundred words that pass his lips." "well, captain, i'll have you a silver dollar, and chance it," said the rough old bristol man beside him. the negro rowers shot the boat alongside, and the linen-clad steersman sprang up the ladder. "welcome, captain scarrow!" he cried. "have you heard about sharkey?" the captain grinned at the mate. "what devilry has he been up to now?" he asked. "devilry! you've not heard, then? why, we've got him safe under lock and key at basseterre. he was tried last wednesday, and he is to be hanged to-morrow morning." captain and mate gave a shout of joy, which an instant later was taken up by the crew. discipline was forgotten as they scrambled up through the break of the poop to hear the news. the new englander was in the front of them with a radiant face turned up to heaven, for he came of the puritan stock. "sharkey to be hanged!" he cried. "you don't know, master agent, if they lack a hangman, do you?" "stand back!" cried the mate, whose outraged sense of discipline was even stronger than his interest at the news. "i'll pay that dollar, captain scarrow, with the lightest heart that ever i paid a wager yet. how came the villain to be taken?" "why, as to that, he became more than his own comrades could abide, and they took such a horror of him that they would not have him on the ship. so they marooned him upon the little mangles to the south of the mysteriosa bank, and there he was found by a portobello trader, who brought him in. there was talk of sending him to jamaica to be tried, but our good little governor, sir charles ewan, would not hear of it. 'he's my meat,' said he, 'and i claim the cooking of it.' if you can stay till to-morrow morning at ten, you'll see the joint swinging." "i wish i could," said the captain, wistfully, "but i am sadly behind time now. i should start with the evening tide." "that you can't do," said the agent with decision. "the governor is going back with you." "the governor!" "yes. he's had a dispatch from government to return without delay. the fly-boat that brought it has gone on to virginia. so sir charles has been waiting for you, as i told him you were due before the rains." "well, well!" cried the captain in some perplexity, "i'm a plain seaman, and i don't know much of governors and baronets and their ways. i don't remember that i ever so much as spoke to one. but if it's in king george's service, and he asks a cast in the _morning star_ as far as london, i'll do what i can for him. there's my own cabin he can have and welcome. as to the cooking, it's lobscouse and salmagundy six days in the week; but he can bring his own cook aboard with him if he thinks our galley too rough for his taste." "you need not trouble your mind, captain scarrow," said the agent. "sir charles is in weak health just now, only clear of a quartan ague, and it is likely he will keep his cabin most of the voyage. dr. larousse said that he would have sunk had the hanging of sharkey not put fresh life into him. he has a great spirit in him, though, and you must not blame him if he is somewhat short in his speech." "he may say what he likes, and do what he likes, so long as he does not come athwart my hawse when i am working the ship," said the captain. "he is governor of st. kitt's, but i am governor of the _morning star_, and, by his leave, i must weigh with the first tide, for i owe a duty to my employer, just as he does to king george." "he can scarce be ready to-night, for he has many things to set in order before he leaves." "the early morning tide, then." "very good. i shall send his things aboard to-night; and he will follow them to-morrow early if i can prevail upon him to leave st. kitt's without seeing sharkey do the rogue's hornpipe. his own orders were instant, so it may be that he will come at once. it is likely that dr. larousse may attend him upon the journey." left to themselves, the captain and mate made the best preparations which they could for their illustrious passenger. the largest cabin was turned out and adorned in his honour, and orders were given by which barrels of fruit and some cases of wine should be brought off to vary the plain food of an ocean-going trader. in the evening the governor's baggage began to arrive--great iron-bound ant-proof trunks, and official tin packing-cases, with other strange-shaped packages, which suggested the cocked hat or the sword within. and then there came a note, with a heraldic device upon the big red seal, to say that sir charles ewan made his compliments to captain scarrow, and that he hoped to be with him in the morning as early as his duties and his infirmities would permit. he was as good as his word, for the first grey of dawn had hardly begun to deepen into pink when he was brought alongside, and climbed with some difficulty up the ladder. the captain had heard that the governor was an eccentric, but he was hardly prepared for the curious figure who came limping feebly down his quarter-deck, his steps supported by a thick bamboo cane. he wore a ramillies wig, all twisted into little tails like a poodle's coat, and cut so low across the brow that the large green glasses which covered his eyes looked as if they were hung from it. a fierce beak of a nose, very long and very thin, cut the air in front of him. his ague had caused him to swathe his throat and chin with a broad linen cravat, and he wore a loose damask powdering-gown secured by a cord round the waist. as he advanced he carried his masterful nose high in the air, but his head turned slowly from side to side in the helpless manner of the purblind, and he called in a high, querulous voice for the captain. "you have my things?" he asked. "yes, sir charles." "have you wine aboard?" "i have ordered five cases, sir." "and tobacco?" "there is a keg of trinidad." "you play a hand at picquet?" "passably well, sir." "then anchor up, and to sea!" there was a fresh westerly wind, so by the time the sun was fairly through the morning haze, the ship was hull down from the islands. the decrepit governor still limpid the deck, with one guiding hand upon the quarter rail. "you are on government service now, captain," said he. "they are counting the days till i come to westminster, i promise you. have you all that she will carry?" "every inch, sir charles." "keep her so if you blow the sails out of her. i fear, captain scarrow, that you will find a blind and broken man a poor companion for your voyage." "i am honoured in enjoying your excellency's society," said the captain. "but i am sorry that your eyes should be so afflicted." "yes, indeed. it is the cursed glare of the sun on the white streets of basseterre which has gone far to burn them out." "i had heard also that you had been plagued by a quartan ague." "yes; i have had a pyrexy, which has reduced me much." "we had set aside a cabin for your surgeon." "ah, the rascal! there was no budging him, for he has a snug business amongst the merchants. but hark!" he raised his ring-covered band in the air. from far astern there came the low, deep thunder of cannon. "it is from the island!" cried the captain in astonishment. "can it be a signal for us to put back?" the governor laughed. "you have heard that sharkey, the pirate, is to be hanged this morning. i ordered the batteries to salute when the rascal was kicking his last, so that i might know of it out at sea. there's an end of sharkey!" "there's an end of sharkey!" cried the captain; and the crew took up the cry as they gathered in little knots upon the deck and stared back at the low, purple line of the vanishing land. it was a cheering omen for their start across the western ocean, and the invalid governor found himself a popular man on board, for it was generally understood that but for his insistence upon an immediate trial and sentence, the villain might have played upon some more venal judge and so escaped. at dinner that day sir charles gave many anecdotes of the deceased pirate; and so affable was he, and so skilful in adapting his conversation to men of lower degree, that captain, mate, and governor smoked their long pipes, and drank their claret as three good comrades should. "and what figure did sharkey cut in the dock?" asked the captain. "he is a man of some presence," said the governor. "i had always understood that he was an ugly, sneering devil," remarked the mate. "well, i dare say he could look ugly upon occasions," said the governor. "i have heard a new bedford whaleman say that he could not forget his eyes," said captain scarrow. "they were of the lightest filmy blue, with red-rimmed lids. was that not so, sir charles?" "alas, my own eyes will not permit me to know much of those of others! but i remember now that the adjutant-general said that he had such an eye as you describe, and added that the jury was so foolish as to be visibly discomposed when it was turned upon them. it is well for them that he is dead, for he was a man who would never forget an injury, and if he had laid hands upon any one of them he would have stuffed him with straw and hung him for a figure-head." the idea seemed to amuse the governor, for he broke suddenly into a high, neighing laugh, and the two seamen laughed also, but not so heartily, for they remembered that sharkey was not the last pirate who sailed the western seas, and that as grotesque a fate might come to be their own. another bottle was broached to drink to a pleasant voyage, and the governor would drink just one other on the top of it, so that the seamen were glad at last to stagger off--the one to his watch, and the other to his bunk. but when, after his four hours' spell, the mate came down again, he was amazed to see the governor, in his ramillies wig, his glasses, and his powdering-gown, still seated sedately at the lonely table with his reeking pipe and six black bottles by his side. "i have drunk with the governor of st. kitt's when he was sick," said he, "and god forbid that i should ever try to keep pace with him when he is well." the voyage of the _morning star_ was a successful one, and in about three weeks she was at the mouth of the british channel. from the first day the infirm governor had begun to recover his strength, and before they were halfway across the atlantic, he was, save only for his eyes, as well as any man upon the ship. those who uphold the nourishing qualities of wine might point to him in triumph, for never a night passed that he did not repeat the performance of his first one. and yet be would be out upon deck in the early morning as fresh and brisk as the best of them, peering about with his weak eyes, and asking questions about the sails and the rigging, for he was anxious to learn the ways of the sea. and he made up for the deficiency of his eyes by obtaining leave from the captain that the new england seaman--he who had been cast away in the boat--should lead him about, and, above all, that he should sit beside him when he played cards and count the number of the pips, for unaided he could not tell the king from the knave. it was natural that this evanson should do the governor willing service, since the one was the victim of the vile sharkey and the other was his avenger. one could see that it was a pleasure to the big american to lend his arm to the invalid, and at night he would stand with all respect behind his chair in the cabin and lay his great stub-nailed forefinger upon the card which he should play. between them there was little in the pockets either of captain scarrow or of morgan, the first mate, by the time they sighted the lizard. and it was not long before they found that all they had heard of the high temper of sir charles ewan fell short of the mark. at a sign of opposition or a word of argument his chin would shoot out from his cravat, his masterful nose would be cocked at a higher and more insolent angle, and his bamboo cane would whistle up over his shoulders. he cracked it once over the head of the carpenter when the man had accidentally jostled him upon the deck. once, too, when there was some grumbling and talk of a mutiny over the state of the provisions, he was of opinion that they should not wait for the dogs to rise, but that they should march forward and set upon them until they had trounced the devilment out of them. "give me a knife and a bucket!" he cried with an oath, and could hardly be withheld from setting forth alone to deal with the spokesman of the seamen. captain scarrow had to remind him that though he might be only answerable to himself at st. kitt's, killing became murder upon the high seas. in politics he was, as became his official position, a stout prop of the house of hanover, and he swore in his cups that he had never met a jacobite without pistolling him where he stood. yet for all his vapouring and his violence he was so good a companion, with such a stream of strange anecdote and reminiscence, that scarrow and morgan had never known a voyage pass so pleasantly. and then at length came the last day, when, after passing the island, they had struck land again at the high white cliffs at beachy head. as evening fell the ship lay rolling in an oily calm, a league off from winchelsea, with the long, dark snout of dungeness jutting out in front of her. next morning they would pick up their pilot at the foreland, and sir charles might meet the king's ministers at westminster before the evening. the boatswain had the watch, and the three friends were met for a last turn of cards in the cabin, the faithful american still serving as eyes to the governor. there was a good stake upon the table, for the sailors had tried on this last night to win their losses back from their passenger. suddenly he threw his cards down, and swept all the money into the pocket of his long-flapped silken waistcoat. "the game's mine!" said he. "heh, sir charles, not so fast!" cried captain scarrow; "you have not played out the hand, and we are not the losers." "sink you for a liar!" said the governor. "i tell you i _have_ played out the hand, and that you _are_ a loser." he whipped off his wig and his glasses as he spoke, and there was a high, bald forehead, and a pair of shifty blue eyes with the red rims of a bull terrier. "good god!" cried the mate. "it's sharkey!" the two sailors sprang from their seats, but the big american castaway had put his huge back against the cabin door, and he held a pistol in each of his hands. the passenger had also laid a pistol upon the scattered cards in front of him, and he burst into his high, neighing laugh. "captain sharkey is the name, gentlemen," said he, "and this is roaring ned galloway, the quartermaster of the _happy delivery_. we made it hot, and so they marooned us: me on a dry tortuga cay, and him in an oarless boat. you dogs--you poor, fond, water-hearted dogs-- we hold you at the end of our pistols!" "you may shoot, or you may not!" cried scarrow, striking his hand upon the breast of his frieze jacket. "if it's my last breath, sharkey, i tell you that you are a bloody rogue and miscreant, with a halter and hell-fire in store for you!" "there's a man of spirit, and one of my own kidney, and he's going to make a very pretty death of it!" cried sharkey. "there's no one aft save the man at the wheel, so you may keep your breath, for you'll need it soon. is the dinghy astern, ned?" "ay, ay, captain!" "and the other boats scuttled?" "i bored them all in three places." "then we shall have to leave you, captain scarrow. you look as if you hadn't quite got your bearings yet. is there anything you'd like to ask me?" "i believe you're the devil himself!" cried the captain. "where is the governor of st. kitt's?" "when last i saw him his excellency was in bed with his throat cut. when i broke prison i learnt from my friends--for captain sharkey has those who love him in every port--that the governor was starting for europe under a master who had never seen him. i climbed his verandah, and i paid him the little debt that i owed him. then i came aboard you with such of his things as i had need of, and a pair of glasses to hide these tell-tale eyes of mine, and i have ruffled it as a governor should. now, ned, you can get to work upon them." "help! help! watch ahoy!" yelled the mate; but the butt of the pirate's pistol crashed down on his head, and he dropped like a pithed ox. scarrow rushed for the door, but the sentinel clapped his hand over his mouth, and threw his other arm round his waist. "no use, master scarrow," said sharkey. "let us see you go down on your knees and beg for your life." "i'll see you--" cried scarrow, shaking his mouth clear. "twist his arm round, ned. now will you?" "no; not if you twist it off." "put an inch of your knife into him." "you may put six inches, and then i won't." "sink me, but i like his spirit!" cried sharkey. "put your knife in your pocket, ned. you've saved your skin, scarrow, and it's a pity so stout a man should not take to the only trade where a pretty fellow can pick up a living. you must be born for no common death, scarrow, since you have lain at my mercy and lived to tell the story. tie him up, ned." "to the stove, captain?" "tut, tut! there's a fire in the stove. none of your rover tricks, ned galloway, unless they are called for, or i'll let you know which of us two is captain and which is quartermaster. make him fast to the table." "nay, i thought you meant to roast him!" said the quartermaster. "you surely do not mean to let him go?" "if you and i were marooned on a bahama cay, ned galloway, it is still for me to command and for you to obey. sink you for a villain, do you dare to question my orders?" "nay, nay, captain sharkey, not so hot, sir!" said the quartermaster, and, lifting scarrow like a child, he laid him on the table. with the quick dexterity of a seaman, he tied his spread-eagled hands and feet with a rope which was passed underneath, and gagged him securely with the long cravat which used to adorn the chin of the governor of st. kitt's. "now, captain scarrow, we must take our leave of you," said the pirate. "if i had half a dozen of my brisk boys at my heels i should have had your cargo and your ship, but roaring ned could not find a foremast hand with the spirit of a mouse. i see there are some small craft about, and we shall get one of them. when captain sharkey has a boat he can get a smack, when he has a smack he can get a brig, when he has a brig he can get a barque, and when he has a barque he'll soon have a full-rigged ship of his own--so make haste into london town, or i may be coming back, after all, for the _morning star_." captain scarrow heard the key turn in the lock as they left the cabin. then, as he strained at his bonds, he heard their footsteps pass up the companion and along the quarter-deck to where the dinghy hung in the stern. then, still struggling and writhing, he heard the creak of the falls and the splash of the boat in the water. in a mad fury he tore and dragged at his ropes, until at last, with flayed wrists and ankles, he rolled from the table, sprang over the dead mate, kicked his way through the closed door, and rushed hatless on to the deck. "ahoy! peterson, armitage, wilson!" he screamed. "cutlasses and pistols! clear away the long-boat! clear away the gig! sharkey, the pirate, is in yonder dinghy. whistle up the larboard watch, bo'sun, and tumble into the boats, all hands." down splashed the long-boat and down splashed the gig, but in an instant the coxswains and crews were swarming up the falls on to the deck once more. "the boats are scuttled!" they cried. "they are leaking like a sieve." the captain gave a bitter curse. he had been beaten and outwitted at every point. above was a cloudless, starlit sky, with neither wind nor the promise of it. the sails flapped idly in the moonlight. far away lay a fishing-smack, with the men clustering over their net. close to them was the little dinghy, dipping and lifting over the shining swell. "they are dead men!" cried the captain. "a shout all together, boys, to warn them of their danger." but it was too late. at that very moment the dinghy shot into the shadow of the fishing-boat. there were two rapid pistol-shots, a scream, and then another pistol-shot, followed by silence. the clustering fishermen had disappeared. and then, suddenly, as the first puffs of a land-breeze came out from the sussex shore, the boom swung out, the mainsail filled, and the little craft crept out with her nose to the atlantic. ii the dealings of captain sharkey with stephen craddock careening was a very necessary operation for the old pirate. on his superior speed he depended both for overhauling the trader and escaping the man-of-war. but it was impossible to retain his sailing qualities unless he periodically--once a year, at the least--cleared his vessel's bottom from the long, trailing plants and crusting barnacles which gather so rapidly in the tropical seas. for this purpose he lightened his vessel, thrust her into some narrow inlet where she would be left high and dry at low water, fastened blocks and tackles to her masts to pull her over on to her bilge, and then scraped her thoroughly from rudder-post to cut-water. during the weeks which were thus occupied the ship was, of course, defenceless; but, on the other hand, she was unapproachable by anything heavier than an empty hull, and the place for careening was chosen with an eye to secrecy, so that there was no great danger. so secure did the captains feel, that it was not uncommon for them, at such times, to leave their ships under a sufficient guard, and to start off in the long-boat, either upon a sporting expedition or, more frequently, upon a visit to some outlying town, where they burned the heads of the women by their swaggering gallantry, or broached pipes of wine in the market square, with a threat to pistol all who would not drink with them. sometimes they would even appear in cities of the size of charleston, and walk the streets with their clattering side-arms--an open scandal to the whole law-abiding colony. such visits were not always paid with impunity. it was one of them, for example, which provoked lieutenant maynard to hack off blackbeard's head, and to spear it upon the end of his bowsprit. but, as a rule, the pirate ruffled and bullied and drabbed without let or hindrance, until it was time for him to go back to his ship once more. there was one pirate, however, who never crossed even the skirts of civilisation, and that was the sinister sharkey, of the barque _happy delivery_. it may have been from his morose and solitary temper, or, as is more probable, that he knew that his name upon the coast was such that outraged humanity would, against all odds, have thrown themselves upon him, but never once did he show his face in a settlement. when his ship was laid up he would leave her under the charge of ned galloway--her new england quartermaster--and would take long voyages in his boat, sometimes, it was said, for the purpose of burying his share of the plunder, and sometimes to shoot the wild oxen of hispaniola, which, when dressed and barbecued, provided provisions for his next voyage. in the latter case the barque would come round to some pre-arranged spot to pick him up, and take on board what he had shot. there had always been a hope in the islands that sharkey might be taken on one of these occasions; and at last there came news to kingston which seemed to justify an attempt upon him. it was brought by an elderly logwood-cutter who had fallen into the pirate's hands, and in some freak of drunken benevolence had been allowed to get away with nothing worse than a slit nose and a drubbing. his account was recent and definite. the _happy delivery_ was careening at torbec on the south-west of hispaniola. sharkey, with four men, was buccaneering on the outlying island of la vache. the blood of a hundred murdered crews was calling out for vengeance, and now at last it seemed as if it might not call in vain. sir edward compton, the high-nosed, red-faced governor, sitting in solemn conclave with the commandant and the head of the council, was sorely puzzled in his mind as to how he should use this chance. there was no man-of-war nearer than jamestown, and she was a clumsy old fly-boat, which could neither overhaul the pirate on the seas, nor reach her in a shallow inlet. there were forts and artillerymen both at kingston and port royal, but no soldiers available for an expedition. a private venture might be fitted out--and there were many who had a blood-feud with sharkey--but what could a private venture do? the pirates were numerous and desperate. as to taking sharkey and his four companions, that, of course, would be easy if they could get at them; but how were they to get at them on a large well-wooded island like la vache, full of wild hills and impenetrable jungles? a reward was offered to whoever could find a solution, and that brought a man to the front who had a singular plan, and was himself prepared to carry it out. stephen craddock had been that most formidable person, the puritan gone wrong. sprung from a decent salem family, his ill-doing seemed to be a recoil from the austerity of their religion, and he brought to vice all the physical strength and energy with which the virtues of his ancestors had endowed him. he was ingenious, fearless, and exceedingly tenacious of purpose, so that when he was still young, his name became notorious upon the american coast. he was the same craddock who was tried for his life in virginia for the slaying of the seminole chief, and, though he escaped, it was well known that he had corrupted the witnesses and bribed the judge. afterwards, as a slaver, and even, as it was hinted, as a pirate, he had left an evil name behind him in the bight of benin. finally he had returned to jamaica with a considerable fortune, and had settled down to a life of sombre dissipation. this was the man, gaunt, austere, and dangerous, who now waited upon the governor with a plan for the extirpation of sharkey. sir edward received him with little enthusiasm, for in spite of some rumours of conversion and reformation, he had always regarded him as an infected sheep who might taint the whole of his little flock. craddock saw the governor's mistrust under his thin veil of formal and restrained courtesy. "you've no call to fear me, sir," said he; "i'm a changed man from what you've known. i've seen the light again of late, after losing sight of it for many a black year. it was through the ministration of the rev. john simons, of our own people. sir, if your spirit should be in need of quickening, you would find a very sweet savour in his discourse." the governor cocked his episcopalian nose at him. "you came here to speak of sharkey, master craddock," said he. "the man sharkey is a vessel of wrath," said craddock. "his wicked horn has been exalted over long, and it is borne in upon me that if i can cut him off and utterly destroy him, it will be a goodly deed, and one which may atone for many backslidings in the past. a plan has been given to me whereby i may encompass his destruction." the governor was keenly interested, for there was a grim and practical air about the man's freckled face which showed that he was in earnest. after all, he was a seaman and a fighter, and, if it were true that he was eager to atone for his past, no better man could be chosen for the business. "this will be a dangerous task, master craddock," said he. "if i meet my death at it, it may be that it will cleanse the memory of an ill-spent life. i have much to atone for." the governor did not see his way to contradict him. "what was your plan?" he asked. "you have heard that sharkey's barque, the _happy delivery_, came from this very port of kingston?" "it belonged to mr. codrington, and it was taken by sharkey, who scuttled his own sloop and moved into her because she was faster," said sir edward. "yes; but it may be that you have lever heard that mr. codrington has a sister ship, the _white rose_, which lies even now in the harbour, and which is so like the pirate, that, if it were not for a white paint line, none could tell them apart." "ah! and what of that?" asked the governor keenly, with the air of one who is just on the edge of an idea. "by the help of it this man shall be delivered into our hands." "and how?" "i will paint out the streak upon the _white rose_, and make it in all things like the _happy delivery_. then i will set sail for the island of la vache, where this man is slaying the wild oxen. when he sees me he will surely mistake me for his own vessel which he is awaiting, and he will come on board to his own undoing." it was a simple plan, and yet it seemed to the governor that it might be effective. without hesitation he gave craddock permission to carry it out, and to take any steps he liked in order to further the object which he had in view. sir edward was not very sanguine, for many attempts had been made upon sharkey, and their results had shown that he was as cunning as he was ruthless. but this gaunt puritan with the evil record was cunning aid ruthless also. the contest of wits between two such men as sharkey and craddock appealed to the governor's acute sense of sport, and though he was inwardly convinced that the chances were against him, he backed his man with the same loyalty which he would have shown to his horse or his cock. haste was, above all things, necessary, for upon any day the careening might be finished, and the pirates out at sea once more. but there was not very much to do, and there were many willing hands to do it, so the second day saw the _white rose_ beating out for the open sea. there were many seamen in the port who knew the lines and rig of the pirate barque, and not one of them could see the slightest difference in this counterfeit. her white side line had been painted out, her masts and yards were smoked, to give them the dingy appearance of the weather-beaten rover, and a large diamond-shaped patch was let into her foretopsail. her crew were volunteers, many of them being men who had sailed with stephen craddock before--the mate, joshua hird, an old slaver, had been his accomplice in many voyages, and came now at the bidding of his chief. the avenging barque sped across the caribbean sea, and, at the sight of that patched topsail, the little craft which they met flew left and right like frightened trout in a pool. on the fourth evening point abacou bore five miles to the north and east of them. on the fifth they were at anchor in the bay of tortoises at the island of la vache, where sharkey and his four men had been hunting. it was a well-wooded place, with the palms and underwood growing down to the thin crescent of silver sand which skirted the shore. they had hoisted the black flag and the red pennant, but no answer came from the shore. craddock strained his eyes, hoping every instant to see a boat shoot out to them with sharkey seated in the sheets. but the night passed away, and a day and yet another night, without any sign of the men whom they were endeavouring to trap. it looked as if they were already gone. on the second morning craddock went ashore in search of some proof whether sharkey and his men were still upon the island. what he found reassured him greatly. close to the shore was a boucan of green wood, such as was used for preserving the meat, and a great store of barbecued strips of ox-flesh was hung upon lines all round it. the pirate ship had not taken off her provisions, and therefore the hunters were still upon the island. why had they not shown themselves? was it that they had detected that this was not their own ship? or was it that they were hunting in the interior of the island, and were not on the look-out for a ship yet? craddock was still hesitating between the two alternatives, when a carib indian came down with information. the pirates were in the island, he said, and their camp was a day's march from the sea. they had stolen his wife, and the marks of their stripes were still pink upon his brown back. their enemies were his friends, and he would lead them to where they lay. craddock could not have asked for anything better; so early next morning, with a small party armed to the teeth, he set off, under the guidance of the carib. all day they struggled through brushwood and clambered over rocks, pushing their way further and further into the desolate heart of the island. here and there they found traces of the hunters, the bones of a slain ox, or the marks of feet in a morass, and once, towards evening, it seemed to some of them that they heard the distant rattle of guns. that night they spent under the trees, and pushed on again with the earliest light. about noon they came to the huts of bark, which, the carib told them, were the camp of the hunters, but they were silent and deserted. no doubt their occupants were away at the hunt and would return in the evening, so craddock and his men lay in ambush in the brushwood around them. but no one came, and another night was spent in the forest. nothing more could be done, and it seemed to craddock that after the two days' absence it was time that he returned to his ship once more. the return journey was less difficult, as they had already blazed a path for themselves. before evening they found themselves once more at the bay of palms, and saw their ship riding at anchor where they had left her. their boat and oars had been hauled up among the bushes, so they launched it and pulled out to the barque. "no luck, then!" cried joshua hird, the mate, looking down with a pale face from the poop. "his camp was empty, but he may come down to us yet," said craddock, with his hand on the ladder. somebody upon deck began to laugh. "i think," said the mate, "that these men had better stay in the boat." "why so?" "if you will come aboard, sir, you will understand it." he spoke in a curious, hesitating fashion. the blood flushed to craddock's gaunt face. "how is this, master hird?" he cried, springing up the side. "what mean you by giving orders to my boat's crew?" but as he passed over the bulwarks, with one foot upon the deck and one knee upon the rail, a tow-bearded man, whom he had never before observed aboard his vessel, grabbed suddenly at his pistol. craddock clutched at the fellow's wrist, but at the same instant his mate snatched the cutlass from his side. "what roguery is this?" shouted craddock, looking furiously around him. but the crew stood in knots about the deck, laughing and whispering amongst themselves without showing any desire to go to his assistance. even in that hurried glance craddock noticed that they were dressed in the most singular manner, with long riding-coats, full-skirted velvet gowns and coloured ribands at their knees, more like men of fashion than seamen. as he looked at their grotesque figures he struck his brow with his clenched fist to be sure that he was awake. the deck seemed to be much dirtier than when he had left it, and there were strange, sun-blackened faces turned upon him from every side. not one of them did he know save only joshua hird. had the ship been captured in his absence? were these sharkey's men who were around him? at the thought he broke furiously away and tried to climb over to his boat, but a dozen hands were on him in an instant, and he was pushed aft through the open door of his own cabin. and it was all different to the cabin which he had left. the floor was different, the ceiling was different, the furniture was different. his had been plain and austere. this was sumptuous and yet dirty, hung with rare velvet curtains splashed with wine-stains, and panelled with costly woods which were pocked with pistol-marks. on the table was a great chart of the caribbean sea, and beside it, with compasses in his hand, sat a clean-shaven, pale-faced man with a fur cap and a claret-coloured coat of damask. craddock turned white under his freckles as he looked upon the long, thin high-nostrilled nose and the red-rimmed eyes which were turned upon him with the fixed, humorous gaze of the master player who has left his opponent without a move. "sharkey!" cried craddock. sharkey's thin lips opened, and he broke into his high, sniggering laugh. "you fool!" he cried, and, leaning over, he stabbed craddock's shoulder again and again with his compasses. "you poor, dull-witted fool, would you match yourself against me?" it was not the pain of the wounds, but it was the contempt in sharkey's voice which turned craddock into a savage madman. he flew at the pirate, roaring with rage, striking, kicking, writhing, foaming. it took six men to drag him down on to the floor amidst the splintered remains of the table--and not one of the six who did not bear the prisoner's mark upon him. but sharkey still surveyed him with the same contemptuous eye. from outside there came the crash of breaking wood and the clamour of startled voices. "what is that?" asked sharkey. "they have stove the boat with cold shot, and the men are in the water." "let them stay there," said the pirate. "now, craddock, you know where you are. you are aboard my ship, the _happy delivery_, and you lie at my mercy. i knew you for a stout seaman, you rogue, before you took to this long-shore canting. your hands then were no cleaner than my own. will you sign articles, as your mate has done, and join us, or shall i heave you over to follow your ship's company?" "where is my ship?" asked craddock. "scuttled in the bay." "and the hands?" "in the bay, too." "then i'm for the bay, also." "hock him and heave him over," said sharkey. many rough hands had dragged craddock out upon deck, and galloway, the quartermaster, had already drawn his hanger to cripple him, when sharkey came hurrying from his cabin with an eager face. "we can do better with the hound!" he cried. "sink me if it is not a rare plan. throw him into the sail-room with the irons on, and do you come here, quarter-master, that i may tell you what i have in my mind." so craddock, bruised and wounded in soul and body, was thrown into the dark sail-room, so fettered that he could not stir hand or foot, but his northern blood was running strong in his veins, and his grim spirit aspired only to make such an ending as might go some way towards atoning for the evil of his life. all night he lay in the curve of the bilge listening to the rush of the water and the straining of the timbers which told him that the ship was at sea and driving fast. in the early morning someone came crawling to him in the darkness over the heap of sails. "here's rum and biscuits," said the voice of his late mate. "it's at the risk of my life, master craddock, that i bring them to you." "it was you who trapped me and caught me as in a snare!" cried craddock. "how shall you answer for what you have done?" "what i did i did with the point of a knife betwixt my blade-bones." "god forgive you for a coward, joshua hird. how came you into their hands?" "why, master craddock, the pirate ship came back from its careening upon the very day that you left us. they laid us aboard, and, short-handed as we were, with the best of the men ashore with you, we could offer but a poor defence. some were cut down, and they were the happiest. the others were killed afterwards. as to me, i saved my life by signing on with them." "and they scuttled my ship?" "they scuttled her, and then sharkey and his men, who had been watching us from the brushwood, came off to the ship. his mainyard had been cracked and fished last voyage, so he had suspicions of us, seeing that ours was whole. then he thought of laying the same trap for you which you had set for him." craddock groaned. "how came i not to see that fished mainyard?" he muttered. "but whither are we bound?" "we are running north and west." "north and west! then we are heading back towards jamaica." "with an eight-knot wind." "have you heard what they mean to do with me?" "i have not heard. if you would but sign the articles--" "enough, joshua hird! i have risked my soul too often." "as you wish. i have done what i could. farewell!" all that night and the next day the _happy delivery_ ran before the easterly trades, and stephen craddock lay in the dark of the sail-room working patiently at his wrist-irons. one he had slipped off at the cost of a row of broken and bleeding knuckles, but, do what he would, he could not free the other, and his ankles were securely fastened. from hour to hour he heard the swish of the water, and knew that the barque must be driving with all set in front of the trade wind. in that case they must be nearly back again to jamaica by now. what plan could sharkey have in his head, and what use did he hope to make of him? craddock set his teeth, and vowed that if he had once been a villain from choice he would, at least, never be one by compulsion. on the second morning craddock became aware that sail had been reduced in the vessel, and that she was tacking slowly, with a light breeze on her beam. the varying slope of the sail room and the sounds from the deck told his practised senses exactly what she was doing. the short reaches showed him that she was manoeuvring near shore, and making for some definite point. if so, she must have reached jamaica. but what could she be doing there? and then suddenly there was a burst of hearty cheering from the deck, and then the crash of a gun above his head, and then the answering booming of guns from far over the water. craddock sat up and strained his ears. was the ship in action? only the one gun had been fired, and though many had answered, there were none of the crashings which told of a shot coming home. then, if it was not an action, it must be a salute. but who would salute sharkey, the pirate? it could only be another pirate ship which would do so. so craddock lay back again with a groan, and continued to work at the manacle which still held his right wrist. but suddenly there came the shuffling of steps outside, and he had hardly time to wrap the loose links round his free hand, when the door was unbolted and two pirates came in. "got your hammer, carpenter?" asked one, whom craddock recognised as the big quartermaster. "knock off his leg shackles, then. better leave the bracelets--he's safer with them on." with hammer and chisel the carpenter loosened the irons. "what are you going to do with me?" asked craddock. "come on deck and you'll see." the sailor seized him by the arm and dragged him roughly to the foot of the companion. above him was a square of blue sky cut across by the mizzen gaff, with the colours flying at the peak. but it was the sight of those colours which struck the breath from stephen craddock's lips. for there were two of them, and the british ensign was flying above the jolly rodger--the honest flag above that of the rogue. for an instant craddock stopped in amazement, but a brutal push from the pirates behind drove him up the companion ladder. as he stepped out upon deck, his eyes turned up to the main, and there again were the british colours flying above the red pennant, and all the shrouds and rigging were garlanded with streamers. had the ship been taken, then? but that was impossible, for there were the pirates clustering in swarms along the port bulwarks, and waving their hats joyously in the air. most prominent of all was the renegade mate, standing on the foc'sle head, and gesticulating wildly. craddock looked over the side to see what they were cheering at, and then in a flash he saw how critical was the moment. on the port bow, and about a mile off, lay the white houses and forts of port royal, with flags breaking out everywhere over their roofs. right ahead was the opening of the palisades leading to the town of kingston. not more than a quarter of a mile off was a small sloop working out against the very slight wind. the british ensign was at her peak, and her rigging was all decorated. on her deck could be seen a dense crowd of people cheering and waving their hats, and the gleam of scarlet told that there were officers of the garrison among them. in an instant, with the quick perception of a man of action, craddock saw through it all. sharkey, with that diabolical cunning and audacity which were among his main characteristics, was simulating the part which craddock would himself have played had he come back victorious. it was in _his_ honour that the salutes were firing and the flags flying. it was to welcome _him_ that this ship with the governor, the commandant, and the chiefs of the island were approaching. in another ten minutes they would all be under the guns of the _happy delivery_, and sharkey would have won the greatest stake that ever a pirate played for yet. "bring him forward," cried the pirate captain, as craddock appeared between the carpenter and the quartermaster. "keep the ports closed, but clear away the port guns, and stand by for a broadside. another two cable lengths and we have them." "they are edging away," said the boatswain. "i think they smell us." "that's soon set right," said sharkey, turning his filmy eyes upon craddock. "stand there, you--right there, where they can recognise you, with your hand on the guy, and wave your hat to them. quick, or your brains will be over your coat. put an inch of your knife into him, ned. now, will you wave your hat? try him again, then. hey, shoot him! stop him!" but it was too late. relying upon the manacles, the quartermaster had taken his hands for a moment off craddock's arm. in that instant he had flung off the carpenter, and, amid a spatter of pistol bullets, had sprung the bulwarks and was swimming for his life. he had been hit and hit again, but it takes many pistols to kill a resolute and powerful man who has his mind set upon doing something before he dies. he was a strong swimmer, and, in spite of the red trail which he left in the water behind him, he was rapidly increasing his distance from the pirate. "give me a musket!" cried sharkey, with a savage oath. he was a famous shot, and his iron nerves never failed him in an emergency. the dark head appearing on the crest of a roller, and then swooping down on the other side, was already half-way to the sloop. sharkey dwelt long upon his aim before he fired. with the crack of the gun the swimmer reared himself up in the water, waved his hands in a gesture of warning, and roared out in a voice which rang over the bay. then, as the sloop swung round her head-sails, and the pirate fired an impotent broadside, stephen craddock, smiling grimly in his death agony, sank slowly down to that golden couch which glimmered far beneath him. iii how copley banks slew captain sharkey the buccaneers were something higher than a mere band of marauders. they were a floating republic, with laws, usages, and discipline of their own. in their endless and remorseless quarrel with the spaniards they had some semblance of right upon their side. their bloody harryings of the cities of the main were not more barbarous than the inroads of spain upon the netherlands--or upon the caribs in these same american lands. the chief of the buccaneers, were he english or french, a morgan or a granmont, was still a responsible person, whose country might countenance him, or even praise him, so long as he refrained from any deed which might shock the leathery seventeenth-century conscience too outrageously. some of them were touched with religion, and it is still remembered how sawkins threw the dice overboard upon the sabbath, and daniel pistolled a man before the altar for irreverence. but there came a day when the fleets of the buccaneers no longer mustered at the tortugas, and the solitary and outlawed pirate took their place. yet even with him the tradition of restraint and of discipline still lingered; and among the early pirates, the avorys, the englands, and the robertses, there remained some respect for human sentiment. they were more dangerous to the merchant than to the seaman. but they in turn were replaced by more savage and desperate men, who frankly recognised that they would get no quarter in their war with the human race, and who swore that they would give as little as they got. of their histories we know little that is trustworthy. they wrote no memoirs and left no trace, save an occasional blackened and blood-stained derelict adrift upon the face of the atlantic. their deeds could only be surmised from the long roll of ships who never made their port. searching the records of history, it is only here and there in an old-world trial that the veil that shrouds them seems for an instant to be lifted, and we catch a glimpse of some amazing and grotesque brutality behind. such was the breed of ned low, of gow the scotchman, and of the infamous sharkey, whose coal-black barque, the _happy delivery_, was known from the newfoundland banks to the mouths of the orinoco as the dark forerunner of misery and of death. there were many men, both among the islands and on the main, who had a blood feud with sharkey, but not one who had suffered more bitterly than copley banks, of kingston. banks had been one of the leading sugar merchants of the west indies. he was a man of position, a member of the council, the husband of a percival, and the cousin of the governor of virginia. his two sons had been sent to london to be educated, and their mother had gone over to bring them back. on their return voyage the ship, the _duchess of cornwall_, fell into the hands of sharkey, and the whole family met with an infamous death. copley banks said little when he heard the news, but he sank into a morose and enduring melancholy. he neglected his business, avoided his friends, and spent much of his time in the low taverns of the fishermen and seamen. there, amidst riot and devilry, he sat silently puffing at his pipe, with a set face and a smouldering eye. it was generally supposed that his misfortunes had shaken his wits, and his old friends looked at him askance, for the company which he kept was enough to bar him from honest men. from time to time there came rumours of sharkey over the sea. sometimes it was from some schooner which had seen a great flame upon the horizon, and approaching to offer help to the burning ship, had fled away at the sight of the sleek, black barque, lurking like a wolf near a mangled sheep. sometimes it was a frightened trader, which had come tearing in with her canvas curved like a lady's bodice, because she had seen a patched foretopsail rising slowly above the violet water-line. sometimes it was from a coaster, which had found a waterless bahama cay littered with sun-dried bodies. once there came a man who had been mate of a guineaman, and who had escaped from the pirate's hands. he could not speak--for reasons which sharkey could best supply--but he could write, and he did write, to the very great interest of copley banks. for hours they sat together over the map, and the dumb man pointed here and there to outlying reefs and tortuous inlets, while his companion sat smoking in silence, with his unvarying face and his fiery eyes. one morning, some two years after his misfortunes, mr. copley banks strode into his own office with his old air of energy and alertness. the manager stared at him in surprise, for it was months since he had shown any interest in business. "good morning, mr. banks!" said he. "good morning, freeman. i see that _ruffling harry_ is in the bay." "yes, sir; she clears for the windward islands on wednesday." "i have other plans for her, freeman. i have determined upon a slaving venture to whydah." "but her cargo is ready, sir." "then it must come out again, freeman. my mind is made up, and the _ruffling harry_ must go slaving to whydah." all argument and persuasion were vain, so the manager had dolefully to clear the ship once more. and then copley banks began to make preparations for his african voyage. it appeared that he relied upon force rather than barter for the filling of his hold, for he carried none of those showy trinkets which savages love, but the brig was fitted with eight nine-pounder guns, and racks full of muskets and cutlasses. the after-sailroom next the cabin was transformed into a powder magazine, and she carried as many round shot as a well-found privateer. water and provisions were shipped for a long voyage. but the preparation of his ship's company was most surprising. it made freeman, the manager, realise that there was truth in the rumour that his master had taken leave of his senses. for, under one pretext or another, he began to dismiss the old and tried hands, who had served the firm for years, and in their place he embarked the scum of the port--men whose reputations were so vile that the lowest crimp would have been ashamed to furnish them. there was birthmark sweetlocks, who was known to have been present at the killing of the logwood-cutters, so that his hideous scarlet disfigurement was put down by the fanciful as being a red afterglow from that great crime. he was first mate, and under him was israel martin, a little sun-wilted fellow who had served with howell davies at the taking of cape coast castle. the crew were chosen from amongst those whom banks had met and known in their own infamous haunts, and his own table-steward was a haggard-faced man, who gobbled at you when he tried to talk. his beard had been shaved, and it was impossible to recognise him as the same man whom sharkey had placed under the knife, and who had escaped to tell his experiences to copley banks. these doings were not unnoticed, nor yet uncommented upon in the town of kingston. the commandant of the troops--major harvey of the artillery--made serious representations to the governor. "she is not a trader, but a small warship," said he. "i think it would be as well to arrest copley banks and to seize the vessel." "what do you suspect?" asked the governor, who was a slow-witted man, broken down with fevers and port wine. "i suspect," said the soldier, "that it is stede bonnet over again." now, stede bonnet was a planter of high reputation and religious character who, from some sudden and overpowering freshet of wildness in his blood, had given up everything in order to start off pirating in the caribbean sea. the example was a recent one, and it had caused the utmost consternation in the islands. governors had before now been accused of being in league with pirates, and of receiving commissions upon their plunder, so that any want of vigilance was open to a sinister construction. "well, major harvey," said he, "i am vastly sorry to do anything which may offend my friend copley banks, for many a time have my knees been under his mahogany, but in face of what you say there is no choice for me but to order you to board the vessel and to satisfy yourself as to her character and destination." so at one in the morning major harvey, with a launchful of his soldiers, paid a surprise visit to the _ruffling harry_, with the result that they picked up nothing more solid than a hempen cable floating at the moorings. it had been slipped by the brig, whose owner had scented danger. she had already passed the palisades, and was beating out against the north-east trades on a course for the windward passage. when upon the next morning the brig had left morant point a mere haze upon the southern horizon, the men were called aft, and copley banks revealed his plans to them. he had chosen them, he said, as brisk boys and lads of spirit, who would rather run some risk upon the sea than starve for a living upon the shore. king's ships were few and weak, and they could master any trader who might come their way. others had done well at the business, and with a handy, well-found vessel, there was no reason why they should not turn their tarry jackets into velvet coats. if they were prepared to sail under the black flag, he was ready to command them; but if any wished to withdraw, they might have the gig and row back to jamaica. four men out of six-and-forty asked for their discharge, went over the ship's side into the boat, and rowed away amidst the jeers and howlings of the crew. the rest assembled aft, and drew up the articles of their association. a square of black tarpaulin had the white skull painted upon it, and was hoisted amidst cheering at the main. officers were elected, and the limits of their authority fixed. copley banks was chosen captain, but, as there are no mates upon a pirate craft, birthmark sweetlocks became quartermaster, and israel martin the boatswain. there was no difficulty in knowing what was the custom of the brotherhood, for half the men at least had served upon pirates before. food should be the same for all, and no man should interfere with another man's drink! the captain should have a cabin, but all hands should be welcome to enter it when they chose. all should share and share alike, save only the captain, quartermaster, boatswain, carpenter, and master-gunner, who had from a quarter to a whole share extra. he who saw a prize first should have the best weapon taken out of her. he who boarded her first should have the richest suit of clothes aboard of her. every man might treat his own prisoner, be it man or woman, after his own fashion. if a man flinched from his gun, the quartermaster should pistol him. these were some of the rules which the crew of the _ruffling harry_ subscribed by putting forty-two crosses at the foot of the paper upon which they had been drawn. so a new rover was afloat upon the seas, and her name before a year was over became as well known as that of the _happy delivery_. from the bahamas to the leewards, and from the leewards to the windwards, copley banks became the rival of sharkey and the terror of traders. for a long time the barque and the brig never met, which was the more singular as the _ruffling harry_ was for ever looking in at sharkey's resorts; but at last one day, when she was passing down the inlet of coxon's hole, at the east end of cuba, with the intention of careening, there was the _happy delivery_, with her blocks and tackle-falls already rigged for the same purpose. copley banks fired a shotted salute and hoisted the green trumpeter ensign, as the custom was among gentlemen of the sea. then he dropped his boat and went aboard. captain sharkey was not a man of a genial mood, nor had he any kindly sympathy for those who were of the same trade as himself. copley banks found him seated astride upon one of the after guns, with his new england quartermaster, ned galloway, and a crowd of roaring ruffians standing about him. yet none of them roared with quite such assurance when sharkey's pale face and filmy blue eyes were tuned upon him. he was in his shirt-sleeves, with his cambric frills breaking through his open red satin long-flapped vest. the scorching sun seemed to have no power upon his fleshless frame, for he wore a low fur cap, as though it had been winter. a many-coloured band of silk passed across his body and supported a short, murderous sword, while his broad, brass-buckled belt was stuffed with pistols. "sink you for a poacher!" he cried, as copley banks passed over the bulwarks. "i will drub you within an inch of your life, and that inch also! what mean you by fishing in my waters?" copley banks looked at him, and his eyes were like those of a traveller who sees his home at last. "i am glad that we are of one mind," said he, "for i am myself of opinion that the seas are not large enough for the two of us. but if you will take your sword and pistols and come upon a sand-bank with me, then the world will be rid of a damned villain, whichever way it goes." "now, this is talking!" said sharkey, jumping off the gun and holding out his hand. "i have not met many who could look john sharkey in the eyes and speak with a full breath. may the devil seize me if i do not choose you as a consort! but if you play me false, then i will come aboard of you and gut you upon your own poop." "and i pledge you the same!" said copley banks, and so the two pirates became sworn comrades to each other. that summer they went north as far as the newfoundland banks, and harried the new york traders and the whale ships from new england. it was copley banks who captured the liverpool ship, _house of hanover_, but it was sharkey who fastened her master to the windlass and pelted him to death with empty claret-bottles. together they engaged the king's ship _royal fortune_, which had been sent in search of them, and beat her off after a night action of five hours, the drunken, raving crews fighting naked in the light of the battle-lanterns, with a bucket of rum and a pannikin laid by the tackles of every gun. they ran to topsail inlet in north carolina to refit, and then in the spring they were at the grand caicos, ready for a long cruise down the west indies. by this time sharkey and copley banks had become very excellent friends, for sharkey loved a whole-hearted villain, and he loved a man of metal, and it seemed to him that the two met in the captain of the _ruffling harry_. it was long before he gave his confidence to him, for cold suspicion lay deep in his character. never once would he trust himself outside his own ship and away from his own men. but copley banks came often on board the _happy delivery_, and joined sharkey in many of his morose debauches, so that at last any lingering misgivings of the latter were set at rest. he knew nothing of the evil that he had done to his new boon companion, for of his many victims how could he remember the woman and the two boys whom he had slain with such levity so long ago! when, therefore, he received a challenge to himself and to his quartermaster for a carouse upon the last evening of their stay at the caicos bank he saw no reason to refuse. a well-found passenger ship had been rifled the week before, so their fare was of the best, and after supper five of them drank deeply together. there were the two captains, birthmark sweetlocks, ned galloway, and israel martin, the old buccaneers-man. to wait upon them was the dumb steward, whose head sharkey split with a glass, because he had been too slow in the filling of it. the quarter-master has slipped sharkey's pistols away from him, for it was an old joke with him to fire them cross-handed under the table and see who was the luckiest man. it was a pleasantry which had cost his boatswain his leg, so now, when the table was cleared, they would coax sharkey's weapons away from him on the excuse of the heat, and lay them out of his reach. the captain's cabin of the _ruffling harry_ was in a deck-house upon the poop, and a stern-chaser gun was mounted at the back of it. round shot were racked round the wall, and three great hogsheads of powder made a stand for dishes and for bottles. in this grim room the five pirates sang and roared and drank, while the silent steward still filled up their glasses, and passed the box and the candle round for their tobacco-pipes. hour after hour the talk became fouler, the voices hoarser, the curses and shoutings more incoherent, until three of the five had closed their blood-shot eyes, and dropped their swimming heads upon the table. copley banks and sharkey were left face to face, the one because he had drunk the least, the other because no amount of liquor would ever shake his iron nerve or warm his sluggish blood. behind him stood the watchful steward, for ever filling up his waning glass. from without came the low lapping of the tide, and from over the water a sailor's chanty from the barque. in the windless tropical night the words came clearly to their ears:-- a trader sailed from stepney town, wake her up! shake her up! try her with the mainsail! a trader sailed from stepney town with a keg full of gold and a velvet gown. ho, the bully rover jack, waiting with his yard aback out upon the lowland sea. the two boon companions sat listening in silence. then copley banks glanced at the steward, and the man took a coil of rope from the shot-rack behind him. "captain sharkey," said copley banks, "do you remember the _duchess of cornwall_, hailing from london, which you took and sank three years ago off the statira shoal?" "curse me if i can bear their names in mind," said sharkey. "we did as many as ten ships a week about that time." "there were a mother and two sons among the passengers. maybe that will bring it back to your mind." captain sharkey leant back in thought, with his huge thin beak of a nose jutting upwards. then he burst suddenly into a high treble, neighing laugh. he remembered it, he said, and he added details to prove it. "but burn me if it had not slipped from my mind!" he cried. "how came you to think of it?" "it was of interest to me," said copley banks, "for the woman was my wife, and the lads were my only sons." sharkey stared across at his companion, and saw that the smouldering fire which lurked always in his eyes had burned up into a lurid flame. he read their menace, and he clapped his hands to his empty belt. then he turned to seize a weapon, but the bight of a rope was cast round him, and in an instant his arms were bound to his side. he fought like a wild cat, and screamed for help. "ned!" he yelled. "ned! wake up! here's damned villainy! help, ned!--help!" but the three men were far too deeply sunk in their swinish sleep for any voice to wake them. round and round went the rope, until sharkey was swathed like a mummy from ankle to neck. they propped him stiff and helpless against a powder barrel, and they gagged him with a handkerchief, but his filmy, red-rimmed eyes still looked curses at them. the dumb man chattered in his exultation, and sharkey winced for the first time when he saw the empty mouth before him. he understood that vengeance, slow and patient, had dogged him long, and clutched him at last. the two captors had their plans all arranged, and they were somewhat elaborate. first of all they stove the heads of two of the great powder barrels, and they heaped the contents out upon the table and floor. they piled it round and under the three drunken men, until each sprawled in a heap of it. then they carried sharkey to the gun and they triced him sitting over the port-hole, with his body about a foot from the muzzle. wriggle as he would he could not move an inch either to the right or left, and the dumb man trussed him up with a sailor's cunning, so that there was no chance that he should work free. "now, you bloody devil," said copley banks, softly, "you must listen to what i have to say to you, for they are the last words that you will hear. you are my man now, and i have bought you at a price, for i have given all that a man can give here below, and i have given my soul as well. "to reach you i have had to sink to your level. for two years i strove against it, hoping that some other way might come, but i learnt that there was no other. i've robbed and i have murdered--worse still, i have laughed and lived with you--and all for the one end. and now my time has come, and you will die as i would have you die, seeing the shadow creeping upon you and the devil waiting for you in the shadow." sharkey could hear the hoarse voices of his rovers singing their chanty over the water. where is the trader of stepney town? wake her up! shake her up! every stick a-bending! where is the trader of stepney town? his gold's on the capstan, his blood's on his gown, all for bully rover jack, reaching on the weather tack right across the lowland sea. the words came clear to his ear, and just outside he could hear two men pacing backwards and forwards upon the deck. and yet he was helpless, staring down the mouth of the nine-pounder, unable to move an inch or to utter so much as a groan. again there came the burst of voices from the deck of the barque. so it's up and it's over to stornoway bay, pack it on! crack it on! try her with stunsails! it's off on a bowline to stornoway bay, where the liquor is good and the lasses are gay, waiting for their bully jack, watching for him sailing back, right across the lowland sea. to the dying pirate the jovial words and rollicking tune made his own fate seem the harsher, but there was no softening in those venomous blue eyes. copley banks had brushed away the priming of the gun, and had sprinkled fresh powder over the touch-hole. then he had taken up the candle and cut it to the length of about an inch. this he placed upon the loose powder at the breach of the gun. thin he scattered powder thickly over the floor beneath, so that when the candle fell at the recoil it must explode the huge pile in which the three drunkards were wallowing. "you've made others look death in the face, sharkey," said he; "now it has come to be your own turn. you and these swine here shall go together!" he lit the candle-end as he spoke, and blew out the other lights upon the table. then he passed out with the dumb man, and locked the cabin door upon the outer side. but before he closed it he took an exultant look backwards, and received one last curse from those unconquerable eyes. in the single dim circle of light that ivory-white face, with the gleam of moisture upon the high, bald forehead, was the last that was ever seen of sharkey. there was a skiff alongside, and in it copley banks and the dumb steward made their way to the beach, and looked back upon the brig riding in the moon-light just outside the shadow of the palm trees. they waited and waited watching that dim light which shone through the stem port. and then at last there came the dull thud of a gun, and an instant later the shattering crash of an explosion. the long, sleek, black barque, the sweep of white sand, and the fringe of nodding feathery palm trees sprang into dazzling light and back into darkness again. voices screamed and called upon the bay. then copley banks, his heart singing within him, touched his companion upon the shoulder, and they plunged together into the lonely jungle of the caicos. the croxley master i mr. robert montgomery was seated at his desk, his head upon his hands, in a state of the blackest despondency. before him was the open ledger with the long columns of dr. oldacre's prescriptions. at his elbow lay the wooden tray with the labels in various partitions, the cork box, the lumps of twisted sealing-wax, while in front a rank of bottles waited to be filled. but his spirits were too low for work. he sat in silence with his fine shoulders bowed and his head upon his hands. outside, through the grimy surgery window over a foreground of blackened brick and slate, a line of enormous chimneys like cyclopean pillars upheld the lowering, dun-coloured cloud-bank. for six days in the week they spouted smoke, but to-day the furnace fires were banked, for it was sunday. sordid and polluting gloom hung over a district blighted and blasted by the greed of man. there was nothing in the surroundings to cheer a desponding soul, but it was more than his dismal environment which weighed upon the medical assistant. his trouble was deeper and more personal. the winter session was approaching. he should be back again at the university completing the last year which would give him his medical degree; but, alas! he had not the money with which to pay his class fees, nor could he imagine how he could procure it. sixty pounds were wanted to make his career, and it might have been as many thousand for any chance there seemed to be of his obtaining it. he was roused from his black meditation by the entrance of dr. oldacre himself, a large, clean-shaven, respectable man, with a prim manner and an austere face. he had prospered exceedingly by the support of the local church interest, and the rule of his life was never by word or action to run a risk of offending the sentiment which had made him. his standard of respectability and of dignity was exceedingly high, and he expected the same from his assistants. his appearance and words were always vaguely benevolent. a sudden impulse came over the despondent student. he would test the reality of this philanthropy. "i beg your pardon, dr. oldacre," said he, rising from his chair; "i have a great favour to ask of you." the doctor's appearance was not encouraging. his mouth suddenly tightened, and his eyes fell. "yes, mr. montgomery?" "you are aware, sir, that i need only one more session to complete my course." "so you have told me." "it is very important to me, sir." "naturally." "the fees, dr. oldacre, would amount to about sixty pounds." "i am afraid that my duties call me elsewhere, mr. montgomery." "one moment, sir! i had hoped, sir, that perhaps, if i signed a paper promising you interest upon your money, you would advance this sum to me. i will pay you back, sir, i really will. or, if you like, i will work it off after i am qualified." the doctor's lips had thinned into a narrow line. his eyes were raised again, and sparkled indignantly. "your request is unreasonable, mr. montgomery. i am surprised that you should have made it. consider, sir, how many thousands of medical students there are in this country. no doubt there are many of them who have a difficulty in finding their fees. am i to provide for them all? or why should i make an exception in your favour? i am grieved and disappointed, mr. montgomery, that you should have put me into the painful position of having to refuse you." he turned upon his heel, and walked with offended dignity out of the surgery. the student smiled bitterly, and turned to his work of making up the morning prescriptions. it was poor and unworthy work--work which any weakling might have done as well, and this was a man of exceptional nerve and sinew. but, such as it was, it brought him his board and one pound a week--enough to help him during the summer months and let him save a few pounds towards his winter keep. but those class fees! where were they to come from? he could not save them out of his scanty wage. dr. oldacre would not advance them. he saw no way of earning them. his brains were fairly good, but brains of that quality were a drug in the market. he only excelled in his strength, and where was he to find a customer for that? but the ways of fate are strange, and his customer was at hand. "look y'ere!" said a voice at the door. montgomery looked up, for the voice was a loud and rasping one. a young man stood at the entrance-- a stocky, bull-necked young miner, in tweed sunday clothes and an aggressive neck-tie. he was a sinister-looking figure, with dark, insolent eyes, and the jaw and throat of a bulldog. "look y'ere!" said he again. "why hast thou not sent t' medicine oop as thy master ordered?" montgomery had become accustomed to the brutal frankness of the northern worker. at first it had enraged him, but after a time he had grown callous to it, and accepted it as it was meant. but this was something different. it was insolence--brutal, overbearing insolence, with physical menace behind it. "what name?" he asked coldly. "barton. happen i may give thee cause to mind that name, yoong man. mak' oop t' wife's medicine this very moment, look ye, or it will be the worse for thee." montgomery smiled. a pleasant sense of relief thrilled softly through him. what blessed safety-valve was this through which his jangled nerves might find some outlet. the provocation was so gross, the insult so unprovoked, that he could have none of those qualms which take the edge off a man's mettle. he finished sealing the bottle upon which he was occupied, and he addressed it and placed it carefully in the rack. "look here!" said he, turning round to the miner, "your medicine will be made up in its turn and sent down to you. i don't allow folk in the surgery. wait outside in the waiting-room if you wish to wait at all." "yoong man," said the miner, "thou's got to mak' t' wife's medicine here, and now, and quick, while i wait and watch thee, or else happen thou might need some medicine thysel' before all is over." "i shouldn't advise you to fasten a quarrel upon me." montgomery was speaking in the hard, staccato voice of a man who is holding himself in with difficulty. "you'll save trouble if you'll go quietly. if you don't you'll be hurt. ah, you would? take it, then!" the blows were almost simultaneous--a savage swing which whistled past montgomery's ear, and a straight drive which took the workman on the chin. luck was with the assistant. that single whizzing uppercut, and the way in which it was delivered, warned him that he had a formidable man to deal with. but if he had underrated his antagonist, his antagonist had also underrated him, and had laid himself open to a fatal blow. the miner's head had come with a crash against the corner of the surgery shelves, and he had dropped heavily on to the ground. there he lay with his bandy legs drawn up and his hands thrown abroad, the blood trickling over the surgery tiles. "had enough?" asked the assistant, breathing fiercely through his nose. but no answer came. the man was insensible. and then the danger of his position came upon montgomery, and he turned as white as his antagonist. a sunday, the immaculate dr. oldacre with his pious connection, a savage brawl with a patient; he would irretrievably lose his situation if the facts came out. it was not much of a situation, but he could not get another without a reference, and oldacre might refuse him one. without money for his classes, and without a situation--what was to become of him? it was absolute ruin. but perhaps he could escape exposure after all. he seized his insensible adversary, dragged him out into the centre of he room, loosened his collar, and squeezed the surgery sponge over his face. he sat up at last with a gasp and a scowl. "domn thee, thou's spoilt my neck-tie," said he, mopping up the water from his breast. "i'm sorry i hit you so hard," said montgomery, apologetically. "thou hit me hard! i could stan' such fly-flappin' all day. 'twas this here press that cracked my pate for me, and thou art a looky man to be able to boast as thou hast outed me. and now i'd be obliged to thee if thou wilt give me t' wife's medicine." montgomery gladly made it up and handed it to the miner. "you are weak still," said he. "won't you stay awhile and rest?" "t' wife wants her medicine," said the man, and lurched out at the door. the assistant, looking after him, saw him rolling, with an uncertain step, down the street, until a friend met him, and they walked on arm in arm. the man seemed in his rough northern fashion to bear no grudge, and so montgomery's fears left him. there was no reason why the doctor should know anything about it. he wiped the blood from the floor, put the surgery in order, and went on with his interrupted task, hoping that he had come scathless out of a very dangerous business. yet all day he was aware of a sense of vague uneasiness, which sharpened into dismay when, late in the afternoon, he was informed that three gentlemen had called and were waiting for him in the surgery. a coroner's inquest, a descent of detectives, an invasion of angry relatives--all sorts of possibilities rose to scare him. with tense nerves and a rigid face he went to meet his visitors. they were a very singular trio. each was known to him by sight; but what on earth the three could be doing together, and, above all, what they could expect from _him_, was a most inexplicable problem. the first was sorley wilson, the son of the owner of the nonpareil coalpit. he was a young blood of twenty, heir to a fortune, a keen sportsman, and down for the easter vacation from magdalene college. he sat now upon the edge of the surgery table, looking in thoughtful silence at montgomery and twisting the ends of his small, black, waxed moustache. the second was purvis, the publican, owner of the chief beer-shop, and well known as the local bookmaker. he was a coarse, clean-shaven man, whose fiery face made a singular contrast with his ivory-white bald head. he had shrewd, light-blue eyes with foxy lashes, and he also leaned forward in silence from his chair, a fat, red hand upon either knee, and stared critically at the young assistant. so did the third visitor, fawcett, the horse-breaker, who leaned back, his long, thin legs, with their boxcloth riding-gaiters, thrust out in front of him, tapping his protruding teeth with his riding-whip, with anxious thought in every line of his rugged, bony face. publican, exquisite, and horse-breaker were all three equally silent, equally earnest, and equally critical. montgomery seated in the midst of them, looked from one to the other. "well, gentlemen?" he observed, but no answer came. the position was embarrassing. "no," said the horse-breaker, at last. "no. it's off. it's nowt." "stand oop, lad; let's see thee standin'." it was the publican who spoke. montgomery obeyed. he would learn all about it, no doubt, if he were patient. he stood up and turned slowly round, as if in front of his tailor. "it's off! it's off!" cried the horse-breaker. "why, mon, the master would break him over his knee." "oh, that be hanged for a yarn!" said the young cantab. "you can drop out if you like, fawcett, but i'll see this thing through, if i have to do it alone. i don't hedge a penny. i like the cut of him a great deal better than i liked ted barton." "look at barton's shoulders, mr. wilson." "lumpiness isn't always strength. give me nerve and fire and breed. that's what wins." "ay, sir, you have it theer--you have it theer!" said the fat, red-faced publican, in a thick suety voice. "it's the same wi' poops. get 'em clean-bred an' fine, an' they'll yark the thick 'uns--yark 'em out o' their skins." "he's ten good pund on the light side," growled the horse-breaker. "he's a welter weight, anyhow." "a hundred and thirty." "a hundred and fifty, if he's an ounce." "well, the master doesn't scale much more than that." "a hundred and seventy-five." "that was when he was hog-fat and living high. work the grease out of him and i lay there's no great difference between them. have you been weighed lately, mr. montgomery?" it was the first direct question which had been asked him. he had stood in the midst of them like a horse at a fair, and he was just beginning to wonder whether he was more angry or amused. "i am just eleven stone," said he. "i said that he was a welter weight." "but suppose you was trained?" said the publican. "wot then?" "i am always in training." "in a manner of speakin', no doubt, he _is_ always in trainin'," remarked the horse-breaker. "but trainin' for everyday work ain't the same as trainin' with a trainer; and i dare bet, with all respec' to your opinion, mr. wilson, that there's half a stone of tallow on him at this minute." the young cantab put his fingers on the assistant's upper arm, then with his other hand on his wrist, he bent the forearm sharply, and felt the biceps, as round and hard as a cricket-ball, spring up under his fingers. "feel that!" said he. the publican and horse-breaker felt it with an air of reverence. "good lad! he'll do yet!" cried purvis. "gentlemen," said montgomery, "i think that you will acknowledge that i have boon very patient with you. i have listened to all that you have to say about my personal appearance, and now i must really beg that you will have the goodness to tell me what is the matter." they all sat down in their serious, business-like way. "that's easy done, mr. montgomery," said the fat-voiced publican. "but before sayin' anything we had to wait and see whether, in a way of speakin', there was any need for us to say anything at all. mr. wilson thinks there is. mr. fawcett, who has the same right to his opinion, bein' also a backer and one o' the committee, thinks the other way." "i thought him too light built, and i think so now," said the horse-breaker, still tapping his prominent teeth with the metal head of his riding-whip. "but happen he may pull through, and he's a fine-made, buirdly young chap, so if you mean to back him, mr. wilson-- "which i do." "and you, purvis?" "i ain't one to go back, fawcett." "well, i'll stan' to my share of the purse." "and well i knew you would," said purvis, "for it would be somethin' new to find isaac fawcett as a spoil-sport. well, then, we will make up the hundred for the stake among us, and the fight stands--always supposin' the young man is willin'." "excuse all this rot, mr. montgomery," said the university man, in a genial voice. "we've begun at the wrong end, i know, but we'll soon straighten it out, and i hope that you will see your way to falling in with our views. in the first place, you remember the man whom you knocked out this morning? he is barton--the famous ted barton." "i'm sure, sir, you may well be proud to have outed him in one round," said the publican. "why, it took morris, the ten-stone-six champion, a deal more trouble than that before he put barton to sleep. you've done a fine performance, sir, and happen you'll do a finer, if you give yourself the chance." "i never heard of ted barton, beyond seeing the name on a medicine label," said the assistant. "well, you may take it from me that he's a slaughterer," said the horse-breaker. "you've taught him a lesson that he needed, for it was always a word and a blow with him, and the word alone was worth five shillin' in a public court. he won't be so ready now to shake his nief in the face of everyone he meets. however, that's neither here nor there." montgomery looked at them in bewilderment. "for goodness' sake, gentlemen, tell me what it is you want me to do!" he cried. "we want you to fight silas craggs, better known as the master of croxley." "but why?" "because ted barton was to have fought him next saturday. he was the champion of the wilson coal-pits, and the other was the master of the iron-folk down at the croxley smelters. we'd matched our man for a purse of a hundred against the master. but you've queered our man, and he can't face such a battle with a two-inch cut at the back of his head. there's only one thing to be done, sir, and that is for you to take his place. if you can lick ted barton you may lick the master of croxley, but if you don't we're done, for there's no one else who is in the same street with him in this district. it's twenty rounds, two-ounce gloves, queensberry rules, and a decision on points if you fight to the finish." for a moment the absurdity of the thing drove every other thought out of montgomery's head. but then there came a sudden revulsion. a hundred pounds!--all he wanted to complete his education was lying there ready to his hand, if only that hand were strong enough to pick it up. he had thought bitterly that morning that there was no market for his strength, but here was one where his muscle might earn more in an hour than his brains in a year. but a chill of doubt came over him. "how can i fight for the coal-pits?" said he. "i am not connected with them." "eh, lad, but thou art!" cried old purvis. "we've got it down in writin', and it's clear enough 'anyone connected with the coal-pits.' doctor oldacre is the coal-pit club doctor; thou art his assistant. what more can they want?" "yes, that's right enough," said the cantab. "it would be a very sporting thing of you, mr. montgomery, if you would come to our help when we are in such a hole. of course, you might not like to take the hundred pounds; but i have no doubt that, in the case of your winning, we could arrange that it should take the form of a watch or piece of plate, or any other shape which might suggest itself to you. you see, you are responsible for our having lost our champion, so we really feel that we have a claim upon you." "give me a moment, gentlemen. it is very unexpected. i am afraid the doctor would never consent to my going--in fact, i am sure that he would not." "but he need never know--not before the fight, at any rate. we are not bound to give the name of our man. so long as he is within the weight limits on the day of the fight, that is all that concerns anyone." the adventure and the profit would either of them have attracted montgomery. the two combined were irresistible. "gentlemen," said he, "i'll do it!" the three sprang from their seats. the publican had seized his right hand, the horse-dealer his left, and the cantab slapped him on the back. "good lad! good lad!" croaked the publican. "eh, mon, but if thou yark him, thou'll rise in one day from being just a common doctor to the best-known mon 'twixt here and bradford. thou art a witherin' tyke, thou art, and no mistake; and if thou beat the master of croxley, thou'll find all the beer thou want for the rest of thy life waiting for thee at the 'four sacks.'" "it is the most sporting thing i ever heard of in my life," said young wilson. "by george, sir, if you pull it off, you've got the constituency in your pocket, if you care to stand. you know the out-house in my garden?" "next the road?" "exactly. i turned it into a gymnasium for ted barton. you'll find all you want there: clubs, punching ball, bars, dumb-bells, everything. then you'll want a sparring partner. ogilvy has been acting for barton, but we don't think that he is class enough. barton bears you no grudge. he's a good-hearted fellow, though cross-grained with strangers. he looked upon you as a stranger this morning, but he says he knows you now. he is quite ready to spar with you for practice, and he will come any hour you will name." "thank you; i will let you know the hour," said montgomery; and so the committee departed jubilant upon their way. the medical assistant sat for a time in the surgery turning it over a little in his mind. he had been trained originally at the university by the man who had been middle-weight champion in his day. it was true that his teacher was long past his prime, slow upon his feet, and stiff in his joints, but even so he was still a tough antagonist; but montgomery had found at last that he could more than hold his own with him. he had won the university medal, and his teacher, who had trained so many students, was emphatic in his opinion that he had never had one who was in the same class with him. he had been exhorted to go in for the amateur championships, but he had no particular ambition in that direction. once he had put on the gloves with hammer tunstall in a booth at a fair and had fought three rattling rounds, in which he had the worst of it, but had made the prize fighter stretch himself to the uttermost. there was his whole record, and was it enough to encourage him to stand up to the master of croxley? he had never heard of the master before, but then he had lost touch of the ring during the last few years of hard work. after all, what did it matter? if he won, there was the money, which meant so much to him. if he lost, it would only mean a thrashing. he could take punishment without flinching, of that he was certain. if there were only one chance in a hundred of pulling it off, then it was worth his while to attempt it. dr. oldacre, new come from church, with an ostentatious prayer-book in his kid-gloved hand, broke in upon his meditation. "you don't go to service, i observe, mr. montgomery" said he, coldly. "no, sir; i have had some business to detain me." "it is very near to my heart that my household should set a good example. there are so few educated people in this district that a great responsibility devolves upon us. if we do not live up to the highest, how can we expect these poor workers to do so? it is a dreadful thing to reflect that the parish takes a great deal more interest in an approaching glove fight than in their religious duties." "a glove fight, sir?" said montgomery, guiltily. "i believe that to be the correct term. one of my patients tells me that it is the talk of the district. a local ruffian, a patient of ours, by the way, matched against a pugilist over at croxley. i cannot understand why the law does not step in and stop so degrading an exhibition. it is really a prize fight." "a glove fight, you said." "i am informed that a oz. glove is an evasion by which they dodge the law, and make it difficult for the police to interfere. they contend for a sum of money. it seems dreadful and almost incredible--does it not?--to think that such scenes can be enacted within a few miles of our peaceful home. but you will realise, mr. montgomery, that while there are such influences for us to counteract, it is very necessary that we should live up to our highest." the doctor's sermon would have had more effect if the assistant had not once or twice had occasion to test his highest, and come upon it at unexpectedly humble elevations. it is always so particularly easy to "compound for sins we're most inclined to by damning those we have no mind to." in any case, montgomery felt that of all the men concerned in such a fight--promoters, backers, spectators--it is the actual fighter who holds the strongest and most honourable position. his conscience gave him no concern upon the subject. endurance and courage are virtues, not vices, and brutality is, at least, better than effeminacy. there was a little tobacco-shop at the corner of the street, where montgomery got his bird's-eye and also his local information, for the shopman was a garrulous soul, who knew everything about the affairs of the district. the assistant strolled down there after tea and asked, in a casual way, whether the tobacconist had ever heard of the master of croxley. "heard of him! heard of him!" the little man could hardly articulate in his astonishment. "why, sir, he's the first mon o' the district, an' his name's as well known in the west riding as the winner o' t' derby. but lor,' sir,"--here he stopped and rummaged among a heap of papers. "they are makin' a fuss about him on account o' his fight wi' ted barton, and so the _croxley herald_ has his life an' record, an' here it is, an' thou canst read it for thysel'" the sheet of the paper which he held up was a lake of print around an islet of illustration. the latter was a coarse wood-cut of a pugilist's head and neck set in a cross-barred jersey. it was a sinister but powerful face, the face of a debauched hero, clean-shaven, strongly eye-browed, keen-eyed, with huge, aggressive jaw, and an animal dewlap beneath it. the long, obstinate cheeks ran flush up to the narrow, sinister eyes. the mighty neck came down square from the ears and curved outwards into shoulders, which had lost nothing at the hands of the local artist. above was written "silas craggs," and beneath, "the master of croxley." "thou'll find all about him there, sir," said the tobacconist. "he's a witherin' tyke, he is, and we're proud to have him in the county. if he hadn't broke his leg he'd have been champion of england." "broke his leg, has he?" "yes, and it set badly. they ca' him owd k, behind his back, for that is how his two legs look. but his arms--well, if they was both stropped to a bench, as the sayin' is, i wonder where the champion of england would be then." "i'll take this with me," said montgomery; and putting the paper into his pocket he returned home. it was not a cheering record which he read there. the whole history of the croxley master was given in full, his many victories, his few defeats. born in (said the provincial biographer), silas craggs, better known in sporting circles as the master of croxley, is now in his fortieth year. "hang it, i'm only twenty-three!" said montgomery to himself, and read on more cheerfully. having in his youth shown a surprising aptitude for the game, he fought his way up among his comrades, until he became the recognised champion of the district and won the proud title which he still holds. ambitious of a more than local fame, he secured a patron, and fought his first fight against jack barton, of birmingham, in may , at the old loiterers' club. craggs, who fought at ten stone-two at the time, had the better of fifteen rattling rounds, and gained an award on points against the midlander. having disposed of james dunn, of rotherhithe, cameron, of glasgow, and a youth named fernie, he was thought so highly of by the fancy that he was matched against ernest willox, at that time middle-weight champion of the north of england, and defeated him in a hard-fought battle, knocking him out in the tenth round after a punishing contest. at this period it looked as if the very highest honours of the ring were within the reach of the young yorkshireman, but he was laid upon the shelf by a most unfortunate accident. the kick of a horse broke his thigh, and for a year he was compelled to rest himself. when he returned to his work the fracture had set badly, and his activity was much impaired. it was owing to this that he was defeated in seven rounds by willox, the man whom he had previously beaten, and afterwards by james shaw, of london, though the latter acknowledged that he had found the toughest customer of his career. undismayed by his reverses, the master adapted the style of his fighting to his physical disabilities and resumed his career of victory--defeating norton (the black), hobby wilson, and levi cohen, the latter a heavy-weight. conceding two stone, he fought a draw with the famous billy mcquire, and afterwards, for a purse of fifty pounds, he defeated sam hare at the pelican club, london. in a decision was given against him upon a foul when fighting a winning fight against jim taylor, the australian middle weight, and so mortified was he by the decision, that he withdrew from the ring. since then he has hardly fought at all save to accommodate any local aspirant who may wish to learn the difference between a bar-room scramble and a scientific contest. the latest of these ambitious souls comes from the wilson coal-pits, which have undertaken to put up a stake of pounds and back their local champion. there are various rumours afloat as to who their representative is to be, the name of ted barton being freely mentioned; but the betting, which is seven to one on the master against any untried man, is a fair reflection of the feeling of the community. montgomery read it over twice, and it left him with a very serious face. no light matter this which he had undertaken; no battle with a rough-and-tumble fighter who presumed upon a local reputation. the man's record showed that he was first-class--or nearly so. there were a few points in his favour, and he must make the most of them. there was age--twenty-three against forty. there was an old ring proverb that "youth will be served," but the annals of the ring offer a great number of exceptions. a hard veteran full of cool valour and ring-craft, could give ten or fifteen years and a beating to most striplings. he could not rely too much upon his advantage in age. but then there was the lameness; that must surely count for a great deal. and, lastly, there was the chance that the master might underrate his opponent, that he might be remiss in his training, and refuse to abandon his usual way of life, if he thought that he had an easy task before him. in a man of his age and habits this seemed very possible. montgomery prayed that it might be so. meanwhile, if his opponent were the best man who ever jumped the ropes into a ring, his own duty was clear. he must prepare himself carefully, throw away no chance, and do the very best that he could. but he knew enough to appreciate the difference which exists in boxing, as in every sport, between the amateur and the professional. the coolness, the power of hitting, above all the capability of taking punishment, count for so much. those specially developed, gutta-percha-like abdominal muscles of the hardened pugilist will take without flinching a blow which would leave another man writhing on the ground. such things are not to be acquired in a week, but all that could be done in a week should be done. the medical assistant had a good basis to start from. he was ft. ins.--tall enough for anything on two legs, as the old ring men used to say--lithe and spare, with the activity of a panther, and a strength which had hardly yet ever found its limitations. his muscular development was finely hard, but his power came rather from that higher nerve-energy which counts for nothing upon a measuring tape. he had the well-curved nose and the widely opened eye which never yet were seen upon the face of a craven, and behind everything he had the driving force, which came from the knowledge that his whole career was at stake upon the contest. the three backers rubbed their hands when they saw him at work punching the ball in the gymnasium next morning; and fawcett, the horse-breaker, who had written to leeds to hedge his bets, sent a wire to cancel the letter, and to lay another fifty at the market price of seven to one. montgomery's chief difficulty was to find time for his training without any interference from the doctor. his work took him a large part of the day, but as the visiting was done on foot, and considerable distances had to be traversed, it was a training in itself. for the rest, he punched the swinging ball and worked with the dumb-bells for an hour every morning and evening, and boxed twice a day with ted barton in the gymnasium, gaining as much profit as could be got from a rushing, two-handed slogger. barton was full of admiration for his cleverness and quickness, but doubtful about his strength. hard hitting was the feature of his own style, and he exacted it from others. "lord, sir, that's a turble poor poonch for an eleven-stone man!" he would cry. "thou wilt have to hit harder than that afore t' master will know that thou art theer. all, thot's better, mon, thot's fine!" he would add, as his opponent lifted him across the room on the end of a right counter. "thot's how i likes to feel 'em. happen thou'lt pull through yet." he chuckled with joy when montgomery knocked him into a corner. "eh, mon, thou art coming along grand. thou hast fair yarked me off my legs. do it again, lad, do it again!" the only part of montgomery's training which came within the doctor's observation was his diet, and that puzzled him considerably. "you will excuse my remarking, mr. montgomery, that you are becoming rather particular in your tastes. such fads are not to be encouraged in one's youth. why do you eat toast with every meal?" "i find that it suits me better than bread, sir." "it entails unnecessary work upon the cook. i observe, also, that you have turned against potatoes." "yes, sir; i think that i am better without them." "and you no longer drink your beer?" "no, sir." "these causeless whims and fancies are very much to be deprecated, mr. montgomery. consider how many there are to whom these very potatoes and this very beer would be most acceptable." "no doubt, sir, but at present i prefer to do without them." they were sitting alone at lunch, and the assistant thought that it would be a good opportunity of asking leave for the day of the fight. "i should be glad if you could let me have leave for saturday, dr. oldacre." "it is very inconvenient upon so busy a day." "i should do a double day's work on friday so as to leave everything in order. i should hope to be back in the evening." "i am afraid i cannot spare you, mr. montgomery." this was a facer. if he could not get leave he would go without it. "you will remember, dr. oldacre, that when i came to you it was understood that i should have a clear day every month. i have never claimed one. but now there are reasons why i wish to have a holiday upon saturday." dr. oldacre gave in with a very bad grace. "of course, if you insist upon your formal rights, there is no more to be said, mr. montgomery, though i feel that it shows a certain indifference to my comfort and the welfare of the practice. do you still insist?" "yes, sir." "very good. have your way." the doctor was boiling over with anger, but montgomery was a valuable assistant--steady, capable, and hardworking--and he could not afford to lose him. even if he had been prompted to advance those class fees, for which his assistant had appealed, it would have been against his interests to do so, for he did not wish him to qualify, and he desired him to remain in his subordinate position, in which he worked so hard for so small a wage. there was something in the cool insistence of the young man, a quiet resolution in his voice as he claimed his saturday, which aroused his curiosity. "i have no desire to interfere unduly with your affairs, mr. montgomery, but were you thinking of having a day in leeds upon saturday?" "no, sir. "in the country?" "yes, sir." "you are very wise. you will find a quiet day among the wild flowers a very valuable restorative. have you thought of any particular direction?" "i am going over croxley way." "well, there is no prettier country when once you are past the iron-works. what could be more delightful than to lie upon the fells, basking in the sunshine, with perhaps some instructive and elevating book as your companion? i should recommend a visit to the ruins of st. bridget's church, a very interesting relic of the early norman era. by the way, there is one objection which i see to your going to croxley on saturday. it is upon that date, as i am informed, that that ruffianly glove fight takes place. you may find yourself molested by the blackguards whom it will attract." "i will take my chance of that, sir," said the assistant. on the friday night, which was the last night before the fight, montgomery's three backers assembled in the gymnasium and inspected their man as he went through some light exercises to keep his muscles supple. he was certainly in splendid condition, his skin shining with health, and his eyes with energy and confidence. the three walked round him and exulted. "he's simply ripping!" said the undergraduate. "by gad, you've come out of it splendidly. you're as hard as a pebble, and fit to fight for your life." "happen he's a trifle on the fine side," said the publican. "runs a bit light at the loins, to my way of thinking'." "what weight to-day?" "ten stone eleven," the assistant answered. "that's only three pund off in a week's trainin'," said the horse-breaker. "he said right when he said that he was in condition. well, it's fine stuff all there is of it, but i'm none so sure as there is enough." he kept poking his finger into montgomery as if he were one of his horses. "i hear that the master will scale a hundred and sixty odd at the ring-side." "but there's some of that which he'd like well to pull off and leave behind wi' his shirt," said purvis. "i hear they've had a rare job to get him to drop his beer, and if it had not been for that great red-headed wench of his they'd never ha' done it. she fair scratted the face off a potman that had brought him a gallon from t' 'chequers.' they say the hussy is his sparrin' partner, as well as his sweetheart, and that his poor wife is just breakin' her heart over it. hullo, young 'un, what do you want?" the door of the gymnasium had opened and a lad, about sixteen, grimy and black with soot and iron, stepped into the yellow glare of the oil lamp. ted barton seized him by the collar. "see here, thou yoong whelp, this is private, and we want noan o' thy spyin'!" "but i maun speak to mr. wilson." the young cantab stepped forward. "well, my lad, what is it?" "it's aboot t' fight, mr. wilson, sir. i wanted to tell your mon somethin' aboot t' maister." "we've no time to listen to gossip, my boy. we know all about the master." "but thou doan't, sir. nobody knows but me and mother, and we thought as we'd like thy mon to know, sir, for we want him to fair bray him." "oh, you want the master fair brayed, do you? so do we. well, what have you to say?" "is this your mon, sir?" "well, suppose it is?" "then it's him i want to tell aboot it. t' maister is blind o' the left eye." "nonsense!" "it's true, sir. not stone blind, but rarely fogged. he keeps it secret, but mother knows, and so do i. if thou slip him on the left side he can't cop thee. thou'll find it right as i tell thee. and mark him when he sinks his right. 'tis his best blow, his right upper-cut. t' maister's finisher, they ca' it at t' works. it's a turble blow when it do come home." "thank you, my boy. this is information worth having about his sight," said wilson. "how came you to know so much? who are you?" "i'm his son, sir." wilson whistled. "and who sent you to us?" "my mother. i maun get back to her again." "take this half-crown." "no, sir, i don't seek money in comin' here. i do it--" "for love?" suggested the publican. "for hate!" said the boy, and darted off into the darkness. "seems to me t' red-headed wench may do him more harm than good, after all," remarked the publican. "and now, mr. montgomery, sir, you've done enough for this evenin', an' a nine-hours' sleep is the best trainin' before a battle. happen this time to-morrow night you'll be safe back again with your pound in your pocket." ii work was struck at one o'clock at the coal-pits and the iron-works, and the fight was arranged for three. from the croxley furnaces, from wilson's coal-pits, from the heartsease mine, from the dodd mills, from the leverworth smelters the workmen came trooping, each with his fox-terrier or his lurcher at his heels. warped with labour and twisted by toil, bent double by week-long work in the cramped coal galleries or half-blinded with years spent in front of white-hot fluid metal, these men still gilded their harsh and hopeless lives by their devotion to sport. it was their one relief, the only thing which could distract their minds from sordid surroundings, and give them an interest beyond the blackened circle which enclosed them. literature, art, science, all these things were beyond their horizon; but the race, the football match, the cricket, the fight, these were things which they could understand, which they could speculate upon in advance and comment upon afterwards. sometimes brutal, sometimes grotesque, the love of sport is still one of the great agencies which make for the happiness of our people. it lies very deeply in the springs of our nature, and when it has been educated out, a higher, more refined nature may be left, but it will not be of that robust british type which has left its mark so deeply on the world. every one of these raddled workers, slouching with his dog at his heels to see something of the fight, was a true unit of his race. it was a squally may day, with bright sunbursts and driving showers. montgomery worked all morning in the surgery getting his medicine made up. "the weather seems so very unsettled, mr. montgomery," remarked the doctor, "that i am inclined to think that you had better postpone your little country excursion until a later date." "i am afraid that i must go to-day, sir." "i have just had an intimation that mrs. potter, at the other side of angleton, wishes to see me. it is probable that i shall be there all day. it will be extremely inconvenient to leave the house empty so long." "i am very sorry, sir, but i must go," said the assistant, doggedly. the doctor saw that it would be useless to argue, and departed in the worst of bad tempers upon mission. montgomery felt easier now that he was gone. he went up to his room, and packed his running-shoes, his fighting-drawers, and his cricket sash into a hand-bag. when he came down, mr. wilson was waiting for him in the surgery. "i hear the doctor has gone." "yes; he is likely to be away all day." "i don't see that it matters much. it's bound to come to his ears by to-night." "yes; it's serious with me, mr. wilson. if i win, it's all right. i don't mind telling you that the hundred pounds will make all the difference to me. but if i lose, i shall lose my situation, for, as you say, i can't keep it secret." "never mind. we'll see you through among us. i only wonder the doctor has not heard, for it's all over the country that you are to fight the croxley champion. we've had armitage up about it already. he's the master's backer, you know. he wasn't sure that you were eligible. the master said he wanted you whether you were eligible or not. armitage has money on, and would have made trouble if he could. but i showed him that you came within the conditions of the challenge, and he agreed that it was all right. they think they have a soft thing on." "well, i can only do my best," said montgomery. they lunched together; a silent and rather nervous repast, for montgomery's mind was full of what was before him, and wilson had himself more money at stake than he cared to lose. wilson's carriage and pair were at the door, the horses with blue and white rosettes at their ears, which were the colours of the wilson coal-pits, well known, on many a football field. at the avenue gate a crowd of some hundred pit-men and their wives gave a cheer as the carriage passed. to the assistant it all seemed dream-like and extraordinary--the strangest experience of his life, but with a thrill of human action and interest in it which made it passionately absorbing. he lay back in the open carriage and saw the fluttering handkerchiefs from the doors and windows of the miners' cottages. wilson had pinned a blue and white rosette upon his coat, and everybody knew him as their champion. "good luck, sir! good luck to thee!" they shouted from the roadside. he felt that it was like some unromantic knight riding down to sordid lists, but there was something of chivalry in it all the same. he fought for others as well as for himself. he might fail from want of skill or strength, but deep in his sombre soul he vowed that it should never be for want of heart. mr. fawcett was just mounting into his high-wheeled, spidery dogcart, with his little bit of blood between the shafts. he waved his whip and fell in behind the carriage. they overtook purvis, the tomato-faced publican, upon the road, with his wife in her sunday bonnet. they also dropped into the procession, and then, as they traversed the seven miles of the high road to croxley, their two-horsed, rosetted carriage became gradually the nucleus of a comet with a loosely radiating tail. from every side-road came the miners' carts, the humble, ramshackle traps, black and bulging, with their loads of noisy, foul-tongued, open-hearted partisans. they trailed for a long quarter of a mile behind them--cracking, whipping, shouting, galloping, swearing. horsemen and runners were mixed with the vehicles. and then suddenly a squad of the sheffield yeomanry, who were having their annual training in those parts, clattered and jingled out of a field, and rode as an escort to the carriage. through the dust-clouds round him montgomery saw the gleaming brass helmets, the bright coats, and the tossing heads of the chargers, the delighted brown faces of the troopers. it was more dream-like than ever. and then, as they approached the monstrous, uncouth line of bottle-shaped buildings which marked the smelting-works of croxley, their long, writhing snake of dust was headed off by another but longer one which wound across their path. the main road into which their own opened was filled by the rushing current of traps. the wilson contingent halted until the others should get past. the iron-men cheered and groaned, according to their humour, as they whirled past their antagonist. rough chaff flew back and forwards like iron nuts and splinters of coal. "brought him up, then!" "got t' hearse for to fetch him back?" "where's t' owd k-legs?" "mon, mon, have thy photograph took--'twill mind thee of what thou used to look!" "he fight?--he's nowt but a half-baked doctor!" "happen he'll doctor thy croxley champion afore he's through wi't." so they flashed at each other as the one side waited and the other passed. then there came a rolling murmur swelling into a shout, and a great brake with four horses came clattering along, all streaming with salmon-pink ribbons. the driver wore a white hat with pink rosette, and beside him, on the high seat, were a man and a woman-she with her arm round his waist. montgomery had one glimpse of them as they flashed past; he with a furry cap drawn low over his brow, a great frieze coat and a pink comforter round his throat; she brazen, red-headed, bright-coloured, laughing excitedly. the master, for it was he, turned as he passed, gazed hard at montgomery, and gave him a menacing, gap-toothed grin. it was a hard, wicked face, blue-jowled and craggy, with long, obstinate cheeks and inexorable eyes. the brake behind was full of patrons of the sport-flushed iron-foremen, heads of departments, managers. one was drinking from a metal flask, and raised it to montgomery as he passed; and then the crowd thinned, and the wilson cortege with their dragoons swept in at the rear of the others. the road led away from croxley, between curving green hills, gashed and polluted by the searchers for coal and iron. the whole country had been gutted, and vast piles of refuse and mountains of slag suggested the mighty chambers which the labour of man had burrowed beneath. on the left the road curved up to where a huge building, roofless and dismantled, stood crumbling and forlorn, with the light shining through the windowless squares. "that's the old arrowsmith's factory. that's where the fight is to be," said wilson. "how are you feeling now?" "thank you, i was never better in my life," montgomery answered. "by gad, i like your nerve!" said wilson, who was himself flushed and uneasy. "you'll give us a fight for our money, come what may. that place on the right is the office, and that has been set aside as the dressing and weighing room." the carriage drove up to it amidst the shouts of the folk upon the hillside. lines of empty carriages and traps curved down upon the winding road, and a black crowd surged round the door of the ruined factory. the seats, as a huge placard announced, were five shillings, three shillings, and a shilling, with half-price for dogs. the takings, deducting expenses, were to go to the winner, and it was already evident that a larger stake than a hundred pounds was in question. a babel of voices rose from the door, the workers wished to bring their dogs in free. the men scuffled. the dogs barked. the crowd was a whirling, eddying pool surging with a roar up to the narrow cleft which was its only outlet. the brake, with its salmon-coloured streamers and four reeking horses, stood empty before the door of the office; wilson, purvis, fawcett and montgomery passed in. there was a large, bare room inside with square, clean patches upon the grimy walls, where pictures and almanacs had once hung. worn linoleum covered the floor, but there was no furniture save some benches and a deal table with an ewer and a basin upon it. two of the corners were curtained off. in the middle of the room was a weighing-chair. a hugely fat man, with a salmon tie and a blue waistcoat with birds'-eye spots, came bustling up to them. it was armitage, the butcher and grazier, well known for miles round as a warm man, and the most liberal patron of sport in the riding. "well, well," he grunted, in a thick, fussy, wheezy voice, "you have come, then. got your man? got your man? "here he is, fit and well. mr. montgomery, let me present you to mr. armitage." "glad to meet you, sir. happy to make your acquaintance. i make bold to say, sir, that we of croxley admire your courage, mr. montgomery, and that our only hope is a fair fight and no favour, and the best man win. that's our sentiments at croxley." "and it is my sentiment, also," said the assistant. "well, you can't say fairer than that, mr. montgomery. you've taken a large contrac' in hand, but a large contrac' may be carried through, sir, as anyone that knows my dealings could testify. the master is ready to weigh in!" "so am i." "you must weigh in the buff." montgomery looked askance at the tall, red-headed woman who was standing gazing out of the window. "that's all right," said wilson. "get behind the curtain and put on your fighting kit." he did so, and came out the picture of an athlete, in white, loose drawers, canvas shoes, and the sash of a well-known cricket club round his waist. he was trained to a hair, his skin gleaming like silk, and every muscle rippling down his broad shoulders and along his beautiful arms as he moved them. they bunched into ivory knobs, or slid into long, sinuous curves, as he raised or lowered his hands. "what thinkest thou o' that?" asked ted barton, his second, of the woman in the window. she glanced contemptuously at the young athlete. "it's but a poor kindness thou dost him to put a thread-paper yoong gentleman like yon against a mon as is a mon. why, my jock would throttle him wi' one bond lashed behind him." "happen he may--happen not," said barton. "i have but twa pund in the world, but it's on him, every penny, and no hedgin'. but here's t' maister, and rarely fine he do look." the prize-fighter had come out from his curtain, a squat, formidable figure, monstrous in chest and arms, limping slightly on his distorted leg. his skin bad none of the freshness and clearness of montgomery's, but was dusky and mottled, with one huge mole amid the mat of tangled black hair which thatched his mighty breast. his weight bore no relation to his strength, for those huge shoulders and great arms, with brown, sledge-hammer fists, would have fitted the heaviest man that ever threw his cap into a ring. but his loins and legs were slight in proportion. montgomery, on the other hand, was as symmetrical as a greek statue. it would be an encounter between a man who was specially fitted for one sport, and one who was equally capable of any. the two looked curiously at each other: a bull-dog, and a high-bred clean-limbed terrier, each full of spirit. "how do you do?" "how do?" the master grinned again, and his three jagged front teeth gleamed for an instant. the rest had been beaten out of him in twenty years of battle. he spat upon the floor. "we have a rare fine day for't." "capital," said montgomery. "that's the good feelin' i like," wheezed the fat butcher. "good lads, both of them!--prime lads!--hard meat an' good bone. there's no ill-feelin'." "if he downs me, gawd bless him!" said the master, "an' if we down him, gawd help him!" interrupted the woman. "haud thy tongue, wench!" said the master, impatiently. "who art thou to put in thy word? happen i might draw my hand across thy face." the woman did not take the threat amiss. "wilt have enough for thy hand to do, jock," said she. "get quit o' this gradely man afore thou turn on me." the lovers' quarrel was interrupted by the entrance of a newcomer, a gentleman with a fur-collared overcoat and a very shiny top-hat-- a top-hat of a degree of glossiness which is seldom seen five miles from hyde park. this hat he wore at the extreme back of his head, so that the lower surface of the brim made a kind of frame for his high, bald forehead, his, keen eyes, his rugged and yet kindly face. he bustled in with the quiet air of possession with which the ring master enters the circus. "it's mr. stapleton, the referee from london," said wilson. "how do you do, mr. stapleton? i was introduced to you at the big fight at the corinthian club in piccadilly." "ah! i dare say," said the other, shaking hands. "fact is, i'm introduced to so many that i can't undertake to carry their names. wilson, is it? well, mr. wilson, glad to see you. couldn't get a fly at the station, and that's why i'm late." "i'm sure, sir," said armitage, "we should be proud that anyone so well known in the boxing world should come down to our little exhibition." "not at all. not at all. anything in the interests of boxin'. all ready? men weighed?" "weighing now, sir." "ah! just as well that i should see it done. seen you before, craggs. saw you fight your second battle against willox. you had beaten him once, but he came back on you. what does the indicator say-- lbs.-- two off for the kit-- lbs. now, my lad, you jump. my goodness, what colours are you wearing?" "the anonymi cricket club." "what right have you to wear them? i belong to the club myself." "so do i." "you an amateur?" "yes, sir." "and you are fighting for a money prize?" "yes." "i suppose you know what you are doing? you realise that you're a professional pug from this onwards, and that if ever you fight again--" "i'll never fight again." "happen you won't," said the woman, and the master turned a terrible eye upon her. "well, i suppose you know your own business best. up you jump. one hundred and fifty-one, minus two, -- lbs. difference, but youth and condition on the other scale. well, the sooner we get to work the better, for i wish to catch the seven o'clock express at hellifield. twenty three-minute rounds, with one-minute intervals, and queensberry rules. those are the conditions, are they not?" "yes, sir." "very good, then--we may go across." the two combatants had overcoats thrown over their shoulders, and the whole party, backers, fighters, seconds, and the referee filed out of the room. a police inspector was waiting for them in the road. he had a note-book in his hand--that terrible weapon which awes even the london cabman. "i must take your names, gentlemen, in case it should be necessary to proceed for breach of peace." "you don't mean to stop the fight?" cried armitage, in a passion of indignation. "i'm mr. armitage, of croxley, and this is mr. wilson, and we'll be responsible that all is fair and as it should be." "i'll take the names in case it should be necessary to proceed," said the inspector, impassively. "but you know me well." "if you was a dook or even a judge it would be all' the same," said the inspector. "it's the law, and there's an end. i'll not take upon myself to stop the fight, seeing that gloves are to be used, but i'll take the names of all concerned. silas craggs, robert montgomery, edward barton, james stapleton, of london. who seconds silas craggs?" "i do," said the woman. "yes, you can stare, but it's my job, and no one else's. anastasia's the name--four a's." "craggs?" "johnson--anastasia johnson. if you jug him you can jug me." "who talked of juggin', ye fool?" growled the master. "coom on, mr. armitage, for i'm fair sick o' this loiterin'." the inspector fell in with the procession, and proceeded, as they walked up the hill, to bargain in his official capacity for a front seat, where he could safeguard the interests of the law, and in his private capacity to lay out thirty shillings at seven to one with mr. armitage. through the door they passed, down a narrow lane walled with a dense bank of humanity, up a wooden ladder to a platform, over a rope which was slung waist-high from four corner-stakes, and then montgomery realised that he was in that ring in which his immediate destiny was to be worked out. on the stake at one corner there hung a blue-and-white streamer. barton led him across, the overcoat dangling loosely from his shoulders, and he sat down on a wooden stool. barton and another man, both wearing white sweaters, stood beside him. the so-called ring was a square, twenty feet each way. at the opposite angle was the sinister figure of the master, with his red-headed woman and a rough-faced friend to look after him. at each corner were metal basins, pitchers of water, and sponges. during the hubbub and uproar of the entrance montgomery was too bewildered to take things in. but now there was a few minutes' delay, for the referee had lingered behind, and so he looked quietly about him. it was a sight to haunt him for a lifetime. wooden seats had been built in, sloping upwards to the tops of the walls. above, instead of a ceiling, a great flight of crows passed slowly across a square of grey cloud. right up to the topmost benches the folk were banked--broadcloth in front, corduroys and fustian behind; faces turned everywhere upon him. the grey reek of the pipes filled the building, and the air was pungent with the acrid smell of cheap, strong tobacco. everywhere among the human faces were to be seen the heads of the dogs. they growled and yapped from the back benches. in that dense mass of humanity, one could hardly pick out individuals, but montgomery's eyes caught the brazen gleam of the helmets held upon the knees of the ten yeomen of his escort. at the very edge of the platform sat the reporters, five of them--three locals and two all the way from london. but where was the all-important referee? there was no sign of him, unless he were in the centre of that angry swirl of men near the door. mr. stapleton had stopped to examine the gloves which wore to be used, and entered the building after the combatants. he had started to come down that narrow lane with the human walls which led to the ring. but already it had gone abroad that the wilson champion was a gentleman, and that another gentleman had been appointed as referee. a wave of suspicion passed through the croxley folk. they would have one of their own people for a referee. they would not have a stranger. his path was stopped as he made for the ring. excited men flung themselves in front of him; they waved their fists in his face and cursed him. a woman howled vile names in his ear. somebody struck at him with an umbrella. "go thou back to lunnon. we want noan o' thee. go thou back!" they yelled. stapleton, with his shiny hat cocked backwards, and his large, bulging forehead swelling from under it, looked round him from beneath his bushy brows. he was in the centre of a savage and dangerous mob. then he drew his watch from his pocket and held it dial upwards in his palm. "in three minutes," said he, "i will declare the fight off." they raged round him. his cool face and that aggressive top-hat irritated them. grimy hands were raised. but it was difficult, somehow, to strike a man who was so absolutely indifferent. "in two minutes i declare the fight off." they exploded into blasphemy. the breath of angry men smoked into his placid face. a gnarled, grimy fist vibrated at the end of his nose. "we tell thee we want noan o' thee. get thou back where thou com'st from." "in one minute i declare the fight off." then the calm persistence of the man conquered the swaying, mutable, passionate crowd. "let him through, mon. happen there'll be no fight after a'." "let him through." "bill, thou loomp, let him pass. dost want the fight declared off?" "make room for the referee!--room for the lunnon referee!" and half pushed, half carried, he was swept up to the ring. there were two chairs by the side of it, one for him and one for the timekeeper. he sat down, his hands on his knees, his hat at a more wonderful angle than ever, impassive but solemn, with the aspect of one who appreciates his responsibilities. mr. armitage, the portly butcher, made his way into the ring and held up two fat hands, sparkling with rings, as a signal for silence. "gentlemen!" he yelled. and then in a crescendo shriek, "gentlemen!" "and ladies!" cried somebody, for, indeed, there was a fair sprinkling of women among the crowd. "speak up, owd man!" shouted another. "what price pork chops?" cried somebody at the back. everybody laughed, and the dogs began to bark. armitage waved his hands amidst the uproar as if he were conducting an orchestra. at last the babel thinned into silence. "gentlemen," he yelled, "the match is between silas craggs, whom we call the master of croxley, and robert montgomery, of the wilson coal-pits. the match was to be under eleven-eight. when they were weighed just now, craggs weighed eleven-seven, and montgomery ten-nine. the conditions of the contest are--the best of twenty three-minute rounds with two-ounce gloves. should the fight run to its full length, it will, of course, be decided upon points. mr. stapleton, the well-known london referee, has kindly consented to see fair play. i wish to say that mr. wilson and i, the chief backers of the two men, have every confidence in mr. stapleton, and that we beg that you will accept his rulings without dispute." he then turned from one combatant to the other, with a wave of his hand. iii "montgomery--craggs!" said he. a great hush fell over the huge assembly. even the dogs stopped yapping; one might have thought that the monstrous room was empty. the two men had stood up, the small white gloves over their hands they advanced from their corners and shook hands, montgomery gravely, craggs with a smile. then they fell into position. the crowd gave a long sigh--the intake of a thousand excited breaths. the referee tilted his chair on to its back legs, and looked moodily critical from the one to the other. it was strength against activity--that was evident from the first. the master stood stolidly upon his k leg. it gave him a tremendous pedestal; one could hardly imagine his being knocked down. and he could pivot round upon it with extraordinary quickness; but his advance or retreat was ungainly. his frame, however, was so much larger and broader than that of the student, and his brown, massive face looked so resolute and menacing that the hearts of the wilson party sank within them. there was one heart, however, which had not done so. it was that of robert montgomery. any nervousness which he may have had completely passed away now that he had his work before him. here was something definite--this hard-faced, deformed hercules to beat, with a career as the price of beating him. he glowed with the joy of action; it thrilled through his nerves. he faced his man with little in-and-out steps, breaking to the left, breaking to the right, feeling his way, while craggs, with a dull, malignant eye, pivoted slowly upon his weak leg, his left arm half extended, his right sunk low across the mark. montgomery led with his left, and then led again, getting lightly home each time. he tried again, but the master had his counter ready, and montgomery reeled back from a harder blow than he had given. anastasia, the woman, gave a shrill cry of encouragement, and her man let fly his right. montgomery ducked under it, and in an instant the two were in each other's arms. "break away! break away!" said the referee. the master struck upwards on the break, and shook montgomery with the blow. then it was "time." it had been a spirited opening round. the people buzzed into comment and applause. montgomery was quite fresh, but the hairy chest of the master was rising and falling. the man passed a sponge over his head while anastasia flapped the towel before him. "good lass! good lass!" cried the crowd, and cheered her. the men were up again, the master grimly watchful, montgomery as alert as a kitten. the master tried a sudden rush, squattering along with his awkward gait, but coming faster than one would think. the student slipped aside and avoided him. the master stopped, grinned, and shook his head. then he motioned with his hand as an invitation to montgomery to come to him. the student did so and led with his left, but got a swinging right counter in the ribs in exchange. the heavy blow staggered him, and the master came scrambling in to complete his advantage; but montgomery, with his greater activity, kept out of danger until the call of "time." a tame round, and the advantage with the master. "t' maister's too strong for him," said a smelter to his neighbour. "ay; but t'other's a likely lad. happen we'll see some sport yet. he can joomp rarely." "but t' maister can stop and hit rarely. happen he'll mak' him joomp when he gets his nief upon him." they were up again, the water glistening upon their faces. montgomery led instantly, and got his right home with a sounding smack upon the master's forehead. there was a shout from the colliers, and "silence! order!" from the referee. montgomery avoided the counter, and scored with his left. fresh applause, and the referee upon his feet in indignation.. "no comments, gentlemen, if _you_ please, during the rounds." "just bide a bit!" growled the master. "don't talk--fight!" said the referee, angrily. montgomery rubbed in the point by a flush hit upon the mouth, and the master shambled back to his corner like an angry bear, having had all the worst of the round. "where's thot seven to one?" shouted purvis, the publican. "i'll take six to one!" there were no answers. "five to one!" there were givers at that. purvis booked them in a tattered notebook. montgomery began to feel happy. he lay back with his legs outstretched, his back against the corner-post, and one gloved hand upon each rope. what a delicious minute it was between each round. if he could only keep out of harm's way, he must surely wear this man out before the end of twenty rounds. he was so slow that all his strength went for nothing. "you're fightin' a winnin' fight--a winnin' fight," ted barton whispered in his ear. "go canny; tak' no chances; you have him proper." but the master was crafty. he had fought so many battles with his maimed limb that he knew how to make the best of it. warily and slowly he manoeuvred round montgomery, stepping forward and yet again forward until he had imperceptibly backed him into his corner. the student suddenly saw a flash of triumph upon the grim face, and a gleam in the dull, malignant eyes. the master was upon him. he sprang aside and was on the ropes. the master smashed in one of his terrible upper-cuts, and montgomery half broke it with his guard. the student sprang the other way and was against the other converging rope. he was trapped in the angle. the master sent in another with a hoggish grunt which spoke of the energy behind it. montgomery ducked, but got a jab from the left upon the mark. he closed with his man. "break away! break away!" cried the referee. montgomery disengaged, and got a swinging blow on the ear as he did so. it had been a damaging round for him, and the croxley people were shouting their delight. "gentlemen, i will _not_ have this noise!" stapleton roared. "i have been accustomed to preside at a well-conducted club, and not at a bear-garden." this little man, with the tilted hat and the bulging forehead, dominated the whole assembly. he was like a head-master among his boys. he glared round him, and nobody cared to meet his eye. anastasia had kissed the master when he resumed his seat. "good lass. do't again!" cried the laughing crowd, and the angry master shook his glove at her, as she flapped her towel in front of him. montgomery was weary and a little sore, but not depressed. he had learned something. he would not again be tempted into danger. for three rounds the honours were fairly equal. the student's hitting was the quicker, the master's the harder. profiting by his lesson, montgomery kept himself in the open, and refused to be herded into a corner. sometimes the master succeeded in rushing him to the side-ropes, but the younger man slipped away, or closed and then disengaged. the monotonous "break away! break away!" of the referee broke in upon the quick, low patter of rubber-soled shoes, the dull thud of the blows, and the sharp, hissing breath of two tired men. the ninth round found both of them in fairly good condition. montgomery's head was still singing from the blow that he had in the corner, and one of his thumbs pained him acutely and seemed to be dislocated. the master showed no sign of a touch, but his breathing was the more laboured, and a long line of ticks upon the referee's paper showed that the student had a good show of points. but one of this iron-man's blows was worth three of his, and he knew that without the gloves he could not have stood for three rounds against him. all the amateur work that he had done was the merest tapping and flapping when compared to those frightful blows, from arms toughened by the shovel and the crowbar. it was the tenth round, and the fight was half over. the betting now was only three to one, for the wilson champion had held his own much better than had been expected. but those who knew the ring-craft as well as the staying power of the old prize-fighter knew that the odds were still a long way in his favour. "have a care of him!" whispered barton, as he sent his man up to the scratch. "have a care! he'll play thee a trick, if he can." but montgomery saw, or imagined he saw, that his antagonist was tiring. he looked jaded and listless, and his hands drooped a little from their position. his own youth and condition were beginning to tell. he sprang in and brought off a fine left-handed lead. the master's return lacked his usual fire. again montgomery led, and again he got home. then he tried his right upon the mark, and the master guarded it downwards. "too low! too low! a foul! a foul!" yelled a thousand voices. the referee rolled his sardonic eyes slowly round. "seems to me this buildin' is chock-full of referees," said he. the people laughed and applauded, but their favour was as immaterial to him as their anger. "no applause, please! this is not a theatre!" he yelled. montgomery was very pleased with himself. his adversary was evidently in a bad way. he was piling on his points and establishing a lead. he might as well make hay while the sun shone. the master was looking all abroad. montgomery popped one upon his blue jowl and got away without a return. and then the master suddenly dropped both his hands and began rubbing his thigh. ah! that was it, was it? he had muscular cramp. "go in! go in!" cried teddy barton. montgomery sprang wildly forward, and the next instant was lying half senseless, with his neck nearly broken, in the middle of the ring. the whole round had been a long conspiracy to tempt him within reach of one of those terrible right-hand upper-cuts for which the master was famous. for this the listless, weary bearing, for this the cramp in the thigh. when montgomery had sprung in so hotly he had exposed himself to such a blow as neither flesh nor blood could stand. whizzing up from below with a rigid arm, which put the master's eleven stone into its force, it struck him under the jaw; he whirled half round, and fell a helpless and half-paralysed mass. a vague groan and murmur, inarticulate, too excited for words, rose from the great audience. with open mouths and staring eyes they gazed at the twitching and quivering figure. "stand back! stand right back!" shrieked the referee, for the master was standing over his man ready to give him the _coup-de-grace_ as he rose. "stand back, craggs, this instant!" stapleton repeated. the master sank his hands sulkily and walked backwards to the rope with his ferocious eyes fixed upon his fallen antagonist. the timekeeper called the seconds. if ten of them passed before montgomery rose to his feet, the fight was ended. ted barton wrung his hands and danced about in an agony in his corner. as if in a dream--a terrible nightmare--the student could hear the voice of the timekeeper--three--four--five--he got up on his hand--six-- seven--he was on his knee, sick, swimming, faint, but resolute to rise. eight--he was up, and the master was on him like a tiger, lashing savagely at him with both hands. folk held their breath as they watched those terrible blows, and anticipated the pitiful end--so much more pitiful where a game but helpless man refuses to accept defeat. strangely automatic is the human brain. without volition, without effort, there shot into the memory of this bewildered, staggering, half-stupefied man the one thing which could have saved him--that blind eye of which the master's son had spoken. it was the same as the other to look at, but montgomery remembered that he had said that it was the left. he reeled to the left side, half felled by a drive which lit upon his shoulder. the master pivoted round upon his leg and was at him in an instant. "yark him, lad! yark him!" screamed the woman. "hold your tongue!" said the referee. montgomery slipped to the left again and yet again, but the master was too quick and clever for him. he struck round and got him full on the face as he tried once more to break away. montgomery's knees weakened under him, and he fell with a groan on the floor. this time he knew that he was done. with bitter agony he realised, as he groped blindly with his hands, that he could not possibly raise himself. far away and muffled he heard, amid the murmurs of the multitude, the fateful voice of the timekeeper counting off the seconds. "one--two--three--four--five--six--" "time!" said the referee. then the pent-up passion of the great assembly broke loose. croxley gave a deep groan of disappointment. the wilsons were on their feet, yelling with delight. there was still a chance for them. in four more seconds their man would have been solemnly counted out. but now he had a minute in which to recover. the referee looked round with relaxed features and laughing eyes. he loved this rough game, this school for humble heroes, and it was pleasant to him to intervene as a _deus ex machina_ at so dramatic a moment. his chair and his hat were both tilted at an extreme angle; he and the timekeeper smiled at each other. ted barton and the other second had rushed out and thrust an arm each under montgomery's knee, the other behind his loins, and so carried him back to his stool. his head lolled upon his shoulder, but a douche of cold water sent a shiver through him, and he started and looked round him. "he's a' right!" cried the people round. "he's a rare brave lad. good lad! good lad!" barton poured some brandy into his mouth. the mists cleared a little, and he realised where he was and what he had to do. but he was still very weak, and he hardly dared to hope that he could survive another round. "seconds out of the ring!" cried the referee. "time!" the croxley master sprang eagerly off his stool. "keep clear of him! go easy for a bit," said barton, and montgomery walked out to meet his man once more. he had had two lessons--the one when the master got him into his corner, the other when he had been lured into mixing it up with so powerful an antagonist. now he would be wary. another blow would finish him; he could afford to run no risks. the master was determined to follow up his advantage, and rushed at him, slogging furiously right and left. but montgomery was too young and active to be caught. he was strong upon his legs once more, and his wits had all come back to him. it was a gallant sight--the line-of-battleship trying to pour its overwhelming broadside into the frigate, and the frigate manoeuvring always so as to avoid it. the master tried all his ring-craft. he coaxed the student up by pretended inactivity; he rushed at him with furious rushes towards the ropes. for three rounds he exhausted every wile in trying to get at him. montgomery during all this time was conscious that his strength was minute by minute coming back to him. the spinal jar from an upper-cut is overwhelming, but evanescent. he was losing all sense of it beyond a great stiffness of the neck. for the first round after his downfall he had been content to be entirely on the defensive, only too happy if he could stall off the furious attacks of the master. in the second he occasionally ventured upon a light counter. in the third he was smacking back merrily where he saw an opening. his people yelled their approval of him at the end of every round. even the iron-workers cheered him with that fine unselfishness which true sport engenders. to most of them, unspiritual and unimaginative, the sight of this clean-limbed young apollo, rising above disaster and holding on while consciousness was in him to his appointed task, was the greatest thing their experience had ever known. but the master's naturally morose temper became more and more murderous at this postponement of his hopes. three rounds ago the battle had been in his hands; now it was all to do over again. round by round his man was recovering his strength. by the fifteenth he was strong again in wind and limb. but the vigilant anastasia saw something which encouraged her. "that bash in t' ribs is telling on him, jock," she whispered. "why else should he be gulping t' brandy? go in, lad, and thou hast him yet." montgomery had suddenly taken the flask from barton's hand, and had a deep pull at the contents. then, with his face a little flushed, and with a curious look of purpose, which made the referee stare hard at him, in his eyes, he rose for the sixteenth round. "game as a pairtridge!" cried the publican, as he looked at the hard-set face. "mix it oop, lad! mix it oop!" cried the iron-men to their master. and then a hum of exultation ran through their ranks as they realised that their tougher, harder, stronger man held the vantage, after all. neither of the men showed much sign of punishment. small gloves crush and numb, but they do not cut. one of the master's eyes was even more flush with his cheek than nature had made it. montgomery had two or three livid marks upon his body, and his face was haggard, save for that pink spot which the brandy had brought into either cheek. he rocked a little as he stood opposite his man, and his hands drooped as if he felt the gloves to be an unutterable weight. it was evident that he was spent and desperately weary. if he received one other blow it must surely be fatal to him. if he brought one home, what power could there be behind it, and what chance was there of its harming the colossus in front of him? it was the crisis of the fight. this round must decide it. "mix it oop, lad! mix it oop!" the iron-men whooped. even the savage eyes of the referee were unable to restrain the excited crowd. now, at last, the chance had come for montgomery. he had learned a lesson from his more experienced rival. why should he not play his own game upon him? he was spent, but not nearly so spent as he pretended. that brandy was to call up his reserves, to let him have strength to take full advantage of the opening when it came. it was thrilling and tingling through his veins at the very moment when he was lurching and rocking like a beaten man. he acted his part admirably. the master felt that there was an easy task before him, and rushed in with ungainly activity to finish it once for all. he slap-banged away left and right, boring montgomery up against the ropes, swinging in his ferocious blows with those animal grunts which told of the vicious energy behind them. but montgomery was too cool to fall a victim to any of those murderous upper-cuts. he kept out of harm's way with a rigid guard, an active foot, and a head which was swift to duck. and yet he contrived to present the same appearance of a man who is hopelessly done. the master, weary from his own shower of blows, and fearing nothing from so weak a man, dropped his hand for an instant, and at that instant montgomery's right came home. it was a magnificent blow, straight, clean, crisp, with the force of the loins and the back behind it. and it landed where he had meant it to-- upon the exact point of that blue-grained chin. flesh and blood could not stand such a blow in such a place. neither valour nor hardihood can save the man to whom it comes. the master fell backwards, flat, prostrate, striking the ground with so simultaneous a clap that it was like a shutter falling from a wall. a yell, which no referee could control, broke from the crowded benches as the giant went down. he lay upon his back, his knees a little drawn up, his huge chest panting. he twitched and shook, but could not move. his feet pawed convulsively once or twice. it was no use. he was done. "eight--nine--ten!" said the time-keeper, and the roar of a thousand voices, with a deafening clap like the broad-side of a ship, told that the master of croxley was the master no more. montgomery stood half dazed, looking down at the huge, prostrate figure. he could hardly realise that it was indeed all over. he saw the referee motion towards him with his hand. he heard his name bellowed in triumph from every side. and then he was aware of someone rushing towards him; he caught a glimpse of a flushed face and an aureole of flying red hair, a gloveless fist struck him between the eyes, and he was on his back in the ring beside his antagonist, while a dozen of his supporters were endeavouring to secure the frantic anastasia. he heard the angry shouting of the referee, the screaming of the furious woman, and the cries of the mob. then something seemed to break like an over-stretched banjo string, and he sank into the deep, deep, mist-girt abyss of unconsciousness. the dressing was like a thing in a dream, and so was a vision of the master with the grin of a bulldog upon his face, and his three teeth amiably protruded. he shook montgomery heartily by the hand. "i would have been rare pleased to shake thee by the throttle, lad, a short while syne," said he. "but i bear no ill-feeling again' thee. it was a rare poonch that brought me down--i have not had a better since my second fight wi' billy edwards in ' . happen thou might think o' goin' further wi' this business. if thou dost, and want a trainer, there's not much inside t' ropes as i don't know. or happen thou might like to try it wi' me old style and bare knuckles. thou hast but to write to t' ironworks to find me." but montgomery disclaimed any such ambition. a canvas bag with his share-- sovereigns--was handed to him, of which he gave ten to the master, who also received some share of the gate-money. then, with young wilson escorting him on one side, purvis on the other, and fawcett carrying his bag behind, he went in triumph to his carriage, and drove amid a long roar, which lined the highway like a hedge for the seven miles, back to his starting-point. "it's the greatest thing i ever saw in my life. by george, it's ripping!" cried wilson, who had been left in a kind of ecstasy by the events of the day. "there's a chap over barnsley way who fancies himself a bit. let us spring you on him, and let him see what he can make of you. we'll put up a purse--won't we, purvis? you shall never want a backer." "at his weight," said the publican, "i'm behind him, i am, for twenty rounds, and no age, country, or colour barred." "so am i," cried fawcett; "middle-weight champion of the world, that's what he is--here, in the same carriage with us." but montgomery was not to be beguiled. "no; i have my own work to do now." "and what may that be?" "i'll use this money to get my medical degree." "well, we've plenty of doctors, but you're the only man in the riding that could smack the croxley master off his legs. however, i suppose you know your own business best. when you're a doctor, you'd best come down into these parts, and you'll always find a job waiting for you at the wilson coal-pits." montgomery had returned by devious ways to the surgery. the horses were smoking at the door, and the doctor was just back from his long journey. several patients had called in his absence, and he was in the worst of tempers. "i suppose i should be glad that you have come back at all, mr. montgomery!" he snarled. "when next you elect to take a holiday, i trust it will not be at so busy a time." "i am sorry, sir, that you should have been inconvenienced." "yes, sir, i have been exceedingly inconvenienced." here, for the first time, he looked hard at the assistant. "good heavens, mr. montgomery, what have you been doing with your left eye?" it was where anastasia had lodged her protest. montgomery laughed. "it is nothing, sir," said he. "and you have a livid mark under your jaw. it is, indeed, terrible that my representative should be going about in so disreputable a condition. how did you receive these injuries?" "well, sir, as you know, there was a little glove-fight to-day over at croxley." "and you got mixed up with that brutal crowd?" "i _was_ rather mixed up with them." "and who assaulted you?" "one of the fighters." "which of them?" "the master of croxley." "good heavens! perhaps you interfered with him?" "well, to tell the truth, i did a little." "mr. montgomery, in such a practice as mine, intimately associated as it is with the highest and most progressive elements of our small community, it is impossible--" but just then the tentative bray of a cornet-player searching for his key-note jarred upon their ears, and an instant later the wilson colliery brass band was in full cry with, "see the conquering hero comes," outside the surgery window. there was a banner waving, and a shouting crowd of miners. "what is it? what does it mean?" cried the angry doctor. "it means, sir, that i have, in the only way which was open to me, earned the money which is necessary for my education. it is my duty, dr. oldacre, to warn you that i am about to return to the university, and that you should lose no time in appointing my successor." the lord of chateau noir it was in the days when the german armies had broken their way across france, and when the shattered forces of the young republic had been swept away to the north of the aisne and to the south of the loire. three broad streams of armed men had rolled slowly but irresistibly from the rhine, now meandering to the north, now to the south, dividing, coalescing, but all uniting to form one great lake round paris. and from this lake there welled out smaller streams--one to the north, one southward, to orleans, and a third westward to normandy. many a german trooper saw the sea for the first time when he rode his horse girth-deep into the waves at dieppe. black and bitter were the thoughts of frenchmen when they saw this weal of dishonour slashed across the fair face of their country. they had fought and they had been overborne. that swarming cavalry, those countless footmen, the masterful guns--they had tried and tried to make head against them. in battalions their invaders were not to be beaten, but man to man, or ten to ten, they were their equals. a brave frenchman might still make a single german rue the day that he had left his own bank of the rhine. thus, unchronicled amid the battles and the sieges, there broke out another war, a war of individuals, with foul murder upon the one side and brutal reprisal on the other. colonel von gramm, of the th posen infantry, had suffered severely during this new development. he commanded in the little norman town of les andelys, and his outposts stretched amid the hamlets and farmhouses of the district round. no french force was within fifty miles of him, and yet morning after morning he had to listen to a black report of sentries found dead at their posts, or of foraging parties which had never returned. then the colonel would go forth in his wrath, and farmsteadings would blaze and villages tremble; but next morning there was still that same dismal tale to be told. do what he might, he could not shake off his invisible enemies. and yet it should not have been so hard, for, from certain signs in common, in the plan and in the deed, it was certain that all these outrages came from a single source. colonel von gramm had tried violence, and it had failed. gold might be more successful. he published it abroad over the countryside that frs. would be paid for information. there was no response. then frs. the peasants were incorruptible. then, goaded on by a murdered corporal, he rose to a thousand, and so bought the soul of francois rejane, farm labourer, whose norman avarice was a stronger passion than his french hatred. "you say that you know who did these crimes?" asked the prussian colonel, eyeing with loathing the blue-bloused, rat-faced creature before him. "yes, colonel." "and it was--?" "those thousand francs, colonel--" "not a sou until your story has been tested. come! who is it who has murdered my men?" "it is count eustace of chateau noir." "you lie!" cried the colonel, angrily. "a gentleman and a nobleman could not have done such crimes." the peasant shrugged his shoulders. "it is evident to me that you do not know the count. it is this way, colonel. what i tell you is the truth, and i am not afraid that you should test it. the count of chateau noir is a hard man, even at the best time he was a hard man. but of late he has been terrible. it was his son's death, you know. his son was under douay, and he was taken, and then in escaping from germany he met his death. it was the count's only child, and indeed we all think that it has driven him mad. with his peasants he follows the german armies. i do not know how many he has killed, but it is he who cut the cross upon the foreheads, for it is the badge of his house." it was true. the murdered sentries had each had a saltire cross slashed across their brows, as by a hunting-knife. the colonel bent his stiff back and ran his forefinger over the map which lay upon the table. "the chateau noir is not more than four leagues," he said. "three and a kilometre, colonel." "you know the place?" "i used to work there." colonel von gramm rang the bell. "give this man food and detain him," said he to the sergeant. "why detain me, colonel? i can tell you no more." "we shall need you as guide." "as guide? but the count? if i were to fall into his hands? ah, colonel--" the prussian commander waved him away. "send captain baumgarten to me at once," said he. the officer who answered the summons was a man of middle-age, heavy-jawed, blue-eyed, with a curving yellow moustache, and a brick-red face which turned to an ivory white where his helmet had sheltered it. he was bald, with a shining, tightly stretched scalp, at the back of which, as in a mirror, it was a favourite mess-joke of the subalterns to trim their moustaches. as a soldier he was slow, but reliable and brave. the colonel could trust him where a more dashing officer might be in danger. "you will proceed to chateau noir to-night, captain," said he. "a guide has been provided. you will arrest the count and bring him back. if there is an attempt at rescue, shoot him at once." "how many men shall i take, colonel?" "well, we are surrounded by spies, and our only chance is to pounce upon him before he knows that we are on the way. a large force will attract attention. on the other hand, you must not risk being cut off." "i might march north, colonel, as if to join general goeben. then i could turn down this road which i see upon your map, and get to chateau noir before they could hear of us. in that case, with twenty men--" "very good, captain. i hope to see you with your prisoner to-morrow morning." it was a cold december night when captain baumgarten marched out of les andelys with his twenty poseners, and took the main road to the north west. two miles out he turned suddenly down a narrow, deeply rutted track, and made swiftly for his man. a thin, cold rain was falling, swishing among the tall poplar trees and rustling in the fields on either side. the captain walked first with moser, a veteran sergeant, beside him. the sergeant's wrist was fastened to that of the french peasant, and it had been whispered in his ear that in case of an ambush the first bullet fired would be through his head. behind them the twenty infantrymen plodded along through the darkness with their faces sunk to the rain, and their boots squeaking in the soft, wet clay. they knew where they were going, and why, and the thought upheld them, for they were bitter at the loss of their comrades. it was a cavalry job, they knew, but the cavalry were all on with the advance, and, besides, it was more fitting that the regiment should avenge its own dead men. it was nearly eight when they left les andelys. at half-past eleven their guide stopped at a place where two high pillars, crowned with some heraldic stonework, flanked a huge iron gate. the wall in which it had been the opening had crumbled away, but the great gate still towered above the brambles and weeds which had overgrown its base. the prussians made their way round it and advanced stealthily, under the shadow of a tunnel of oak branches, up the long avenue, which was still cumbered by the leaves of last autumn. at the top they halted and reconnoitred. the black chateau lay in front of them. the moon had shone out between two rain-clouds, and threw the old house into silver and shadow. it was shaped like an l, with a low arched door in front, and lines of small windows like the open ports of a man-of-war. above was a dark roof, breaking at the corners into little round overhanging turrets, the whole lying silent in the moonshine, with a drift of ragged clouds blackening the heavens behind it. a single light gleamed in one of the lower windows. the captain whispered his orders to his men. some were to creep to the front door, some to the back. some were to watch the east, and some the west. he and the sergeant stole on tiptoe to the lighted window. it was a small room into which they looked, very meanly furnished. an elderly man, in the dress of a menial, was reading a tattered paper by the light of a guttering candle. he leaned back in his wooden chair with his feet upon a box, while a bottle of white wine stood with a half-filled tumbler upon a stool beside him. the sergeant thrust his needle-gun through the glass, and the man sprang to his feet with a shriek. "silence, for your life! the house is surrounded, and you cannot escape. come round and open the door, or we will show you no mercy when we come in." "for god's sake, don't shoot! i will open it! i will open it!" he rushed from the room with his paper still crumpled up in his hand. an instant later, with a groaning of old locks and a rasping of bars, the low door swung open, and the prussians poured into the stone-flagged passage. "where is count eustace de chateau noir?" "my master! he is out, sir." "out at this time of night? your life for a lie!" "it is true, sir. he is out!" "where?" "i do not know." "doing what?" "i cannot tell. no, it is no use your cocking your pistol, sir. you may kill me, but you cannot make me tell you that which i do not know." "is he often out at this hour?" "frequently." "and when does he come home?" "before daybreak." captain baumgarten rasped out a german oath. he had had his journey for nothing, then. the man's answers were only too likely to be true. it was what he might have expected. but at least he would search the house and make sure. leaving a picket at the front door and another at the back, the sergeant and he drove the trembling butler in front of them-- his shaking candle sending strange, flickering shadows over the old tapestries and the low, oak-raftered ceilings. they searched the whole house, from the huge stone-flagged kitchen below to the dining-hall on the second floor, with its gallery for musicians, and its panelling black with age, but nowhere was there a living creature. up above, in an attic, they found marie, the elderly wife of the butler; but the owner kept no other servants, and of his own presence there was no trace. it was long, however, before captain baumgarten had satisfied himself upon the point. it was a difficult house to search. thin stairs, which only one man could ascend at a time, connected lines of tortuous corridors. the walls were so thick that each room was cut off from its neighbour. huge fireplaces yawned in each, while the windows were ft. deep in the wall. captain baumgarten stamped with his feet, tore down curtains, and struck with the pommel of his sword. if there were secret hiding-places, he was not fortunate enough to find them. "i have an idea," said he, at last, speaking in german to the sergeant. "you will place a guard over this fellow, and make sure that he communicates with no one." "yes, captain." "and you will place four men in ambush at the front and at the back. it is likely enough that about daybreak our bird may return to the nest." "and the others, captain?" "let them have their suppers in the kitchen. the fellow will serve you with meat and wine. it is a wild night, and we shall be better here than on the country road." "and yourself, captain?" "i will take my supper up here in the dining-hall. the logs are laid and we can light the fire. you will call me if there is any alarm. what can you give me for supper--you?" "alas, monsieur, there was a time when i might have answered, 'what you wish!' but now it is all that we can do to find a bottle of new claret and a cold pullet." "that will do very well. let a guard go about with him, sergeant, and let him feel the end of a bayonet if he plays us any tricks." captain baumgarten was an old campaigner. in the eastern provinces, and before that in bohemia, he had learned the art of quartering himself upon the enemy. while the butler brought his supper he occupied himself in making his preparations for a comfortable night. he lit the candelabrum of ten candles upon the centre table. the fire was already burning up, crackling merrily, and sending spurts of blue, pungent smoke into the room. the captain walked to the window and looked out. the moon had gone in again, and it was raining heavily. he could hear the deep sough of the wind, and see the dark loom of the trees, all swaying in the one direction. it was a sight which gave a zest to his comfortable quarters, and to the cold fowl and the bottle of wine which the butler had brought up for him. he was tired and hungry after his long tramp, so he threw his sword, his helmet, and his revolver-belt down upon a chair, and fell to eagerly upon his supper. then, with his glass of wine before him and his cigar between his lips, he tilted his chair back and looked about him. he sat within a small circle of brilliant light which gleamed upon his silver shoulder-straps, and threw out his terra-cotta face, his heavy eyebrows, and his yellow moustache. but outside that circle things were vague and shadowy in the old dining-hall. two sides were oak-panelled and two were hung with faded tapestry, across which huntsmen and dogs and stags were still dimly streaming. above the fireplace were rows of heraldic shields with the blazonings of the family and of its alliances, the fatal saltire cross breaking out on each of them. four paintings of old seigneurs of chateau noir faced the fireplace, all men with hawk noses and bold, high features, so like each other that only the dress could distinguish the crusader from the cavalier of the fronde. captain baumgarten, heavy with his repast, lay back in his chair looking up at them through the clouds of his tobacco smoke, and pondering over the strange chance which had sent him, a man from the baltic coast, to eat his supper in the ancestral hall of these proud norman chieftains. but the fire was hot, and the captain's eyes were heavy. his chin sank slowly upon his chest, and the ten candles gleamed upon the broad, white scalp. suddenly a slight noise brought him to his feet. for an instant it seemed to his dazed senses that one of the pictures opposite had walked from its frame. there, beside the table, and almost within arm's length of him, was standing a huge man, silent, motionless, with no sign of life save his fierce-glinting eyes. he was black-haired, olive-skinned, with a pointed tuft of black beard, and a great, fierce nose, towards which all his features seemed to run. his cheeks were wrinkled like a last year's apple, but his sweep of shoulder, and bony, corded hands, told of a strength which was unsapped by age. his arms were folded across his arching chest, and his mouth was set in a fixed smile. "pray do not trouble yourself to look for your weapons," he said, as the prussian cast a swift glance at the empty chair in which they had been laid. "you have been, if you will allow me to say so, a little indiscreet to make yourself so much at home in a house every wall of which is honeycombed with secret passages. you will be amused to hear that forty men were watching you at your supper. ah! what then?" captain baumgarten had taken a step forward with clenched fists. the frenchman held up tho revolver which he grasped in his right hand, while with the left he hurled the german back into his chair. "pray keep your seat," said he. "you have no cause to trouble about your men. they have already been provided for. it is astonishing with these stone floors how little one can hear what goes on beneath. you have been relieved of your command, and have now only to think of yourself. may i ask what your name is?" "i am captain baumgarten of, the th posen regiment." "your french is excellent, though you incline, like most of your countrymen, to turn the 'p' into a 'b.' i have been amused to hear them cry '_avez bitie sur moi!_' you know, doubtless, who it is who addresses you." "the count of chateau noir." "precisely. it would have been a misfortune if you had visited my chateau and i had been unable to have a word with you. i have had to do with many german soldiers, but never with an officer before. i have much to talk to you about." captain baumgarten sat still in his chair. brave as he was, there was something in this man's manner which made his skin creep with apprehension. his eyes glanced to right and to left, but his weapons were gone, and in a struggle he saw that he was but a child to this gigantic adversary. the count had picked up the claret bottle and held it to the light. "tut! tut!" said he. "and was this the best that pierre could do for you? i am ashamed to look you in the face, captain baumgarten. we must improve upon this." he blew a call upon a whistle which hung from his shooting-jacket. the old manservant was in the room in an instant. "chambertin from bin !" he cried, and a minute later a grey bottle, streaked with cobwebs, was carried in as a nurse bears an infant. the count filled two glasses to the brim. "drink!" said he. "it is the very best in my cellars, and not to be matched between rouen and paris. drink, sir, and be happy! there are cold joints below. there are two lobsters, fresh from honfleur. will you not venture upon a second and more savoury supper?" the german officer shook his head. he drained the glass, however, and his host filled it once more, pressing him to give an order for this or that dainty. "there is nothing in my house which is not at your disposal. you have but to say the word. well, then, you will allow me to tell you a story while you drink your wine. i have so longed to tell it to some german officer. it is about my son, my only child, eustace, who was taken and died in escaping. it is a curious little story, and i think that i can promise you that you will never forget it. "you must know, then, that my boy was in the artillery--a fine young fellow, captain baumgarten, and the pride of his mother. she died within a week of the news of his death reaching us. it was brought by a brother officer who was at his side throughout, and who escaped while my lad died. i want to tell you all that he told me. "eustace was taken at weissenburg on the th of august. the prisoners were broken up into parties, and sent back into germany by different routes. eustace was taken upon the th to a village called lauterburg, where he met with kindness from the german officer in command. this good colonel had the hungry lad to supper, offered him the best he had, opened a bottle of good wine, as i have tried to do for you, and gave him a cigar from his own case. might i entreat you to take one from mine?" the german again shook his head. his horror of his companion had increased as he sat watching the lips that smiled and the eyes that glared. "the colonel, as i say, was good to my boy. but, unluckily, the prisoners were moved next day across the rhine into ettlingen. they were not equally fortunate there. the officer who guarded them was a ruffian and a villain, captain baumgarten. he took a pleasure in humiliating and ill-treating the brave men who had fallen into his power. that night upon my son answering fiercely back to some taunt of his, he struck him in the eye, like this!" the crash of the blow rang through the hall. the german's face fell forward, his hand up, and blood oozing through his fingers. the count settled down in his chair once more. "my boy was disfigured by the blow, and this villain made his appearance the object of his jeers. by the way, you look a little comical yourself at the present moment, captain, and your colonel would certainly say that you had been getting into mischief. to continue, however, my boy's youth and his destitution--for his pockets were empty--moved the pity of a kind-hearted major, and he advanced him ten napoleons from his own pocket without security of any kind. into your hands, captain baumgarten, i return these ten gold pieces, since i cannot learn the name of the lender. i am grateful from my heart for this kindness shown to my boy. "the vile tyrant who commanded the escort accompanied the prisoners to durlack, and from there to carlsruhe. he heaped every outrage upon my lad, because the spirit of the chateau noirs would not stoop to turn away his wrath by a feigned submission. ay, this cowardly villain, whose heart's blood shall yet clot upon this hand, dared to strike my son with his open hand, to kick him, to tear hairs from his moustache-- to use him thus--and thus--and thus!" the german writhed and struggled. he was helpless in the hands of this huge giant whose blows were raining upon him. when at last, blinded and half-senseless, he staggered to his feet, it was only to be hurled back again into the great oaken chair. he sobbed in his impotent anger and shame. "my boy was frequently moved to tears by the humiliation of his position," continued the count. "you will understand me when i say that it is a bitter thing to be helpless in the hands of an insolent and remorseless enemy. on arriving at carlsruhe, however, his face, which had been wounded by the brutality of his guard, was bound up by a young bavarian subaltern who was touched by his appearance. i regret to see that your eye is bleeding so. will you permit me to bind it with my silk handkerchief?" he leaned forward, but the german dashed his hand aside. "i am in your power, you monster!" he cried; "i can endure your brutalities, but not your hypocrisy." the count shrugged his shoulders. "i am taking things in their order, just as they occurred," said he. "i was under vow to tell it to the first german officer with whom i could talk _tete-a-tete_. let me see, i had got as far as the young bavarian at carlsruhe. i regret extremely that you will not permit me to use such slight skill in surgery as i possess. at carlsruhe, my lad was shut up in the old caserne, where he remained for a fortnight. the worst pang of his captivity was that some unmannerly curs in the garrison would taunt him with his position as he sat by his window in the evening. that reminds me, captain, that you are not quite situated upon a bed of roses yourself, are you now? you came to trap a wolf, my man, and now the beast has you down with his fangs in your throat. a family man, too, i should judge, by that well-filled tunic. well, a widow the more will make little matter, and they do not usually remain widows long. get back into the chair, you dog! "well, to continue my story--at the end of a fortnight my son and his friend escaped. i need not trouble you with the dangers which they ran, or with the privations which they endured. suffice it that to disguise themselves they had to take the clothes of two peasants, whom they waylaid in a wood. hiding by day and travelling by night, they had got as far into france as remilly, and were within a mile--a single mile, captain--of crossing the german lines when a patrol of uhlans came right upon them. ah! it was hard, was it not, when they had come so far and were so near to safety?" the count blew a double call upon his whistle, and three hard-faced peasants entered the room. "these must represent my uhlans," said he. "well, then, the captain in command, finding that these men were french soldiers in civilian dress within the german lines, proceeded to hang them without trial or ceremony. i think, jean, that the centre beam is the strongest." the unfortunate soldier was dragged from his chair to where a noosed rope had been flung over one of the huge oaken rafters which spanned the room. the cord was slipped over his head, and he felt its harsh grip round his throat. the three peasants seized the other end, and looked to the count for his orders. the officer, pale, but firm, folded his arms and stared defiantly at the man who tortured him. "you are now face to face with death, and i perceive from your lips that you are praying. my son was also face to face with death, and he prayed, also. it happened that a general officer came up, and he heard the lad praying for his mother, and it moved him so--he being himself a father--that he ordered his uhlans away, and he remained with his aide-de-camp only, beside the condemned men. and when he heard all the lad had to tell--that he was the only child of an old family, and that his mother was in failing health--he threw off the rope as i throw off this, and he kissed him on either cheek, as i kiss you, and he bade him go, as i bid you go, and may every kind wish of that noble general, though it could not stave off the fever which slew my son, descend now upon your head." and so it was that captain baumgarten, disfigured, blinded, and bleeding, staggered out into the wind and the rain of that wild december dawn. the striped chest "what do you make of her, allardyce?" i asked. my second mate was standing beside me upon the poop, with his short, thick legs astretch, for the gale had left a considerable swell behind it, and our two quarter-boats nearly touched the water with every roll. he steadied his glass against the mizzen-shrouds, and he looked long and hard at this disconsolate stranger every time she came reeling up on to the crest of a roller and hung balanced for a few seconds before swooping down upon the other side. she lay so low in the water that i could only catch an occasional glimpse of a pea-green line of bulwark. she was a brig, but her mainmast had been snapped short off some ft. above the deck, and no effort seemed to have been made to cut away the wreckage, which floated, sails and yards, like the broken wing of a wounded gull upon the water beside her. the foremast was still standing, but the foretopsail was flying loose, and the headsails were streaming out in long, white pennons in front of her. never have i seen a vessel which appeared to have gone through rougher handling. but we could not be surprised at that, for there had been times during the last three days when it was a question whether our own barque would ever see land again. for thirty-six hours we had kept her nose to it, and if the _mary sinclair_ had not been as good a seaboat as ever left the clyde, we could not have gone through. and yet here we were at the end of it with the loss only of our gig and of part of the starboard bulwark. it did not astonish us, however, when the smother had cleared away, to find that others had been less lucky, and that this mutilated brig staggering about upon a blue sea and under a cloudless sky, had been left, like a blinded man after a lightning flash, to tell of the terror which is past. allardyce, who was a slow and methodical scotchman, stared long and hard at the little craft, while our seamen lined the bulwark or clustered upon the fore shrouds to have a view of the stranger. in latitude degrees and longitude degrees, which were about our bearings, one becomes a little curious as to whom one meets, for one has left the main lines of atlantic commerce to the north. for ten days we had been sailing over a solitary sea. "she's derelict, i'm thinking," said the second mate. i had come to the same conclusion, for i could see no signs of life upon her deck, and there was no answer to the friendly wavings from our seamen. the crew had probably deserted her under the impression that she was about to founder. "she can't last long," continued allardyce, in his measured way. "she may put her nose down and her tail up any minute. the water's lipping up to the edge of her rail." "what's her flag?" i asked. "i'm trying to make out. it's got all twisted and tangled with the halyards. yes, i've got it now, clear enough. it's the brazilian flag, but it's wrong side up." she had hoisted a signal of distress, then, before her people had abandoned her. perhaps they had only just gone. i took the mate's glass and looked round over the tumultuous face of the deep blue atlantic, still veined and starred with white lines and spoutings of foam. but nowhere could i see anything human beyond ourselves. "there may be living men aboard," said i. "there may be salvage," muttered the second mate. "then we will run down upon her lee side, and lie to." we were not more than a hundred yards from her when we swung our foreyard aback, and there we were, the barque and the brig, ducking and bowing like two clowns in a dance. "drop one of the quarter-boats," said i. "take four men, mr. allardyce, and see what you can learn of her." but just at that moment my first officer, mr. armstrong, came on deck, for seven bells had struck, and it was but a few minutes off his watch. it would interest me to go myself to this abandoned vessel and to see what there might be aboard of her. so, with a word to armstrong, i swung myself over the side, slipped down the falls, and took my place in the sheets of the boat. it was but a little distance, but it took some time to traverse, and so heavy was the roll that often when we were in the trough of the sea, we could not see either the barque which we had left or the brig which we were approaching. the sinking sun did not penetrate down there, and it was cold and dark in the hollows of the waves, but each passing billow heaved us up into the warmth and the sunshine once more. at each of these moments, as we hung upon a white-capped ridge between the two dark valleys, i caught a glimpse of the long, pea-green line, and the nodding foremast of the brig, and i steered so as to come round by her stern, so that we might determine which was the best way of boarding her. as we passed her we saw the name _nossa sehnora da vittoria_ painted across her dripping counter. "the weather side, sir," said the second mate. "stand by with the boat-hook, carpenter!" an instant later we had jumped over the bulwarks, which were hardly higher than our boat, and found ourselves upon the deck of the abandoned vessel. our first thought was to provide for our own safety in case--as seemed very probable--the vessel should settle down beneath our feet. with this object two of our men held on to the painter of the boat, and fended her off from the vessel's side, so that she might be ready in case we had to make a hurried retreat. the carpenter was sent to find out how much water there was, and whether it was still gaming, while the other seaman, allardyce and myself, made a rapid inspection of the vessel and her cargo. the deck was littered with wreckage and with hen-coops, in which the dead birds were washing about. the boats were gone, with the exception of one, the bottom of which had been stove, and it was certain that the crew had abandoned the vessel. the cabin was in a deck-house, one side of which had been beaten in by a heavy sea. allardyce and i entered it, and found the captain's table as he had left it, his books and papers-- all spanish or portuguese--scattered over it, with piles of cigarette ash everywhere. i looked about for the log, but could not find it. "as likely as not he never kept one," said allardyce. "things are pretty slack aboard a south american trader, and they don't do more than they can help. if there was one it must have been taken away with him in the boat." "i should like to take all these books and papers," said i. "ask the carpenter how much time we have." his report was reassuring. the vessel was full of water, but some of the cargo was buoyant, and there was no immediate danger of her sinking. probably she would never sink, but would drift about as one of those terrible unmarked reefs which have sent so many stout vessels to the bottom. "in that case there is no danger in your going below, mr. allardyce," said i. "see what you can make of her and find out how much of her cargo may be saved. i'll look through these papers while you are gone." the bills of lading, and some notes and letters which lay upon the desk, sufficed to inform me that the brazilian brig _nossa sehnora da vittoria_ had cleared from bahia a month before. the name of the captain was texeira, but there was no record as to the number of the crew. she was bound for london, and a glance at the bills of lading was sufficient to show me that we were not likely to profit much in the way of salvage. her cargo consisted of nuts, ginger, and wood, the latter in the shape of great logs of valuable tropical growths. it was these, no doubt, which had prevented the ill-fated vessel from going to the bottom, but they were of such a size as to make it impossible for us to extract them. besides these, there were a few fancy goods, such as a number of ornamental birds for millinery purposes, and a hundred cases of preserved fruits. and then, as i turned over the papers, i came upon a short note in english, which arrested my attention. it is requested (said the note) that the various old spanish and indian curiosities, which came out of the santarem collection, and which are consigned to prontfoot & neuman of oxford street, london, should be put in some place where there may be no danger of these very valuable and unique articles being injured or tampered with. this applies most particularly to the treasure-chest of don ramirez di leyra, which must on no account be placed where anyone can get at it. the treasure-chest of don ramirez! unique and valuable articles! here was a chance of salvage after all. i had risen to my feet with the paper in my hand when my scotch mate appeared in the doorway. "i'm thinking all isn't quite as it should be aboard of this ship, sir," said he. he was a hard-faced man, and yet i could see that he had been startled. "what's the matter?" "murder's the matter, sir. there's a man here with his brains beaten out." "killed in the storm?" said i. "may be so, sir, but i'll be surprised if you think so after you have seen him." "where is he, then?" "this way, sir; here in the maindeck house." there appeared to have been no accommodation below in the brig, for there was the after-house for the captain, another by the main hatchway, with the cook's galley attached to it, and a third in the forecastle for the men. it was to this middle one that the mate led me. as you entered, the galley, with its litter of tumbled pots and dishes, was upon the right, and upon the left was a small room with two bunks for the officers. then beyond there was a place about ft. square, which was littered with flags and spare canvas. all round the walls were a number of packets done up in coarse cloth and carefully lashed to the woodwork. at the other end was a great box, striped red and white, though the red was so faded and the white so dirty that it was only where the light fell directly upon it that one could see the colouring. the box was, by subsequent measurement, ft. ins. in length, ft. ins. in height, and ft. across--considerably larger than a seaman's chest. but it was not to the box that my eyes or my thoughts were turned as i entered the store-room. on the floor, lying across the litter of bunting, there was stretched a small, dark man with a short, curling beard. he lay as far as it was possible from the box, with his feet towards it and his head away. a crimson patch was printed upon the white canvas on which his head was resting, and little red ribbons wreathed themselves round his swarthy neck and trailed away on to the floor, but there was no sign of a wound that i could see, and his face was as placid as that of a sleeping child. it was only when i stooped that i could perceive his injury, and then i turned away with an exclamation of horror. he had been pole-axed; apparently by some person standing behind him. a frightful blow had smashed in the top of his head and penetrated deeply into his brains. his face might well be placid, for death must have been absolutely instantaneous, and the position of the wound showed that he could never have seen the person who had inflicted it. "is that foul play or accident, captain barclay?" asked my second mate, demurely. "you are quite right, mr. allardyce. the man has been murdered--struck down from above by a sharp and heavy weapon. but who was he, and why did they murder him?" "he was a common seaman, sir," said the mate. "you can see that if you look at his fingers." he turned out his pockets as he spoke and brought to light a pack of cards, some tarred string, and a bundle of brazilian tobacco. "hello, look at this!" said he. it was a large, open knife with a stiff spring blade which he had picked up from the floor. the steel was shining and bright, so that we could not associate it with the crime, and yet the dead man had apparently held it in his hand when he was struck down, for it still lay within his grasp. "it looks to me, sir, as if he knew he was in danger and kept his knife handy," said the mate. "however, we can't help the poor beggar now. i can't make out these things that are lashed to the wall. they seem to be idols and weapons and curios of all sorts done up in old sacking." "that's right," said i. "they are the only things of value that we are likely to get from the cargo. hail the barque and tell them to send the other quarter-boat to help us to get the stuff aboard." while he was away i examined this curious plunder which had come into our possession. the curiosities were so wrapped up that i could only form a general idea as to their nature, but the striped box stood in a good light where i could thoroughly examine it. on the lid, which was clamped and cornered with metal-work, there was engraved a complex coat of arms, and beneath it was a line of spanish which i was able to decipher as meaning, "the treasure-chest of don ramirez di leyra, knight of the order of saint james, governor and captain-general of terra firma and of the province of veraquas." in one corner was the date, , and on the other a large white label, upon which was written in english, "you are earnestly requested, upon no account, to open this box." the same warning was repeated underneath in spanish. as to the lock, it was a very complex and heavy one of engraved steel, with a latin motto, which was above a seaman's comprehension. by the time i had finished this examination of the peculiar box, the other quarter-boat with mr. armstrong, the first officer, had come alongside, and we began to carry out and place in her the various curiosities which appeared to be the only objects worth moving from the derelict ship. when she was full i sent her back to the barque, and then allardyce and i, with the carpenter and one seaman, shifted the striped box, which was the only thing left, to our boat, and lowered it over, balancing it upon the two middle thwarts, for it was so heavy that it would have given the boat a dangerous tilt had we placed it at either end. as to the dead man, we left him where we had found him. the mate had a theory that, at the moment of the desertion of the ship, this fellow had started plundering, and that the captain, in an attempt to preserve discipline, had struck him down with a hatchet or some other heavy weapon. it seemed more probable than any other explanation, and yet it did not entirely satisfy me either. but the ocean is full of mysteries, and we were content to leave the fate of the dead seaman of the brazilian brig to be added to that long list which every sailor can recall. the heavy box was slung up by ropes on to the deck of the _mary sinclair_, and was carried by four seamen into the cabin, where, between the table and the after-lockers, there was just space for it to stand. there it remained during supper, and after that meal the mates remained with me, and discussed over a glass of grog the event of the day. mr. armstrong was a long, thin, vulture-like man, an excellent seaman, but famous for his nearness and cupidity. our treasure-trove had excited him greatly, and already he had begun with glistening eyes to reckon up how much it might be worth to each of us when the shares of the salvage came to be divided. "if the paper said that they were unique, mr. barclay, then they may be worth anything that you like to name. you wouldn't believe the sums that the rich collectors give. a thousand pounds is nothing to them. we'll have something to show for our voyage, or i am mistaken." "i don't think that," said i. "as far as i can see, they are not very different from any other south american curios." "well, sir, i've traded there for fourteen voyages, and i have never seen anything like that chest before. that's worth a pile of money, just as it stands. but it's so heavy that surely there must be something valuable inside it. don't you think that we ought to open it and see?" "if you break it open you will spoil it, as likely as not," said the second mate. armstrong squatted down in front of it, with his head on one side, and his long, thin nose within a few inches of the lock. "the wood is oak," said he, "and it has shrunk a little with age. if i had a chisel or a strong-bladed knife i could force the lock back without doing any damage at all." the mention of a strong-bladed knife made me think of the dead seaman upon the brig. "i wonder if he could have been on the job when someone came to interfere with him," said i. "i don't know about that, sir, but i am perfectly certain that i could open the box. there's a screwdriver here in the locker. just hold the lamp, allardyce, and i'll have it done in a brace of shakes." "wait a bit," said i, for already, with eyes which gleamed with curiosity and with avarice, he was stooping over the lid. "i don't see that there is any hurry over this matter. you've read that card which warns us not to open it. it may mean anything or it may mean nothing, but somehow i feel inclined to obey it. after all, whatever is in it will keep, and if it is valuable it will be worth as much if it is opened in the owner's offices as in the cabin of the _mary sinclair_." the first officer seemed bitterly disappointed at my decision. "surely, sir, you are not superstitious about it," said he, with a slight sneer upon his thin lips. "if it gets out of our own hands, and we don't see for ourselves what is inside it, we may be done out of our rights; besides--" "that's enough, mr. armstrong," said i, abruptly. "you may have every confidence that you will get your rights, but i will not have that box opened to-night." "why, the label itself shows that the box has been examined by europeans," allardyce added. "because a box is a treasure-box is no reason that it has treasures inside it now. a good many folk have had a peep into it since the days of the old governor of terra firma." armstrong threw the screwdriver down upon the table and shrugged his shoulders. "just as you like," said he; but for the rest of the evening, although we spoke upon many subjects, i noticed that his eyes were continually coming round, with the same expression of curiosity and greed, to the old striped box. and now i come to that portion of my story which fills me even now with a shuddering horror when i think of it. the main cabin had the rooms of the officers round it, but mine was the farthest away from it at the end of the little passage which led to the companion. no regular watch was kept by me, except in cases of emergency, and the three mates divided the watches among them. armstrong had the middle watch, which ends at four in the morning, and he was relieved by allardyce. for my part i have always been one of the soundest of sleepers, and it is rare for anything less than a hand upon my shoulder to arouse me. and yet i was aroused that night, or rather in the early grey of the morning. it was just half-past four by my chronometer when something caused me to sit up in my berth wide awake and with every nerve tingling. it was a sound of some sort, a crash with a human cry at the end of it, which still jarred on my ears. i sat listening, but all was now silent. and yet it could not have been imagination, that hideous cry, for the echo of it still rang in my head, and it seemed to have come from some place quite close to me. i sprang from my bunk, and, pulling on some clothes, i made my way into the cabin. at first i saw nothing unusual there. in the cold, grey light i made out the red-clothed table, the six rotating chairs, the walnut lockers, the swinging barometer, and there, at the end, the big striped chest. i was turning away, with the intention of going upon deck and asking the second mate if he had heard anything, when my eyes fell suddenly upon something which projected from under the table. it was the leg of a man--a leg with a long sea-boot upon it. i stooped, and there was a figure sprawling upon his face, his arms thrown forward and his body twisted. one glance told me that it was armstrong, the first officer, and a second that he was a dead man. for a few moments i stood gasping. then i rushed on to the deck, called allardyce to my assistance, and came back with him into the cabin. together we pulled the unfortunate fellow from under the table, and as we looked at his dripping head we exchanged glances, and i do not know which was the paler of the two. "the same as the spanish sailor," said i. "the very same. god preserve us! it's that infernal chest! look at armstrong's hand!" he held up the mate's right hand, and there was the screwdriver which he had wished to use the night before. "he's been at the chest, sir. he knew that i was on deck and you were asleep. he knelt down in front of it, and he pushed the lock back with that tool. then something happened to him, and he cried out so that you heard him." "allardyce," i whispered, "what _could_ have happened to him?" the second mate put his hand upon my sleeve and drew me into his cabin. "we can talk here, sir, and we don't know who may be listening to us in there. what do you suppose is in that box, captain barclay?" "i give you my word, allardyce, that i have no idea." "well, i can only find one theory which will fit all the facts. look at the size of the box. look at all the carving and metal-work which may conceal any number of holes. look at the weight of it; it took four men to carry it. on top of that, remember that two men have tried to open it, and both have come to their end through it. now, sir, what can it mean except one thing?" "you mean there is a man in it?" "of course there is a man in it. you know how it is in these south american states, sir. a man may be president one week and hunted like a dog the next--they are for ever flying for their lives. my idea is that there is some fellow in hiding there, who is armed and desperate, and who will fight to the death before he is taken." "but his food and drink?" "it's a roomy chest, sir, and he may have some provisions stowed away. as to his drink, he had a friend among the crew upon the brig who saw that he had what he needed." "you think, then, that the label asking people not to open the box was simply written in his interest?" "yes, sir, that is my idea. have you any other way of explaining the facts?" i had to confess that i had not. "the question is what we are to do?" i asked. "the man's a dangerous ruffian, who sticks at nothing. i'm thinking it wouldn't be a bad thing to put a rope round the chest and tow it alongside for half an hour; then we could open it at our ease. or if we just tied the box up and kept him from getting any water maybe that would do as well. or the carpenter could put a coat of varnish over it and stop all the blow-holes." "come, allardyce," said i, angrily. "you don't seriously mean to say that a whole ship's company are going to be terrorised by a single man in a box. if he's there, i'll engage to fetch him out!" i went to my room and came back with my revolver in my hand. "now, allardyce," said i, "do you open the lock, and i'll stand on guard." "for god's sake, think what you are doing, sir!" cried the mate. "two men have lost their lives over it, and the blood of one not yet dry upon the carpet." "the more reason why we should revenge him." "well, sir, at least let me call the carpenter. three are better than two, and he is a good stout man." he went off in search of him, and i was left alone with the striped chest in the cabin. i don't think that i'm a nervous man, but i kept the table between me and this solid old relic of the spanish main. in the growing light of morning the red and white striping was beginning to appear, and the curious scrolls and wreaths of metal and carving which showed the loving pains which cunning craftsmen had expended upon it. presently the carpenter and the mate came back together, the former with a hammer in his hand. "it's a bad business, this, sir," said he, shaking his head, as he looked at the body of the mate. "and you think there's someone hiding in the box?" "there's no doubt about it," said allardyce, picking up the screwdriver and setting his jaw like a man who needs to brace his courage. "i'll drive the lock back if you will both stand by. if he rises let him have it on the head with your hammer, carpenter. shoot at once, sir, if he raises his hand. now!" he had knelt down in front of the striped chest, and passed the blade of the tool under the lid. with a sharp snick the lock flew back. "stand by!" yelled the mate, and with a heave he threw open the massive top of the box. as it swung up we all three sprang back, i with my pistol levelled, and the carpenter with the hammer above his head. then, as nothing happened, we each took a step forward and peeped in. the box was empty. not quite empty either, for in one corner was lying an old yellow candle-stick, elaborately engraved, which appeared to be as old as the box itself. its rich yellow tone and artistic shape suggested that it was an object of value. for the rest there was nothing more weighty or valuable than dust in the old striped treasure-chest. "well, i'm blessed!" cried allardyce, staring blankly into it. "where does the weight come in, then?" "look at the thickness of the sides, and look at the lid. why, it's five inches through. and see that great metal spring across it." "that's for holding the lid up," said the mate. "you see, it won't lean back. what's that german printing on the inside?" "it means that it was made by johann rothstein of augsburg, in ." "and a solid bit of work, too. but it doesn't throw much light on what has passed, does it, captain barclay? that candlestick looks like gold. we shall have something for our trouble after all." he leant forward to grasp it, and from that moment i have never doubted as to the reality of inspiration, for on the instant i caught him by the collar and pulled him straight again. it may have been some story of the middle ages which had come back to my mind, or it may have been that my eye had caught some red which was not that of rust upon the upper part of the lock, but to him and to me it will always seem an inspiration, so prompt and sudden was my action. "there's devilry here," said i. "give me the crooked stick from the corner." it was an ordinary walking-cane with a hooked top. i passed it over the candlestick and gave it a pull. with a flash a row of polished steel fangs shot out from below the upper lip, and the great striped chest snapped at us like a wild animal. clang came the huge lid into its place, and the glasses on the swinging rack sang and tinkled with the shock. the mate sat down on the edge of the table and shivered like a frightened horse. "you've saved my life, captain barclay!" said he. so this was the secret of the striped treasure-chest of old don ramirez di leyra, and this was how he preserved his ill-gotten gains from the terra firma and the province of veraquas. be the thief ever so cunning he could not tell that golden candlestick from the other articles of value, and the instant that he laid hand upon it the terrible spring was unloosed and the murderous steel pikes were driven into his brain, while the shock of the blow sent the victim backward and enabled the chest to automatically close itself. how many, i wondered, had fallen victims to the ingenuity of the mechanic of ausgburg? and as i thought of the possible history of that grim striped chest my resolution was very quickly taken. "carpenter, bring three men, and carry this on deck." "going to throw it overboard, sir?" "yes, mr. allardyce. i'm not superstitious as a rule, but there are some things which are more than a sailor can be called upon to stand." "no wonder that brig made heavy weather, captain barclay, with such a thing on board. the glass is dropping fast, sir, and we are only just in time." so we did not even wait for the three sailors, but we carried it out, the mate, the carpenter, and i, and we pushed it with our own hands over the bulwarks. there was a white spout of water, and it was gone. there it lies, the striped chest, a thousand fathoms deep, and if, as they say, the sea will some day be dry land, i grieve for the man who finds that old box and tries to penetrate into its secret. a shadow before the th of july, , found john worlington dodds a ruined gamester of the stock exchange. upon the th he was a very opulent man. and yet he had effected the change without leaving the penurious little irish townlet of dunsloe, which could have been bought outright for a quarter of the sum which he had earned during the single day that he was within its walls. there is a romance of finance yet to be written, a story of huge forces which are for ever waxing and waning, of bold operations, of breathless suspense, of agonised failure, of deep combinations which are baffled by others still more subtle. the mighty debts of each great european power stand like so many columns of mercury, for ever rising and falling to indicate the pressure upon each. he who can see far enough into the future to tell how that ever-varying column will stand to-morrow is the man who has fortune within his grasp. john worlington dodds had many of the gifts which lead a speculator to success. he was quick in observing, just in estimating, prompt and fearless in acting. but in finance there is always the element of luck, which, however one may eliminate it, still remains, like the blank at roulette, a constantly present handicap upon the operator. and so it was that worlington dodds had come to grief. on the best advices he had dabbled in the funds of a south american republic in the days before south american republics had been found out. the republic defaulted, and dodds lost his money. he had bulled the shares of a scotch railway, and a four months' strike had hit him hard. he had helped to underwrite a coffee company in the hope that the public would come along upon the feed and gradually nibble away some of his holding, but the political sky had been clouded and the public had refused to invest. everything which he had touched had gone wrong, and now, on the eve of his marriage, young, clear-headed, and energetic, he was actually a bankrupt had his creditors chosen to make him one. but the stock exchange is an indulgent body. what is the case of one to-day may be that of another to-morrow, and everyone is interested in seeing that the stricken man is given time to rise again. so the burden of worlington dodds was lightened for him; many shoulders helped to bear it, and he was able to go for a little summer tour into ireland, for the doctors had ordered him rest and change of air to restore his shaken nervous system. thus it was that upon the th of july, , he found himself at his breakfast in the fly-blown coffee-room of the "george hotel" in the market square of dunsloe. it is a dull and depressing coffee-room, and one which is usually empty, but on this particular day it was as crowded and noisy as that of any london hotel. every table was occupied, and a thick smell of fried bacon and of fish hung in the air. heavily booted men clattered in and out, spurs jingled, riding-crops were stacked in corners, and there was a general atmosphere of horse. the conversation, too, was of nothing else. from every side worlington dodds heard of yearlings, of windgalls, of roarers, of spavins, of cribsuckers, of a hundred other terms which were as unintelligible to him as his own stock exchange jargon would have been to the company. he asked the waiter for the reason of it all, and the waiter was an astonished man that there should be any man in this world who did not know it. "shure it's the dunsloe horse fair, your honour--the greatest horse-fair in all oireland. it lasts for a wake, and the folk come from far an' near--from england an' scotland an' iverywhere. if you look out of the winder, your honour, you'll see the horses, and it's asy your honour's conscience must be, or you wouldn't slape so sound that the creatures didn't rouse you with their clatter." dodds had a recollection that he had heard a confused murmur, which had interwoven itself with his dreams--a sort of steady rhythmic beating and clanking--and now, when he looked through the window, he saw the cause of it. the square was packed with horses from end to end--greys, bays, browns, blacks, chestnuts--young ones and old, fine ones and coarse, horses of every conceivable sort and size. it seemed a huge function for so small a town, and he remarked as much to the waiter. "well, you see, your honour, the horses don't live in the town, an' they don't vex their heads how small it is. but it's in the very centre of the horse-bradin' districts of oireland, so where should they come to be sould if it wasn't to dunsloe?" the waiter had a telegram in his hand, and he turned the address to worlington dodds. "shure i niver heard such a name, sorr. maybe you could tell me who owns it?" dodds looked at the envelope. strellenhaus was the name. "no, i don't know," said he. "i never heard it before. it's a foreign name. perhaps if you were--" but at that moment a little round-faced, ruddy-cheeked gentleman, who was breakfasting at the next table, leaned forward and interrupted him. "did you say a foreign name, sir?" said he. "strellenhaus is the name." "i am mr. strellenhaus--mr. julius strellenhaus, of liverpool. i was expecting a telegram. thank you very much." he sat so near that dodds, without any wish to play the spy, could not help to some extent overlooking him as he opened the envelope. the message was a very long one. quite a wad of melon-tinted paper came out from the tawny envelope. mr. strellenhaus arranged the sheets methodically upon the table-cloth in front of him, so that no eye but his own could see them. then he took out a note-book, and, with an anxious face, he began to make entries in it, glancing first at the telegram and then at the book, and writing apparently one letter or figure at a time. dodds was interested, for he knew exactly what the man was doing. he was working out a cipher. dodds had often done it himself. and then suddenly the little man turned very pale, as if the full purport of the message had been a shock to him. dodds had done that also, and his sympathies were all with his neighbours. then the stranger rose, and, leaving his breakfast untasted, he walked out of the room. "i'm thinkin' that the gintleman has had bad news, sorr," said the confidential waiter. "looks like it," dodds answered; and at that moment his thoughts were suddenly drawn off into another direction. the boots had entered the room with a telegram in his hand. "where's mr. mancune?" said he to the waiter. "well, there are some quare names about. what was it you said?" "mr. mancune," said the boots, glancing round him. "ah, there he is!" and he handed the telegram to a gentleman who was sitting reading the paper in a corner. dodds's eyes had already fallen upon this man, and he had wondered vaguely what he was doing in such company. he was a tall, white-haired, eagle-nosed gentleman, with a waxed moustache and a carefully pointed beard--an aristocratic type which seemed out of its element among the rough, hearty, noisy dealers who surrounded him. this, then, was mr. mancune, for whom the second telegram was intended. as he opened it, tearing it open with a feverish haste, dodds could perceive that it was as bulky as the first one. he observed also, from the delay in reading it, that it was also in some sort of cipher. the gentleman did not write down any translation of it, but he sat for some time with his nervous, thin fingers twitching amongst the hairs of his white beard, and his shaggy brows bent in the deepest and most absorbed attention whilst he mastered the meaning of it. then he sprang suddenly to his feet, his eyes flashed, his cheeks flushed, and in his excitement he crumpled the message up in his hand. with an effort he mastered his emotion, put the paper into his pocket, and walked out of the room. this was enough to excite a less astute and imaginative man than worlington dodds. was there any connection between these two messages, or was it merely a coincidence? two men with strange names receive two telegrams within a few minutes of each other, each of considerable length, each in cipher, and each causing keen emotion to the man who received it. one turned pale. the other sprang excitedly to his feet. it might be a coincidence, but it was a very curious one. if it was not a coincidence, then what could it mean? were they confederates who pretended to work apart, but who each received identical orders from some person at a distance? that was possible, and yet there were difficulties in the way. he puzzled and puzzled, but could find no satisfactory solution to the problem. all breakfast he was turning it over in his mind. when breakfast was over he sauntered out into the market square, where the horse sale was already in progress. the yearlings were being sold first--tall, long-legged, skittish, wild-eyed creatures, who had run free upon the upland pastures, with ragged hair and towsie manes, but hardy, inured to all weathers, and with the makings of splendid hunters and steeplechasers when corn and time had brought them to maturity. they were largely of thoroughbred blood, and were being bought by english dealers, who would invest a few pounds now on what they might sell for fifty guineas in a year, if all went well. it was legitimate speculation, for the horse is a delicate creature, he is afflicted with many ailments, the least accident may destroy his value, he is a certain expense and an uncertain profit, and for one who comes safely to maturity several may bring no return at all. so the english horse-dealers took their risks as they bought up the shaggy irish yearlings. one man with a ruddy face and a yellow overcoat took them by the dozen, with as much _sang froid_ as if they had been oranges, entering each bargain in a bloated note-book. he bought forty or fifty during the time that dodds was watching him. "who is that?" he asked his neighbour, whose spurs and gaiters showed that he was likely to know. the man stared in astonishment at the stranger's ignorance. "why, that's jim holloway, the great jim holloway," said he; then, seeing by the blank look upon dodds's face that even this information had not helped him much, he went into details. "sure he's the head of holloway & morland, of london," said he. "he's the buying partner, and he buys cheap; and the other stays at home and sells, and he sells dear. he owns more horses than any man in the world, and asks the best money for them. i dare say you'll find that half of what are sold at the dunsloe fair this day will go to him, and he's got such a purse that there's not a man who can bid against him." worlington dodds watched the doings of the great dealer with interest. he had passed on now to the two-year-olds and three-year-olds, full-grown horses, but still a little loose in the limb and weak in the bone. the london buyer was choosing his animals carefully, but having chosen them, the vigour of his competition drove all other bidders out of it. with a careless nod he would run the figure up five pounds at a time, until he was left in possession of the field. at the same time he was a shrewd observer, and when, as happened more than once, he believed that someone was bidding against him simply in order to run him up, the head would cease suddenly to nod, the note-book would be closed with a snap, and the intruder would be left with a purchase which he did not desire upon his hands. all dodds's business instincts were aroused by the tactics of this great operator, and he stood in the crowd watching with the utmost interest all that occurred. it is not to buy young horses, however, that the great dealers come to ireland, and the real business of the fair commenced when the four and five-year-olds were reached; the full-grown, perfect horses, at their prime, and ready for any work or any fatigue. seventy magnificent creatures had been brought down by a single breeder, a comfortable- looking, keen-eyed, ruddy-cheeked gentleman who stood beside the sales-man and whispered cautions and precepts into his ear. "that's flynn of kildare," said dodds's informant. "jack flynn has brought down that string of horses, and the other large string over yonder belongs to tom flynn, his brother. the two of them together are the two first breeders in ireland." a crowd had gathered in front of the horses. by common consent a place had been made for mr. holloway, and dodds could catch a glimpse of his florid face and yellow covert-coat in the front rank. he had opened his note-book, and was tapping his teeth reflectively with his pencil as he eyed the horses. "you'll see a fight now between the first seller and the first buyer in the country," said dodds's acquaintance. "they are a beautiful string, anyhow. i shouldn't be surprised if he didn't average five-and-thirty pound apiece for the lot as they stand." the salesman had mounted upon a chair, and his keen, clean-shaven face overlooked the crowd. mr. jack flynn's grey whiskers were at his elbow, and mr. holloway immediately in front. "you've seen these horses, gentlemen," said the salesman, with a backward sweep of his hand towards the line of tossing heads and streaming manes. "when you know that they are bred by mr. jack flynn, at his place in kildare, you will have a guarantee of their quality. they are the best that ireland can produce, and in this class of horse the best that ireland can produce are the best in the world, as every riding man knows well. hunters or carriage horses, all warranted sound, and bred from the best stock. there are seventy in mr. jack flynn's string, and he bids me say that if any wholesale dealer would make one bid for the whole lot, to save time, he would have the preference over any purchaser." there was a pause and a whisper from the crowd in front, with some expressions of discontent. by a single sweep all the small dealers had been put out of it. it was only a long purse which could buy on such a scale as that. the salesman looked round him inquiringly. "come, mr. holloway," said he, at last. "you didn't come over here for the sake of the scenery. you may travel the country and not see such another string of horses. give us a starting bid." the great dealer was still rattling his pencil upon his front teeth. "well," said he, at last, "they _are_ a fine lot of horses, and i won't deny it. they do you credit, mr. flynn, i am sure. all the same i didn't mean to fill a ship at a single bid in this fashion. i like to pick and choose my horses." "in that case mr. flynn is quite prepared to sell them in smaller lots," said the salesman. "it was rather for the convenience of a wholesale customer that he was prepared to put them all up together. but if no gentleman wishes to bid--" "wait a minute," said a voice. "they are very fine horses, these, and i will give you a bid to start you. i will give you twenty pounds each for the string of seventy." there was a rustle as the crowd all swayed their heads to catch a glimpse of the speaker. the salesman leaned forward. "may i ask your name, sir?" "strellenhaus--mr. strellenhaus of liverpool." "it's a new firm," said dodds's neighbour. "i thought i knew them all, but i never heard of him before." the salesman's head had disappeared, for he was whispering with the breeder. now he suddenly straightened himself again. "thank you for giving us a lead, sir," said he. "now, gentlemen, you have heard the offer of mr. strellenhaus of liverpool. it will give us a base to start from. mr. strellenhaus has offered twenty pounds a head." "guineas," said holloway. "bravo, mr. holloway! i knew that you would take a hand. you are not the man to let such a string of horses pass away from you. the bid is twenty guineas a head." "twenty-five pounds," said mr. strellenhaus. "twenty-six." "thirty." it was london against liverpool, and it was the head of the trade against an outsider. still, the one man had increased his bids by fives and the other only by ones. those fives meant determination and also wealth. holloway had ruled the market so long that the crowd was delighted at finding someone who would stand up to him. "the bid now stands at thirty pounds a head," said the salesman. "the word lies with you, mr. holloway." the london dealer was glancing keenly at his unknown opponent, and he was asking himself whether this was a genuine rival, or whether it was a device of some sort--an agent of flynn's perhaps--for running up the price. little mr. strellenhaus, the same apple-faced gentleman whom dodds had noticed in the coffee-room, stood looking at the horses with the sharp, quick glances of a man who knows what he is looking for. "thirty-one," said holloway, with the air of a man who has gone to his extreme limit. "thirty-two," said strellenhaus, promptly. holloway grew angry at this persistent opposition. his red face flushed redder still. "thirty-three!" he shouted. "thirty-four," said strellenhaus. holloway became thoughtful, and entered a few figures in his note-book. there were seventy horses. he knew that flynn's stock was always of the highest quality. with the hunting season coming on he might rely upon selling them at an average of from forty-five to fifty. some of them might carry a heavy weight, and would run to three figures. on the other hand, there was the feed and keep of them for three months, the danger of the voyage, the chance of influenza or some of those other complaints which run through an entire stable as measles go through a nursery. deducting all this, it was a question whether at the present price any profit would be left upon the transaction. every pound that he bid meant seventy out of his pocket. and yet he could not submit to be beaten by this stranger without a struggle. as a business matter it was important to him to be recognised as the head of his profession. he would make one more effort, if he sacrificed his profit by doing so. "at the end of your rope, mr. holloway?" asked the salesman, with the suspicion of a sneer. "thirty-five," cried holloway gruffly. "thirty-six," said strellenhaus. "then i wish you joy of your bargain," said holloway. "i don't buy at that price, but i should be glad to sell you some." mr. strellenhaus took no notice of the irony. he was still looking critically at the horses. the salesman glanced round him in a perfunctory way. "thirty-six pounds bid," said he. "mr. jack flynn's lot is going to mr. strellenhaus of liverpool, at thirty-six pounds a head. going--going--" "forty!" cried a high, thin, clear voice. a buzz rose from the crowd, and they were all on tiptoe again, trying to catch a glimpse of this reckless buyer. being a tall man, dodds could see over the others, and there, at the side of holloway, he saw the masterful nose and aristocratic beard of the second stranger in the coffee-room. a sudden personal interest added itself to the scene. he felt that he was on the verge of something--something dimly seen-- which he could himself turn to account. the two men with strange names, the telegrams, the horses--what was underlying it all? the salesman was all animation again, and mr. jack flynn was sitting up with his white whiskers bristling and his eyes twinkling. it was the best deal which he had ever made in his fifty years of experience. "what name, sir?" asked the salesman. "mr. mancune." "address?" "mr. mancune of glasgow." "thank you for your bid, sir. forty pounds a head has been bid by mr. mancune of glasgow. any advance upon forty?" "forty-one," said strellenhaus. "forty-five," said mancune. the tactics had changed, and it was the turn of strellenhaus now to advance by ones, while his rival sprang up by fives. but the former was as dogged as ever. "forty-six," said he. "fifty!" cried mancune. it was unheard of. the most that the horses could possibly average at a retail price was as much as these men were willing to pay wholesale. "two lunatics from bedlam," whispered the angry holloway. "if i was flynn i would see the colour of their money before i went any further." the same thought had occurred to the salesman. "as a mere matter of business, gentlemen," said he, "it is usual in such cases to put down a small deposit as a guarantee of _bona fides_. you will understand how i am placed, and that i have not had the pleasure of doing business with either of you before." "how much?" asked strellenhaus, briefly. "should we say five hundred?" "here is a note for a thousand pounds." "and here is another," said mancune. "nothing could be more handsome, gentlemen," said the salesman. "it's a treat to see such a spirited competition. the last bid was fifty pounds a head from mancune. the word lies with you, mr. strellenhaus." mr. jack flynn whispered something to the salesman. "quite so! mr. flynn suggests, gentlemen, that as you are both large buyers, it would, perhaps, be a convenience to you if he was to add the string of mr. tom flynn, which consists of seventy animals of precisely the same quality, making one hundred and forty in all. have you any objection, mr. mancune?" "no, sir." "and you, mr. strellenhaus?" "i should prefer it." "very handsome! very handsome indeed!" murmured the salesman. "then i understand, mr. mancune, that your offer of fifty pounds a head extends to the whole of these horses?" "yes, sir." a long breath went up from the crowd. seven thousand pounds at one deal. it was a record for dunsloe. "any advance, mr. strellenhaus?" "fifty-one." "fifty-five." "fifty-six." "sixty." they could hardly believe their ears. holloway stood with his mouth open, staring blankly in front of him. the salesman tried hard to look as if such bidding and such prices were nothing unusual. jack flynn of kildare smiled benignly and rubbed his hands together. the crowd listened in dead silence. "sixty-one," said strellenhaus. from the beginning he had stood without a trace of emotion upon his round face, like a little automatic figure which bid by clockwork. his rival was of a more excitable nature. his eyes were shining, and he was for ever twitching at his beard. "sixty-five," he cried. "sixty-six." "seventy." but the clockwork had run down. no answering bid came from mr. strellenhaus. "seventy bid, sir." mr. strellenhaus shrugged his shoulders. "i am buying for another, and i have reached his limit," said he. "if you will permit me to send for instructions--" "i am afraid, sir, that the sale must proceed." "then the horses belong to this gentleman." for the first time he turned towards his rival, and their glances crossed like sword-blades. "it is possible that i may see the horses again." "i hope so," said mr. mancune; and his white, waxed moustache gave a feline upward bristle. so, with a bow, they separated. mr. strellenhaus walked, down to the telegraph-office, where his message was delayed because mr. worlington dodds was already at the end of the wires, for, after dim guesses and vague conjecture, he had suddenly caught a clear view of this coming event which had cast so curious a shadow before it in this little irish town. political rumours, names, appearances, telegrams, seasoned horses at any price, there could only be one meaning to it. he held a secret, and he meant to use it. mr. warner, who was the partner of mr. worlington dodds, and who was suffering from the same eclipse, had gone down to the stock exchange, but had found little consolation there, for the european system was in a ferment, and rumours of peace and of war were succeeding each other with such rapidity and assurance that it was impossible to know which to trust. it was obvious that a fortune lay either way, for every rumour set the funds fluctuating; but without special information it was impossible to act, and no one dared to plunge heavily upon the strength of newspaper surmise and the gossip of the street. warner knew that an hour's work might resuscitate the fallen fortunes of himself and his partner, and yet he could not afford to make a mistake. he returned to his office in the afternoon, half inclined to back the chances of peace, for of all war scares not one in ten comes to pass. as he entered the office a telegram lay upon the table. it was from dunsloe, a place of which he had never heard, and was signed by his absent partner. the message was in cipher, but he soon translated it, for it was short and crisp. "i am a bear of everything german and french. sell, sell, sell, keep on selling." for a moment warner hesitated. what could worlington dodds know at dunsloe which was not known in throgmorton street? but he remembered the quickness and decision of his partner. he would not have sent such a message without very good grounds. if he was to act at all he must act at once, so, hardening his heart, he went down to the house, and, dealing upon that curious system by which a man can sell what he has not got, and what he could not pay for if he had it, he disposed of heavy parcels of french and german securities. he had caught the market in one of its little spasms of hope, and there was no lack of buying until his own persistent selling caused others to follow his lead, and so brought about a reaction. when warner returned to his offices it took him some hours to work out his accounts, and he emerged into the streets in the evening with the absolute certainty that the next settling-day would leave him either hopelessly bankrupt or exceedingly prosperous. it all depended upon worlington dodds's information. what could he possibly have found out at dunsloe? and then suddenly he saw a newspaper boy fasten a poster upon a lamp-post, and a little crowd had gathered round it in an instant one of them waved his hat in the air; another shouted to a friend across the street. warner hurried up and caught a glimpse of the poster between two craning heads-- "france declares war on germany." "by jove!" cried warner. "old dodds was right, after all." the king of the foxes it was after a hunting dinner, and there were as many scarlet coats as black ones round the table. the conversation over the cigars had turned, therefore, in the direction of horses and horsemen, with reminiscences of phenomenal runs where foxes had led the pack from end to end of a county, and been overtaken at last by two or three limping hounds and a huntsman on foot, while every rider in the field had been pounded. as the port circulated the runs became longer and more apocryphal, until we had the whips inquiring their way and failing to understand the dialect of the people who answered them. the foxes, too, became mere eccentric, and we had foxes up pollard willows, foxes which were dragged by the tail out of horses' mangers, and foxes which had raced through an open front door and gone to ground in a lady's bonnet-box. the master had told one or two tall reminiscences, and when he cleared his throat for another we were all curious, for he was a bit of an artist in his way, and produced his effects in a _crescendo_ fashion. his face wore the earnest, practical, severely accurate expression which heralded some of his finest efforts. "it was before i was master," said he. "sir charles adair had the hounds at that time, and then afterwards they passed to old lathom, and then to me. it may possibly have been just after lathom took them over, but my strong impression is that it was in adair's time. that would be early in the seventies--about seventy-two, i should say. "the man i mean has moved to another part of the country, but i daresay that some of you can remember him. danbury was the name--walter danbury, or wat danbury, as the people used to call him. he was the son of old joe danbury, of high ascombe, and when his father died he came into a very good thing, for his only brother was drowned when the _magna charta_ foundered, so he inherited the whole estate. it was but a few hundred acres, but it was good arable land, and those were the great days of farming. besides, it was freehold, and a yeoman farmer without a mortgage was a warmish man before the great fall in wheat came. foreign wheat and barbed wire--those are the two curses of this country, for the one spoils the farmer's work and the other spoils his play. "this young wat danbury was a very fine fellow, a keen rider, and a thorough sportsman, but his head was a little turned at having come, when so young, into a comfortable fortune, and he went the pace for a year or two. the lad had no vice in him, but there was a hard-drinking set in the neighbourhood at that time, and danbury got drawn in among them; and, being an amiable fellow who liked to do what his friends were doing, he very soon took to drinking a great deal more than was good for him. as a rule, a man who takes his exercise may drink as much as he likes in the evening, and do himself no very great harm, if he will leave it alone during the day. danbury had too many friends for that, however, and it really looked as if the poor chap was going to the bad, when a very curious thing happened which pulled him up with such a sudden jerk that he never put his hand upon the neck of a whisky bottle again. "he had a peculiarity which i have noticed in a good many other men, that though he was always playing tricks with his own health, he was none the less very anxious about it, and was extremely fidgety if ever he had any trivial symptom. being a tough, open-air fellow, who was always as hard as a nail, it was seldom that there was anything amiss with him; but at last the drink began to tell, and he woke one morning with his hands shaking and all his nerves tingling like over-stretched fiddle-strings. he had been dining at some very wet house the night before, and the wine had, perhaps, been more plentiful than choice; at any rate, there he was, with a tongue like a bath towel and a head that ticked like an eight-day clock. he was very alarmed at his own condition, and he sent for doctor middleton, of ascombe, the father of the man who practises there now. "middleton had been a great friend of old danbury's, and he was very sorry to see his son going to the devil; so he improved the occasion by taking his case very seriously, and lecturing him upon the danger of his ways. he shook his head and talked about the possibility of _delirium tremens_, or even of mania, if he continued to lead such a life. wat danbury was horribly frightened. "'do you think i am going to get anything of the sort?' he wailed. "'well, really, i don't know,' said the doctor gravely. 'i cannot undertake to say that you are out of danger. your system is very much out of order. at any time during the day you might have those grave symptoms of which i warn you.' "'you think i shall be safe by evening?' "'if you drink nothing during the day, and have no nervous symptoms before evening, i think you may consider yourself safe," the doctor answered. a little fright would, he thought, do his patient good, so he made the most of the matter. "'what symptoms may i expect?' asked danebury. "'it generally takes the form of optical delusions.' "'i see specks floating all about.' "'that is mere biliousness,' said the doctor soothingly, for he saw that the lad was highly strung, and he did not wish to overdo it. 'i daresay that you will have no symptoms of the kind, but when they do come they usually take the shape of insects, or reptiles, or curious animals.' "'and if i see anything of the kind?' "'if you do, you will at once send for me;' and so, with a promise of medicine, the doctor departed. "young wat danbury rose and dressed and moped about the room feeling very miserable and unstrung, with a vision of the county asylum for ever in his mind. he had the doctor's word for it that if he could get through to evening in safety he would be all right; but it is not very exhilarating to be waiting for symptoms, and to keep on glancing at your bootjack to see whether it is still a bootjack or whether it has begun to develop antennae and legs. at last he could stand it no longer, and an overpowering longing for the fresh air and the green grass came over him. why should he stay indoors when the ascombe hunt was meeting within half a mile of him? if he was going to have these delusions which the doctor talked of, he would not have them the sooner nor the worse because he was on horseback in the open. he was sure, too, it would ease his aching head. and so it came about that in ten minutes he was in his hunting-kit, and in ten more he was riding out of his stable-yard with his roan mare 'matilda' between his knees. he was a little unsteady in his saddle just at first, but the farther he went the better he felt, until by the time he reached the meet his head was almost clear, and there was nothing troubling him except those haunting words of the doctor's about the possibility of delusions any time before nightfall. "but soon he forgot that also, for as he came up the hounds were thrown off, and they drew the gravel hanger, and afterwards the hickory copse. it was just the morning for a scent--no wind to blow it away, no water to wash it out, and just damp enough to make it cling. there was a field of forty, all keen men and good riders, so when they came to the black hanger they knew that there would be some sport, for that's a cover which never draws blank. the woods were thicker in those days than now, and the foxes were thicker also, and that great dark oak-grove was swarming with them. the only difficulty was to make them break, for it is, as you know, a very close country, and you must coax them out into the open before you can hope for a run. "when they came to the black hanger the field took their positions along the cover-side wherever they thought that they were most likely to get a good start. some went in with the hounds, some clustered at the ends of the drives, and some kept outside in the hope of the fox breaking in that direction. young wat danbury knew the country like the palm of his hand, so he made for a place where several drives intersected, and there he waited. he had a feeling that the faster and the farther he galloped the better he should be, and so he was chafing to be off. his mare, too, was in the height of fettle and one of the fastest goers in the county. wat was a splendid lightweight rider--under ten stone with his saddle--and the mare was a powerful creature, all quarters and shoulders, fit to carry a lifeguardsman; and so it was no wonder that there was hardly a man in the field who could hope to stay with him. there he waited and listened to the shouting of the huntsman and the whips, catching a glimpse now and then in the darkness of the wood of a whisking tail, or the gleam of a white-and-tan side amongst the underwood. it was a well-trained pack, and there was not so much as a whine to tell you that forty hounds were working all round you. "and then suddenly there came one long-drawn yell from one of them, and it was taken up by another, and another, until within a few seconds the whole pack was giving tongue together and running on a hot scent. danbury saw them stream across one of the drives and disappear upon the other side, and an instant later the three red coats of the hunt servants flashed after them upon the same line. he might have made a shorter cut down one of the other drives, but he was afraid of heading the fox, so he followed the lead of the huntsman. right through the wood they went in a bee-line, galloping with their faces brushed by their horses' manes as they stooped under the branches. "it's ugly going, as you know, with the roots all wriggling about in the darkness, but you can take a risk when you catch an occasional glimpse of the pack running with a breast-high scent; so in and out they dodged until the wood began to thin at the edges, and they found themselves in the long bottom where the river runs. it is clear going there upon grassland, and the hounds were running very strong about two hundred yards ahead, keeping parallel with the stream. the field, who had come round the wood instead of going through, were coming hard over the fields upon the left; but danbury, with the hunt servants, had a clear lead, and they never lost it. "two of the field got on terms with them--parson geddes on a big seventeen-hand bay which he used to ride in those days, and squire foley, who rode as a feather-weight, and made his hunters out of cast thoroughbreds from the newmarket sales; but the others never had a look-in from start to finish, for there was no check and no pulling, and it was clear cross-country racing from start to finish. if you had drawn a line right across the map with a pencil you couldn't go straighter than that fox ran, heading for the south downs and the sea, and the hounds ran as surely as if they were running to view, and yet from the beginning no one ever saw the fox, and there was never a hallo forrard to tell them that he had been spied. this, however, is not so surprising, for if you've been over that line of country you will know that there are not very many people about. "there were six of them then in the front row--parson geddes, squire foley, the huntsman, two whips, and wat danbury, who had forgotten all about his head and the doctor by this time, and had not a thought for anything but the run. all six were galloping just as hard as they could lay hoofs to the ground. one of the whips dropped back, however, as some of the hounds were tailing off, and that brought them down to five. then foley's thoroughbred strained herself, as these slim-legged, dainty-fetlocked thoroughbreds will do when the going is rough, and he had to take a back seat. but the other four were still going strong, and they did four or five miles down the river flat at a rasping pace. it had been a wet winter, and the waters had been out a little time before, so there was a deal of sliding and splashing; but by the time they came to the bridge the whole field was out of sight, and these four had the hunt to themselves. "the fox had crossed the bridge--for foxes do not care to swim a chilly river any more than humans do--and from that point he had streaked away southward as hard as he could tear. it is broken country, rolling heaths, down one slope and up another, and it's hard to say whether the up or the down is the more trying for the horses. this sort of switchback work is all right for a cobby, short-backed, short-legged little horse, but it is killing work for a big, long-striding hunter such as one wants in the midlands. anyhow, it was too much for parson geddes' seventeen-hand bay, and though he tried the irish trick--for he was a rare keen sportsman--of running up the hills by his horse's head, it was all to no use, and he had to give it up. so then there were only the huntsman, the whip, and wat danbury--all going strong. "but the country got worse and worse and the hills were steeper and more thickly covered in heather and bracken. the horses were over their hocks all the time, and the place was pitted with rabbit-holes; but the hounds were still streaming along, and the riders could not afford to pick their steps. as they raced down one slope, the hounds were always flowing up the opposite one, until it looked like that game where the one figure in falling makes the other one rise. "but never a glimpse did they get of the fox, although they knew very well that he must be only a very short way ahead for the scent to be so strong. and then wat danbury heard a crash and a thud at his elbow, and looking round he saw a pair of white cords and top-boots kicking out of a tussock of brambles. the whip's horse had stumbled, and the whip was out of the running. danbury and the huntsman eased down for an instant; and then, seeing the man staggering to his feet all right, they turned and settled into their saddles once more. "joe clarke, the huntsman, was a famous old rider, known for five counties round; but he reckoned upon his second horse, and the second horses had all been left many miles behind. however, the one he was riding was good enough for anything with such a horseman upon his back, and he was going as well as when he started. as to wat danbury, he was going better. with every stride his own feelings improved, and the mind of the rider had its influence upon the mind of the horse. the stout little roan was gathering its muscular limbs under it, and stretching to the gallop as if it were steel and whale-bone instead of flesh and blood. wat had never come to the end of its powers yet, and to-day he had such a chance of testing them as he had never had before. "there was a pasture country beyond the heather slopes, and for several miles the two riders were either losing ground as they fumbled with their crop-handles at the bars of gates, or gaining it again as they galloped over the fields. those were the days before this accursed wire came into the country, and you could generally break a hedge where you could not fly it, so they did not trouble the gates more than they could help. then they were down in a hard lane, where they had to slacken their pace, and through a farm where a man came shouting excitedly after them; but they had no time to stop and listen to him, for the hounds were on some ploughland, only two fields ahead. it was sloping upwards, that ploughland, and the horses were over their fetlocks in the red, soft soil. "when they reached the top they were blowing badly, but a grand valley sloped before them, leading up to the open country of the south downs. between, there lay a belt of pine-woods, into which the hounds were streaming, running now in a long, straggling line, and shedding one here and one there as they ran. you could see the white-and-tan dots here and there where the limpers were tailing away. but half the pack were still going well, though the pace and distance had both been tremendous--two clear hours now without a check. "there was a drive through the pine-wood--one of those green, slightly rutted drives where a horse can get the last yard out of itself, for the ground is hard enough to give him clean going and yet springy enough to help him. wat danbury got alongside of the huntsman and they galloped together with their stirrup-irons touching, and the hounds within a hundred yards of them. "'we have it all to ourselves,' said he. "'yes, sir, we've shook on the lot of 'em this time,' said old joe clarke. 'if we get this fox it's worth while 'aving 'im skinned an' stuffed, for 'e's a curiosity 'e is.' "'it's the fastest run i ever had in my life!' cried danbury. "'and the fastest that ever i 'ad, an' that means more,' said the old huntsman. 'but what licks me is that we've never 'ad a look at the beast. 'e must leave an amazin' scent be'ind 'im when these 'ounds can follow 'im like this, and yet none of us have seen 'im when we've 'ad a clear 'alf mile view in front of us.' "'i expect we'll have a view of him presently,' said danbury; and in his mind he added, 'at least, i shall,' for the huntsman's horse was gasping as it ran, and the white foam was pouring down it like the side of a washing-tub. "they had followed the hounds on to one of the side tracks which led out of the main drive, and that divided into a smaller track still, where the branches switched across their faces as they went, and there was barely room for one horse at a time. wat danbury took the lead, and he heard the huntsman's horse clumping along heavily behind him, while his own mare was going with less spring than when she had started. she answered to a touch of his crop or spur, however, and he felt that there was something still left to draw upon. and then he looked up, and there was a heavy wooden stile at the end of the narrow track, with a lane of stiff young saplings leading down to it, which was far too thick to break through. the hounds were running clear upon the grassland on the other side, and you were bound either to get over that stile or lose sight of them, for the pace was too hot to let you go round. "well, wat danbury was not the lad to flinch, and at it he went full split, like a man who means what he is doing. she rose gallantly to it, rapped it hard with her front hoof, shook him on to her withers, recovered herself, and was over. wat had hardly got back into his saddle when there was a clatter behind him like the fall of a woodstack, and there was the top bar in splinters, the horse on its belly, and the huntsman on hands and knees half a dozen yards in front of him. wat pulled up for an instant, for the fall was a smasher; but he saw old joe spring to his feet and get to his horse's bridle. the horse staggered up, but the moment it put one foot in front of the other, wat saw that it was hopelessly lame--a slipped shoulder and a six weeks' job. there was nothing he could do, and joe was shouting to him not to lose the hounds, so off he went again, the one solitary survivor of the whole hunt. when a man finds himself there, he can retire from fox-hunting, for he has tasted the highest which it has to offer. i remember once when i was out with the royal surrey--but i'll tell you that story afterwards. "the pack, or what was left of them, had got a bit ahead during this time; but he had a clear view of them on the downland, and the mare seemed full of pride at being the only one left, for she was stepping out rarely and tossing her head as she went. they were two miles over the green shoulder of a hill, a rattle down a stony, deep-rutted country lane, where the mare stumbled and nearly came down, a jump over a ft. brook, a cut through a hazel copse, another dose of heavy ploughland, a couple of gates to open, and then the green, unbroken downs beyond. "'well,' said wat danbury to himself, 'i'll see this fox run into or i shall see it drowned, for it's all clear going now between this and the chalk cliffs which line the sea.' but he was wrong in that, as he speedily discovered. in all the little hollows of the downs at that part there are plantations of fir-woods, some of which have grown to a good size. you do not see them until you come upon the edge of the valleys in which they lie. danbury was galloping hard over the short, springy turf when he came over the lip of one of these depressions, and there was the dark clump of wood lying in front of and beneath him. there were only a dozen hounds still running, and they were just disappearing among the trees. the sunlight was shining straight upon the long olive-green slopes which curved down towards this wood, and danbury, who had the eyes of a hawk, swept them over this great expanse; but there was nothing moving upon it. a few sheep were grazing far up on the right, but there was no other sight of any living creature. he was certain then that he was very near to the end, for either the fox must have gone to ground in the wood or the hounds' noses must be at his very brush. the mare seemed to know also what that great empty sweep of countryside meant, for she quickened her stride, and a few minutes afterwards danbury was galloping into the fir-wood. "he had come from bright sunshine, but the wood was very closely planted, and so dim that he could hardly see to right or to left out of the narrow path down which he was riding. you know what a solemn, churchyardy sort of place a fir-wood is. i suppose it is the absence of any undergrowth, and the fact that the trees never move at all. at any rate a kind of chill suddenly struck wat danbury, and it flashed through his mind that there had been some very singular points about this run-- its length and its straightness, and the fact that from the first find no one had ever caught a glimpse of the creature. some silly talk which had been going round the country about the king of the foxes--a sort of demon fox, so fast that it could outrun any pack, and so fierce that they could do nothing with it if they overtook it--suddenly came back into his mind, and it did not seem so laughable now in the dim fir-wood as it had done when the story had been told over the wine and cigars. the nervousness which had been on him in the morning, and which he had hoped that he had shaken off, swept over him again in an overpowering wave. he had been so proud of being alone, and yet he would have given pounds now to have had joe clarke's homely face beside him. and then, just at that moment, there broke out from the thickest part of the wood the most frantic hullabaloo that ever he had heard in his life. the hounds had run into their fox. "well, you know, or you ought to know, what your duty is in such a case. you have to be whip, huntsman, and everything else if you are the first man up. you get in among the hounds, lash them off, and keep the brush and pads from being destroyed. of course, wat danbury knew all about that, and he tried to force his mare through the trees to the place where all this hideous screaming and howling came from, but the wood was so thick that it was impossible to ride it. he sprang off, therefore, left the mare standing, and broke his way through as best he could with his hunting-lash ready over his shoulder. "but as he ran forward he felt his flesh go cold and creepy all over. he had heard hounds run into foxes many times before, but he had never heard such sounds as these. they were not the cries of triumph, but of fear. every now and then came a shrill yelp of mortal agony. holding his breath, he ran on until he broke through the interlacing branches, and found himself in a little, clearing with the hounds all crowding round a patch of tangled bramble at the further end. "when he first caught sight of them the hounds were standing in a half-circle round this bramble patch, with their backs bristling and their jaws gaping. in front of the brambles lay one of them with his throat torn out, all crimson and white-and-tan. wat came running out into the clearing, and at the sight of him the hounds took heart again, and one of them sprang with a growl into the bushes. at the same instant, a creature the size of a donkey jumped on to its feet, a huge grey head, with monstrous glistening fangs and tapering fox jaws, shot out from among the branches, and the hound was thrown several feet into the air, and fell howling among the cover. then there was a clashing snap, like a rat-trap closing, and the howls sharpened into a scream and then were still. "danbury had been on the look-out for symptoms all day, and now he had found them. he looked once more at the thicket, saw a pair of savage red eyes fixed upon him, and fairly took to his heels. it might only be a passing delusion, or it might be the permanent mania of which the doctor had spoken, but anyhow, the thing to do was to get back to bed and to quiet, and to hope for the best. "he forgot the hounds, the hunt, and everything else in his desperate fears for his own reason. he sprang upon his mare, galloped her madly over the downs, and only stopped when he found himself at a country station. there he left his mare at the inn, and made back for home as quickly as steam would take him. it was evening before he got there, shivering with apprehension, and seeing those red eyes and savage teeth at every turn. he went straight to bed and sent for dr. middleton. "'i've got 'em, doctor,' said he. 'it came about exactly as you said-- strange creatures, optical delusions, and everything. all i ask you now is to save my reason.' the doctor listened to his story, and was shocked as he heard it. "'it appears to be a very clear case,' said he. 'this must be a lesson to you for life.' "'never a drop again if i only come safely through this,' cried wat danbury. "'well, my dear boy, if you will stick to that it may prove a blessing in disguise. but the difficulty in this case is to know where fact ends and fancy begins. you see, it is not as if there was only one delusion. there have been several. the dead dogs, for example, must have been one as well as the creature in the bush.' "'i saw it all as clearly as i see you.' "'one of the characteristics of this form of delirium is that what you see is even clearer than reality. i was wondering whether the whole run was not a delusion also.' "wat danbury pointed to his hunting boots still lying upon the floor, necked with the splashings of two counties. "'hum! that looks very real, certainly. no doubt, in your weak state, you over-exerted yourself and so brought this attack upon yourself. well, whatever the cause, our treatment is clear. you will take the soothing mixture which i will send to you, and we shall put two leeches upon your temples to-night to relieve any congestion of the brain.' "so wat danbury spent the night in tossing about and reflecting what a sensitive thing this machinery of ours is, and how very foolish it is to play tricks with what is so easily put out of gear and so difficult to mend. and so he repeated and repeated his oath that this first lesson should be his last, and that from that time forward he would be a sober, hard-working yeoman as his father had been before him. so he lay, tossing and still repentant, when his door flew open in the morning and in rushed the doctor with a newspaper crumpled up in his hand. "'my dear boy,' he cried, 'i owe you a thousand apologies. you're the most ill-used lad and i the greatest numskull in the county. listen to this!' and he sat down upon the side of the bed, flattened out his paper upon his knee, and began to read. "the paragraph was headed, 'disaster to the ascombe hounds,' and it went on to say that four of the hounds, shockingly torn and mangled, had been found in winton fir wood upon the south downs. the run had been so severe that half the pack were lamed; but the four found in the wood were actually dead, although the cause of their extraordinary injuries was still unknown. "'so, you see,' said the doctor, looking up, 'that i was wrong when i put the dead hounds among the delusions.' "'but the cause?' cried wat. "'well, i think we may guess the cause from an item which has been inserted just as the paper went to press:-- "late last night, mr. brown, of smither's farm, to the east of hastings, perceived what he imagined to be an enormous dog worrying one of his sheep. he shot the creature, which proves to be a grey siberian wolf of the variety known as _lupus giganticus_. it is supposed to have escaped from some travelling menagerie. "that's the story, gentlemen, and wat danbury stuck to his good resolutions, for the fright which he had cured him of all wish to run such a risk again; and he never touches anything stronger than lime-juice--at least, he hadn't before he left this part of the country, five years ago next lady day." the three correspondents there was only the one little feathery clump of dom palms in all that great wilderness of black rocks and orange sand. it stood high on the bank, and below it the brown nile swirled swiftly towards the ambigole cataract, fitting a little frill of foam round each of the boulders which studded its surface. above, out of a naked blue sky, the sun was beating down upon the sand, and up again from the sand under the brims of the pith-hats of the horsemen with the scorching glare of a blast-furnace. it had risen so high that the shadows of the horses were no larger than themselves. "whew!" cried mortimer, mopping his forehead, "you'd pay five shillings for this at the hummums." "precisely," said scott. "but you are not asked to ride twenty miles in a turkish bath with a field-glass and a revolver, and a water-bottle and a whole christmas-treeful of things dangling from you. the hot-house at kew is excellent as a conservatory, but not adapted for exhibitions upon the horizontal bar. i vote for a camp in the palm-grove and a halt until evening." mortimer rose on his stirrups and looked hard to the southward. everywhere were the same black burned rocks and deep orange sand. at one spot only an intermittent line appeared to have been cut through the rugged spurs which ran down to the river. it was the bed of the old railway, long destroyed by the arabs, but now in process of reconstruction by the advancing egyptians. there was no other sign of man's handiwork in all that desolate scene. "it's palm trees or nothing," said scott. "well, i suppose we must; and yet i grudge every hour until we catch the force up. what _would_ our editors say if we were late for the action?" "my dear chap, an old bird like you doesn't need to be told that no sane modern general would ever attack until the press is up." "you don't mean that?" said young anerley. "i thought we were looked upon as an unmitigated nuisance." "'newspaper correspondents and travelling gentlemen, and all that tribe of useless drones'--being an extract from lord wolseley's 'soldier's pocket-book,'" cried scott. "we know all about _that_, anerley;" and he winked behind his blue spectacles. "if there was going to be a battle we should very soon have an escort of cavalry to hurry us up. i've been in fifteen, and i never saw one where they had not arranged for a reporter's table." "that's very well; but the enemy may be less considerate," said mortimer. "they are not strong enough to force a battle." "a skirmish, then?" "much more likely to be a raid upon the rear. in that case we are just where we should be." "so we are! what a score over reuter's man up with the advance! well, we'll outspan and have our tiffin under the palms." there were three of them, and they stood for three great london dailies. reuter's was thirty miles ahead; two evening pennies upon camels were twenty miles behind. and among them they represented the eyes and ears of the public--the great silent millions and millions who had paid for everything, and who waited so patiently to know the result of their outlay. they were remarkable men these body-servants of the press; two of them already veterans in camps, the other setting out upon his first campaign, and full of deference for his famous comrades. this first one, who had just dismounted from his bay polo-pony, was mortimer, of the _intelligence_--tall, straight, and hawk-faced, with khaki tunic and riding-breeches, drab putties, a scarlet cummerbund, and a skin tanned to the red of a scotch fir by sun and wind, and mottled by the mosquito and the sand-fly. the other--small, quick, mercurial, with blue-black, curling beard and hair, a fly-switch for ever flicking in his left hand--was scott, of the _courier_, who had come through more dangers and brought off more brilliant _coups_ than any man in the profession, save the eminent chandler, now no longer in a condition to take the field. they were a singular contrast, mortimer and scott, and it was in their differences that the secret of their close friendship lay. each dovetailed into the other. the strength of each was in the other's weakness. together they formed a perfect unit. mortimer was saxon--slow, conscientious, and deliberate; scott was celtic--quick, happy-go-lucky, and brilliant. mortimer was the more solid, scott the more attractive. mortimer was the deeper thinker, scott the brighter talker. by a curious coincidence, though each had seen much of warfare, their campaigns had never coincided. together they covered all recent military history. scott had done plevna, the shipka, the zulus, egypt, suakim; mortimer had seen the boer war, the chilian, the bulgaria and servian, the gordon relief, the indian frontier, brazilian rebellion, and madagascar. this intimate personal knowledge gave a peculiar flavour to their talk. there was none of the second-hand surmise and conjecture which form so much of our conversation; it was all concrete and final. the speaker had been there, had seen it, and there was an end of it. in spite of their friendship there was the keenest professional rivalry between the two men. either would have sacrificed himself to help his companion, but either would also have sacrificed his companion to help his paper. never did a jockey yearn for a winning mount as keenly as each of them longed to have a full column in a morning edition whilst every other daily was blank. they were perfectly frank about the matter. each professed himself ready to steal a march on his neighbour, and each recognised that the other's duty to his employer was far higher than any personal consideration. the third man was anerley, of the _gazette_--young, inexperienced, and rather simple-looking. he had a droop of the lip, which some of his more intimate friends regarded as a libel upon his character, and his eyes were so slow and so sleepy that they suggested an affectation. a leaning towards soldiering had sent him twice to autumn manoeuvres, and a touch of colour in his descriptions had induced the proprietors of the _gazette_ to give him a trial as a war-special. there was a pleasing diffidence about his bearing which recommended him to his experienced companions, and if they had a smile sometimes at his guileless ways, it was soothing to them to have a comrade from whom nothing was to be feared. from the day that they left the telegraph-wire behind them at sarras, the man who was mounted upon a -guinea - syrian was delivered over into the hands of the owners of the two fastest polo-ponies that ever shot down the ghezireh ground. the three had dismounted and led their beasts under the welcome shade. in the brassy, yellow glare every branch above threw so black and solid a shadow that the men involuntarily raised their feet to step over them. "the palm makes an excellent hat-rack," said scott, slinging his revolver and his water-bottle over the little upward-pointing pegs which bristle from the trunk. "as a shade tree, however, it isn't an unqualified success. curious that in the universal adaptation of means to ends something a little less flimsy could not have been devised for the tropics." "like the banyan in india." "or the fine hardwood trees in ashantee, where a whole regiment could picnic under the shade." "the teak tree isn't bad in burmah, either. by jove, the baccy has all come loose in the saddle-bag! that long-cut mixture smokes rather hot for this climate. how about the baggles, anerley?" "they'll be here in five minutes." down the winding path which curved among the rocks the little train of baggage-camels was daintily picking its way. they came mincing and undulating along, turning their heads slowly from side to side with the air of a self-conscious woman. in front rode the three berberee body-servants upon donkeys, and behind walked the arab camel-boys. they had been travelling for nine long hours, ever since the first rising of the moon, at the weary camel-drag of two and a half miles an hour, but now they brightened, both beasts and men, at the sight of the grove and the riderless horses. in a few minutes the loads were unstrapped, the animals tethered, a fire lighted, fresh water carried up from the river, and each camel-boy provided with his own little heap of tibbin laid in the centre of the table-cloth, without which no well-bred arabian will condescend to feed. the dazzling light without, the subdued half-tones within, the green palm-fronds outlined against the deep blue sky, the flitting, silent-footed arab servants, the crackling of sticks, the reek of a lighting fire, the placid supercilious heads of the camels, they all come back in their dreams to those who have known them. scott was breaking eggs into a pan and rolling out a love-song in his rich, deep voice. anerley, with his head and arms buried in a deal packing-case, was working his way through strata of tinned soups, bully beef, potted chicken, and sardines to reach the jams which lay beneath. the conscientious mortimer, with his notebook upon his knee, was jotting down what the railway engineer had told him at the line-end the day before. suddenly he raised his eyes and saw the man himself on his chestnut pony, dipping and rising over the broken ground. "hullo! here's merryweather!" "a pretty lather his pony is in! he's had her at that hand-gallop for hours, by the look of her. hullo, merryweather, hullo!" the engineer, a small, compact man with a pointed red beard, had made as though he would ride past their camp without word or halt. now he swerved, and easing his pony down to a canter, he headed her to-wards them. "for god's sake, a drink!" he croaked. "my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth." mortimer ran with the water-bottle, scott with the whisky-flask, and anerley with the tin pannikin. the engineer drank until his breath failed him. "well, i must be off," said he, striking the drops from his red moustache. "any news?" "a hitch in the railway construction. i must see the general. it's the devil not having a telegraph." "anything we can report?" out came three notebooks. "i'll tell you after i've seen the general." "any dervishes?" "the usual shaves. hud-up, jinny! good-bye!" with a soft thudding upon the sand, and a clatter among the stones the weary pony was off upon her journey once more. "nothing serious, i suppose?" said mortimer, staring after him. "deuced serious," cried scott. "the ham and eggs are burned! no--it's all right--saved, and done to a turn! pull the box up, anerley. come on, mortimer, stow that notebook! the fork is mightier than the pen just at present. what's the matter with you, anerley?" "i was wondering whether what we have just seen was worth a telegram." "well, it's for the proprietors to say if it's worth it. sordid money considerations are not for us. we must wire about something just to justify our khaki coats and our putties." "but what is there to say?" mortimer's long, austere face broke into a smile over the youngster's innocence. "it's not quite usual in our profession to give each other tips," said he. "however, as my telegram is written, i've no objection to your reading it. you may be sure that i would not show it to you if it were of the slightest importance." anerley took up the slip of paper and read:-- merryweather obstacles stop journey confer general stop nature difficulties later stop rumours dervishes. "this is very condensed," said anerley, with wrinkled brows. "condensed!" cried scott. "why, it's sinfully garrulous. if my old man got a wire like that his language would crack the lamp-shades. i'd cut out half this; for example, i'd have out 'journey,' and 'nature,' and 'rumours.' but my old man would make a ten-line paragraph of it for all that." "how?" "well, i'll do it myself just to show you. lend me that stylo." he scribbled for a minute in his notebook. "it works out somewhat on these lines":-- mr. charles h. merryweather, the eminent railway engineer, who is at present engaged in superintending the construction of the line from sarras to the front, has met with considerable obstacles to the rapid completion of his important task-- "of course the old man knows who merryweather is, and what he is about, so the word 'obstacles' would suggest all that to him." he has to-day been compelled to make a journey of forty miles to the front, in order to confer with the general upon the steps which are necessary in order to facilitate the work. further particulars of the exact nature of the difficulties met with will be made public at a later date. all is quiet upon the line of communications, though the usual persistent rumours of the presence of dervishes in the eastern desert continue to circulate.--_our own correspondent_. "how's that?" cried scott, triumphantly, and his white teeth gleamed suddenly through his black beard. "that's the sort of flapdoodle for the dear old public." "will it interest them?" "oh, everything interests them. they want to know all about it; and they like to think that there is a man who is getting a hundred a month simply in order to tell it to them." "it's very kind of you to teach me all this." "well, it is a little unconventional, for, after all, we are here to score over each other if we can. there are no more eggs, and you must take it out in jam. of course, as mortimer says, such a telegram as this is of no importance one way or another, except to prove to the office that we _are_ in the soudan, and not at monte carlo. but when it comes to serious work it must be every man for himself." "is that quite necessary?" "why, of course it is." "i should have thought if three men were to combine and to share their news, they would do better than if they were each to act for himself, and they would have a much pleasanter time of it." the two older men sat with their bread-and-jam in their hands, and an expression of genuine disgust upon their faces. "we are not here to have a pleasant time," said mortimer, with a flash through his glasses. "we are here to do our best for our papers. how can they score over each other if we do not do the same? if we all combine we might as well amalgamate with reuter at once." "why, it would take away the whole glory of the profession!" cried scott. "at present the smartest man gets his stuff first on the wires. what inducement is there to be smart if we all share and share alike?" "and at present the man with the best equipment has the best chance," remarked mortimer, glancing across at the shot-silk polo ponies and the cheap little syrian grey. "that is the fair reward of foresight and enterprise. every man for himself, and let the best man win." "that's the way to find who the best man is. look at chandler. he would never have got his chance if he had not played always off his own bat. you've heard how he pretended to break his leg, sent his fellow-correspondent off for the doctor, and so got a fair start for the telegraph-office." "do you mean to say that was legitimate?" "everything is legitimate. it's your wits against my wits." "i should call it dishonourable." "you may call it what you like. chandler's paper got the battle and the other's didn't. it made chandler's name." "or take westlake," said mortimer, cramming the tobacco into his pipe. "hi, abdul, you may have the dishes! westlake brought his stuff down by pretending to be the government courier, and using the relays of government horses. westlake's paper sold half a million." "is that legitimate also?" asked anerley, thoughtfully. "why not?" "well, it looks a little like horse-stealing and lying." "well, _i_ think i should do a little horse-stealing and lying if i could have a column to myself in a london daily. what do you say, scott?" "anything short of manslaughter." "and i'm not sure that i'd trust you there." "well, i don't think i should be guilty of newspaper-man-slaughter. that i regard as a distinct breach of professional etiquette. but if any outsider comes between a highly charged correspondent and an electric wire, he does it at his peril. my dear anerley, i tell you frankly that if you are going to handicap yourself with scruple you may just as well be in fleet street as in the soudan. our life is irregular. our work has never been systematised. no doubt it will be some day, but the time is not yet. do what you can and how you can, and be first on the wires; that's my advice to you; and also, that when next you come upon a campaign you bring with you the best horse that money can buy. mortimer may beat me or i may beat mortimer, but at least we know that between us we have the fastest ponies in the country. we have neglected no chance." "i am not so certain of that," said mortimer, slowly. "you are aware, of course, that though a horse beats a camel on twenty miles, a camel beats a horse on thirty." "what, one of those camels?" cried anerley in astonishment. the two seniors burst out laughing. "no, no, the real high-bred trotter--the kind of beast the dervishes ride when they make their lightning raids." "faster than a galloping horse?" "well, it tires a horse down. it goes the same gait all the way, and it wants neither halt nor drink, and it takes rough ground much better than a horse. they used to have long distance races at haifa, and the camel always won at thirty." "still, we need not reproach ourselves, scott, for we are not very likely to have to carry a thirty-mile message, they will have the field telegraph next week." "quite so. but at the present moment--" "i know, my dear chap; but there is no motion of urgency before the house. load baggles at five o'clock; so you have just three hours clear. any sign of the evening pennies?" mortimer swept the northern horizon with his binoculars. "not in sight yet." "they are quite capable of travelling during the heat of the day. just the sort of thing evening pennies _would_ do. take care of your match, anerley. these palm groves go up like a powder magazine if you set them alight. bye-bye." the two men crawled under their mosquito-nets and sank instantly into the easy sleep of those whose lives are spent in the open. young anerley stood with his back against a palm tree and his briar between his lips, thinking over the advice which he had received. after all, they were the heads of the profession, these men, and it was not for him, the newcomer, to reform their methods. if they served their papers in this fashion, then he must do the same. they had at least been frank and generous in teaching him the rules of the game. if it was good enough for them it was good enough for him. it was a broiling afternoon, and those thin frills of foam round the black, glistening necks of the nile boulders looked delightfully cool and alluring. but it would not be safe to bathe for some hours to come. the air shimmered and vibrated over the baking stretch of sand and rock. there was not a breath of wind, and the droning and piping of the insects inclined one for sleep. somewhere above a hoopoe was calling. anerley knocked out his ashes, and was turning towards his couch, when his eye caught something moving in the desert to the south. it was a horseman riding towards them as swiftly as the broken ground would permit. a messenger from the army, thought anerley; and then, as he watched, the sun suddenly struck the man on the side of the head, and his chin flamed into gold. there could not be two horsemen with beards of such a colour. it was merryweather, the engineer, and he was returning. what on earth was he returning for? he had been so keen to see the general, and yet he was coming back with his mission unaccomplished. was it that his pony was hopelessly foundered? it seemed to be moving well. anerley picked up mortimer's binoculars, and a foam-bespattered horse and a weary koorbash-cracking man came cantering up the centre of the field. but there was nothing in his appearance to explain the mystery of his return. then as he watched them they dipped into a hollow and disappeared. he could see that it was one of those narrow khors which led to the river, and he waited, glass in hand, for their immediate reappearance. but minute passed after minute and there was no sign of them. that narrow gully appeared to have swallowed them up. and then with a curious gulp and start he saw a little grey cloud wreathe itself slowly from among the rocks and drift in a long, hazy shred over the desert. in an instant he had torn scott and mortimer from their slumbers. "get up, you chaps!" he cried. "i believe merryweather has been shot by dervishes." "and reuter not here!" cried the two veterans, exultantly clutching at their notebooks. "merryweather shot! where? when? how?" in a few words anerley explained what he had seen. "you heard nothing?" "nothing." "well, a shot loses itself very easily among rocks. by george, look at the buzzards!" two large brown birds were soaring in the deep blue heaven. as scott spoke they circled down and dropped into the little khor. "that's good enough," said mortimer, with his nose between the leaves of his book. "'merryweather headed dervishes stop return stop shot mutilated stop raid communications.' how's that?" "you think he was headed off?" "why else should he return?" "in that case, if they were out in front of him and others cut him off, there must be several small raiding parties." "i should judge so." "how about the 'mutilated'?" "i've fought against arabs before." "where are you off to?" "sarras." "i think i'll race you in," said scott. anerley stared in astonishment at the absolutely impersonal way in which these men regarded the situation. in their zeal for news it had apparently never struck them that they, their camp, and their servants were all in the lion's mouth. but even as they talked there came the harsh, importunate rat-tat-tat of an irregular volley from among the rocks, and the high, keening whistle of bullets over their heads. a palm spray fluttered down amongst them. at the same instant the six frightened servants came running wildly in for protection. it was the cool-headed mortimer who organised the defence, for scott's celtic soul was so aflame at all this "copy" in hand and more to come that he was too exuberantly boisterous for a commander. the other, with his spectacles and his stern face, soon had the servants in hand. "_tali henna! egri!_ what the deuce are you frightened about? put the camels between the palm trunks. that's right. now get the knee-tethers on them. _quies_! did you never hear bullets before? now put the donkeys here. not much--you don't get my polo-pony to make a zareba with. picket the ponies between the grove and the river out of danger's way. these fellows seem to fire even higher than they did in ' ." "that's got home, anyhow," said scott, as they heard a soft, splashing thud like a stone in a mud-bank. "who's hit, then?" "the brown camel that's chewing the cud." as he spoke the creature, its jaw still working, laid its long neck along the ground and closed its large dark eyes. "that shot cost me pounds," said mortimer, ruefully. "how many of them do you make?" "four, i think." "only four bezingers, at any rate; there may be some spearmen." "i think not; it is a little raiding-party of rifle-men. by the way, anerley, you've never been under fire before, have you?" "never," said the young pressman, who was conscious of a curious feeling of nervous elation. "love and poverty and war, they are all experiences necessary to make a complete life. pass over those cartridges. this is a very mild baptism that you are undergoing, for behind these camels you are as safe as if you were sitting in the back room of the authors' club." "as safe, but hardly as comfortable," said scott. "a long glass of hock and seltzer would be exceedingly acceptable. but oh, mortimer, what a chance! think of the general's feelings when he hears that the first action of the war has been fought by the press column. think of reuter, who has been stewing at the front for a week! think of the evening pennies just too late for the fun. by george, that slug brushed a mosquito off me!" "and one of the donkeys is hit." "this is sinful. it will end in our having to carry our own kits to khartoum." "never mind, my boy, it all goes to make copy. i can see the headlines--'raid on communications'; 'murder of british engineer': 'press column attacked.' won't it be ripping?" "i wonder what the next line will be," said anerley. "'our special wounded'!" cried scott, rolling over on to his back. "no harm done," he added, gathering himself up again; "only a chip off my knee. this is getting sultry. i confess that the idea of that back room at the authors' club begins to grow upon me." "i have some diachylon." "afterwards will do. we're having a 'appy day with fuzzy on the rush. i wish he _would_ rush." "they're coming nearer." "this is an excellent revolver of mine if it didn't throw so devilish high. i always aim at a man's toes if i want to stimulate his digestion. o lord, there's our kettle gone!" with a boom like a dinner-gong a remington bullet had passed through the kettle, and a cloud of steam hissed up from the fire. a wild shout came from the rocks above. "the idiots think that they have blown us up. they'll rush us now, as sure as fate; then it will be our turn to lead. got your revolver, anerley?" "i have this double-barrelled fowling-piece." "sensible man! it's the best weapon in the world at this sort of rough-and-tumble work. what cartridges?" "swan-shot." "that will do all right. i carry this big bore double-barrelled pistol loaded with slugs. you might as well try to stop one of these fellows with a pea-shooter as with a service revolver." "there are ways and means," said scott. "the geneva convention does not hold south of the first cataract. it's easy to make a bullet mushroom by a little manipulation of the tip of it. when i was in the broken square at tamai--" "wait a bit," cried mortimer, adjusting his glasses. "i think they are coming now." "the time," said scott, snapping up his watch, "being exactly seventeen minutes past four." anerley had been lying behind a camel staring with an interest which bordered upon fascination at the rocks opposite. here was a little woolly puff of smoke, and there was another one, but never once had they caught a glimpse of the attackers. to him there was something weird and awesome in these unseen, persistent men who, minute by minute, were drawing closer to them. he had heard them cry out when the kettle was broken, and once, immediately afterwards, an enormously strong voice had roared something which had set scott shrugging his shoulders. "they've got to take us first," said he, and anerley thought his nerve might be better if he did not ask for a translation. the firing had begun at a distance of some yards, which put it out of the question for them, with their lighter weapons, to make any reply to it. had their antagonists continued to keep that range the defenders must either have made a hopeless sally or tried to shelter themselves behind their zareba as best they might on the chance that the sound might bring up help. but, luckily for them, the african has never taken kindly to the rifle, and his primitive instinct to close with his enemy is always too strong for his sense of strategy. they were drawing in, therefore, and now, for the first time, anerley caught sight of a face looking at them from over a rock. it was a huge, virile, strong-jawed head of a pure negro type, with silver trinkets gleaming in the ears. the man raised a great arm from behind the rock, and shook his remington at them. "shall i fire?" asked anerley. "no, no; it is too far. your shot would scatter all over the place." "it's a picturesque ruffian," said scott. "couldn't you kodak him, mortimer? there's another!" a fine-featured brown arab, with a black, pointed beard, was peeping from behind another boulder. he wore the green turban which proclaimed him hadji, and his face showed the keen, nervous exultation of the religious fanatic. "they seem a piebald crowd," said scott. "that last is one of the real fighting baggara," remarked mortimer. "he's a dangerous man." "he looks pretty vicious. there's another negro!" "two more! dingas, by the look of them. just the same chaps we get our own black battalions from. as long as they get a fight they don't mind who it's for; but if the idiots had only sense enough to understand, they would know that the arab is their hereditary enemy, and we their hereditary friends. look at the silly juggins, gnashing his teeth at the very men who put down the slave trade!" "couldn't you explain?" "i'll explain with this pistol when he comes a little nearer. now sit tight, anerley. they're off!" they were indeed. it was the brown man with the green turban who headed the rush. close at his heels was the negro with the silver ear-rings-- a giant of a man, and the other two were only a little behind. as they sprang over the rocks one after the other, it took anerley back to the school sports when he held the tape for the hurdle-race. it was magnificent, the wild spirit and abandon of it, the flutter of the chequered galabeeahs, the gleam of steel, the wave of black arms, the frenzied faces, the quick pitter-patter of the rushing feet. the law-abiding briton is so imbued with the idea of the sanctity of human life that it was hard for the young pressman to realise that these men had every intention of killing him, and that he was at perfect liberty to do as much for them. he lay staring as if this were a show and he a spectator. "now, anerley, now! take the arab!" cried somebody. he put up the gun and saw the brown fierce face at the other end of the barrel. he tugged at the trigger, but the face grew larger and fiercer with every stride. again and again he tugged. a revolver-shot rang out at his elbow, then another one, and he saw a red spot spring out on the arab's brown breast. but he was still coming on. "shoot, you ass, shoot!" screamed scott. again he strained unavailingly at the trigger. there were two more pistol-shots, and the big negro had fallen and risen and fallen again. "cock it, you fool!" shouted a furious voice; and at the same instant, with a rush and flutter, the arab bounded over the prostrate camel and came down with his bare feet upon anerley's chest. in a dream he seemed to be struggling frantically with someone upon the ground, then he was conscious of a tremendous explosion in his very face, and so ended for him the first action of the war. "good-bye, old chap. you'll be all right. give yourself time." it was mortimer's voice, and he became dimly conscious of a long, spectacled face, and of a heavy hand upon his shoulder. "sorry to leave you. we'll be lucky now if we are in time for the morning editions." scott was tightening his girth as he spoke. "we'll put in our wire that you have been hurt, so your people will know why they don't hear from you. if reuter or the evening pennies come up, don't give the thing away. abbas will look after you, and we'll be back to-morrow afternoon. bye-bye!" anerley heard it all, though he did not feel energy enough to answer. then, as he watched two sleek, brown ponies with their yellow-clad riders dwindling among the rocks, his memory cleared suddenly, and he realised that the first great journalistic chance of his life was slipping away from him. it was a small fight, but it was the first of the war, and the great public at home were all athirst for news. they would have it in the _courier_; they would have it in the _intelligence_, and not a word in the _gazette_. the thought brought him to his feet, though he had to throw his arm round the stem of the palm tree to steady his swimming head. there was a big black man lying where he had fallen, his huge chest pocked with bullet-marks, every wound rosetted with its circle of flies. the arab was stretched out within a few yards of him, with two hands clasped over the dreadful thing which had been his head. across him was lying anerley's fowling-piece, one barrel discharged, the other at half cock. "scott effendi shoot him your gun," said a voice. it was abbas, his english-speaking body-servant. anerley groaned at the disgrace of it. he had lost his head so completely that he had forgotten to cock his gun; and yet he knew that it was not fear but interest which had so absorbed him. he put his hand up to his head and felt that a wet handkerchief was bound round his forehead. "where are the two other dervishes?" "they ran away. one got shot in arm." "what's happened to me?" "effendi got cut on head. effendi catch bad man by arms, and scott effendi shot him. face burn very bad." anerley became conscious suddenly that there was a pringling about his skin and an overpowering smell of burned hair under his nostrils. he put his hand to his moustache. it was gone. his eyebrows too? he could not find them. his head, no doubt, was very near to the dervish's when they were rolling upon the ground together, and this was the effect of the explosion of his own gun. well, he would have time to grow some more hair before he saw fleet street again. but the cut, perhaps, was a more serious matter. was it enough to prevent him getting to the telegraph-office at sarras? the only way was to try and see. but there was only that poor little syrian grey of his. there it stood in the evening sunshine, with a sunk head and a bent knee, as if its morning's work was still heavy upon it. what hope was there of being able to do thirty-five miles of heavy going upon that? it would be a strain upon the splendid ponies of his companions--and they were the swiftest and most enduring in the country. the most enduring? there was one creature more enduring, and that was a real trotting camel. if he had had one he might have got to the wires first after all, for mortimer had said that over thirty miles they have the better of any horse. yes, if he had only had a real trotting camel! and then like a flash came mortimer's words, "it is the kind of beast that the dervishes ride when they make their lightning raids." the beasts the dervishes ride! what had these dead dervishes ridden? in an instant he was clambering up the rocks, with abbas protesting at his heels. had the two fugitives carried away all the camels, or had they been content to save themselves? the brass gleam from a litter of empty remington cases caught his eye, and showed where the enemy had been crouching. and then he could have shouted for joy, for there, in the hollow, some little distance off, rose the high, graceful white neck and the elegant head of such a camel as he had never set eyes upon before--a swanlike, beautiful creature, as far from the rough, clumsy baggles as the cart-horse is from the racer. the beast was kneeling under the shelter of the rocks with its waterskin and bag of doora slung over its shoulders, and its forelegs tethered arab fashion with a rope around the knees. anerley threw his leg over the front pommel while abbas slipped off the cord. forward flew anerley towards the creature's neck, then violently backwards, clawing madly at anything which might save him, and then, with a jerk which nearly snapped his loins, he was thrown forward again. but the camel was on its legs now, and the young pressman was safely seated upon one of the fliers of the desert. it was as gentle as it was swift, and it stood oscillating its long neck and gazing round with its large brown eyes, whilst anerley coiled his legs round the peg and grasped the curved camel-stick which abbas had handed up to him. there were two bridle-cords, one from the nostril and one from the neck, but he remembered that scott had said that it was the servant's and not the house-bell which had to be pulled, so he kept his grasp upon the lower. then he touched the long, vibrating neck with his stick, and in an instant abbas' farewell seemed to come from far behind him, and the black rocks and yellow sand were dancing past on either side. it was his first experience of a trotting camel, and at first the motion, although irregular and abrupt, was not unpleasant. having no stirrup or fixed point of any kind, he could not rise to it, but he gripped as tightly as be could with his knee, and he tried to sway backwards and forwards as he had seen the arabs do. it was a large, very concave makloofa saddle, and he was conscious that he was bouncing about on it with as little power of adhesion as a billiard-ball upon a tea-tray. he gripped the two sides with his hands to hold himself steady. the creature had got into its long, swinging, stealthy trot, its sponge-like feet making no sound upon the hard sand. anerley leaned back with his two hands gripping hard behind him, and he whooped the creature on. the sun had already sunk behind the line of black volcanic peaks, which look like huge slag-heaps at the mouth of a mine. the western sky had taken that lovely light green and pale pink tint which makes evening beautiful upon the nile, and the old brown river itself, swirling down amongst the black rocks, caught some shimmer of the colours above. the glare, the heat, and the piping of the insects had all ceased together. in spite of his aching head, anerley could have cried out for pure physical joy as the swift creature beneath him flew along with him through that cool, invigorating air, with the virile north wind soothing his pringling face. he had looked at his watch, and now he made a swift calculation of times and distances. it was past six when he had left the camp. over broken ground it was impossible that he could hope to do more than seven miles an hour--less on bad parts, more on the smooth. his recollection of the track was that there were few smooth and many bad. he would be lucky, then, if he reached sarras anywhere from twelve to one. then the messages took a good two hours to go through, for they had to be transcribed at cairo. at the best he could only hope to have told his story in fleet street at two or three in the morning. it was possible that he might manage it, but the chances seemed enormously against him. about three the morning edition would be made up, and his chance gone for ever. the one thing clear was that only the first man at the wires would have any chance at all, and anerley meant to be first if hard riding could do it. so he tapped away at the bird-like neck, and the creature's long, loose limbs went faster and faster at every tap. where the rocky spurs ran down to the river, horses would have to go round, while camels might get across, so that anerley felt that he was always gaining upon his companions. but there was a price to be paid for the feeling. he had heard of men who had burst when on camel journeys, and he knew that the arabs swathe their bodies tightly in broad cloth bandages when they prepare for a long march. it had seemed unnecessary and ridiculous when he first began to speed over the level track, but now, when he got on the rocky paths, he understood what it meant. never for an instant was he at the same angle. backwards, forwards he swung, with a tingling jar at the end of each sway, until he ached from his neck to his knees. it caught him across the shoulders, it caught him down the spine, it gripped him over the loins, it marked the lower line of his ribs with one heavy, dull throb. he clutched here and there with his hand to try and ease the strain upon his muscles. he drew up his knees, altered his seat, and set his teeth with a grim determination to go through with it should it kill him. his head was splitting, his flayed face smarting, and every joint in his body aching as if it were dislocated. but he forgot all that when, with the rising of the moon, he heard the clinking of horses' hoofs down upon the track by the river, and knew that, unseen by them, he had already got well abreast of his companions. but he was hardly halfway, and the time already eleven. all day the needles had been ticking away without intermission in the little corrugated iron hut which served as a telegraph station at sarras. with its bare walls and its packing-case seats, it was none the less for the moment one of the vital spots upon the earth's surface, and the crisp, importunate ticking might have come from the world-old clock of destiny. many august people had been at the other end of those wires, and had communed with the moist-faced military clerk. a french premier had demanded a pledge, and an english marquis had passed on the request to the general in command, with a question as to how it would affect the situation. cipher telegrams had nearly driven the clerk out of his wits, for of all crazy occupations the taking of a cipher message, when you are without the key to the cipher, is the worst. much high diplomacy had been going on all day in the innermost chambers of european chancellories, and the results of it had been whispered into this little corrugated-iron hut. about two in the morning an enormous despatch had come at last to an end, and the weary operator had opened the door, and was lighting his pipe in the cool, fresh air, when he saw a camel plump down in the dust, and a man, who seemed to be in the last stage of drunkenness, come rolling towards him. "what's the time?" he cried, in a voice which appeared to be the only sober thing about him. it was on the clerk's lips to say that it was time that the questioner was in his bed, but it is not safe upon a campaign to be ironical at the expense of khaki-clad men. he contented himself, therefore, with the bald statement that it was after two. but no retort that he could have devised could have had a more crushing effect. the voice turned drunken also, and the man caught at the door-post to uphold him. "two o'clock! i'm done after all!" said he. his head was tied up in a bloody handkerchief, his face was crimson, and he stood with his legs crooked as if the pith had all gone out of his back. the clerk began to realise that something out of the ordinary was in the wind. "how long does it take to get a wire to london?" "about two hours." "and it's two now. i could not get it there before four." "before three." "four." "no, three." "but you said two hours." "yes, but there's more than an hour's difference in longitude." "by heaven, i'll do it yet!" cried anerley, and staggering to a packing-case, he began the dictation of his famous despatch. and so it came about that the _gazette_ had a long column, with headlines like an epitaph, when the sheets of the _intelligence_ and the _courier_ were as blank as the faces of their editors. and so, too, it happened that when two weary men, upon two foundered horses, arrived about four in the morning at the sarras post-office, they looked at each other in silence and departed noiselessly, with the conviction that there are some situations with which the english language is not capable of dealing. the new catacomb "look here, burger," said kennedy, "i do wish that you would confide in me." the two famous students of roman remains sat together in kennedy's comfortable room overlooking the corso. the night was cold, and they had both pulled up their chairs to the unsatisfactory italian stove which threw out a zone of stuffiness rather than of warmth. outside under the bright winter stars lay the modern rome, the long, double chain of the electric lamps, the brilliantly lighted _cafes_, the rushing carriages, and the dense throng upon the footpaths. but inside, in the sumptuous chamber of the rich young english archaeologist, there was only old rome to be seen. cracked and time-worn friezes hung upon the walls, grey old busts of senators and soldiers with their fighting heads and their hard, cruel faces peered out from the corners. on the centre table, amidst a litter of inscriptions, fragments, and ornaments, there stood the famous reconstruction by kennedy of the baths of caracalla, which excited such interest and admiration when it was exhibited in berlin. amphorae hung from the ceiling, and a litter of curiosities strewed the rich red turkey carpet. and of them all there was not one which was not of the most unimpeachable authenticity, and of the utmost rarity and value; for kennedy, though little more than thirty, had a european reputation in this particular branch of research, and was, moreover, provided with that long purse which either proves to be a fatal handicap to the student's energies, or, if his mind is still true to its purpose, gives him an enormous advantage in the race for fame. kennedy had often been seduced by whim and pleasure from his studies, but his mind was an incisive one, capable of long and concentrated efforts which ended in sharp reactions of sensuous languor. his handsome face, with its high, white forehead, its aggressive nose, and its somewhat loose and sensuous mouth, was a fair index of the compromise between strength and weakness in his nature. of a very different type was his companion, julius burger. he came of a curious blend, a german father and an italian mother, with the robust qualities of the north mingling strangely with the softer graces of the south. blue teutonic eyes lightened his sun-browned face, and above them rose a square, massive forehead, with a fringe of close yellow curls lying round it. his strong, firm jaw was clean-shaven, and his companion had frequently remarked how much it suggested those old roman busts which peered out from the shadows in the corners of his chamber. under its bluff german strength there lay always a suggestion of italian subtlety, but the smile was so honest, and the eyes so frank, that one understood that this was only an indication of his ancestry, with no actual bearing upon his character. in age and in reputation he was on the same level as his english companion, but his life and his work had both been far more arduous. twelve years before he had come as a poor student to rome, and had lived ever since upon some small endowment for research which had been awarded to him by the university of bonn. painfully, slowly, and doggedly, with extraordinary tenacity and singlemindedness, he had climbed from rung to rung of the ladder of fame, until now he was a member of the berlin academy, and there was every reason to believe that he would shortly be promoted to the chair of the greatest of german universities. but the singleness of purpose which had brought him to the same high level as the rich and brilliant englishman, had caused him in everything outside their work to stand infinitely below him. he had never found a pause in his studies in which to cultivate the social graces. it was only when he spoke of his own subject that his face was filled with life and soul. at other times he was silent and embarrassed, too conscious of his own limitations in larger subjects, and impatient of that small talk which is the conventional refuge of those who have no thoughts to express. and yet for some years there had been an acquaintanceship which appeared to be slowly ripening into a friendship between these two very different rivals. the base and origin of this lay in the fact that in their own studies each was the only one of the younger men who had knowledge and enthusiasm enough to properly appreciate the other. their common interests and pursuits had brought them together, and each had been attracted by the other's knowledge. and then gradually something had been added to this. kennedy had been amused by the frankness and simplicity of his rival, while burger in turn had been fascinated by the brilliancy and vivacity which had made kennedy such a favourite in roman society. i say "had," because just at the moment the young englishman was somewhat under a cloud. a love affair, the details of which had never quite come out, had indicated a heartlessness and callousness upon his part which shocked many of his friends. but in the bachelor circles of students and artists in which he preferred to move there is no very rigid code of honour in such matters, and though a head might be shaken or a pair of shoulders shrugged over the flight of two and the return of one, the general sentiment was probably one of curiosity and perhaps of envy rather than of reprobation. "look here, burger," said kennedy, looking hard at the placid face of his companion, "i do wish that you would confide in me." as he spoke he waved his hand in the direction of a rug which lay upon the floor. on the rug stood a long, shallow fruit-basket of the light wicker-work which is used in the campagna, and this was heaped with a litter of objects, inscribed tiles, broken inscriptions, cracked mosaics, torn papyri, rusty metal ornaments, which to the uninitiated might have seemed to have come straight from a dustman's bin, but which a specialist would have speedily recognized as unique of their kind. the pile of odds and ends in the flat wicker-work basket supplied exactly one of those missing links of social development which are of such interest to the student. it was the german who had brought them in, and the englishman's eyes were hungry as he looked at them. "i won't interfere with your treasure-trove, but i should very much like to hear about it," he continued, while burger very deliberately lit a cigar. "it is evidently a discovery of the first importance. these inscriptions will make a sensation throughout europe." "for every one here there are a million there!" said the german. "there are so many that a dozen savants might spend a lifetime over them, and build up a reputation as solid as the castle of st. angelo." kennedy was thinking with his fine forehead wrinkled and his fingers playing with his long, fair moustache. "you have given yourself away, burger!" said he at last. "your words can only apply to one thing. you have discovered a new catacomb." "i had no doubt that you had already come to that conclusion from an examination of these objects." "well, they certainly appeared to indicate it, but your last remarks make it certain. there is no place except a catacomb which could contain so vast a store of relics as you describe." "quite so. there is no mystery about that. i _have_ discovered a new catacomb." "where?" "ah, that is my secret, my dear kennedy! suffice it that it is so situated that there is not one chance in a million of anyone else coming upon it. its date is different from that of any known catacomb, and it has been reserved for the burial of the highest christians, so that the remains and the relics are quite different from anything which has ever been seen before. if i was not aware of your knowledge and of your energy, my friend, i would not hesitate, under the pledge of secrecy, to tell you everything about it. but as it is i think that i must certainly prepare my own report of the matter before i expose myself to such formidable competition." kennedy loved his subject with a love which was almost a mania--a love which held him true to it, amidst all the distractions which come to a wealthy and dissipated young man. he had ambition, but his ambition was secondary to his mere abstract joy and interest in everything which concerned the old life and history of the city. he yearned to see this new underworld which his companion had discovered. "look here, burger," said he, earnestly, "i assure you that you can trust me most implicitly in the matter. nothing would induce me to put pen to paper about anything which i see until i have your express permission. i quite understand your feeling, and i think it is most natural, but you have really nothing whatever to fear from me. on the other hand, if you don't tell me i shall make a systematic search, and i shall most certainly discover it. in that case, of course, i should make what use i liked of it, since i should be under no obligation to you." burger smiled thoughtfully over his cigar. "i have noticed, friend kennedy," said he, "that when i want information over any point you are not always so ready to supply it." "when did you ever ask me anything that i did not tell you? you remember, for example, my giving you the material for your paper about the temple of the vestals." "ah, well, that was not a matter of much importance. if i were to question you upon some intimate thing, would you give me an answer, i wonder! this new catacomb is a very intimate thing to me, and i should certainly expect some sign of confidence in return." "what you are driving at i cannot imagine," said the englishman, "but if you mean that you will answer my question about the catacomb if i answer any question which you may put to me, i can assure you that i will certainly do so." "well, then," said burger, leaning luxuriously back in his settee, and puffing a blue tree of cigar-smoke into the air, "tell me all about your relations with miss mary saunderson." kennedy sprang up in his chair and glared angrily at his impassive companion. "what the devil do you mean?" he cried. "what sort of a question is this? you may mean it as a joke, but you never made a worse one." "no, i don't mean it as a joke," said burger, simply. "i am really rather interested in the details of the matter. i don't know much about the world and women and social life and that sort of thing, and such an incident has the fascination of the unknown for me. i know you, and i knew her by sight--i had even spoken to her once or twice. i should very much like to hear from your own lips exactly what it was which occurred between you." "i won't tell you a word." "that's all right. it was only my whim to see if you would give up a secret as easily as you expected me to give up my secret of the new catacomb. you wouldn't, and i didn't expect you to. but why should you expect otherwise of me? there's st. john's clock striking ten. it is quite time that i was going home." "no, wait a bit, burger," said kennedy; "this is really a ridiculous caprice of yours to wish to know about an old love affair which has burned out months ago. you know we look upon a man who kisses and tells as the greatest coward and villain possible." "certainly," said the german, gathering up his basket of curiosities, "when he tells anything about a girl which is previously unknown, he must be so. but in this case, as you must be aware, it was a public matter which was the common talk of rome, so that you are not really doing miss mary saunderson any injury by discussing her case with me. but still, i respect your scruples; and so good night!" "wait a bit, burger," said kennedy, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "i am very keen upon this catacomb business, and i can't let it drop quite so easily. would you mind asking me something else in return--something not quite so eccentric this time?" "no, no; you have refused, and there is an end of it," said burger, with his basket on his arm. "no doubt you are quite right not to answer, and no doubt i am quite right also--and so again, my dear kennedy, good night!" the englishman watched burger cross the room, and he had his hand on the handle of the door before his host sprang up with the air of a man who is making the best of that which cannot be helped. "hold on, old fellow," said he. "i think you are behaving in a most ridiculous fashion, but still, if this is your condition, i suppose that i must submit to it. i hate saying anything about a girl, but, as you say, it is all over rome, and i don't suppose i can tell you anything which you do not know already. what was it you wanted to know?" the german came back to the stove, and, laying down his basket, he sank into his chair once more. "may i have another cigar?" said he. "thank you very much! i never smoke when i work, but i enjoy a chat much more when i am under the influence of tobacco. now, as regards this young lady, with whom you had this little adventure. what in the world has become of her?" "she is at home with her own people." "oh, really--in england?" "yes." "what part of england--london?" "no, twickenham." "you must excuse my curiosity, my dear kennedy, and you must put it down to my ignorance of the world. no doubt it is quite a simple thing to persuade a young lady to go off with you for three weeks or so, and then to hand her over to her own family at--what did you call the place?" "twickenham." "quite so--at twickenham. but it is something so entirely outside my own experience that i cannot even imagine how you set about it. for example, if you had loved this girl your love could hardly disappear in three weeks, so i presume that you could not have loved her at all. but if you did not love her why should you make this great scandal which has damaged you and ruined her?" kennedy looked moodily into the red eye of the stove. "that's a logical way of looking at it, certainly," said he. "love is a big word, and it represents a good many different shades of feeling. i liked her, and-- well, you say you've seen her--you know how charming she can look. but still i am willing to admit, looking back, that i could never have really loved her." "then, my dear kennedy, why did you do it?" "the adventure of the thing had a great deal to do with it." "what! you are so fond of adventures!" "where would the variety of life be without them? it was for an adventure that i first began to pay my attentions to her. i've chased a good deal of game in my time, but there's no chase like that of a pretty woman. there was the piquant difficulty of it also, for, as she was the companion of lady emily rood it was almost impossible to see her alone. on the top of all the other obstacles which attracted me, i learned from her own lips very early in the proceedings that she was engaged." "mein gott! to whom?" "she mentioned no names." "i do not think that anyone knows that. so that made the adventure more alluring, did it?" "well, it did certainly give a spice to it. don't you think so?" "i tell you that i am very ignorant about these things." "my dear fellow, you can remember that the apple you stole from your neighbour's tree was always sweeter than that which fell from your own. and then i found that she cared for me." "what--at once?" "oh, no, it took about three months of sapping and mining. but at last i won her over. she understood that my judicial separation from my wife made it impossible for me to do the right thing by her--but she came all the same, and we had a delightful time, as long as it lasted." "but how about the other man?" kennedy shrugged his shoulders. "i suppose it is the survival of the fittest," said he. "if he had been the better man she would not have deserted him. let's drop the subject, for i have had enough of it!" "only one other thing. how did you get rid of her in three weeks?" "well, we had both cooled down a bit, you understand. she absolutely refused, under any circumstances, to come back to face the people she had known in rome. now, of course, rome is necessary to me, and i was already pining to be back at my work--so there was one obvious cause of separation. then, again, her old father turned up at the hotel in london, and there was a scene, and the whole thing became so unpleasant that really--though i missed her dreadfully at first--i was very glad to slip out of it. now, i rely upon you not to repeat anything of what i have said." "my dear kennedy, i should not dream of repeating it. but all that you say interests me very much, for it gives me an insight into your way of looking at things, which is entirely different from mine, for i have seen so little of life. and now you want to know about my new catacomb. there's no use my trying to describe it, for you would never find it by that. there is only one thing, and that is for me to take you there." "that would be splendid." "when would you like to come?" "the sooner the better. i am all impatience to see it." "well, it is a beautiful night--though a trifle cold. suppose we start in an hour. we must be very careful to keep the matter to ourselves. if anyone saw us hunting in couples they would suspect that there was something going on." "we can't be too cautious," said kennedy. "is it far?" "some miles." "not too far to walk?" "oh, no, we could walk there easily." "we had better do so, then. a cabman's suspicions would be aroused if he dropped us both at some lonely spot in the dead of the night." "quite so. i think it would be best for us to meet at the gate of the appian way at midnight. i must go back to my lodgings for the matches and candles and things." "all right, burger! i think it is very kind of you to let me into this secret, and i promise you that i will write nothing about it until you have published your report. good-bye for the present! you will find me at the gate at twelve." the cold, clear air was filled with the musical chimes from that city of clocks as burger, wrapped in an italian overcoat, with a lantern hanging from his hand, walked up to the rendezvous. kennedy stepped out of the shadow to meet him. "you are ardent in work as well as in love!" said the german, laughing. "yes; i have been waiting here for nearly half an hour." "i hope you left no clue as to where we were going." "not such a fool! by jove, i am chilled to the bone! come on, burger, let us warm ourselves by a spurt of hard walking." their footsteps sounded loud and crisp upon the rough stone paving of the disappointing road which is all that is left of the most famous highway of the world. a peasant or two going home from the wine-shop, and a few carts of country produce coming up to rome, were the only things which they met. they swung along, with the huge tombs looming up through the darkness upon each side of them, until they had come as far as the catacombs of st. calixtus, and saw against a rising moon the great circular bastion of cecilia metella in front of them. then burger stopped with his hand to his side. "your legs are longer than mine, and you are more accustomed to walking," said he, laughing. "i think that the place where we turn off is somewhere here. yes, this is it, round the corner of the trattoria. now, it is a very narrow path, so perhaps i had better go in front, and you can follow." he had lit his lantern, and by its light they were enabled to follow a narrow and devious track which wound across the marshes of the campagna. the great aqueduct of old rome lay like a monstrous caterpillar across the moonlit landscape, and their road led them under one of its huge arches, and past the circle of crumbling bricks which marks the old arena. at last burger stopped at a solitary wooden cowhouse, and he drew a key from his pocket. "surely your catacomb is not inside a house!" cried kennedy. "the entrance to it is. that is just the safeguard which we have against anyone else discovering it." "does the proprietor know of it?" "not he. he had found one or two objects which made me almost certain that his house was built on the entrance to such a place. so i rented it from him, and did my excavations for myself. come in, and shut the door behind you." it was a long, empty building, with the mangers of the cows along one wall. burger put his lantern down on the ground, and shaded its light in all directions save one by draping his overcoat round it. "it might excite remark if anyone saw a light in this lonely place," said he. "just help me to move this boarding." the flooring was loose in the corner, and plank by plank the two savants raised it and leaned it against the wall. below there was a square aperture and a stair of old stone steps which led away down into the bowels of the earth. "be careful!" cried burger, as kennedy, in his impatience, hurried down them. "it is a perfect rabbits'-warren below, and if you were once to lose your way there, the chances would be a hundred to one against your ever coming out again. wait until i bring the light." "how do you find your own way if it is so complicated?" "i had some very narrow escapes at first, but i have gradually learned to go about. there is a certain system to it, but it is one which a lost man, if he were in the dark, could not possibly find out. even now i always spin out a ball of string behind me when i am going far into the catacomb. you can see for yourself that it is difficult, but every one of these passages divides and subdivides a dozen times before you go a hundred yards." they had descended some twenty feet from the level of the byre, and they were standing now in a square chamber cut out of the soft tufa. the lantern cast a flickering light, bright below and dim above, over the cracked brown walls. in every direction were the black openings of passages which radiated from this common centre. "i want you to follow me closely, my friend," said burger. "do not loiter to look at anything upon the way, for the place to which i will take you contains all that you can see, and more. it will save time for us to go there direct." he led the way down one of the corridors, and the englishman followed closely at his heels. every now and then the passage bifurcated, but burger was evidently following some secret marks of his own, for he neither stopped nor hesitated. everywhere along the walls, packed like the berths upon an emigrant ship, lay the christians of old rome. the yellow light flickered over the shrivelled features of the mummies, and gleamed upon rounded skulls and long, white arm-bones crossed over fleshless chests. and everywhere as he passed kennedy looked with wistful eyes upon inscriptions, funeral vessels, pictures, vestments, utensils, all lying as pious hands had placed them so many centuries ago. it was apparent to him, even in those hurried, passing glances, that this was the earliest and finest of the catacombs, containing such a storehouse of roman remains as had never before come at one time under the observation of the student. "what would happen if the light went out?" he asked, as they hurried on. "i have a spare candle and a box of matches in my pocket. by the way, kennedy, have you any matches?" "no; you had better give me some." "oh, that is all right. there is no chance of our separating." "how far are we going? it seems to me that we have walked at least a quarter of a mile." "more than that, i think. there is really no limit to the tombs--at least, i have never been able to find any. this is a very difficult place, so i think that i will use our ball of string." he fastened one end of it to a projecting stone and he carried the coil in the breast of his coat, paying it out as he advanced. kennedy saw that it was no unnecessary precaution, for the passages had become more complexed and tortuous than ever, with a perfect network of intersecting corridors. but these all ended in one large circular hall with a square pedestal of tufa topped with a slab of marble at one end of it. "by jove!" cried kennedy in an ecstasy, as burger swung his lantern over the marble. "it is a christian altar--probably the first one in existence. here is the little consecration cross cut upon the corner of it. no doubt this circular space was used as a church." "precisely," said burger. "if i had more time i should like to show you all the bodies which are buried in these niches upon the walls, for they are the early popes and bishops of the church, with their mitres, their croziers, and full canonicals. go over to that one and look at it!" kennedy went across, and stared at the ghastly head which lay loosely on the shredded and mouldering mitre. "this is most interesting," said he, and his voice seemed to boom against the concave vault. "as far as my experience goes, it is unique. bring the lantern over, burger, for i want to see them all." but the german had strolled away, and was standing in the middle of a yellow circle of light at the other side of the hall. "do you know how many wrong turnings there are between this and the stairs?" he asked. "there are over two thousand. no doubt it was one of the means of protection which the christians adopted. the odds are two thousand to one against a man getting out, even if he had a light; but if he were in the dark it would, of course, be far more difficult." "so i should think." "and the darkness is something dreadful. i tried it once for an experiment. let us try it again!" he stooped to the lantern, and in an instant it was as if an invisible hand was squeezed tightly over each of kennedy's eyes. never had he known what such darkness was. it seemed to press upon him and to smother him. it was a solid obstacle against which the body shrank from advancing. he put his hands out to push it back from him. "that will do, burger," said he, "let's have the light again." but his companion began to laugh, and in that circular room the sound seemed to come from every side at once. "you seem uneasy, friend kennedy," said he. "go on, man, light the candle!" said kennedy, impatiently. "it's very strange, kennedy, but i could not in the least tell by the sound in which direction you stand. could you tell where i am?" "no; you seem to be on every side of me." "if it were not for this string which i hold in my hand i should not have a notion which way to go." "i dare say not. strike a light, man, and have an end of this nonsense." "well, kennedy, there are two things which i understand that you are very fond of. the one is adventure, and the other is an obstacle to surmount. the adventure must be the finding of your way out of this catacomb. the obstacle will be the darkness and the two thousand wrong turns which make the way a little difficult to find. but you need not hurry, for you have plenty of time, and when you halt for a rest now and then, i should like you just to think of miss mary saunderson, and whether you treated her quite fairly." "you devil, what do you mean?" roared kennedy. he was running about in little circles and clasping at the solid blackness with both hands. "good-bye," said the mocking voice, and it was already at some distance. "i really do not think, kennedy, even by your own showing that you did the right thing by that girl. there was only one little thing which you appeared not to know, and i can supply it. miss saunderson was engaged to a poor, ungainly devil of a student, and his name was julius burger." there was a rustle somewhere--the vague sound of a foot striking a stone--and then there fell silence upon that old christian church--a stagnant heavy silence which closed round kennedy and shut him in like water round a drowning man. some two months afterwards the following paragraph made the round of the european press:-- one of the most interesting discoveries of recent years is that of the new catacomb in rome, which lies some distance to the east of the well-known vaults of st. calixtus. the finding of this important burial-place, which is exceedingly rich in most interesting early christian remains, is due to the energy and sagacity of dr. julius burger, the young german specialist, who is rapidly taking the first place as an authority upon ancient rome. although the first to publish his discovery, it appears that a less fortunate adventurer had anticipated dr. burger. some months ago mr. kennedy, the well-known english student, disappeared suddenly from his rooms in the "corso", and it was conjectured that his association with a recent scandal had driven him to leave rome. it appears now that he had in reality fallen a victim to that fervid love of archaeology which had raised him to a distinguished place among living scholars. his body was discovered in the heart of the new catacomb, and it was evident from the condition of his feet and boots that he had tramped for days through the tortuous corridors which make these subterranean tombs so dangerous to explorers. the deceased gentleman had, with inexplicable rashness, made his way into this labyrinth without, as far as can be discovered, taking with him either candles or matches, so that his sad fate was the natural result of his own temerity. what makes the matter more painful is that dr. julius burger was an intimate friend of the deceased. his joy at the extraordinary find which he has been so fortunate as to make has been greatly marred by the terrible fate of his comrade and fellow-worker. the debut of bimbashi joyce it was in the days when the tide of mahdism, which had swept in such a flood from the great lakes and darfur to the confines of egypt, had at last come to its full, and even begun, as some hoped, to show signs of a turn. at its outset it had been terrible. it had engulfed hicks's army, swept over gordon and khartoum, rolled behind the british forces as they retired down the river, and finally cast up a spray of raiding parties as far north as assouan. then it found other channels to east and west, to central africa and to abyssinia, and retired a little on the side of egypt. for ten years there ensued a lull, during which the frontier garrisons looked out upon those distant blue hills of dongola. behind the violet mists which draped them lay a land of blood and horror. from time to time some adventurer went south towards those haze-girt mountains, tempted by stories of gum and ivory, but none ever returned. once a mutilated egyptian and once a greek woman, mad with thirst and fear, made their way to the lines. they were the only exports of that country of darkness. sometimes the sunset would turn those distant mists into a bank of crimson, and the dark mountains would rise from that sinister reek like islands in a sea of blood. it seemed a grim symbol in the southern heaven when seen from the fort-capped hills by wady halfa. ten years of lust in khartoum, ten years of silent work in cairo, and then all was ready, and it was time for civilisation to take a trip south once more, travelling as her wont is in an armoured train. everything was ready, down to the last pack-saddle of the last camel, and yet no one suspected it, for an unconstitutional government has its advantage. a great administrator had argued, and managed, and cajoled; a great soldier had organised and planned, and made piastres do the work of pounds. and then one night these two master spirits met and clasped hands, and the soldier vanished away upon some business of his own. and just at that very time, bimbashi hilary joyce, seconded from the royal mallow fusiliers, and temporarily attached to the ninth soudanese, made his first appearance in cairo. napoleon had said, and hilary joyce had noted, that great reputations are only to be made in the east. here he was in the east with four tin cases of baggage, a wilkinson sword, a bond's slug-throwing pistol, and a copy of "green's introduction to the study of arabic." with such a start, and the blood of youth running hot in his veins, everything seemed easy. he was a little frightened of the general; he had heard stories of his sternness to young officers, but with tact and suavity he hoped for the best. so, leaving his effects at "shepherd's hotel," he reported himself at headquarters. it was not the general, but the head of the intelligence department who received him, the chief being still absent upon that business which had called him. hilary joyce found himself in the presence of a short, thick-set officer, with a gentle voice and a placid expression which covered a remarkably acute and energetic spirit. with that quiet smile and guileless manner he had undercut and outwitted the most cunning of orientals. he stood, a cigarette between his fingers, looking at the newcomer. "i heard that you had come. sorry the chief isn't here to see you. gone up to the frontier, you know." "my regiment is at wady halfa. i suppose, sir, that i should report myself there at once?" "no; i was to give you your orders." he led the way to a map upon the wall, and pointed with the end of his cigarette. "you see this place. it's the oasis of kurkur--a little quiet, i am afraid, but excellent air. you are to get out there as quick as possible. you'll find a company of the ninth, and half a squadron of cavalry. you will be in command." hilary joyce looked at the name, printed at the intersection of two black lines without another dot upon the map for several inches around it. "a village, sir?" "no, a well. not very good water, i'm afraid, but you soon get accustomed to natron. it's an important post, as being at the junction of two caravan routes. all routes are closed now, of course, but still you never know who _might_ come along them." "we are there, i presume, to prevent raiding?" "well, between you and me, there's really nothing to raid. you are there to intercept messengers. they must call at the wells. of course you have only just come out, but you probably understand already enough about the conditions of this country to know that there is a great deal of disaffection about, and that the khalifa is likely to try and keep in touch with his adherents. then, again, senoussi lives up that way"--he waved his cigarette to the westward--"the khalifa might send a message to him along that route. anyhow, your duty is to arrest everyone coming along, and get some account of him before you let him go. you don't talk arabic, i suppose?" "i am learning, sir." "well, well, you'll have time enough for study there. and you'll have a native officer, ali something or other, who speaks english, and can interpret for you. well, good-bye--i'll tell the chief that you reported yourself. get on to your post now as quickly as you can." railway to baliani, the post-boat to assouan, and then two days on a camel in the libyan desert, with an ababdeh guide, and three baggage-camels to tie one down to their own exasperating pace. however, even two and a half miles an hour mount up in time, and at last, on the third evening, from the blackened slag-heap of a hill which is called the jebel kurkur, hilary joyce looked down upon a distant clump of palms, and thought that this cool patch of green in the midst of the merciless blacks and yellows was the fairest colour effect that he had ever seen. an hour later he had ridden into the little camp, the guard had turned out to salute him, his native subordinate had greeted him in excellent english, and he had fairly entered into his own. it was not an exhilarating place for a lengthy residence. there was one large, bowl-shaped, grassy depression sloping down to the three pits of brown and brackish water. there was the grove of palm trees also, beautiful to look upon, but exasperating in view of the fact that nature has provided her least shady trees on the very spot where shade is needed most. a single wide-spread acacia did something to restore the balance. here hilary joyce slumbered in the heat, and in the cool he inspected his square-shouldered, spindle-shanked soudanese, with their cheery black faces and their funny little pork-pie forage caps. joyce was a martinet at drill, and the blacks loved being drilled, so the bimbashi was soon popular among them. but one day was exactly like another. the weather, the view, the employment, the food--everything was the same. at the end of three weeks he felt that he had been there for interminable years. and then at last there came something to break the monotony. one evening, as the sun was sinking, hilary joyce rode slowly down the old caravan road. it had a fascination for him, this narrow track, winding among the boulders and curving up the nullahs, for he remembered how in the map it had gone on and on, stretching away into the unknown heart of africa. the countless pads of innumerable camels through many centuries had beaten it smooth, so that now, unused and deserted, it still wound away, the strangest of roads, a foot broad, and perhaps two thousand miles in length. joyce wondered as he rode how long it was since any traveller had journeyed up it from the south, and then he raised his eyes, and there was a man coming along the path. for an instant joyce thought that it might be one of his own men, but a second glance assured him that this could not be so. the stranger was dressed in the flowing robes of an arab, and not in the close-fitting khaki of a soldier. he was very tall, and a high turban made him seem gigantic. he strode swiftly along, with head erect, and the bearing of a man who knows no fear. who could he be, this formidable giant coming out of the unknown? the precursor possibly of a horde of savage spearmen. and where could he have walked from? the nearest well was a long hundred miles down the track. at any rate the frontier post of kurkur could not afford to receive casual visitors. hilary joyce whisked round his horse, galloped into camp, and gave the alarm. then, with twenty horsemen at his back, he rode out again to reconnoitre. the man was still coming on in spite of these hostile preparations. for an instant he hesitated when first he saw the cavalry, but escape was out of the question, and he advanced with the air of one who makes the best of a bad job. he made no resistance, and said nothing when the hands of two troopers clutched at his shoulders, but walked quietly between their horses into camp. shortly afterwards the patrol came in again. there were no signs of any dervishes. the man was alone. a splendid trotting camel had been found lying dead a little way down the track. the mystery of the stranger's arrival was explained. but why, and whence, and whither?--these were questions for which a zealous officer must find an answer. hilary joyce was disappointed that there were no dervishes. it would have been a great start for him in the egyptian army had he fought a little action on his own account. but even as it was, he had a rare chance of impressing the authorities. he would love to show his capacity to the head of the intelligence, and even more to that grim chief who never forgot what was smart, or forgave what was slack. the prisoner's dress and bearing showed that he was of importance. mean men do not ride pure-bred trotting camels. joyce sponged his head with cold water, drank a cup of strong coffee, put on an imposing official tarboosh instead of his sun-helmet, and formed himself into a court of inquiry and judgment under the acacia tree. he would have liked his people to have seen him now, with his two black orderlies in waiting, and his egyptian native officer at his side. he sat behind a camp-table, and the prisoner, strongly guarded, was led up to him. the man was a handsome fellow, with bold grey eyes and a long black beard. "why!" cried joyce, "the rascal is making faces at me." a curious contraction had passed over the man's features, but so swiftly that it might have been a nervous twitch. he was now a model of oriental gravity. "ask him who he is, and what he wants?" the native officer did so, but the stranger made no reply, save that the same sharp spasm passed once more over his face. "well, i'm blessed!" cried hilary joyce. "of all the impudent scoundrels! he keeps on winking at me. who are you, you rascal? give an account of yourself! d'ye hear?" but the tall arab was as impervious to english as to arabic. the egyptian tried again and again. the prisoner looked at joyce with his inscrutable eyes, and occasionally twitched his face at him, but never opened his mouth. the bimbashi scratched his head in bewilderment. "look here, mahomet ali, we've got to get some sense out of this fellow. you say there are no papers on him?" "no, sir; we found no papers." "no clue of any kind?" "he has come far, sir. a trotting camel does not die easily. he has come from dongola, at least." "well, we must get him to talk." "it is possible that he is deaf and dumb." "not he. i never saw a man look more all there in my life." "you might send him across to assouan." "and give someone else the credit? no, thank you. this is my bird. but how are we going to get him to find his tongue?" the egyptian's dark eyes skirted the encampment and rested on the cook's fire. "perhaps," said he, "if the bimbashi thought fit--" he looked at the prisoner and then at the burning wood. "no, no; it wouldn't do. no, by jove, that's going too far." "a very little might do it." "no, no. it's all very well here, but it would sound just awful if ever it got as far as fleet street. but, i say," he whispered, "we might frighten him a bit. there's no harm in that." "no, sir." "tell them to undo the man's galabeeah. order them to put a horseshoe in the fire and make it red-hot." the prisoner watched the proceedings with an air which had more of amusement than of uneasiness. he never winced as the black sergeant approached with the glowing shoe held upon two bayonets. "will you speak now?" asked the bimbashi, savagely. the prisoner smiled gently and stroked his beard. "oh, chuck the infernal thing away!" cried joyce, jumping up in a passion. "there's no use trying to bluff the fellow. he knows we won't do it. but i _can_ and i _will_ flog him, and you can tell him from me that if he hasn't found his tongue by to-morrow morning i'll take the skin off his back as sure as my name's joyce. have you said all that?" "yes, sir." "well, you can sleep upon it, you beauty, and a good night's rest may it give you!" he adjourned the court, and the prisoner, as imperturbable as ever, was led away by the guard to his supper of rice and water. hilary joyce was a kind-hearted man, and his own sleep was considerably disturbed by the prospect of the punishment which he must inflict next day. he had hopes that the mere sight of the koorbash and the thongs might prevail over his prisoner's obstinacy. and then, again, he thought how shocking it would be if the man proved to be really dumb after all. the possibility shook him so that he had almost determined by daybreak that he would send the stranger on unhurt to assouan. and yet what a tame conclusion it would be to the incident! he lay upon his angareeb still debating it when the question suddenly and effectively settled itself. ali mahomet rushed into his tent. "sir," he cried, "the prisoner is gone!" "gone!" "yes, sir, and your own best riding camel as well. there is a slit cut in the tent, and he got away unseen in the early morning." the bimbashi acted with all energy. cavalry rode along every track; scouts examined the soft sand of the wadys for signs of the fugitive, but no trace was discovered. the man had utterly disappeared. with a heavy heart, hilary joyce wrote an official report of the matter and forwarded it to assouan. five days later there came a curt order from the chief that he should report himself there. he feared the worst from the stern soldier, who spared others as little as he spared himself. and his worst forebodings were realised. travel-stained and weary, he reported himself one night at the general's quarters. behind a table piled with papers and strewn with maps the famous soldier and his chief of intelligence were deep in plans and figures. their greeting was a cold one. "i understand, captain joyce," said the general, "that you have allowed a very important prisoner to slip through your fingers." "i am sorry, sir." "no doubt. but that will not mend matters. did you ascertain anything about him before you lost him?" "no, sir." "how was that?" "i could get nothing out of him, sir." "did you try?" "yes, sir; i did what i could." "what did you do?" "well, sir, i threatened to use physical force." "what did he say?" "he said nothing." "what was he like?" "a tall man, sir. rather a desperate character, i should think." "any way by which we could identify him?" "a long black beard, sir. grey eyes. and a nervous way of twitching his face." "well, captain joyce," said the general, in his stern, inflexible voice, "i cannot congratulate you upon your first exploit in the egyptian army. you are aware that every english officer in this force is a picked man. i have the whole british army from which to draw. it is necessary, therefore, that i should insist upon the very highest efficiency. it would be unfair upon the others to pass over any obvious want of zeal or intelligence. you are seconded from the royal mallows, i understand?" "yes, sir." "i have no doubt that your colonel will be glad to see you fulfilling your regimental duties again." hilary joyce's heart was too heavy for words. he was silent. "i will let you know my final decision to-morrow morning." joyce saluted and turned upon his heel." "you can sleep upon that, you beauty, and a good night's rest may it give you!" joyce turned in bewilderment. where had those words been used before? who was it who had used them? the general was standing erect. both he and the chief of the intelligence were laughing. joyce stared at the tall figure, the erect bearing, the inscrutable grey eyes. "good lord!" he gasped. "well, well, captain joyce, we are quits!" said the general, holding out his hand. "you gave me a bad ten minutes with that infernal red-hot horseshoe of yours. i've done as much for you. i don't think we can spare you for the royal mallows just yet awhile." "but, sir; but--!" "the fewer questions the better, perhaps. but of course it must seem rather amazing. i had a little private business with the kabbabish. it must be done in person. i did it, and came to your post in my return. i kept on winking at you as a sign that i wanted a word with you alone." "yes, yes. i begin to understand." "i couldn't give it away before all those blacks, or where should i have been the next time i used my false beard and arab dress? you put me in a very awkward position. but at last i had a word alone with your egyptian officer, who managed my escape all right." "he! mahomet ali!" "i ordered him to say nothing. i had a score to settle with you. but we dine at eight, captain joyce. we live plainly here, but i think i can do you a little better than you did me at kurkur." a foreign office romance there are many folk who knew alphonse lacour in his old age. from about the time of the revolution of ' until he died in the second year of the crimean war he was always to be found in the same corner of the cafe de provence, at the end of the rue st. honore, coming down about nine in the evening, and going when he could find no one to talk with. it took some self-restraint to listen to the old diplomatist, for his stories were beyond all belief, and yet he was quick at detecting the shadow of a smile or the slightest little raising of the eyebrows. then his huge, rounded back would straighten itself, his bull-dog chin would project, and his r's would burr like a kettledrum. when he got as far as, "ah, monsieur r-r-r-rit!" or "vous ne me cr-r-r-royez pas donc!" it was quite time to remember that you had a ticket for the opera. there was his story of talleyrand and the five oyster-shells, and there was his utterly absurd account of napoleon's second visit to ajaccio. then there was that most circumstantial romance (which he never ventured upon until his second bottle had been uncorked) of the emperor's escape from st. helena--how he lived for a whole year in philadelphia, while count herbert de bertrand, who was his living image, personated him at longwood. but of all his stories there was none which was more notorious than that of the koran and the foreign office messenger. and yet when monsieur otto's memoirs were written it was found that there really was some foundation for old lacour's incredible statement. "you must know, monsieur," he would say, "that i left egypt after kleber's assassination. i would gladly have stayed on, for i was engaged in a translation of the koran, and between ourselves i had thoughts at the time of embracing mahometanism, for i was deeply struck by the wisdom of their views about marriage. they had made an incredible mistake, however, upon the subject of wine, and this was what the mufti who attempted to convert me could never get over. then when old kleber died and menou came to the top, i felt that it was time for me to go. it is not for me to speak of my own capacities, monsieur, but you will readily understand that the man does not care to be ridden by the mule. i carried my koran and my papers to london, where monsieur otto had been sent by the first consul to arrange a treaty of peace; for both nations were very weary of the war, which had already lasted ten years. here i was most useful to monsieur otto on account of my knowledge of the english tongue, and also, if i may say so, on account of my natural capacity. they were happy days during which i lived in the square of bloomsbury. the climate of monsieur's country is, it must be confessed, detestable. but then what would you have? flowers grow best in the rain. one has but to point to monsieur's fellow country-women to prove it. "well, monsieur otto, our ambassador, was kept terribly busy over that treaty, and all of his staff were worked to death. we had not pitt to deal with, which was, perhaps, as well for us. he was a terrible man that pitt, and wherever half a dozen enemies of france were plotting together, there was his sharp-pointed nose right in the middle of them. the nation, however, had been thoughtful enough to put him out of office, and we had to do with monsieur addington. but milord hawkesbury was the foreign minister, and it was with him that we were obliged to do our bargaining. "you can understand that it was no child's play. after ten years of war each nation had got hold of a great deal which had belonged to the other, or to the other's allies. what was to be given back, and what was to be kept? is this island worth that peninsula? if we do this at venice, will you do that at sierra leone? if we give up egypt to the sultan, will you restore the cape of good hope, which you have taken from our allies the dutch? so we wrangled and wrestled, and i have seen monsieur otto come back to the embassy so exhausted that his secretary and i had to help him from his carriage to his sofa. but at last things adjusted themselves, and the night came round when the treaty was to be finally signed. now, you must know that the one great card which we held, and which we played, played, played at every point of the game, was that we had egypt. the english were very nervous about our being there. it gave us a foot at each end of the mediterranean, you see. and they were not sure that that wonderful little napoleon of ours might not make it the base of an advance against india. so whenever lord hawkesbury proposed to retain anything, we had only to reply, 'in _that_ case, of course, we cannot consent to evacuate egypt,' and in this way we quickly brought him to reason. it was by the help of egypt that we gained terms which were remarkably favourable, and especially that we caused the english to consent to give up the cape of good hope. we did not wish your people, monsieur, to have any foothold in south africa, for history has taught us that the british foothold of one half-century is the british empire of the next. it is not your army or your navy against which we have to guard, but it is your terrible younger son and your man in search of a career. when we french have a possession across the seas, we like to sit in paris and to felicitate ourselves upon it. with you it is different. you take your wives and your children, and you run away to see what kind of place this may be, and after that we might as well try to take that old square of bloomsbury away from you. "well, it was upon the first of october that the treaty was finally to be signed. in the morning i was congratulating monsieur otto upon the happy conclusion of his labours. he was a little pale shrimp of a man, very quick and nervous, and he was so delighted now at his own success that he could not sit still, but ran about the room chattering and laughing, while i sat on a cushion in the corner, as i had learned to do in the east. suddenly, in came a messenger with a letter which had been forwarded from paris. monsieur otto cast his eye upon it, and then, without a word, his knees gave way, and he fell senseless upon the floor. i ran to him, as did the courier, and between us we carried him to the sofa. he might have been dead from his appearance, but i could still feel his heart thrilling beneath my palm. 'what is this, then?' i asked. "'i do not know,' answered the messenger. 'monsieur talleyrand told me to hurry as never man hurried before, and to put this letter into the hands of monsieur otto. i was in paris at midday yesterday.' "i know that i am to blame, but i could not help glancing at the letter, picking it out of the senseless hand of monsieur otto. my god! the thunderbolt that it was! i did not faint, but i sat down beside my chief and i burst into tears. it was but a few words, but they told us that egypt had been evacuated by our troops a month before. all our treaty was undone then, and the one consideration which had induced our enemies to give us good terms had vanished. in twelve hours it would not have mattered. but now the treaty was not yet signed. we should have to give up the cape. we should have to let england have malta. now that egypt was gone we had nothing left to offer in exchange. "but we are not so easily beaten, we frenchmen. you english misjudge us when you think that because we show emotions which you conceal, that we are therefore of a weak and womanly nature. you cannot read your histories and believe that. monsieur otto recovered his senses presently, and we took counsel what we should do. "'it is useless to go on, alphonse,' said he. 'this englishman will laugh at me when i ask him to sign.' "'courage!' i cried; and then a sudden thought coming into my head--'how do we know that the english will have news of this? perhaps they may sign the treaty before they know of it.' "monsieur otto sprang from the sofa and flung himself into my arms. "'alphonse,' he cried, 'you have saved me! why should they know about it? our news has come from toulon to paris, and thence straight to london. theirs will come by sea through the straits of gibraltar. at this moment it is unlikely that anyone in paris knows of it, save only talleyrand and the first consul. if we keep our secret, we may still get our treaty signed.' "ah! monsieur, you can imagine the horrible uncertainty in which we spent the day. never, never shall i forget those slow hours during which we sat together, starting at every distant shout, lest it should be the first sign of the rejoicing which this news would cause in london. monsieur otto passed from youth to age in a day. as for me, i find it easier to go out and meet danger than to wait for it. i set forth, therefore, towards evening. i wandered here, and wandered there. i was in the fencing-rooms of monsieur angelo, and in the salon-de-boxe of monsieur jackson, and in the club of brooks, and in the lobby of the chamber of deputies, but nowhere did i hear any news. still, it was possible that milord hawkesbury had received it himself just as we had. he lived in harley street, and there it was that the treaty was to be finally signed that night at eight. i entreated monsieur otto to drink two glasses of burgundy before he went, for i feared lest his haggard face and trembling, hands should rouse suspicion in the english minister. "well, we went round together in one of the embassy's carriages about half-past seven. monsieur otto went in alone; but presently, on excuse of getting his portfolio, he came out again, with his cheeks flushed with joy, to tell me that all was well. "'he knows nothing,' he whispered. 'ah, if the next half-hour were over!' "'give me a sign when it is settled,' said i. "'for what reason?' "'because until then no messenger shall interrupt you. i give you my promise--i, alphonse lacour.' "he clasped my hand in both of his. "'i shall make an excuse to move one of the candles on to the table in the window,' said he, and hurried into the house, whilst i was left waiting beside the carriage. "well, if we could but secure ourselves from interruption for a single half-hour the day would be our own. i had hardly begun to form my plans when i saw the lights of a carriage coming swiftly from the direction of oxford street. ah! if it should be the messenger! what could i do? i was prepared to kill him--yes, even to kill him--rather than at this last moment allow our work to be undone. thousands die to make a glorious war. why should not one die to make a glorious peace? what though they hurried me to the scaffold? i should have sacrificed myself for my country. i had a little curved turkish knife strapped to my waist. my hand was on the hilt of it when the carriage which had alarmed me so rattled safely past me. "but another might come. i must be prepared. above all, i must not compromise the embassy. i ordered our carriage to move on, and i engaged what you call a hackney coach. then i spoke to the driver, and gave him a guinea. he understood that it was a special service. "'you shall have another guinea if you do what you are told,' said i. "'all right, master,' said he, turning his slow eyes upon me without a trace of excitement or curiosity. "' if i enter your coach with another gentleman, you will drive up and down harley street, and take no orders from anyone but me. when i get out, you will carry the other gentleman to watier's club, in bruton street.' "'all right, master,' said he again. "so i stood outside milord hawkesbury's house, and you can think how often my eyes went up to that window in the hope of seeing the candle twinkle in it. five minutes passed, and another five. oh, how slowly they crept along! it was a true october night, raw and cold, with a white fog crawling over the wet, shining cobblestones, and blurring the dim oil-lamps. i could not see fifty paces in either direction, but my ears were straining, straining, to catch the rattle of hoofs or the rumble of wheels. it is not a cheering place, monsieur, that street of harley, even upon a sunny day. the houses are solid and very respectable over yonder, but there is nothing of the feminine about them. it is a city to be inhabited by males. but on that raw night, amid the damp and the fog, with the anxiety gnawing at my heart, it seemed the saddest, weariest spot in the whole wide world. i paced up and down slapping my hands to keep them warm, and still straining my ears. and then suddenly out of the dull hum of the traffic down in oxford street i heard a sound detach itself, and grow louder and louder, and clearer and clearer with every instant, until two yellow lights came flashing through the fog, and a light cabriolet whirled up to the door of the foreign minister. it had not stopped before a young fellow sprang out of it and hurried to the steps, while the driver turned his horse and rattled off into the fog once more. "ah, it is in the moment of action that i am best, monsieur. you, who only see me when i am drinking my wine in the cafe de provence, cannot conceive the heights to which i rise. at that moment, when i knew that the fruits of a ten years' war were at stake, i was magnificent. it was the last french campaign and i the general and army in one. "'sir," said i, touching him upon the arm, 'are you the messenger for lord hawkesbury?' "'yes,' said he. "'i have been waiting for you half an hour,' said i. 'you are to follow me at once. he is with the french ambassador.' "i spoke with such assurance that he never hesitated for an instant. when he entered the hackney coach and i followed him in, my heart gave such a thrill of joy that i could hardly keep from shouting aloud. he was a poor little creature, this foreign office messenger, not much bigger than monsieur otto, and i--monsieur can see my hands now, and imagine what they were like when i was seven-and-twenty years of age. "well, now that i had him in my coach, the question was what i should do with him. i did not wish to hurt him if i could help it. "'this is a pressing business,' said he. 'i have a despatch which i must deliver instantly.' "our coach had rattled down harley street now, in accordance with my instruction, it turned and began to go up again. "'hullo!' he cried. 'what's this?' "'what then? 'i asked. "'we are driving back. where is lord hawkesbury?' "'we shall see him presently.' "'let me out!' he shouted. 'there's some trickery in this. coachman, stop the coach! let me out, i say!' "i dashed him back into his seat as he tried to turn the handle of the door. he roared for help. i clapped my palm across his mouth. he made his teeth meet through the side of it. i seized his own cravat and bound it over his lips. he still mumbled and gurgled, but the noise was covered by the rattle of our wheels. we were passing the minister's house, and there was no candle in the window. "the messenger sat quiet for a little, and i could see the glint of his eyes as he stared at me through the gloom. he was partly stunned, i think, by the force with which i had hurled him into his seat. and also he was pondering, perhaps, what he should do next. presently he got his mouth partly free from the cravat. "'you shall have my watch and my purse if you will let me go,' said he. "'sir,' said i, 'i am as honourable a man as you are yourself.' "'who are you, then?' "'my name is of no importance.' "'what do you want with me?' "it is a bet.' "'a bet? what d'you mean? do you understand that i am on the government service, and that you will see the inside of a gaol for this?' "'that is the bet. that is the sport, said i.' "'you may find it poor sport before you finish,' he cried. 'what is this insane bet of yours then?' "'i have bet,' i answered, 'that i will recite a chapter of the koran to the first gentleman whom i should meet in the street.' "i do not know what made me think of it, save that my translation was always running in my head. he clutched at the door-handle, and again i had to hurl him back into his seat. "'how long will it take?' he gasped. "'it depends on the chapter,' i answered. "'a short one, then, and let me go!' "'but is it fair?' i argued. 'when i say a chapter, i do not mean the shortest chapter, but rather one which should be of average length.' "'help! help! help!' he squealed, and i was compelled again to adjust his cravat. "'a little patience,' said i, 'and it will soon be over. i should like to recite the chapter which would be of most interest to yourself. you will confess that i am trying to make things as pleasant as i can for you?" he slipped his mouth free again. "'quick, then, quick!' he groaned. "'the chapter of the camel?' i suggested. "'yes, yes.' "'or that of the fleet stallion?' "'yes, yes. only proceed!' "we had passed the window and there was no candle. i settled down to recite the chapter of the stallion to him. perhaps you do not know your koran very well, monsieur? well, i knew it by heart then, as i know it by heart now. the style is a little exasperating for anyone who is in a hurry. but, then, what would you have? the people in the east are never in a hurry, and it was written for them. i repeated it all with the dignity and solemnity which a sacred book demands, and the young englishman he wriggled and groaned. "'when the horses, standing on three feet and placing the tip of their fourth foot upon the ground, were mustered in front of him in the evening, he said, i have loved the love of earthly good above the remembrance of things on high, and have spent the time in viewing these horses. bring the horses back to me. and when they were brought back he began to cut off their legs and--' "it was at this moment that the young englishman sprang at me. my god! how little can i remember of the next few minutes! he was a boxer, this shred of a man. he had been trained to strike. i tried to catch him by the hands. pac, pac, he came upon my nose and upon my eye. i put down my head and thrust at him with it. pac, he came from below. but ah! i was too much for him. i hurled myself upon him, and he had no place where he could escape from my weight. he fell flat upon the cushions and i seated myself upon him with such conviction that the wind flew from him as from a burst bellows. "then i searched to see what there was with which i could tie him. i drew the strings from my shoes, and with one i secured his wrists, and with another his ankles. then i tied the cravat round his mouth again, so that he could only lie and glare at me. when i had done all this, and had stopped the bleeding of my own nose, i looked out of the coach and ah, monsieur, the very first thing which caught my eyes was that candle--that dear little candle--glimmering in the window of the minister. alone, with these two hands, i had retrieved the capitulation of an army and the loss of a province. yes, monsieur, what abercrombie and , men had done upon the beach at aboukir was undone by me, single-handed, in a hackney coach in harley street. "well, i had no time to lose, for at any moment monsieur otto might be down. i shouted to my driver, gave him his second guinea, and allowed him to proceed to watier's. for myself, i sprang into our embassy's carriage, and a moment later the door of the minister opened. he had himself escorted monsieur otto downstairs, and now so deep was he in talk that he walked out bareheaded as far as the carriage. as he stood there by the open door, there came the rattle of wheels, and a man rushed down the pavement. "'a despatch of great importance for milord hawkesbury!' he cried. "i could see that it was not my messenger, but a second one. milord hawkesbury caught the paper from his hand, and read it by the light of the carriage lamp. his face, monsieur, was as white as this plate, before he had finished. "'monsieur otto,' he cried, 'we have signed this treaty upon a false understanding. egypt is in our hands.' "'what!' cried monsieur otto. 'impossible!' "'it is certain. it fell to abercrombie last month.' "'in that case,' said monsieur otto, 'it is very fortunate that the treaty is signed.' "'very fortunate for you, sir,' cried milord hawkesbury, as he turned back to the house. "next day, monsieur, what they call the bow street runners were after me, but they could not run across salt water, and alphonse lacour was receiving the congratulations of monsieur talleyrand and the first consul before ever his pursuers had got as far as dover." men, women and guns "sapper" men, women and guns by "sapper" author of "michael cassidy, sergeant" new york george h. doran company copyright, , by george h. doran company printed in the united states of america to my wife contents page prologue xi part one chapter i. the motor-gun ii. private meyrick--company idiot iii. spud trevor of the red hussars iv. the fatal second v. jim brent's v.c. vi. retribution vii. the death grip viii. james henry part two the land of the topsy turvy i. the grey house ii. the women and--the men iii. the woman and the man iv. "the regiment" v. the contrast vi. black, white, and--grey vii. archie and others viii. on the staff ix. no answer x. the madness xi. the grey house again prologue prologue two days ago a dear old aunt of mine asked me to describe to her what shrapnel was like. "what does it feel like to be shelled?" she demanded. "explain it to me." under the influence of my deceased uncle's most excellent port i did so. soothed and in that expansive frame of mind induced by the old and bold, i drew her a picture--vivid, startling, wonderful. and when i had finished, the dear old lady looked at me. "dreadful!" she murmured. "did i ever tell you of the terrible experience i had on the front at eastbourne, when my bath-chair attendant became inebriated and upset me?" slowly and sorrowfully i finished the decanter--and went to bed. but seriously, my masters, it is a hard thing that my aunt asked of me. there are many things worse than shelling--the tea-party you find in progress on your arrival on leave; the utterances of war experts; the non-arrival of the whisky from england. but all of those can be imagined by people who have not suffered; they have a standard, a measure of comparison. shelling--no. the explosion of a howitzer shell near you is a definite, actual fact--which is unlike any other fact in the world, except the explosion of another howitzer shell still nearer. many have attempted to describe the noise it makes as the most explainable part about it. and then you're no wiser. listen. stand with me at the menin gate of ypres and listen. through a cutting a train is roaring on its way. rapidly it rises in a great swelling crescendo as it dashes into the open, and then its journey stops on some giant battlement--stops in a peal of deafening thunder just overhead. the shell has burst, and the echoes in that town of death die slowly away--reverberating like a sullen sea that lashes against a rock-bound coast. and yet what does it convey to anyone who patronises inebriated bath-chair men? ... similarly--shrapnel! "the germans were searching the road with 'whizz-bangs.'" a common remark, an ordinary utterance in a letter, taken by fond parents as an unpleasing affair such as the cook giving notice. come with me to a spot near ypres; come, and we will take our evening walk together. "they're a bit lively farther up the road, sir." the corporal of military police stands gloomily at a cross-roads, his back against a small wayside shrine. a passing shell unroofed it many weeks ago; it stands there surrounded by débris--the image of the virgin, chipped and broken. just a little monument of desolation in a ruined country, but pleasant to lean against when it's between you and german guns. let us go on, it's some way yet before we reach the dug-out by the third dead horse. in front of us stretches a long, straight road, flanked on each side by poplars. in the middle there is pavé. at intervals, a few small holes, where the stones have been shattered and hurled away by a bursting shell and only the muddy grit remains hollowed out to a depth of two feet or so, half-full of water. at the bottom an empty tin of bully, ammunition clips, numbers of biscuits--sodden and muddy. altogether a good obstacle to take with the front wheel of a car at night. a little farther on, beside the road, in a ruined, desolate cottage two men are resting for a while, smoking. the dirt and mud of the trenches is thick on them, and one of them is contemplatively scraping his boot with his knife and fork. otherwise, not a soul, not a living soul in sight; though away to the left front, through glasses, you can see two people, a man and a woman, labouring in the fields. and the only point of interest about them is that between you and them run the two motionless, stagnant lines of men who for months have faced one another. those two labourers are on the other side of the german trenches. the setting sun is glinting on the little crumbling village two or three hundred yards ahead, and as you walk towards it in the still evening air your steps ring loud on the pavé. on each side the flat, neglected fields stretch away from the road; the drains beside it are choked with weeds and refuse; and here and there one of the gaunt trees, split in two half-way up by a shell, has crashed into its neighbour or fallen to the ground. a peaceful summer's evening which seems to give the lie to our shrine-leaner. and yet, to one used to the peace of england, it seems almost too quiet, almost unnatural. suddenly, out of the blue there comes a sharp, whizzing noise, and almost before you've heard it there is a crash, and from the village in front there rises a cloud of dust. a shell has burst on impact on one of the few remaining houses; some slates and tiles fall into the road, and round the hole torn out of the sloping roof there hangs a whitish-yellow cloud of smoke. in quick succession come half a dozen more, some bursting on the ruined cottages as they strike, some bursting above them in the air. more clouds of dust rise from the deserted street, small avalanches of débris cascade into the road, and, above, three or four thick white smoke-clouds drift slowly across the sky. this is the moment at which it is well--unless time is urgent--to pause and reflect awhile. if you _must_ go on, a détour is strongly to be recommended. the germans are shelling the empty village just in front with shrapnel, and who are you to interpose yourself between him and his chosen target? but if in no particular hurry, then it were wise to dally gracefully against a tree, admiring the setting sun, until he desists; when you may in safety resume your walk. _but_--do not forget that he may not stick to the village, and that whizz-bangs give no time. that is why i specified a tree, and not the middle of the road. it's nearer the ditch. suddenly, without a second's warning, they shift their target. whizz-bang! duck, you blighter! into the ditch. quick! move! hang your bottle of white wine! get down! cower! emulate the mole! this isn't the village in front now--he's shelling the road you're standing on! there's one burst on impact in the middle of the pavé forty yards in front of you, and another in the air just over your head. and there are more coming--don't make any mistake. that short, sharp whizz every few seconds--the bang! bang! bang! seems to be going on all around you. a thing hums past up in the air, with a whistling noise, leaving a trail of sparks behind it--one of the fuses. later, the curio-hunter may find it nestling by a turnip. he may have it. with a vicious thud a jagged piece of shell buries itself in the ground at your feet; and almost simultaneously the bullets from a well-burst one cut through the trees above you and ping against the road, thudding into the earth around. no more impact ones--they've got the range. our pessimistic friend at the cross-roads spoke the truth; they're quite lively. everything bursting beautifully above the road about forty feet up. bitter thought--if only the blighters knew that it was empty save for your wretched and unworthy self cowering in a ditch, with a bottle of white wine in your pocket and your head down a rat-hole, surely they wouldn't waste their ammunition so reprehensibly! then, suddenly, they stop, and as the last white puff of smoke drifts slowly away you cautiously lift your head and peer towards the village. have they finished? will it be safe to resume your interrupted promenade in a dignified manner? or will you give them another minute or two? almost have you decided to do so when to your horror you perceive coming towards you through the village itself two officers. what a position to be discovered in! true, only the very young or the mentally deficient scorn cover when shelling is in progress. but of course, just at the moment when you'd welcome a shell to account for your propinquity with the rat-hole, the blighters have stopped. no sound breaks the stillness, save the steps ringing towards you--and it looks silly to be found in a ditch for no apparent reason. then, as suddenly as before comes salvation. just as with infinite stealth you endeavour to step out nonchalantly from behind a tree, as if you were part of the scenery--bang! crash! from in front. cheer-oh! the village again, the church this time. a shower of bricks and mortar comes down like a landslip, and if you are quick you may just see two black streaks go to ground. from the vantage-point of your tree you watch a salvo of shells explode in, on, or about the temporary abode of those two officers. you realise from what you know of the hun that this salvo probably concludes the evening hate; and the opportunity is too good to miss. edging rapidly along the road--keeping close to the ditch--you approach the houses. your position, you feel, is now strategically sound, with regard to the wretched pair cowering behind rubble heaps. you even desire revenge for your mental anguish when discovery in the rodent's lair seemed certain. so light a cigarette--if you didn't drop them all when you went to ground yourself; if you did--whistle some snappy tune as you stride jauntily into the village. don't go too fast or you may miss them; but should you see a head peer from behind a kitchen-range express no surprise. just--"toppin' evening, ain't it? getting furniture for the dug-out--what?" to linger is bad form, but it is quite permissible to ask his companion--seated in a torn-up drain--if the ratting is good. then pass on in a leisurely manner, _but_--when you're round the corner, run like a hare. with these cursed germans, you never know. * * * * * night--and a working-party stretching away over a ploughed field are digging a communication trench. the great green flares lob up half a mile away, a watery moon shines on the bleak scene. suddenly a noise like the tired sigh of some great giant, a scorching sheet of flame that leaps at you out of the darkness, searing your very brain, so close does it seem; the ping of death past your head; the clatter of shovel and pick next you as a muttered curse proclaims a man is hit; a voice from down the line: "gawd! old ginger's took it. 'old up, mate. say, blokes, ginger's done in!" aye--it's worse at night. shrapnel! woolly, fleecy puffs of smoke floating gently down wind, getting more and more attenuated, gradually disappearing, while below each puff an oval of ground has been plastered with bullets. and it's when the ground inside the oval is full of men that the damage is done. not you perhaps--but someone. next time--maybe you. * * * * * and that, methinks, is an epitome of other things besides shrapnel. it's _all_ the war to the men who fight and the women who wait. part one part one chapter i the motor-gun nothing in this war has so struck those who have fought in it as its impersonal nature. from the day the british army moved north, and the first battle of ypres commenced--and with it trench warfare as we know it now--it has been, save for a few interludes, a contest between automatons, backed by every known scientific device. personal rancour against the opposing automatons separated by twenty or thirty yards of smelling mud--who stew in the same discomfort as yourself--is apt to give way to an acute animosity against life in general, and the accursed fate in particular which so foolishly decided your sex at birth. but, though rare, there have been cases of isolated encounters, where men--with the blood running hot in their veins--have got down to hand-grips, and grappling backwards and forwards in some cellar or dugout, have fought to the death, man to man, as of old. such a case has recently come to my knowledge, a case at once bizarre and unique: a case where the much-exercised arm of coincidence showed its muscles to a remarkable degree. only quite lately have i found out all the facts, and now at dick o'rourke's special request i am putting them on paper. true, they are intended to reach the eyes of one particular person, but ... the personal column in the _times_ interests others besides the lady in the magenta skirt, who will eat a banana at . daily by the marble arch! * * * * * and now, at the very outset of my labours, i find myself--to my great alarm--committed to the placing on paper of a love scene. o'rourke insists upon it: he says the whole thing will fall flat if i don't put it in; he promises that he will supply the local colour. in advance i apologise: my own love affairs are sufficiently trying without endeavouring to describe his--and with that, here goes. i will lift my curtain on the principals of this little drama, and open the scene at ciro's in london. on the evening of april st, , in the corner of that delectable resort, farthest away from the coon band, sat dickie o'rourke. that afternoon he had stepped from the boat at folkestone on seven days' leave, and now in the boiled shirt of respectability he once again smelled the smell of london. with him was a girl. i have never seen her, but from his description i cannot think that i have lived until this oversight is rectified. moreover, my lady, as this is written especially for your benefit, i hereby warn you that i propose to remedy my omission as soon as possible. and yet with a band that is second to none; with food wonderful and divine; with the choicest fruit of the grape, and--to top all--with the girl, dickie did not seem happy. as he says, it was not to be wondered at. he had landed at folkestone meaning to propose; he had carried out his intention over the fish--and after that the dinner had lost its savour. she had refused him--definitely and finally; and dick found himself wishing for france again--france and forgetfulness. only he knew he'd never forget. "the dinner is to monsieur's taste?" the head-waiter paused attentively by the table. "very good," growled dick, looking savagely at an ice on his plate. "oh, moyra," he muttered, as the man passed on, "it's meself is finished entoirely. and i was feeling that happy on the boat; as i saw the white cliffs coming nearer and nearer, i said to meself, 'dick, me boy, in just four hours you'll be with the dearest, sweetest girl that god ever sent from the heavens to brighten the lives of dull dogs like yourself.'" "you're not dull, dick. you're not to say those things--you're a dear." the girl's eyes seemed a bit misty as she bent over her plate. "and now!" he looked at her pleadingly. "'tis the light has gone out of my life. ah! me dear, is there no hope for dickie o'rourke? me estate is mostly bog, and the ould place has fallen down, saving only the stable--but there's the breath of the seas that comes over the heather in the morning, and there's the violet of your dear eyes in the hills. it's not worrying you that i'd be--but is there no hope at all, at all?" the girl turned towards him, smiling a trifle sadly. there was woman's pity in the lovely eyes: her lips were trembling a little. "dear old dick," she whispered, and her hand rested lightly on his for a moment. "dear old dick, i'm sorry. if i'd only known sooner----" she broke off abruptly and fell to gazing at the floor. "then there is someone else!" the man spoke almost fiercely. slowly she nodded her head, but she did not speak. "who is it?" "i don't know that you've got any right to ask me that, dick," she answered, a little proudly. "what's the talk of right between you and me? do you suppose i'll let any cursed social conventions stand between me and the woman i love?" she could see his hand trembling, though outwardly he seemed quite calm. and then his voice dropped to a tender, pleading note--and again the soft, rich brogue of the irishman crept in--that wonderful tone that brings with it the music of the fairies from the hazy blue hills of connemara. "acushla mine," he whispered, "would i be hurting a hair of your swate head, or bringing a tear to them violet pools ye calls your eyes? 'tis meself that is in the wrong entoirely--but, mavourneen, i just worship you. and the thought of the other fellow is driving me crazy. will ye not be telling me his name?" "dick, i can't," she whispered, piteously. "you wouldn't understand." "and why would i not understand?" he answered, grimly. "is it something shady he has done to you?--for if it is, by the holy mother, i'll murder him." "no, no, it's nothing shady. but i can't tell you, dick; and oh, dick! i'm just wretched, and i don't know what to do." the tears were very near. a whimsical look came into his face as he watched her. "moyra, me dear; 'tis about ten shillings apiece we're paying for them ices; and if you splash them with your darling tears, the chef will give notice and that coon with the banjo will strike work." "you dear, dick," she whispered, after a moment, while a smile trembled round her mouth. "i nearly made a fool of myself." "divil a bit," he answered. "but let us be after discussing them two fair things yonder while we gets on with the ices. 'tis the most suitable course for contemplating the dears; and, anyway, we'll take no more risks until we're through with them." and so with a smile on his lips and a jest on his tongue did a gallant gentleman cover the ache in his heart and the pain in his eyes, and felt more than rewarded by the look of thanks he got. it was not for him to ask for more than she would freely give; and if there was another man--well, he was a lucky dog. but if he'd played the fool--yes, by heaven! if he'd played the fool, that was a different pair of shoes altogether. his forehead grew black at the thought, and mechanically his fists clenched. "dick, i'd like to tell you just how things are." he pulled himself together and looked at the girl. "it is meself that is at your service, my lady," he answered, quietly. "i'm engaged. but it's a secret." his jaw dropped, "engaged!" he faltered. "but--who to? and why is it a secret?" "i can't tell you who to. i promised to keep it secret; and then he suddenly went away and the war broke out and i've never seen him since." "but you've heard from him?" she bit her lip and looked away. "not a line," she faltered. "but--i don't understand." his tone was infinitely tender. "why hasn't he written to you? violet girl, why would he not have written?" "you see, he's a----" she seemed to be nerving herself to speak. "you see, he's a german!" it was out at last. "mother of god!" dick leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her, his cigarette unheeded, burning the tablecloth. "do you love him?" "yes." the whispered answer was hardly audible. "oh, dick, i wonder if you can understand. it all came so suddenly, and then there was this war, and i know it's awful to love a german, but i do, and i can't tell anyone but you; they'd think it horrible of me. oh, dick! tell me you understand." "i understand, little girl," he answered, very slowly. "i understand." it was all very involved and infinitely pathetic. but, as i have said before, dick o'rourke was a gallant gentleman. "it's not his fault he's a german," she went on after a while. "he didn't start the war--and, you see, i promised him." that was the rub--she'd promised him. truly a woman is a wonderful thing! very gentle and patient was o'rourke with her that evening, and when at last he turned into his club, he sat for a long while gazing into the fire. just once a muttered curse escaped his lips. "did you speak?" said the man in the next chair. "i did _not_," said o'rourke, and getting up abruptly he went to bed. * * * * * at p.m. on april nd dick o'rourke received a wire. it was short and to the point. "leave cancelled. return at once." he tore round to victoria, found he'd missed the boat-train, and went down to folkestone on chance. for the time moyra was almost forgotten. officers are not recalled from short leave without good and sufficient reason; and as yet there was nothing in the evening papers that showed any activity. at folkestone he met other officers--also recalled; and when the boat came in rumours began to spread. the whole line had fallen back--the germans were through and marching on calais--a ghastly defeat had been sustained. the morning papers were a little more reassuring; and in them for the first time came the mention of the word "gas." everything was vague, but that something had happened was obvious, and also that that something was pretty serious. one p.m. on the rd found him at boulogne, ramping like a bull. an unemotional railway transport officer told him that there was a very nice train starting at midnight, but that the leave train was cancelled. "but, man!" howled o'rourke, "i've been recalled. 'tis urgent!" he brandished the wire in his face. the r.t.o. remained unmoved, and intimated that he was busy, and that o'rourke's private history left him quite cold. moreover, he thought it possible that the british army might survive without him for another day. in the general confusion that ensued on his replying that the said r.t.o. was no doubt a perfect devil as a traveller for unshrinkable underclothes, but that his knowledge of the british army might be written on a postage-stamp, o'rourke escaped, and ensconcing himself near the barrier, guarded by french sentries, at the top of the hill leading to st. omer, he waited for a motor-car. having stopped two generals and been consigned elsewhere for his pains, he ultimately boarded a flying corps lorry, and p.m. found him at st. omer. and there--but we will whisper--was a relative--one of the exalted ones of the earth, who possessed many motor-cars, great and small. dick chose the second rolls-royce, and having pursued his unit to the farm where he'd left it two days before, he chivied it round the country, and at length traced it to poperinghe. and there he found things moving. as yet no one was quite sure what had happened; but he found a solemn conclave of army service corps officers attached to his division, and from them he gathered twenty or thirty of the conflicting rumours that were flying round. one thing, anyway, was clear: the huns were not triumphantly marching on calais--yet. it was just as a charming old boy of over fifty, who had perjured his soul over his age and had been out since the beginning--a standing reproach to a large percentage of the so-called youth of england--it was just as he suggested a little dinner in that hospitable town, prior to going up with the supply lorries, that with a droning roar a twelve-inch shell came crashing into the square.... that night at p.m. dick stepped out of another car into a ploughed field just behind the little village of woesten, and, having trodden on his major's face and unearthed his servant, lay down by the dying fire to get what sleep he could. now and again a horse whinnied near by; a bit rattled, a man cursed; for the unit was ready to move at a moment's notice and the horses were saddled up. the fire died out--from close by a battery was firing, and the sky was dancing with the flashes of bursting shells like summer lightning flickering in the distance. and with his head on a sharp stone and another in his back dick o'rourke fell asleep and dreamed of--but dreams are silly things to describe. it was just as he'd thrown the hors-d'oeuvres at the head-waiter of ciro's, who had suddenly become the hated german rival, and was wiping the potato salad off moyra's face, which it had hit by mistake, with the table-cloth, that with a groan he turned on his other side--only to exchange the stones for a sardine tin and a broken pickle bottle. which is really no more foolish than the rest of life nowadays.... * * * * * and now for a moment i must go back and, leaving our hero, describe shortly the events that led up to the sending of the wire that recalled him. early in the morning of april nd the germans launched at that part of the french line which lay in front of the little villages of elverdinge and brielen, a yellowish-green cloud of gas, which rolled slowly over the intervening ground between the trenches, carried on its way by a faint, steady breeze. i do not intend to describe the first use of that infamous invention--it has been done too often before. but, for the proper understanding of what follows, it is essential for me to go into a few details. utterly unprepared for what was to come, the french divisions gazed for a short while spellbound at the strange phenomenon they saw coming slowly towards them. like some liquid the heavy-coloured vapour poured relentlessly into the trenches, filled them, and passed on. for a few seconds nothing happened; the sweet-smelling stuff merely tickled their nostrils; they failed to realise the danger. then, with inconceivable rapidity, the gas worked, and blind panic spread. hundreds, after a dreadful fight for air, became unconscious and died where they lay--a death of hideous torture, with the frothing bubbles gurgling in their throats and the foul liquid welling up in their lungs. with blackened faces and twisted limbs one by one they drowned--only that which drowned them came from inside and not from out. others, staggering, falling, lurching on, and of their ignorance keeping pace with the gas, went back. a hail of rifle-fire and shrapnel mowed them down, and the line was broken. there was nothing on the british left--their flank was up in the air. the north-east corner of the salient round ypres had been pierced. from in front of st. julian, away up north towards boesienge, there was no one in front of the germans. it is not my intention to do more than mention the rushing up of the cavalry corps and the indians to fill the gap; the deathless story of the canadians who, surrounded and hemmed in, fought till they died against overwhelming odds; the fate of the northumbrian division--fresh from home--who were rushed up in support, and the field behind fortuin where they were caught by shrapnel, and what was left. these things are outside the scope of my story. let us go back to the gap. hard on the heels of the french came the germans advancing. for a mile or so they pushed on, and why they stopped when they did is--as far as i am concerned--one of life's little mysteries. perhaps the utter success of their gas surprised even them; perhaps they anticipated some trap; perhaps the incredible heroism of the canadians in hanging up the german left caused their centre to push on too far and lose touch; perhaps--but, why speculate? i don't know, though possibly those in high places may. the fact remains they did stop; their advantage was lost and the situation was saved. * * * * * such was the state of affairs when o'rourke opened his eyes on the morning of saturday, april th. the horses were dimly visible through the heavy mist, his blankets were wringing wet, and hazily he wondered why he had ever been born. then the cook dropped the bacon in the fire, and he groaned with anguish; visions of yesterday's grilled kidneys and hot coffee rose before him and mocked. by six o'clock he had fed, and sitting on an overturned biscuit-box beside the road he watched three batteries of french 's pass by and disappear in the distance. at intervals he longed to meet the man who invented war. it must be remembered that, though i have given the situation as it really was, for the better understanding of the story, the facts at the time were not known at all clearly. the fog of war still wrapped in oblivion--as far as regimental officers were concerned, at any rate--the events which were taking place within a few miles of them. when, therefore, dick o'rourke perceived an unshaven and unwashed warrior, garbed as a gunner officer, coming down the road from woesten, and, moreover, recognised him as one of his own term at the "shop," known to his intimates as the land crab, he hailed him with joy. "all hail, oh, crustacean!" he cried, as the other came abreast of him. "whither dost walk so blithely?" "halloa, dick!" the gunner paused. "you haven't seen my major anywhere, have you?" "not that i'm aware of, but as i don't know your major from adam, my evidence may not be reliable. what news from the seat of war?" "none that i know of--except this cursed gun, that is rapidly driving me to drink." "what cursed gun? i am fresh from ciro's and the haunts of love and ease. expound to me your enigma, my land crab." "haven't you heard? when the germans----" he stopped suddenly. "listen!" perfectly clear from the woods to the north of them--the woods that lie to the west of the woesten-oostvleteren road, for those who may care for maps--there came the distinctive boom! crack! of a smallish gun. three more shots, and then silence. the gunner turned to dick. "there you are--that's the gun." "but how nice! only, why curse it?" "principally because it's german; and those four shots that you have just heard have by this time burst in poperinghe." "what!" o'rourke looked at him in amazement. "is it my leg you would be pulling?" "certainly not. when the germans came on in the first blind rush after the french two small guns on motor mountings got through behind our lines. one was completely wrecked with its detachment the motor mounting of the other you can see lying in a pond about a mile up the road. the gun is there." he pointed to the wood. "and the next!" said o'rourke. "d'you mean to tell me that there is a german gun in that wood firing at poperinghe? why, hang it, man! it's three miles behind our lines." "taking the direction those shells are coming from, the distance from poperinghe to that gun must be more than ten miles--if the gun is behind the german trenches. your gunnery is pretty rotten, i know, but if you know of any two-inch gun that shoots ten miles, i'll be obliged if you'll give me some lessons." the gunner lit a cigarette. "man, we know it's not one of ours, we know where they all are; we know it's a hun." "then, what in the name of fortune are ye standing here for talking like an ould woman with the indigestion? away with you, and lead us to him, and don't go chivying after your bally major." dick shouted for his revolver. "if there's a gun in that wood, bedad! we'll gun it." "my dear old flick," said the other, "don't get excited. the woods have been searched with a line of men--twice; and devil the sign of the gun. you don't suppose they've got a concrete mounting and the prussian flag flying on a pole, do you? the detachment are probably dressed as belgian peasants, and the gun is dismounted and hidden when it's not firing." but o'rourke would have none of it. "get off to your major, then, and have your mothers' meeting. then come back to me, and i'll give you the gun. and borrow a penknife and cut your beard--you'll be after frightening the natives." that evening a couple of shots rang out from the same wood, two of the typical shots of a small gun. and then there was silence. a group of men standing by an estaminet on the road affirmed to having heard three faint shots afterwards like the crack of a sporting-gun or revolver; but in the general turmoil of an evening hate which was going on at the same time no one thought much about it. half an hour later dick o'rourke returned, and there was a strange look in his eyes. his coat was torn, his collar and shirt were ripped open, and his right eye was gradually turning black. of his doings he would vouchsafe no word. only, as we sat down round the fire to dinner, the gunner subaltern of the morning passed again up the road. "got the gun yet, dick?" he chaffed. "i have that," answered o'rourke, "also the detachment." the land crab paused. "where are they?" "the gun is in a pond where you won't find it, and the detachment are dead--except one who escaped." "yes, i don't think." the gunner laughed and passed on. "you needn't," answered dick, "but that gun will never fire again." it never did. as i say, he would answer no questions, and even amongst the few people who had heard of the thing at all, it soon passed into the limbo of forgotten things. other and weightier matters were afoot; the second battle of ypres did not leave much time for vague conjecture. and so when, a few days ago, the question was once again recalled to my mind by no less a person than o'rourke himself, i had to dig in the archives of memory for the remembrance of an incident of which i had well-nigh lost sight. * * * * * "you remember that gun, bill," he remarked, lying back in the arm-chair of the farmhouse where we were billeted, and sipping some hot rum--"that german gun that got through in april and bombarded poperinghe? i want to talk to you about that gun." he started filling his pipe. "'tis the hardest proposition i've ever been up against, and sure i don't know what to do at all." he was staring at the fire. "you remember the land crab and how he told us the woods had been searched? well, it didn't take a superhuman brainstorm to realise that if what he said was right and the huns were dressed as belgian peasants, and the gun was a little one, that a line of men going through the woods had about as much chance of finding them as a terrier has of catching a tadpole in the water. i says to myself, 'dick, my boy, this is an occasion for stealth, for delicate work, for finesse.' so off i went on my lonesome and hid in the wood. i argued that they couldn't be keeping a permanent watch, and that even if they'd seen me come in, they'd think in time i had gone out again, when they noticed no further sign of me. also i guessed they didn't want to stir up a hornet's nest about their ears by killing me--they wanted no vulgar glare of publicity upon their doings. so, as i say, i hid in a hole and waited. i got bored stiff; though, when all was said and done, it wasn't much worse than sitting in that blessed ploughed field beside the road. about five o'clock i started cursing myself for a fool in listening to the story at all, it all seemed so ridiculous. not a sound in the woods, not a breath of wind in the trees. the guns weren't firing, just for the time everything was peaceful. i'd got a caterpillar down my neck, and i was just coming back to get a drink and chuck it up, when suddenly a belgian labourer popped out from behind a tree. there was nothing peculiar about him, and if it hadn't been for the land crab's story i'd never have given him a second thought. he was just picking up sticks, but as i watched him i noticed that every now and then he straightened himself up, and seemed to peer around as if he was searching the undergrowth. the next minute out came another, and he started the stick-picking stunt too." dick paused to relight his pipe, then he laughed. "of course, the humour of the situation couldn't help striking me. dick o'rourke in a filthy hole, covered with branches and bits of dirt, watching two mangy old belgians picking up wood. but, having stood it the whole day, i made up my mind to wait, at any rate, till night. if only i could catch the gun in action--even if the odds were too great for me alone--i'd be able to spot the hiding-place, and come back later with a party and round them up. "then suddenly the evening hate started--artillery from all over the place--and with it the belgian labourers ceased from plucking sticks. running down a little path, so close to me that i could almost touch him, came one of them. he stopped about ten yards away where the dense undergrowth finished, and, after looking cautiously round, waved his hand. the other one nipped behind a tree and called out something in a guttural tone of voice. and then, i give you my word, out of the bowels of the earth there popped up a little gun not twenty yards from where i'd been lying the whole day. by this time, of course, i was in the same sort of condition as a terrier is when he's seen the cat he has set his heart on shin up a tree, having missed her tail by half an inch. "they clapped her on a little mounting quick as light, laid her, loaded, and, by the holy saints! under my very nose, loosed off a present for poperinghe. the man on guard waved his hand again, and bedad! away went another. the next instant he was back, again an exclamation in german, and in about two shakes the whole thing had disappeared, and there were the two labourers picking sticks. i give you my word it was like a clown popping up in a pantomime through a trap-door; i had to pinch myself to make certain i was awake. "the next instant into the clearing came two english soldiers, the reason evidently of the sudden dismantling. had they been armed we'd have had at them then and there; but, of course, so far behind the trenches, they had no rifles. they just peered round, saw the belgians, and went off again. i heard their steps dying away in the distance, and decided to wait a bit longer. the two men seemed to be discussing what to do, and ultimately moved behind the tree again, where i could hear them talking. at last they came to a decision, and picking up their bundles of sticks came slowly down the path past me. they were not going to fire again that evening." dick smiled reminiscently. "bill, pass the rum. i'm thirsty." "what did you do, dick?" i asked, eagerly. "what d'you think? i was out like a knife and let drive with my hand-gun. i killed the first one as dead as mutton, and missed the second, who shot like a stag into the undergrowth. gad! it was great. i put two more where i thought he was, but as i still heard him crashing on i must have missed him. then i nipped round the tree to find the gun. the only thing there was a great hole full of leaves. i ploughed across it, thinking it must be the other side, when, without a word of warning, i fell through the top--bang through the top, my boy, of the neatest hiding-place you've ever thought of. the whole of the centre of those leaves was a fake. there were about two inches of them supported on light hurdle-work. i was in the robber's cave with a vengeance." "was the gun there?" i cried, excitedly. "it was. also the hun. the gun of small variety; the hun of large--very large. i don't know which of us was the more surprised--him or me; we just stood gazing at one another. "'halloa, englishman,' he said; 'come to leave a card?' "'quite right, boche,' i answered. 'a p.p.c. one.' "i was rather pleased with that touch at the time, old son. i was just going to elaborate it, and point out that he--as the dear departing--should really do it, when he was at me. "bill, my boy, you should have seen that fight. like a fool, i never saw his revolver lying on the table, and i'd shoved my own back in my holster. he got it in his right hand, and i got his right wrist in my left. we'd each got the other by the throat, and one of us was for the count. we each knew that. at one time i thought he'd got me--we were crashing backwards and forwards, and i caught my head against a wooden pole which nearly stunned me. and, mark you, all the time i was expecting his pal to come back and inquire after his health. then suddenly i felt him weaken, and i squeezed his throat the harder. it came quite quickly at the end. his pistol-hand collapsed, and i suppose muscular contraction pulled the trigger, for the bullet went through his head, though i think he was dead already." dick o'rourke paused, and looked thoughtfully into the fire. "but why in the name of heaven," i cried, irritably, "have you kept this dark all the while? why didn't you tell us at the time?" for a while he did not answer, and then he produced his pocket-book. from it he took a photograph, which he handed to me. "out of that german's pocket i took that photograph." "well," i said, "what about it? a very pretty girl for a german." then i looked at it closely. "why, it was taken in england. is it an english girl?" "yes," he answered, dryly, "it is. it's moyra kavanagh, whom i proposed to forty-eight hours previously at ciro's. she refused me, and told me then she was in love with a german. i celebrate the news by coming over here and killing him, in an individual fight where it was man to man." "but," i cried, "good heavens! man--it was you or he." "i know that," he answered, wearily. "what then? he evidently loved her; if not--why the photo. look at what's written on the back--'from moyra--with all my love.' all her love. lord! it's a rum box up." he sighed wearily and slowly replaced it in his case. "so i buried him, and i chucked his gun in a pond, and said nothing about it. if i had it would probably have got into the papers or some such rot, and she'd have wanted to know all about it. think of it! what the deuce would i have told her? to sympathise and discuss her love affairs with her in london, and then toddle over here and slaughter him. dash it, man, it's gilbertian! and, mark you, nothing would induce me to marry her--even if she'd have me--without her knowing." "but---" i began, and then fell silent. the more i thought of it the less i liked it. put it how you like, for a girl to take as her husband a man who has actually killed the man she loved and was engaged to--german or no german--is a bit of a pill to swallow. * * * * * after mature consideration we decided to present the pill to her garbed in this form. on me--as a scribbler of sorts--descended the onus of putting it on paper. when i'd done it, and dick had read it, he said i was a fool, and wanted to tear it up. which is like a man.... look you, my lady, it was a fair fight--it was war--it was an englishman against a german; and the best man won. and surely to heaven you can't blame poor old dick? he didn't know; how could he have known, how... but what's the use? if your heart doesn't bring it right--neither my pen nor my logic is likely to. which is like a woman. chapter ii private meyrick--company idiot no one who has ever given the matter a moment's thought would deny, i suppose, that a regiment without discipline is like a ship without a rudder. true as that fact has always been, it is doubly so now, when men are exposed to mental and physical shocks such as have never before been thought of. the condition of a man's brain after he has sat in a trench and suffered an intensive bombardment for two or three hours can only be described by one word, and that is--numbed. the actual physical concussion, apart altogether from the mental terror, caused by the bursting of a succession of large shells in a man's vicinity, temporarily robs him of the use of his thinking faculties. he becomes half-stunned, dazed; his limbs twitch convulsively and involuntarily; he mutters foolishly--he becomes incoherent. starting with fright he passes through that stage, passes beyond it into a condition bordering on coma; and when a man is in that condition he is not responsible for his actions. his brain has ceased to work.... now it is, i believe, a principle of psychology that the brain or mind of a man can be divided into two parts--the objective and the subjective: the objective being that part of his thought-box which is actuated by outside influences, by his senses, by his powers of deduction; the subjective being that part which is not directly controllable by what he sees and hears, the part which the religious might call his soul, the buddhist "the spark of god," others instinct. and this portion of a man's nature remains acutely active, even while the other part has struck work. in fact, the more numbed and comatose the thinking brain, the more clearly and insistently does subjective instinct hold sway over a man's body. which all goes to show that discipline, if it is to be of any use to a man at such a time, must be a very different type of thing to what the ordinary, uninitiated, and so-called free civilian believes it to be. it must be an ideal, a thing where the motive counts, almost a religion. it must be an appeal to the soul of man, not merely an order to his body. that the order to his body, the self-control of his daily actions, the general change in his mode of life will infallibly follow on the heels of the appeal to his soul--if that appeal be successful--is obvious. but the appeal must come first: it must be the driving power; it must be the cause and not the effect. otherwise, when the brain is gone--numbed by causes outside its control; when the reasoning intellect of man is out of action--stunned for the time; when only his soul remains to pull the quivering, helpless body through,--then, unless that soul has the ideal of discipline in it, it _will_ fail. and failure _may_ mean death and disaster; it _will_ mean shame and disgrace, when sanity returns.... to the man seated at his desk in the company office these ideas were not new. he had been one of the original expeditionary force; but a sniper had sniped altogether too successfully out by zillebecke in the early stages of the first battle of ypres, and when that occurs a rest cure becomes necessary. at that time he was the senior subaltern of one of the finest regiments of "a contemptible little army"; now he was a major commanding a company in the tenth battalion of that same regiment. and in front of him on the desk, a yellow form pinned to a white slip of flimsy paper, announced that no. , private meyrick, j., was for office. the charge was "late falling in on the a.m. parade," and the evidence against him was being given by c.-s.-m. hayton, also an old soldier from that original battalion at ypres. it was major seymour himself who had seen the late appearance of the above-mentioned private meyrick, and who had ordered the yellow form to be prepared. and now with it in front of him, he stared musingly at the office fire.... there are a certain number of individuals who from earliest infancy have been imbued with the idea that the chief pastime of officers in the army, when they are not making love to another man's wife, is the preparation of harsh and tyrannical rules for the express purpose of annoying their men, and the gloating infliction of drastic punishment on those that break them. the absurdity of this idea has nothing to do with it, it being a well-known fact that the more absurd an idea is, the more utterly fanatical do its adherents become. to them the thought that a man being late on parade should make him any the worse fighter--especially as he had, in all probability, some good and sufficient excuse--cannot be grasped. to them the idea that men may not be a law unto themselves--though possibly agreed to reluctantly in the abstract--cannot possibly be assimilated in the concrete. "he has committed some trifling offence," they say; "now you will give him some ridiculous punishment. that is the curse of militarism--a chosen few rule by fear." and if you tell them that any attempt to inculcate discipline by fear alone must of necessity fail, and that far from that being the method in the army the reverse holds good, they will not believe you. yet--it is so.... "shall i bring in the prisoner, sir?" the sergeant-major was standing by the door. "yes, i'll see him now." the officer threw his cigarette into the fire and put on his hat. "take off your 'at. come along there, my lad--move. you'd go to sleep at your mother's funeral--you would." seymour smiled at the conversation outside the door; he had soldiered many years with that sergeant-major. "now, step up briskly. quick march. 'alt. left turn." he closed the door and ranged himself alongside the prisoner facing the table. "no. , private meyrick--you are charged with being late on the a.m. parade this morning. sergeant-major, what do you know about it?" "sir, on the a.m. parade this morning, private meyrick came running on 'alf a minute after the bugle sounded. 'is puttees were not put on tidily. i'd like to say, sir, that it's not the first time this man has been late falling in. 'e seems to me to be always a dreaming, somehow--not properly awake like. i warned 'im for office." the officer's eyes rested on the hatless soldier facing him. "well, meyrick," he said quietly, "what have you got to say?" "nothing, sir. i'm sorry as 'ow i was late. i was reading, and i never noticed the time." "what were you reading?" the question seemed superfluous--almost foolish; but something in the eyes of the man facing him, something in his short, stumpy, uncouth figure interested him. "i was a'reading kipling, sir." the sergeant-major snorted as nearly as such an august disciplinarian could snort in the presence of his officer. "'e ought, sir, to 'ave been 'elping the cook's mate--until 'e was due on parade." "why do you read kipling or anyone else when you ought to be doing other things?" queried the officer. his interest in the case surprised himself; the excuse was futile, and two or three days to barracks is an excellent corrective. "i dunno, sir. 'e sort of gets 'old of me, like. makes me want to do things--and then i can't. i've always been slow and awkward like, and i gets a bit flustered at times. but i do try 'ard." again a doubtful noise from the sergeant-major; to him trying 'ard and reading kipling when you ought to be swabbing up dishes were hardly compatible. for a moment or two the officer hesitated, while the sergeant-major looked frankly puzzled. "what the blazes 'as come over 'im," he was thinking; "surely he ain't going to be guyed by that there wash. why don't 'e give 'im two days and be done with it--and me with all them returns." "i'm going to talk to you, meyrick." major seymour's voice cut in on these reflections. for the fraction of a moment "two days c.b." had been on the tip of his tongue, and then he'd changed his mind. "i want to try and make you understand why you were brought up to office to-day. in every community--in every body of men--there must be a code of rules which govern what they do. unless those rules are carried out by all those men, the whole system falls to the ground. supposing everyone came on to parade half a minute late because they'd been reading kipling?" "i know, sir. i see as 'ow i was wrong. but--i dreams sometimes as 'ow i'm like them he talks about, when 'e says as 'ow they lifted 'em through the charge as won the day. and then the dream's over, and i know as 'ow i'm not." the sergeant-major's impatience was barely concealed; those returns were oppressing him horribly. "you can get on with your work, sergeant-major. i know you're busy." seymour glanced at the n.c.o. "i want to say a little more to meyrick." the scandalised look on his face amused him; to leave a prisoner alone with an officer--impossible, unheard of. "i am in no hurry, sir, thank you." "all right then," seymour spoke briefly. "now, meyrick, i want you to realise that the principle at the bottom of all discipline is the motive that makes that discipline. i want you to realise that all these rules are made for the good of the regiment, and that in everything you do and say you have an effect on the regiment. you count in the show, and i count in it, and so does the sergeant-major. we're all out for the same thing, my lad, and that is the regiment. we do things not because we're afraid of being punished if we don't, but because we know that they are for the good of the regiment--the finest regiment in the world. you've got to make good, not because you'll be dropped on if you don't, but because you'll pull the regiment down if you fail. and because you count, you, personally, must not be late on parade. it _does_ matter what you do yourself. i want you to realise that, and why. the rules you are ordered to comply with are the best rules. sometimes we alter one--because we find a better; but they're the best we can get, and before you can find yourself in the position of the men you dream about--the men who lift others, the men who lead others--you've got to lift and lead yourself. nothing is too small to worry about, nothing too insignificant. and because i think, that at the back of your head somewhere you've got the right idea; because i think it's natural to you to be a bit slow and awkward and that your failure isn't due to laziness or slackness, i'm not going to punish you this time for breaking the rules. if you do it again, it will be a different matter. there comes a time when one can't judge motives; when one can only judge results. case dismissed." thoughtfully the officer lit a cigarette as the door closed, and though for the present there was nothing more for him to do in office, he lingered on, pursuing his train of thoughts. fully conscious of the aggrieved wrath of his sergeant-major at having his time wasted, a slight smile spread over his face. he was not given to making perorations of this sort, and now that it was over he wondered rather why he'd done it. and then he recalled the look in the private's eyes as he had spoken of his dreams. "he'll make good that man." unconsciously he spoke aloud. "he'll make good." the discipline of habit is what we soldiers had before the war, and that takes time. now it must be the discipline of intelligence, of ideal. and for that fear is the worst conceivable teacher. we have no time to form habits now; the routine of the army is of too short duration before the test comes. and the test is too crushing.... the bed-rock now as then is the same, only the methods of getting down to that bed-rock have to be more hurried. of old habitude and constant association instilled a religion--the religion of obedience, the religion of esprit de corps. but it took time. now we need the same religion, but we haven't the same time. * * * * * in the office next door the sergeant-major was speaking soft words to the pay corporal. "blimey, i dunno what's come over the bloke. you know that there meyrick..." "who, the slug?" interpolated the other. "yes. well 'e come shambling on to parade this morning with 'is puttees flapping round his ankles--late as usual; and 'e told me to run 'im up to office." a thumb indicated the major next door. "when i gets 'im there, instead of giving 'im three days c.b. and being done with it, 'e starts a lot of jaw about motives and discipline. 'e hadn't got no ruddy excuse; said 'e was a'reading kipling, or some such rot--when 'e ought to have been 'elping the cook's mate." "what did he give him?" asked the pay corporal, interested. "nothing. his blessing and dismissed the case. as if i had nothing better to do than listen to 'im talking 'ot air to a perisher like that there meyrick. 'ere, pass over them musketry returns." which conversation, had seymour overheard it, he would have understood and fully sympathised with. for c.-s.-m. hayton, though a prince of sergeant-majors, was no student of physiology. to him a spade was a spade only as long as it shovelled earth. * * * * * now, before i go on to the day when the subject of all this trouble and talk was called on to make good, and how he did it, a few words on the man himself might not be amiss. war, the great forcing house of character, admits no lies. sooner or later it finds out a man, and he stands in the pitiless glare of truth for what he is. and it is not by any means the cheery hail-fellow-well-met type, or the thruster, or the sportsman, who always pool the most votes when the judging starts.... john meyrick, before he began to train for the great adventure, had been something in a warehouse down near tilbury. and "something" is about the best description of what he was that you could give. moreover there wasn't a dog's chance of his ever being "anything." he used to help the young man--i should say young gentleman--who checked weigh bills at one of the dock entrances. more than that i cannot say, and incidentally the subject is not of surpassing importance. his chief interests in life were contemplating the young gentleman, listening open-mouthed to his views on life, and, dreaming. especially the latter. sometimes he would go after the day's work, and, sitting down on a bollard, his eyes would wander over the lines of some dirty tramp, with her dark-skinned crew. visions of wonderful seas and tropic islands, of leafy palms with the blue-green surf thundering in towards them, of coral reefs and glorious-coloured flowers, would run riot in his brain. not that he particularly wanted to go and see these figments of his imagination for himself; it was enough for him to dream of them--to conjure them up for a space in his mind by the help of an actual concrete ship--and then to go back to his work of assisting his loquacious companion. he did not find the work uncongenial; he had no hankerings after other modes of life--in fact the thought of any change never even entered into his calculations. what the future might hold he neither knew nor cared; the expressions of his companion on the rottenness of life in general and their firm in particular awoke no answering chord in his breast he had enough to live on in his little room at the top of a tenement house--he had enough over for an occasional picture show--and he had his dreams. he was content. then came the war. for a long while it passed him by; it was no concern of his, and it didn't enter his head that it was ever likely to be until one night, as he was going in to see "jumping jess, or the champion girl cowpuncher" at the local movies, a recruiting sergeant touched him on the arm. he was not a promising specimen for a would-be soldier, but that recruiting sergeant was not new to the game, and he'd seen worse. "why aren't you in khaki, young fellow me lad?" he remarked genially. the idea, as i say, was quite new to our friend. even though that very morning his colleague in the weigh-bill pastime had chucked it and joined, even though he'd heard a foreman discussing who they were to put in his place as "that young meyrick was habsolutely 'opeless," it still hadn't dawned on him that he might go too. but the recruiting sergeant was a man of some knowledge; in his daily round he encountered many and varied types. in two minutes he had fired the boy's imagination with a glowing and partially true description of the glories of war and the army, and supplied him with another set of dreams to fill his brain. wasting no time, he struck while the iron was hot, and in a few minutes john meyrick, sometime checker of weigh-bills, died, and no. , private john meyrick, came into being.... but though you change a man's vocation with the stroke of a pen, you do not change his character. a dreamer he was in the beginning, and a dreamer he remained to the end. and dreaming, as i have already pointed out, was not a thing which commended itself to company-sergeant-major hayton, who in due course became one of the chief arbiters of our friend's destinies. true it was no longer coral islands--but such details availed not with cook's mates and other busy movers in the regimental hive. where he'd got them from, heaven knows, those tattered volumes of kipling; but their matchless spirit had caught his brain and fired his soul, with the result--well, the first of them has been given. there were more results to follow. not three days after he was again upon the mat for the same offence, only to say much the same as before. "i do try, sir--i do try; but some'ow----" and though in the bottom of his heart the officer believed him, though in a very strange way he felt interested in him, there are limits and there are rules. there comes a time, as he had said, when one can't judge by motives, when one can only judge by results. "you mustn't only try; you must succeed. three days to barracks." * * * * * that night in mess the officer sat next to the colonel. "it's the thrusters, the martinets, the men of action who win the v.c.'s and d.c.m.'s, my dear fellow," said his c.o., as he pushed along the wine. "but it's the dreamers, the idealists who deserve them. they suffer so much more." and as major seymour poured himself out a glass of port, a face came into his mind--the face of a stumpy, uncouth man with deep-set eyes. "i wonder," he murmured--"i wonder." * * * * * the opportunities for stirring deeds of heroism in france do not occur with great frequency, whatever outsiders may think to the contrary. for months on end a battalion may live a life of peace and utter boredom, getting a few casualties now and then, occasionally bagging an unwary hun, vegetating continuously in the same unprepossessing hole in the ground--saving only when they go to another, or retire to a town somewhere in rear to have a bath. and the battalion to which no. , private meyrick, belonged was no exception to the general rule. for five weeks they had lived untroubled by anything except flies--all of them, that is, save various n.c.o.'s in a company. to them flies were quite a secondary consideration when compared to their other worry. and that, it is perhaps superfluous to add, was private meyrick himself. every day the same scene would be enacted; every day some sergeant or corporal would dance with rage as he contemplated the company idiot--the title by which he was now known to all and sundry. "wake up! wake up! lumme, didn't i warn you--didn't i warn yer 'arf an 'our ago over by that there tree, when you was a-staring into the branches looking for nuts or something--didn't i warn yer that the company was parading at . for 'ot baths?" "i didn't 'ear you, corporal--i didn't really." "didn't 'ear me! wot yer mean, didn't 'ear me? my voice ain't like the twitter of a grass'opper, is it? it's my belief you're balmy, my boy, b-a-r-m-y. savez. get a move on yer, for gawd's sake! you ought to 'ave a nurse. and when you gets to the bath-'ouse, for 'eaven's sake pull yerself together! don't forget to take off yer clothes before yer gets in; and when they lets the water out, don't go stopping in the bath because you forgot to get out. i wouldn't like another regiment to see you lying about when they come. they might say things." and so with slight variations the daily strafe went on. going up to the trenches it was always meyrick who got lost; meyrick who fell into shell holes and lost his rifle or the jam for his section; meyrick who forgot to lie down when a flare went up, but stood vacantly gazing at it until partially stunned by his next-door neighbour. periodically messages would come through from the next regiment asking if they'd lost the regimental pet, and that he was being returned. it was always meyrick.... "i can't do nothing with 'im, sir." it was the company-sergeant-major speaking to seymour. "'e seems soft like in the 'ead. whenever 'e does do anything and doesn't forget, 'e does it wrong. 'e's always dreaming and 'alf balmy." "he's not a flier, i know, sergeant-major, but we've got to put up with all sorts nowadays," returned the officer diplomatically. "send him to me, and let me have a talk to him." "very good, sir; but 'e'll let us down badly one of these days." and so once again meyrick stood in front of his company officer, and was encouraged to speak of his difficulties. to an amazing degree he had remembered the discourse he had listened to many months previously; to do something for the regiment was what he desired more than anything--to do something big, really big. he floundered and stopped; he could find no words.... "but don't you understand that it's just as important to do the little things? if you can't do them, you'll never do the big ones." "yes, sir--i sees that; i do try, sir, and then i gets thinking, and some'ow--oh! i dunno--but everything goes out of my head like. i wants the regiment to be proud of me--and then they calls me the company idiot." there was something in the man's face that touched seymour. "but how can the regiment be proud of you, my lad," he asked gently, "if you're always late on parade, and forgetting to do what you're told? if i wasn't certain in my own mind that it wasn't slackness and disobedience on your part, i should ask the colonel to send you back to england as useless." an appealing look came into the man's eyes. "oh! don't do that, sir. i will try 'ard--straight i will." "yes, but as i told you once before, there comes a time when one must judge by results. now, meyrick, you must understand this finally. unless you do improve, i shall do what i said. i shall tell the colonel that you're not fitted to be a soldier, and i shall get him to send you away. i can't go on much longer; you're more trouble than you're worth. we're going up to the trenches again to-night, and i shall watch you. that will do; you may go." and so it came about that the company idiot entered on what was destined to prove the big scene in his uneventful life under the eyes of a critical audience. to the sergeant-major, who was a gross materialist, failure was a foregone conclusion; to the company officer, who went a little nearer to the heart of things, the issue was doubtful. possibly his threat would succeed; possibly he'd struck the right note. and the peculiar thing is that both proved right according to their own lights.... * * * * * this particular visit to the trenches was destined to be of a very different nature to former ones. on previous occasions peace had reigned; nothing untoward had occurred to mar the quiet restful existence which trench life so often affords to its devotees. but this time.... it started about six o'clock in the morning on the second day of their arrival--a really pleasant little intensive bombardment. a succession of shells came streaming in, shattering every yard of the front line with tearing explosions. then the huns turned on the gas and attacked behind it. a few reached the trenches--the majority did not; and the ground outside was covered with grey-green figures, some of which were writhing and twitching and some of which were still. the attack had failed.... but that sort of thing leaves its mark on the defenders, and this was their first baptism of real fire. seymour had passed rapidly down the trench when he realised that for the moment it was over; and though men's faces were covered with the hideous gas masks, he saw by the twitching of their hands and by the ugly high-pitched laughter he heard that it would be well to get into touch with those behind. moreover, in every piece of trench there lay motionless figures in khaki.... it was as he entered his dugout that the bombardment started again. quickly he went to the telephone, and started to get on to brigade headquarters. it took him twenty seconds to realise that the line had been cut, and then he cursed dreadfully. the roar of the bursting shells was deafening; his cursing was inaudible; but in a fit of almost childish rage--he kicked the machine. men's nerves are jangled at times.... it was merely coincidence doubtless, but a motionless figure in a gas helmet crouching outside the dugout saw that kick, and slowly in his bemused brain there started a train of thought. why should his company officer do such a thing; why should they all be cowering in the trench waiting for death to come to them; why...? for a space his brain refused to act; then it started again. why was that man lying full length at the bottom of the trench, with the great hole torn out of his back, and the red stream spreading slowly round him; why didn't it stop instead of filling up the little holes at the bottom of the trench and then overflowing into the next one? he was the corporal who'd called him balmy; but why should he be dead? he was dead--at least the motionless watcher thought he must be. he lay so still, and his body seemed twisted and unnatural. but why should one of the regiment be dead; it was all so unexpected, so sudden? and why did his major kick the telephone?... for a space he lay still, thinking; trying to figure things out. he suddenly remembered tripping over a wire coming up to the trench, and being cursed by his sergeant for lurching against him. "you would," he had been told--"you would. if it ain't a wire, you'd fall over yer own perishing feet." "what's the wire for, sergint?" he had asked. "what d'you think, softie. drying the washing on? it's the telephone wire to headquarters." it came all back to him, and it had been over by the stunted pollard that he'd tripped up. then he looked back at the silent, motionless figure--the red stream had almost reached him--and the idea came. it came suddenly--like a blow. the wire must be broken, otherwise the officer wouldn't have kicked the telephone; he'd have spoken through it. "i wants the regiment to be proud of me--and then they calls me the company idiot." he couldn't do the little things--he was always forgetting, but...! what was that about "lifting 'em through the charge that won the day"? there was no charge, but there was the regiment. and the regiment was wanting him at last. something wet touched his fingers, and when he looked at them, they were red. "b-a-r-m-y. you ought to 'ave a nurse...." then once again coherent thought failed him--utter physical weakness gripped him--he lay comatose, shuddering, and crying softly over he knew not what. the sweat was pouring down his face from the heat of the gas helmet, but still he held the valve between his teeth, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth as he had been told. it was automatic, involuntary; he couldn't think, he only remembered certain things by instinct. suddenly a high explosive shell burst near him--quite close: and a mass of earth crashed down on his legs and back, half burying him. he whimpered feebly, and after a while dragged himself free. but the action brought him close to that silent figure, with the ripped up back.... "you ought to 'ave a nurse..." why? gawd above--why? wasn't he as good a man as that there dead corporal? wasn't he one of the regiment too? and now the corporal couldn't do anything, but he--well, he hadn't got no hole torn out of his back. it wasn't his blood that lay stagnant, filling the little holes at the bottom of the trench.... kipling came back to him--feebly, from another world. the dreamer was dreaming once again. "if your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, remember it's ruin to run from a fight." run! who was talking of running? he was going to save the regiment--once he could think clearly again. everything was hazy just for the moment. "and wait for supports like a soldier." but there weren't no supports, and the telephone wire was broken--the wire he'd tripped over as he came up. until it was mended there wouldn't be any supports--until it was mended--until---- with a choking cry he lurched to his feet: and staggering, running, falling down, the dreamer crossed the open. a tearing pain through his left arm made him gasp, but he got there--got there and collapsed. he couldn't see very well, so he tore off his gas helmet, and, peering round, at last saw the wire. and the wire was indeed cut. why the throbbing brain should have imagined it would be cut _there_, i know not; perhaps he associated it particularly with the pollard--and after all he was the company idiot. but it was cut there, i am glad to say; let us not begrudge him his little triumph. he found one end, and some few feet off he saw the other. with infinite difficulty he dragged himself towards it. why did he find it so terribly hard to move? he couldn't see clearly; everything somehow was getting hazy and red. the roar of the shells seemed muffled strangely--far-away, indistinct. he pulled at the wire, and it came towards him; pulled again, and the two ends met. then he slipped back against the pollard, the two ends grasped in his right hand.... the regiment was safe at last. the officer would not have to kick the telephone again. the idiot had made good. and into his heart there came a wonderful peace. there was a roaring in his ears; lights danced before his eyes; strange shapes moved in front of him. then, of a sudden, out of the gathering darkness a great white light seared his senses, a deafening crash overwhelmed him, a sharp stabbing blow struck his head. the roaring ceased, and a limp figure slipped down and lay still, with two ends of wire grasped tight in his hand. "they are going to relieve us to-night, sergeant-major." the two men with tired eyes faced one another in the major's dugout the bombardment was over, and the dying rays of a blood-red sun glinted through the door. "i think they took it well." "they did, sir--very well." "what are the casualties? any idea?" "somewhere about seventy or eighty, sir--but i don't know the exact numbers." "as soon as it's dark i'm going back to headquarters. captain standish will take command." "that there meyrick is reported missing, sir." "missing! he'll turn up somewhere--if he hasn't been hit." "probably walked into the german trenches by mistake," grunted the c.-s.-m. dispassionately, and retired. outside the dugout men had moved the corporal; but the red pools still remained--stagnant at the bottom of the trench.... "well, you're through all right now, major," said a voice in the doorway, and an officer with the white and blue brassard of the signals came in and sat down. "there are so many wires going back that have been laid at odd times, that it's difficult to trace them in a hurry." he gave a ring on the telephone, and in a moment the thin, metallic voice of the man at the other end broke the silence. "all right. just wanted to make sure we were through. ring off." "i remember kicking that damn thing this morning when i found we were cut off," remarked seymour, with a weary smile. "funny how childish one is at times." "aye--but natural. this war's damnable." the two men fell silent. "i'll have a bit of an easy here," went on the signal officer after a while, "and then go down with you." a few hours later the two men clambered out of the back of the trench. "it's easier walking, and i know every stick," remarked the major. "make for that stunted pollard first." dimly the tree stood outlined against the sky--a conspicuous mark and signpost. it was the signal officer who tripped over it first--that huddled quiet body, and gave a quick ejaculation. "somebody caught it here, poor devil. look out--duck." a flare shot up into the night, and by its light the two motionless officers close to the pollard looked at what they had found. "how the devil did he get here!" muttered seymour. "it's one of my men." "was he anywhere near you when you kicked the telephone?" asked the other, and his voice was a little hoarse. "he may have been--i don't know. why?" "look at his right hand." from the tightly clenched fingers two broken ends of wire stuck out. "poor lad." the major bit his lip. "poor lad--i wonder. they called him the company idiot. do you think...?" "i think he came out to find the break in the wire," said the other quietly. "and in doing so he found the answer to the big riddle." "i knew he'd make good--i knew it all along. he used to dream of big things--something big for the regiment." "and he's done a big thing, by jove," said the signal officer gruffly, "for it's the motive that counts. and he couldn't know that he'd got the wrong wire." * * * * * "when 'e doesn't forget, 'e does things wrong." as i said, both the sergeant-major and his officer proved right according to their own lights. chapter iii spud trevor of the red hussars it would be but a small exaggeration to say that in every god-forsaken hole and corner of the world, where soldiers lived and moved and had their being, before nemesis overtook europe, the name of spud trevor of the red hussars was known. from simla to singapore, from khartoum to the curragh his name was symbolical of all that a regimental officer should be. senior subalterns guiding the erring feet of the young and frivolous from the tempting paths of night clubs and fair ladies, to the infinitely better ones of hunting and sport, were apt to quote him. adjutants had been known to hold him up as an example to those of their flock who needed chastening for any of the hundred and one things that adjutants do not like--if they have their regiment at heart. and he deserved it all. i, who knew him, as well perhaps as anyone; i, who was privileged to call him friend, and yet in the hour of his greatest need failed him; i, to whose lot it has fallen to remove the slur from his name, state this in no half-hearted way. he deserved it, and a thousand times as much again. he was the type of man beside whom the ordinary english gentleman--the so-called white man--looked dirty-grey in comparison. and yet there came a day when men who had openly fawned on him left the room when he came in, when whispers of an unsuspected yellow streak in him began to circulate, when senior subalterns no longer held him up as a model. now he is dead: and it has been left to me to vindicate him. perchance by so doing i may wipe out a little of the stain of guilt that lies so heavy on my heart; perchance i may atone, in some small degree, for my doubts and suspicions; and, perchance too, the whitest man that ever lived may of his understanding and knowledge, perfected now in the great silence to which he has gone, accept my tardy reparation, and forgive. it is only yesterday that the document, which explained everything, came into my hands. it was sent to me sealed, and with it a short covering letter from a firm of solicitors stating that their client was dead--killed in france--and that according to his instructions they were forwarding the enclosed, with the request that i should make such use of it as i saw fit. to all those others, who, like myself, doubted, i address these words. many have gone under: to them i venture to think everything is now clear. maybe they have already met spud, in the great vast gulfs where the mists of illusion are rolled away. for those who still live, he has no abuse--that incomparable sportsman and sahib; no recriminations for us who ruined his life. he goes farther, and finds excuses for us; god knows we need them. here is what he has written. the document is reproduced exactly as i received it--saving only that i have altered all names. the man, whom i have called ginger bathurst, and everyone else concerned, will, i think, recognise themselves. and, pour les autres--let them guess. * * * * * in two days, old friend, my battalion sails for france; and, now with the intention full formed and fixed in my mind, that i shall not return, i have determined to put down on paper the true facts of what happened three years ago: or rather, the true motives that impelled me to do what i did. i put it that way, because you already know the facts. you know that i was accused of saving my life at the expense of a woman's when the _astoria_ foundered in mid-atlantic; you know that i was accused of having thrust her aside and taken her place in the boat. that accusation is true. i did save my life at a woman's expense. but the motives that impelled my action you do not know, nor the identity of the woman concerned. i hope and trust that when you have read what i shall write you will exonerate me from the charge of a cowardice, vile and abominable beyond words, and at the most only find me guilty of a mistaken sense of duty. these words will only reach you in the event of my death; do with them what you will. i should like to think that the old name was once again washed clean of the dirty blot it has on it now; so do your best for me, old pal, do your best. you remember ginger bathurst--of course you do. is he still a budding staff officer at the war office, i wonder, or is he over the water? i'm out of touch with the fellows in these days--(_the pathos of it: spud out of touch, spud of all men, whose soul was in the army_)--one doesn't live in the back of beyond for three years and find army lists and gazettes growing on the trees. you remember also, i suppose, that i was best man at his wedding when he married the comtesse de grecin. i told you at the time that i was not particularly enamoured of his choice, but it was _his_ funeral; and with the old boy asking me to steer him through, i had no possible reason for refusing. not that i had anything against the woman: she was charming, fascinating, and had a pretty useful share of this world's boodle. moreover, she seemed extraordinarily in love with ginger, and was just the sort of woman to push an ambitious fellow like him right up to the top of the tree. he, of course, was simply idiotic: he was stark, raving mad about her; vowed she was the most peerless woman that ever a wretched being like himself had been privileged to look at; loaded her with presents which he couldn't afford, and generally took it a good deal worse than usual. i think, in a way, it was the calm acceptance of those presents that first prejudiced me against her. naturally i saw a lot of her before they were married, being such a pal of ginger's, and i did my best for his sake to overcome my dislike. but he wasn't a wealthy man--at the most he had about six hundred a year private means--and the presents of jewellery alone that he gave her must have made a pretty large hole in his capital. however that is all by the way. they were married, and shortly afterwards i took my leave big game shooting and lost sight of them for a while. when i came back ginger was at the war office, and they were living in london. they had a delightful little flat in hans crescent, and she was pushing him as only a clever woman can push. everybody who could be of the slightest use to him sooner or later got roped in to dinner and was duly fascinated. to an habitual onlooker like myself, the whole thing was clear, and i must quite admit that much of my first instinctive dislike--and dislike is really too strong a word--evaporated. she went out of her way to be charming to me, not that i could be of any use to the old boy, but merely because i was his great friend; and of course she knew that i realised--what he never dreamed of--that she was paving the way to pull some really big strings for him later. i remember saying good-bye to her one afternoon after a luncheon, at which i had watched with great interest the complete capitulation of two generals and a well-known diplomatist. "you're a clever man, mr. spud," she murmured, with that charming air of taking one into her confidence, with which a woman of the world routs the most confirmed misogynist. "if only ginger----" she broke off and sighed: just the suggestion of a sigh; but sufficient to imply--lots. "my lady," i answered, "keep him fit; make him take exercise: above all things don't let him get fat. even you would be powerless with a fat husband. but provided you keep him thin, and never let him decide anything for himself, he will live to be a lasting monument and example of what a woman can do. and warriors and statesmen shall bow down and worship, what time they drink tea in your boudoir and eat buns from your hand. bismillah!" but time is short, and these details are trifling. only once again, old pal, i am living in the days when i moved in the pleasant paths of life, and the temptation to linger is strong. bear with me a moment. i am a sybarite for the moment in spirit: in reality--god! how it hurts. "gentlemen rankers out on the spree, damned from here to eternity: god have mercy on such as we. bah! yah! bah!" i never thought i should live to prove kipling's lines. but that's what i am--a gentleman ranker; going out to the war of wars--a private. i, and that's the bitterest part of it, i, who had, as you know full well, always, for years, lived for this war, the war against those cursed germans. i knew it was coming--you'll bear me witness of that fact--and the cruel irony of fate that has made that very knowledge my downfall is not the lightest part of the little bundle fate has thrown on my shoulders. yes, old man, we're getting near the motives now; but all in good time. let me lay it out dramatically; don't rob me of my exit--i'm feeling a bit theatrical this evening. it may interest you to know that i saw lady delton to-day: she's a v.a.d., and did not recognise me, thank heaven! (_need i say again that delton is not the name he wrote. sufficient that she and spud knew one another_ _very well, in other days. but in some men it would have emphasised the bitterness of spirit._) let's get on with it. a couple of years passed, and the summer of found me in new york. i was temporarily engaged on a special job which it is unnecessary to specify. it was not a very important one, but, as you know, a gift of tongues and a liking for poking my nose into the affairs of nations had enabled me to get a certain amount of more or less diplomatic work. the job was over, and i was merely marking time in new york waiting for the _astoria_ to sail. two days before she was due to leave, and just as i was turning into the doors of my hotel, i ran full tilt into von basel--a very decent fellow in the prussian guard--who was seconded and doing military attaché work in america. i'd met him off and on hunting in england--one of the few germans i know who really went well to hounds. "hullo! trevor," he said, as we met. "what are you doing here?" "marking time," i answered. "waiting for my boat." we strolled to the bar, and over a cocktail he suggested that if i had nothing better to do i might as well come to some official ball that was on that evening. "i can get you a card," he remarked. "you ought to come; your friend, mrs. bathurst--comtesse de grecin that was--is going to be present." "i'd no idea she was this side of the water," i said, surprised. "oh, yes! come over to see her people or something. well! will you come?" i agreed, having nothing else on, and as he left the hotel, he laughed. "funny the vagaries of fate. i don't suppose i come into this hotel once in three months. i only came down this evening to tell a man not to come and call as arranged, as my kid has got measles--and promptly ran into you." truly the irony of circumstances! if one went back far enough, one might find that the determining factor of my disgrace was the quarrel of a nurse and her lover which made her take the child another walk than usual and pick up infection. dash it all! you might even find that it was a spot on her nose that made her do so, as she didn't want to meet him when not looking at her best! but that way madness lies. whatever the original cause--i went: and in due course met the comtesse. she gave me a couple of dances, and i found that she, too, had booked her passage on the _astoria_. i met very few people i knew, and having found it the usual boring stunt, i decided to get a glass of champagne and a sandwich and then retire to bed. i took them along to a small alcove where i could smoke a cigarette in peace, and sat down. it was as i sat down that i heard from behind a curtain which completely screened me from view, the words "english army" spoken in german. and the voice was the voice of the comtesse. nothing very strange in the words you say, seeing that she spoke german, as well as several other languages, fluently. perhaps not--but you know what my ideas used to be--how i was obsessed with the spy theory: at any rate, i listened. i listened for a quarter of an hour, and then i got my coat and went home--went home to try and see a way through just about the toughest proposition i'd ever been up against. for the comtesse--ginger bathurst's idolised wife--was hand in glove with the german secret service. she was a spy, not of the wireless installation up the chimney type, not of the document-stealing type, but of a very much more dangerous type than either, the type it is almost impossible to incriminate. i can't remember the conversation i overheard exactly, i cannot give it to you word for word, but i will give you the substance of it. her companion was von basel's chief--a typical prussian officer of the most overbearing description. "how goes it with you, comtesse?" he asked her, and i heard the scrape of a match as he lit a cigarette. "well, baron, very well." "they do not suspect?" "not an atom. the question has never been raised even as to my national sympathies, except once, and then the suggestion--not forced or emphasised in any way--that, as the child of a family who had lost everything in the ' war, my sympathies were not hard to discover, was quite sufficient. that was at the time of the agadir crisis." "and you do not desire revanche?" "my dear man, i desire money. my husband with his pay and private income has hardly enough to dress me on." "but, dear lady, why, if i may ask, did you marry him? with so many others for her choice, surely the comtesse de grecin could have commanded the world?" "charming as a phrase, but i assure you that the idea of the world at one's feet is as extinct as the dodo. no, baron, you may take it from me he was the best i could do. a rising junior soldier, employed on a staff job at the war office, _persona grata_ with all the people who really count in london by reason of his family, and moreover infatuated with his charming wife." her companion gave a guttural chuckle; i could feel him leering. "i give the best dinners in london; the majority of his senior officers think i am on the verge of running away with them, and when they become too obstreperous, i allow them to kiss my--fingers. "listen to me, baron," she spoke rapidly, in a low voice so that i could hardly catch what she said. "i have already given information about some confidential big howitzer trials which i saw; it was largely on my reports that action was stopped at agadir; and there are many other things--things intangible, in a certain sense--points of view, the state of feeling in ireland, the conditions of labour, which i am able to hear the inner side of, in a way quite impossible if i had not the entrée into that particular class of english society which i now possess. not the so-called smart set, you understand; but the real ruling set--the leading soldiers, the leading diplomats. of course they are discreet----" "but you are a woman and a peerless one, chère comtesse. i think we may leave that cursed country in your hands with perfect safety. and, sooner perhaps than even we realise, we may see der tag." such then was briefly the conversation i overheard. as i said, it is not given word for word--but that is immaterial. what was i to do? that was the point which drummed through my head as i walked back to my hotel; that was the point which was still drumming through my head as the dawn came stealing in through my window. put yourself in my place, old man; what would you have done? i, alone, of everyone who knew her in london, had stumbled by accident on the truth. bathurst idolised her, and she exaggerated no whit when she boasted that she had the entrée to the most exclusive circle in england. i know; i was one of it myself. and though one realises that it is only in plays and novels that cabinet ministers wander about whispering state secrets into the ears of beautiful adventuresses, yet one also knows in real life how devilish dangerous a really pretty and fascinating woman can be--especially when she's bent on finding things out and is clever enough to put two and two together. take one thing alone, and it was an aspect of the case that particularly struck me. supposing diplomatic relations became strained between us and germany--and i firmly believed, as you know, that sooner or later they would; supposing mobilisation was ordered--a secret one; suppose any of the hundred and one things which would be bound to form a prelude to a european war--and which at all costs must be kept secret--had occurred; think of the incalculable danger a clever woman in her position might have been, however discreet her husband was. and, my dear old boy, you know ginger! supposing the expeditionary force were on the point of embarkation. a wife might guess their port of departure and arrival by an artless question or two as to where her husband on the staff had motored to that day. but why go on? you see what i mean. only to me, at that time--and now i might almost say that i am glad events have justified me--it appealed even more than it would have, say, to you. for i was so convinced of the danger that threatened us. but what was i to do? it was only my word against hers. tell ginger? the idea made even me laugh. tell the generals and the diplomatists? they didn't want to kiss _my_ hand. tell some big bug in the secret service? yes--that anyway; but she was such a devilish clever woman, that i had but little faith in such a simple remedy, especially as most of them patronised her dinners themselves. still, that was the only thing to be done--that, and to keep a look-out myself, for i was tolerably certain she did not suspect me. why should she? and so in due course i found myself sitting next her at dinner as the _astoria_ started her journey across the water. * * * * * i am coming to the climax of the drama, old man; i shall not bore you much longer. but before i actually give you the details of what occurred on that ill-fated vessel's last trip, i want to make sure that you realise the state of mind i was in, and the action that i had decided on. firstly, i was convinced that my dinner partner--the wife of one of my best friends--was an unscrupulous spy. that the evidence would not have hung a fly in a court of law was not the point; the evidence was my own hearing, which was good enough for me. secondly, i was convinced that she occupied a position in society which rendered it easy for her to get hold of the most invaluable information in the event of a war between us and germany. thirdly, i was convinced that there would be a war between us and germany. so much for my state of mind; now, for my course of action. i had decided to keep a watch on her, and, if i could get hold of the slightest incriminating evidence, expose her secretly, but mercilessly, to the secret service. if i could not--and if i realised there was danger brewing--to inform the secret service of what i had heard, and, sacrificing ginger's friendship if necessary, and my own reputation for chivalry, swear away her honour, or anything, provided only her capacity for obtaining information temporarily ceased. once that was done, then face the music, and be accused, if needs be, of false swearing, unrequited love, jealousy, what you will. but to destroy her capacity for harm to my country was my bounden duty, whatever the social or personal results to me. and there was one other thing--and on this one thing the whole course of the matter was destined to hang: _i alone could do it, for i alone knew the truth._ let that sink in, old son; grasp it, realise it, and read my future actions by the light of that one simple fact. i can see you sit back in your chair, and look into the fire with the light of comprehension dawning in your eyes; it does put the matter in a different complexion, doesn't it, my friend? you begin to appreciate the motives that impelled me to sacrifice a woman's life; so far so good. you are even magnanimous: what is one woman compared to the danger of a nation? dear old boy, i drink a silent toast to you. have you no suspicions? what if the woman i sacrificed was the comtesse herself? does it surprise you; wasn't it the god-sent solution to everything? just as a freak of fate had acquainted me with her secret; so did a freak of fate throw me in her path at the end.... we hit an iceberg, as you may remember, in the middle of the night, and the ship foundered in under twenty minutes. you can imagine the scene of chaos after we struck, or rather you can't. men were running wildly about shouting, women were screaming, and the roar of the siren bellowing forth into the night drove people to a perfect frenzy. then all the lights went out, and darkness settled down like a pall on the ship. i struggled up on deck, which was already tilting up at a perilous angle, and there--in the mass of scurrying figures--i came face to face with the comtesse. in the panic of the moment i had forgotten all about her. she was quite calm, and smiled at me, for of course our relations were still as before. suddenly there came the shout from close at hand, "room for one more only." what happened then, happened in a couple of seconds; it will take me longer to describe. there flashed into my mind what would occur if i were drowned and the comtesse was saved. there would be no one to combat her activities in england; she would have a free hand. my plans were null and void if i died; i must get back to england--or england would be in peril. i must pass on my information to someone--for i alone knew. "hurry up! one more." another shout from near by, and looking round i saw that we were alone. it was she or i. she moved towards the boat, and as she did so i saw the only possible solution--i saw what i then thought to be my duty; what i still consider--and, god knows, that scene is never long out of my mind--what i still consider to have been my duty. i took her by the arm and twisted her facing me. "as ginger's wife, yes," i muttered; "as the cursed spy i know you to be, no--a thousand times no." "my god!" she whispered. "my god!" without further thought i pushed by her and stepped into the boat, which was actually being lowered into the water. two minutes later the _astoria_ sank, and she went down with her.... that is what occurred that night in mid-atlantic. i make no excuses, i offer no palliation; i merely state facts. only had i not heard what i did hear in that alcove she would have been just--ginger's wife. would the expeditionary force have crossed so successfully, i wonder? as i say, i did what i still consider to have been my duty. if both could have been saved, well and good; but if it was only one, it _had_ to be me, or neither. that's the rub; should it have been neither? many times since then, old friend, has the white twitching face of that woman haunted me in my dreams and in my waking hours. many times since then have i thought that--spy or no spy--i had no right to save my life at her expense; i should have gone down with her. quixotical, perhaps, seeing she was what she was; but she was a woman. one thing and one thing only i can say. when you read these lines, i shall be dead; they will come to you as a voice from the dead. and, as a man who faces his maker, i tell you, with a calm certainty that i am not deceiving myself, that that night there was no trace of cowardice in my mind. it was not a desire to save my own life that actuated me; it was the fear of danger to england. an error of judgment possibly; an act of cowardice--no. that much i state, and that much i demand that you believe. * * * * * and now we come to the last chapter--the chapter that you know. i'd been back about two months when i first realised that there were stories going round about me. there were whispers in the club; men avoided me; women cut me. then came the dreadful night when a man--half drunk--in the club accused me of cowardice point-blank, and sneeringly contrasted my previous reputation with my conduct on the _astoria_. and i realised that someone must have seen. i knocked that swine in the club down; but the whispers grew. i knew it. someone had seen, and it would be sheer hypocrisy on my part to pretend that such a thing didn't matter. it mattered everything: it ended me. the world--our world--judges deeds, not motives; and even had i published at the time this document i am sending to you, our world would have found me guilty. they would have said what you would have said had you spoken the thoughts i saw in your eyes that night i came to you. they would have said that a sudden wave of cowardice had overwhelmed me, and that brought face to face with death i had saved my own life at the expense of a woman's. many would have gone still further, and said that my black cowardice was rendered blacker still by my hypocrisy in inventing such a story; that first to kill the woman, and then to blacken her reputation as an excuse, showed me as a thing unfit to live. i know the world. moreover, as far as i knew then--i am sure of it now--whoever it was who saw my action, did not see who the woman was, and therefore the publication of this document at that time would have involved ginger, for it would have been futile to publish it without names. feeling as i did that perhaps i should have sunk with her; feeling as i did that, for good or evil, i had blasted ginger's life, i simply couldn't do it. you didn't believe in me, old chap; at the bottom of their hearts all my old pals thought i'd shown the yellow streak; and i couldn't stick it. so i went to the colonel, and told him i was handing in my papers. he was in his quarters, i remember, and started filling his pipe as i was speaking. "why, spud?" he asked, when i told him my intention. and then i told him something of what i have written to you. i said it to him in confidence, and when i'd finished he sat very silent. "good god!" he muttered at length. "ginger's wife!" "you believe me, colonel?" i asked. "spud," he said, putting his hands on my shoulders, "that's a damn rotten thing to ask me--after fifteen years. but it's the regiment." and he fell to staring at the fire. aye, that was it. it was the regiment that mattered. for better or for worse i had done what i had done, and it was my show. the red hussars must not be made to suffer; and their reputation would have suffered through me. otherwise i'd have faced it out. as it was, i had to go; i knew it. i'd come to the same decision myself. only now, sitting here in camp with the setting sun glinting through the windows of the hut, just a canadian private under an assumed name, things are a little different. the regiment is safe; i must think now of the old name. the colonel was killed at cambrai; therefore you alone will be in possession of the facts. ginger, if he reads these words, will perhaps forgive me for the pain i have inflicted on him. let him remember that though i did a dreadful thing to him, a thing which up to now he has been ignorant of, yet i suffered much for his sake after. during my life it was one thing; when i am dead his claims must give way to a greater one--my name. wherefore i, patrick courtenay trevor, having the unalterable intention of meeting my maker during the present war, and therefore feeling in a measure that i am, even as i write, standing at the threshold of his presence, do swear before almighty god that what i have written is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. so help me, god. * * * * * the fall-in is going, old man. good-bye. chapter iv the fatal second it was in july of --on the saturday of henley week. people who were there may remember that, for once in a way, our fickle climate was pleased to smile upon us. underneath the wall of phyllis court a punt was tied up. the prizes had been given away, and the tightly packed boats surged slowly up and down the river, freed at last from the extreme boredom of watching crews they did not know falling exhausted out of their boats. in the punt of which i speak were three men and a girl. one of the men was myself, who have no part in this episode, save the humble one of narrator. the other three were the principals; i would have you make their acquaintance. i would hurriedly say that it is not the old, old story of a woman and two men, for one of the men was her brother. to begin with--the girl. pat delawnay--she was always called pat, as she didn't look like a patricia--was her name, and she was--well, here i give in. i don't know the colour of her eyes, nor can i say with any certainty the colour of her hair; all i know is that she looked as if the sun had come from heaven and kissed her, and had then gone back again satisfied with his work. she was a girl whom to know was to love--the dearest, most understanding soul in god's whole earth. i'd loved her myself since i was out of petticoats. then there was jack delawnay, her brother. two years younger he was, and between the two of them there was an affection and love which is frequently conspicuous by its absence between brother and sister. he was a cheery youngster, a good-looking boy, and fellows in the regiment liked him. he rode straight, and he had the money to keep good cattle. in addition, the men loved him, and that means a lot when you size up an officer. and then there was the other. older by ten years than the boy--the same age as myself--jerry dixon was my greatest friend. we had fought together at school, played the ass together at sandhurst, and entered the regiment on the same day. he had "a" company and i had "c," and the boy was one of his subalterns. perhaps i am biassed, but to me jerry dixon had one of the finest characters i have ever seen in any man. he was no galahad, no prig; he was just a man, a white man. he had that cheerily ugly face which is one of the greatest gifts a man can have, and he also had pat as his fiancée, which was another. my name is immaterial, but everyone calls me winkle, owing to---- well, some day i may tell you. the regiment, our regiment, was the, let us call it the downshires. we had come over from aldershot and were week-ending at the delawnays' place--they always took one on the river for henley. at the moment jerry was holding forth, quite unmoved by exhortations to "get out and get under" bawled in his ears by blackened gentlemen of doubtful voice and undoubted inebriation. as i write, the peculiar--the almost sinister--nature of his conversation, in the light of future events, seems nothing short of diabolical. and yet at the time we were just three white-flannelled men and a girl with a great floppy hat lazing over tea in a punt. how the gods must have laughed! "my dear old winkle"--he was lighting a cigarette as he spoke--"you don't realise the deeper side of soldiering at all. the subtle nuances (french, pat, in case my accent is faulty) are completely lost upon you." i remember smiling to myself as i heard jerry getting warmed up to his subject, and then my attention wandered, and i dozed off. i had heard it all before so often from the dear old boy. we always used to chaff him about it in the mess. i can see him now, after dinner, standing with his back to the ante-room fire, a whisky-and-soda in his hand and a dirty old pipe between his teeth. "it's all very well for you fellows to laugh," he would say, "but i'm right for all that. it is absolutely essential to think out beforehand what one would do in certain exceptional eventualities, so that when that eventuality does arise you won't waste any time, but will automatically do the right thing." and then the adjutant recalled in a still small voice how he first realised the orderly-room sergeant's baby was going to be sick in his arms at the regiment's christmas-tree festivities, and, instead of throwing it on the floor, he had clung to it for that fatal second of indecision. as he admitted, it was certainly not one of the things he had thought out beforehand. he's gone, too, has old bellairs the adjutant. i wonder how many fellows i'll know when i get back to them next week? but i'm wandering. "winkle, wake up!" it was pat speaking. "jerry is being horribly serious, and i'm not at all certain it will be safe to marry him; he'll be experimenting on me." "what's he been saying?" i murmured sleepily. "he's been thinking what he'd do," laughed jack, "if the stout female personage in yonder small canoe overbalanced and fell in. there'll be no fatal second then, jerry, my boy. it'll be a minute even if i have to hold you. you'd never be able to look your friends in the face again if you didn't let her drown." "ass!" grunted jerry. "no, winkle, i was just thinking, amongst other things, of what might very easily happen to any of us three here, and what did happen to old grantley in south africa." grantley was one of our majors. "he told me all about it one day in one of his expansive moods. it was during a bit of a scrap just before paardeburg, and he had some crowd of irregular johnnies. he was told off to take a position, and apparently it was a fairly warm proposition. however, it was perfectly feasible if only the men stuck it. well, they didn't, but they would have except for his momentary indecision. he told me that there came a moment in the advance when one man wavered. he knew it and felt it all through him. he saw the man--he almost saw the deadly contagion spreading from that one man to the others--and he hesitated and was lost. when he sprang forward and tried to hold 'em, he failed. the fear was on them, and they broke. he told me he regarded himself as every bit as much to blame as the man who first gave out." "but what could he have done, jerry?" asked pat. "shot him, dear--shot him on the spot without a second's thought--killed the origin of the fear before it had time to spread. i venture to say that there are not many fellows in the service who would do it--without thinking: and you can't think--you dare not, even if there was time. it goes against the grain, especially if you know the man well, and it's only by continually rehearsing the scene in your mind that you'd be able to do it." we were all listening to him now, for this was a new development i'd never heard before. "just imagine the far-reaching results one coward--no, not coward, possibly--but one man who has reached the breaking-point, may have. think of it, winkle. a long line stretched out, attacking. one man in the centre wavers, stops. spreading outwards, the thing rushes like lightning, because, after all, fear is only an emotion, like joy and sorrow, and one knows how quickly they will communicate themselves to other people. also, in such a moment as an attack, men are particularly susceptible to emotions. all that is primitive is uppermost, and their reasoning powers are more or less in abeyance." "but the awful thing, jerry," said pat quietly, "is that you would never know whether it had been necessary or not. it might not have spread; he might have answered to your voice--oh! a thousand things might have happened." "it's not worth the risk, dear. one man's life is not worth the risk. it's a risk you just dare not take. it may mean everything--it may mean failure--it may mean disgrace." he paused and looked steadily across the shifting scene of gaiety and colour, while a long bamboo pole with a little bag on the end, wielded by some passing vocalist, was thrust towards him unheeded. then with a short laugh he pulled himself together, and lit a cigarette. "but enough of dull care. let us away, and gaze upon beautiful women and brave men. what's that little tune they're playing?" "that's that waltz--what the deuce is the name, pat?" asked jack, untying the punt. "'destiny,'" answered pat briefly, and we passed out into the stream. * * * * * a month afterwards we three were again at henley, not in flannels in a punt on the river, but in khaki, with a motor waiting at the door of the delawnays' house to take us back to aldershot. i do not propose to dwell over the scene, but in the setting down of the story it cannot be left out. europe was at war; the long-expected by those scoffed-at alarmists had actually come. england and germany were at each other's throats. inside the house jack was with his mother. personally, i was standing in the garden with the grey-haired father; and jerry was--well, where else could he have been? as is the way with men, we discussed the roses, and the rascality of the germans, and everything except what was in our hearts. and in one of the pauses in our spasmodic conversation we heard her voice, just over the hedge: "god guard and keep you, my man, and bring you back to me safe!" and the voice was steady, though one could feel those dear eyes dim with tears. and then jerry's, dear old jerry's voice--a little bit gruff it was, and a little bit shaky: "my love! my darling!" but the old man was going towards the house, blowing his nose; and i--don't hold with love and that sort of thing at all. true, i blundered into a flower-bed, which i didn't see clearly, as i went towards the car, for there are things which one may not hear and remain unmoved. perhaps, if things had been different, and jerry--dear old jerry--hadn't---- but there, i'm wandering again. at last we were in the car and ready to start. "take care of him, jerry; he and pat are all we've got." it was mrs. delawnay speaking, standing there with the setting sun on her sweet face and her husband's arm about her. "i'll be all right, mater," answered jack gruffly. "buck up! back for christmas!" "i'll look after him, mrs. delawnay," answered jerry, but his eyes were fixed on pat, and for him the world held only her. as the car swung out of the gate, we looked back the last time and saluted, and it was only i who saw through a break in the hedge two women locked in each other's arms, while a grey-haired gentleman sat very still on a garden-seat, with his eyes fixed on the river rolling smoothly by. * * * * * it was on the aisne i took it. through that ghastly fourteen days we had slogged dully south away from mons, ever getting nearer paris. through the choking dust, with the men staggering as they walked--some asleep, some babbling, some cursing--but always marching, marching, marching; digging at night, only to leave the trenches in two hours and march on again; with ever and anon a battery of horse tearing past at a gallop, with the drivers lolling drunkenly in their saddles, and the guns jolting and swaying behind the straining, sweating horses, to come into action on some ridge still further south, and try to check von kluck's hordes, if only for a little space. every bridge in the hands of anxious-faced sapper officers, prepared for demolition one and all, but not to be blown up till all our troops were across. ticklish work, for should there be a fault, there is not much time to repair it. but at last it was over, and we turned north. a few days later, in the afternoon, my company crossed a pontoon bridge on the aisne, and two hours afterwards we dug ourselves in a mile and a half beyond it. the next morning, as i was sitting in one of the trenches, there was a sudden, blinding roar--and oblivion. * * * * * i will pass rapidly over the next six weeks--over my journey from the clearing hospital to the base at havre, of my voyage back to england in a hospital ship, and my ultimate arrival at drayton hall, the delawnays' place in somerset, where i had gone to convalesce. during the time various fragments of iron were being picked from me and the first shock of the concussion was wearing off, we had handed over our trenches on the aisne to the french, and moved north to flanders. occasional scrawls came through from jack and jerry, but the people in england who had any knowledge at all of the fighting and of what was going on, grew to dread with an awful dread the sight of the telegraph-boy, and it required an effort of will to look at those prosaic casualty lists in the morning papers. then suddenly without warning, as such news always does, it came. the war office, in the shape of a whistling telegraph-boy, regretted to inform mr. delawnay that his son, lieutenant jack delawnay of the royal downshire regiment, had been killed in action. had it been possible during the terrible days after the news came, i would have gone away, but i was still too weak to move; and i like to think that, perhaps, my presence there was some comfort to them, as a sort of connection through the regiment with their dead boy. after the first numbing shock, the old man bore it grandly. "he was all i had," he said to me one day as i lay in bed, "but i give him gladly for his country's sake." he stood looking at the broad fields. "all his," he muttered; "all would have been the dear lad's--and now six inches of soil and a wooden cross, perhaps not that." and pat, poor little pat, used to come up every day and sit with me, sometimes in silence, with her great eyes fixed on the fire, sometimes reading the paper, because my eyes weren't quite right yet. for about a fortnight after the news we did not think it strange; but then, as day by day went by, the same fear formulated in both our minds. i would have died sooner than whisper it; but one afternoon i found her eyes fixed on mine. we had been silent for some time, and suddenly in the firelight i saw the awful fear in her mind as clearly as if she had spoken it. "you're thinking it too, winkle," she whispered, leaning forward. "why hasn't he written? why hasn't jerry written one line? oh, my god! don't say that _he_ has been----" "hush, dear!" i said quietly. "his people would have let you know if they had had a wire." "but, winkle, the colonel has written that jack died while gallantly leading a counter attack to recover lost trenches. surely, jerry would have found time for a line, unless something had happened to him; jack was actually in his company." all of which i knew, but could not answer. "besides," she went on after a moment, "you know how dad is longing for details. he wants to know everything about jack, and so do we all. but oh, winkle! i want to know if my man is all right. brother and lover--not both, oh, god--not both!" the choking little sobs wrung my heart. the next day we got a wire from him. he was wounded slightly in the arm, and was at home. he was coming to us. just that--no more. but, oh! the difference to the girl. everything explained, everything clear, and the next day jerry would be with her. only as i lay awake that night thinking, and the events of the last three weeks passed through my mind, the same thought returned with maddening persistency. slightly wounded in the arm, evidently recently as there was no mention in the casualty list, and for three weeks no line, no word. and then i cursed myself as an ass and a querulous invalid. at three o'clock he arrived, and they all came up to my room. the first thing that struck me like a blow was that it was his left arm which was hit--and the next was his face. whether pat had noticed that his writing arm was unhurt, i know not; but she had seen the look in his eyes, and was afraid. then he told the story, and his voice was as the voice of the dead. told the anxious, eager father and mother the story of their boy's heroism. how, having lost some trenches, the regiment made a counter attack to regain them. how first of them all was jack, the men following him, as they always did, until a shot took him clean through the heart, and he dropped, leaving the regiment to surge over him for the last forty yards, and carry out gloriously what they had been going to do. and then the old man, pulling out the letter from the colonel, and trying to read it through his blinding tears: "he did well, my boy," he whispered, "he did well, and died well. but, jerry, the colonel says in his letter," and he wiped his eyes and tried to read, "he says in his letter that jack must have been right into their trenches almost, as he was killed at point-blank range with a revolver. one of those swine of german officers, i suppose." he shook his fist in the air. "still he was but doing his duty. i must not complain. but you say he was forty yards away?" "it's difficult to say, sir, in the dark," answered jerry, still in the voice of an automatic machine. "it may have been less than forty." and then he told them all over again; and while they, the two old dears, whispered and cried together, never noticing anything amiss, being only concerned with the telling, and caring no whit for the method thereof, pat sat silently in the window, gazing at him with tearless eyes, with the wonder and amazement of her soul writ clear on her face for all to see. and i--i lay motionless in bed, and there was something i could not understand, for he would not look at me, nor yet at her, but kept his eyes fixed on the fire, while he talked like a child repeating a lesson. at last it was over; their last questions were asked, and slowly, arm-in-arm, they left the room, to dwell alone upon the story of their idolised boy. and in the room the silence was only broken by the crackling of the logs. how long we sat there i know not, with the firelight flickering on the stern set face of the man in the chair. he seemed unconscious of our existence, and we two dared not speak to him, we who loved him best, for there was something we could not understand. suddenly he got up, and held out his arms to pat. and when she crept into them, he kissed her, straining her close, as if he could never stop. then, without a word, he led her to the door, and, putting her gently through, shut it behind her. still without a word he came back to the chair, and turned it so that the firelight no longer played on his face. and then he spoke. "i have a story to tell you, winkle, which i venture to think will entertain you for a time." his voice was the most terrible thing i have ever listened to.... "nearly four weeks ago the battalion was in the trenches a bit south of ypres. it was bad in the retreat, as you know; it was bad on the aisne; but they were neither of them in the same county as the doing we had up north. one night--they'd shelled us off and on for three days and three nights--we were driven out of our trenches. the regiment on our right gave, and we had to go too. the next morning we were ordered to counter attack, and get back the ground we had lost. it was the attack in which we lost so heavily." he stopped speaking for a while, and i did not interrupt. "when i got that order overnight jack was with me, in a hole that passed as a dugout. at the moment everything was quiet; the germans were patching up their new position; only a maxim spluttered away a bit to one flank. to add to the general desolation a steady downpour of rain drenched us, into which, without cessation the german flares went shooting up. i think they were expecting a counter attack at once...." again he paused, and i waited. "you know the condition one gets into sometimes when one is heavy for sleep. we had it during the retreat if you remember--a sort of coma, the outcome of utter bodily exhaustion. one used to go on walking, and all the while one was asleep--or practically so. sounds came to us dimly as from a great distance; they made no impression on us--they were just a jumbled phantasmagoria of outside matters, which failed to reach one's brain, except as a dim dream. i was in that condition on the night i am speaking of; i was utterly cooked--beat to the world; i was finished for the time. i've told you this, because i want you to understand the physical condition i was in." he leaned forward and stared at the fire, resting his head on his hands. "how long i'd dozed heavily in that wet-sodden hole i don't know, but after a while above the crackle of the maxim, separate and distinct from the soft splash of the rain, and the hiss of the flares, and the hundred and one other noises that came dimly to me out of the night, i heard jack's voice--at least i think it was jack's voice." of a sudden he sat up in the chair, and rising quickly he came and leant over the foot of the bed. "devil take it," he cried bitterly, "i know it was jack's voice--_now_. i knew it the next day when it was too late. what he said exactly i shall never know--at the time it made no impression on me; but at this moment, almost like a spirit voice in my brain, i can hear him. i can hear him asking me to watch him. i can hear him pleading--i can hear his dreadful fear of being found afraid. as a whisper from a great distance i can hear one short sentence--'jerry, my god, jerry--i'm frightened!' "winkle, he turned to me in his weakness--that boy who had never failed before, that boy who had reached the breaking-point--and i heeded him not. i was too dead beat; my brain couldn't grasp it." "but, jerry," i cried, "it turned out all right the next day; he..." the words died away on my lips as i met the look in his eyes. "you'd better let me finish," he interrupted wearily. "let me get the whole hideous tragedy off my mind for the first and the last time. early next morning we attacked. in the dim dirty light of dawn i saw the boy's face as he moved off to his platoon; and even then i didn't remember those halting sentences that had come to me out of the night. so instead of ordering him to the rear on some pretext or other as i should have done, i let him go to his platoon. "as we went across the ground that morning through a fire like nothing i had ever imagined, a man wavered in front of me. i felt it clean through me. i knew fear had come. i shouted and cheered--but the wavering was spreading; i knew that too. so i shot him through the heart from behind at point-blank range as i had trained myself to do--in that eternity ago--before the war. the counter attack was successful." "great heavens, jerry!" i muttered, "who did you shoot?" though i knew the answer already. "the man i shot was jack delawnay. whether at the time i was actively conscious of it, i cannot say. certainly my training enabled me to act before any glimmering of the aftermath came into my mind. _this_ is the aftermath." i shuddered at the utter hopelessness of his tone, though the full result of his action had not dawned on me yet; my mind was dazed. "but surely jack was no coward," i said at length. "he was not; but on that particular morning he gave out. he had reached the limit of his endurance." "the colonel's letter," i reminded him; "it praised the lad." "lies," he answered wearily, "all lies, engineered by me. not because i am ashamed of what i did, but for the lad's sake, and hers, and the old people. i loved the boy, as you know, but he failed, and _there was no other way_. and where the fiend himself is gloating over it is that he knows it was the only time jack did fail. if only i hadn't been so beat the night before; if only his words had reached my brain before it was too late. if only ... i think," he added, after a pause, "i think i shall go mad. sometimes i wish i could." "and what of pat?" i asked, at length breaking the silence. the hands grasping the bed tightened, and grew white. "i said 'good-bye' to her before your eyes, ten minutes ago. i shall never see her again." "but, great heavens, jerry!" i cried, "you can't give her up like that. she idolises the ground you walk on, she worships you, and she need never know. you were only doing your duty after all." "stop!" he cried, and his voice was a command. "as you love me, old friend, don't tempt me. for three weeks those arguments have been flooding everything else from my mind. do you remember at henley, when she said, 'he might have answered to your voice?' winkle, it's true, jack might have. and i killed him. just think if i married her, and she did find out. her brother's murderer--in her eyes. the man who has wrecked her home, and broken her father and mother. it's inconceivable, it's hideous. ah! don't you see how utterly final it all is? she may have been right; and if she was, then i, who loved her better than the world, have murdered her brother, and broken the old people's hearts for the sake of a theory. the fact that my theory has been put into practice, at the expense of everything i have to live for, is full of humour, isn't it?" and his laugh was wild. "steady, jerry," i said sternly. "what do you mean to do?" "you'll see, old man, in time," he answered. "first and foremost, get back to the regiment, arm or no arm. i would not have come home, but i had to see her once more." "you talk as if it was the end." i looked at him squarely. "it is," he answered. "it's easy out there." "your mind is made up?" "absolutely." he gave a short laugh. "good-bye, old friend. ease it to her as well as you can. say i'm unstrung by the trenches, anything you like; but don't let her guess the truth." for a long minute he held my hand. then he turned away. he walked to the mantelpiece, and there was a photograph of her there. for a long time he looked at it, and it seemed to me he whispered something. a sudden dimness blinded my eyes, and when i looked again he had gone--through the window into the night. * * * * * i did not see pat until i left drayton hall after that ghastly night, save only once or twice with her mother in the room. but an hour before i left she came to me, and her face was that of a woman who has passed through the fires. "tell me, winkle, shall i ever see him again? you know what i mean." "you will never see him again, pat," and the look in her eyes made me choke. "will you tell me what it was he told you before he went through the window? you see, i was in the hall waiting for him," and she smiled wearily. "i can't, pat dear; i promised him," i muttered. "but it was nothing disgraceful." "disgraceful!" she cried proudly. "jerry, and anything disgraceful. oh, my god! winkle dear," and she broke down utterly, "do you remember the waltz they were playing that day--'destiny'?" and then i went. whether that wonderful woman's intuition has told her something of what happened, i know not. but yesterday morning i got a letter from the colonel saying that jerry had chucked his life away, saving a wounded man. and this morning she will have seen it in the papers. god help you, pat, my dear. chapter v jim brent's v.c. if you pass through the menin-gate at ypres, and walk up the slight rise that lies on the other side of the moat, you will come to the parting of the ways. you will at the same time come to a spot of unprepossessing aspect, whose chief claim to notoriety lies in its shell-holes and broken-down houses. if you keep straight on you will in time come to the little village of potige; if you turn to the right you will eventually arrive at hooge. in either case you will wish you hadn't. before the war these two roads--which join about two hundred yards east of the rampart walls of ypres--were adorned with a fair number of houses. they were of that stucco type which one frequently sees in england spreading out along the roads that lead to a largish town. generally there is one of unusually revolting aspect that stands proudly by itself a hundred yards or so from the common herd and enclosed in a stuccoesque wall. and there my knowledge of the type in england ends. in belgium, however, my acquaintance with this sort of abode is extensive. in taking over a house in flanders that stands unpleasantly near the hun, the advertisement that there are three sitting, two bed, h. and c. laid on, with excellent onion patch, near railway and good golf-links, leaves one cold. the end-all and be-all of a house is its cellar. the more gloomy, and dark, and generally horrible the cellar, the higher that house ranks socially, and the more likely are you to find in it a general consuming his last hamper from fortnum & mason by the light of a tallow dip. and this applies more especially to the hooge road. arrived at the fork, let us turn right-handed and proceed along the deserted road. a motor-car is not to be advised, as at this stage of the promenade one is in full sight of the german trenches. for about two or three hundred yards no houses screen you, and then comes a row of the stucco residences i have mentioned. also at this point the road bends to the left. here, out of sight, occasional men sun themselves in the heavily-scented air, what time they exchange a little playful badinage in a way common to thomas atkins. at least, that is what happened some time ago; now, of course, things may have changed in the garden city. and at this point really our journey is ended, though for interest we might continue for another quarter of a mile. the row of houses stops abruptly, and away in front stretches a long straight road. a few detached mansions of sorts, in their own grounds, flank it on each side. at length they cease, and in front lies the open country. the poplar-lined road disappears out of sight a mile ahead, where it tops a gentle slope. and half on this side of the rise, and half on the other, there are the remnants of the tit-bit of the whole bloody charnel-house of the ypres salient--the remnants of the village of hooge. a closer examination is not to be recommended. the place where you stand is known in the vernacular as hell fire corner, and the hun--who knows the range of that corner to the fraction of an inch--will quite possibly resent your presence even there. and shrapnel gives a nasty wound. let us return and seek safety in a cellar. it is not what one would call a good-looking cellar; no priceless prints adorn the walls, no turkey carpet receives your jaded feet. in one corner a portable gramophone with several records much the worse for wear reposes on an upturned biscuit-box, and lying on the floor, with due regard to space economy, are three or four of those excellent box-mattresses which form the all-in-all of the average small belgian house. on top of them are laid some valises and blankets, and from the one in the corner the sweet music of the sleeper strikes softly on the ear. it is the senior subaltern, who has been rambling all the preceding night in sanctuary wood--the proud authors of our nomenclature in flanders quite rightly possess the humour necessary for the production of official communiqués. in two chairs, smoking, are a couple of officers. one is a major of the royal engineers, and another, also a sapper, belongs to the gilded staff. the cellar is the temporary headquarters of a field company--office, mess, and bedroom rolled into one. "i'm devilish short-handed for the moment, bill." the major thoughtfully filled his pipe. "that last boy i got a week ago--a nice boy he was, too--was killed in zouave wood the day before yesterday, poor devil. seymour was wounded three days ago, and there's only brent, johnson, and him"--he indicated the sleeper. "johnson is useless, and brent----" he paused, and looked full at the staff-captain. "do you know brent well, by any chance?" "i should jolly well think i did. jim brent is one of my greatest pals, major." "then perhaps you can tell me something i very much want to know. i have knocked about the place for a good many years, and i have rubbed shoulders, officially and unofficially, with more men than i care to remember. as a result, i think i may claim a fair knowledge of my fellow-beings. and brent--well, he rather beats me." he paused as if at a loss for words, and looked in the direction of the sleeping subaltern. reassured by the alarming noise proceeding from the corner, he seemed to make up his mind. "has brent had some very nasty knock lately--money, or a woman, or something?" the staff-captain took his pipe from his mouth, and for some seconds stared at the floor. then he asked quietly, "why? what are you getting at?" "this is why, bill. brent is one of the most capable officers i have ever had. he's a man whose judgment, tact, and driving power are perfectly invaluable in a show of this sort--so invaluable, in fact"--he looked straight at his listener--"that his death would be a very real loss to the corps and the service. he's one of those we can't replace, and--he's going all out to make us have to." "what do you mean?" the question expressed no surprise; the speaker seemed merely to be demanding confirmation of what he already knew. "brent is deliberately trying to get killed. there is not a shadow of doubt about it in my mind. do you know why?" the staff-officer got up and strolled to a table on which were lying some illustrated weekly papers. "have you last week's _tatler_?" he turned over the leaves. "yes--here it is." he handed the newspaper to the major. "that is why." "_a charming portrait of lady kathleen goring; who was last week married to that well-known sportsman and soldier sir richard goring. she was, it will be remembered, very popular in london society as the beautiful miss kathleen tubbs--the daughter of mr. and mrs. silas p. tubbs, of pittsburg, pa._" the major put down the paper and looked at the staff-captain; then suddenly he rose and hurled it into the corner. "oh, damn these women," he exploded. "amen," murmured the other, as, with a loud snort, the sleeper awoke. "is anything th' matter?" he murmured, drowsily, only to relapse at once into unconsciousness. "jim was practically engaged to her; and then, three months ago, without a word of explanation, she gave him the order of the boot, and got engaged to goring." the staff-captain spoke savagely. "a damn rotten woman, major, and jim's well out of it, if he only knew. goring's a baronet, which is, of course, the reason why this excrescence of the house of tubbs chucked jim. as a matter of fact, dick goring's not a bad fellow--he deserves a better fate. but it fairly broke jim up. he's not the sort of fellow who falls in love easily; this was his one and only real affair, and he took it bad. he told me at the time that he never intended to come back alive." "damn it all!" the major's voice was irritable. "why, his knowledge of the lingo alone makes him invaluable." "frankly, i've been expecting to hear of his death every day. he's not the type that says a thing of that sort without meaning it." a step sounded on the floor above. "look out, here he is. you'll stop and have a bit of lunch, bill?" as he spoke the light in the doorway was blocked out, and a man came uncertainly down the stairs. "confound these cellars. one can't see a thing, coming in out of the daylight. who's that? halloa, bill, old cock, 'ow's yourself?" "just tottering, jim. where've you been?" "wandered down to vlamertinghe this morning early to see about some sandbags, and while i was there i met that flying wallah petersen in the r.n.a.s. do you remember him, major? he was up here with an armoured car in may. he told me rather an interesting thing." "what's that, jim?" the major was attacking a brawn with gusto. "sit down, bill. whisky and perrier in that box over there." "he tells me the huns have got six guns whose size he puts at about -inch; guns, mark you, not howitzers--mounted on railway trucks at tournai. from there they can be rushed by either branch of the line--the junction is just west--to wherever they are required." "my dear old boy," laughed bill, as he sat down. "i don't know your friend petersen, and i have not the slightest hesitation in saying that he is in all probability quite right. but the information seems to be about as much use as the fact that it is cold in labrador." "i wonder," answered brent, thoughtfully--"i wonder." he was rummaging through a pile of papers in the stationery box. the other two men looked at one another significantly. "what hare-brained scheme have you got in your mind now, brent?" asked the major. brent came slowly across the cellar and sat down with a sheet of paper spread out on his knee. for a while he examined it in silence, comparing it with an ordnance map, and then he spoke. "it's brick, and the drop is sixty feet, according to this--with the depth of the water fifteen." "and the answer is a lemon. what on earth are you talking about, jim?" "the railway bridge over the river before the line forks." "good lord! my good fellow," cried the major, irritably, "don't be absurd. are you proposing to blow it up?" his tone was ponderously sarcastic. "not exactly," answered the unperturbed brent, "but something of the sort--if i can get permission." the two men laid down their knives and stared at him solemnly. "you are, i believe, a sapper officer," commenced the major. "may i ask first how much gun-cotton you think will be necessary to blow up a railway bridge which gives a sixty-foot drop into water; second, how you propose to get it there; third, how you propose to get yourself there; and fourth, why do you talk such rot?" jim brent laughed and helped himself to whisky. "the answer to the first question is unknown at present, but inquiries of my secretary will be welcomed--probably about a thousand pounds. the answer to the second question is that i don't. the answer to the third is--somehow; and for the fourth question i must ask for notice." "what the devil are you driving at, jim?" said the staff-captain, puzzled. "if you don't get the stuff there, how the deuce are you going to blow up the bridge?" "you may take it from me, bill, that i may be mad, but i never anticipated marching through german belgium with a party of sappers and a g.s. wagon full of gun-cotton. oh, no--it's a one-man show." "but," ejaculated the major, "how the----" "have you ever thought, sir," interrupted brent, "what would be the result if, as a heavy train was passing over a bridge, you cut one rail just in front of the engine?" "but----" the major again started to speak, and was again cut short. "the outside rail," continued brent, "so that the tendency would be for the engine to go towards the parapet wall. and no iron girder to hold it up--merely a little brick wall"--he again referred to the paper on his knee--"three feet high and three bricks thick. no nasty parties of men carrying slabs of gun-cotton; just yourself--with one slab of gun-cotton in your pocket and one primer and one detonator--that and the psychological moment. luck, of course, but when we dispense with the working party we lift it from the utterly impossible into the realm of the remotely possible. the odds are against success, i know; but----" he shrugged his shoulders. "but how do you propose to get there, my dear chap?" asked the major, peevishly. "the germans have a rooted objection to english officers walking about behind their lines." "yes, but they don't mind a belgian peasant, do they? dash it, they've played the game on us scores of times, major--not perhaps the bridge idea, but espionage by men disguised behind our lines. i only propose doing the same, and perhaps going one better." "you haven't one chance in a hundred of getting through alive." the major viciously stabbed a tongue. "that is--er--beside the point," answered brent, shortly. "but how could you get through their lines to start with?" queried bill. "there are ways, dearie, there are ways. petersen is a man of much resource." "of course, the whole idea is absolutely ridiculous." the major snorted. "once and for all, brent, i won't hear of it. we're far too short of fellows as it is." and for a space the subject languished, though there was a look on jim brent's face which showed it was only for a space. * * * * * now when a man of the type of brent takes it badly over a woman, there is a strong probability of very considerable trouble at any time. when, in addition to that, it occurs in the middle of the bloodiest war of history, the probability becomes a certainty. that he should quite fail to see just what manner of woman the present lady goring was, was merely in the nature of the animal. he was--as far as women were concerned--of the genus fool. to him "the rag, and the bone, and the hank of hair" could never be anything but perfect. it is as well that there are men like that. all of which his major--who was a man of no little understanding--knew quite well. and the knowledge increased his irritation, for he realised the futility of trying to adjust things. that adjusting business is ticklish work even between two close pals; but when the would-be adjuster is very little more than a mere acquaintance, the chances of success might be put in a small-sized pill-box. to feel morally certain that your best officer is trying his hardest to get himself killed, and to be unable to prevent it, is an annoying state of affairs. small wonder, then, that at intervals throughout the days that followed did the major reiterate with solemnity and emphasis his remark to the staff-captain anent women. it eased his feelings, if it did nothing else. the wild scheme brent had half suggested did not trouble him greatly. he regarded it merely as a temporary aberration of the brain. in the south african war small parties of mounted sappers and cavalry had undoubtedly ridden far into hostile country, and, getting behind the enemy, had blown up bridges, and generally damaged their lines of communication. but in the south african war a line of trenches did not stretch from sea to sea. and so, seated one evening at the door of his commodious residence talking things over with his colonel, he did not lay any great stress on the bridge idea. brent had not referred to it again; and in the cold light of reason it seemed too foolish to mention. "of course," remarked the c.r.e., "he's bound to take it soon. no man can go on running the fool risks you say he does without stopping one. it's a pity; but, if he won't see by himself that he's a fool, i don't see what we can do to make it clear. if only that confounded girl--" he grunted and got up to go. "halloa! what the devil is this fellow doing?" shambling down the road towards them was a particularly decrepit and filthy specimen of the belgian labourer. in normal circumstances, and in any other place, his appearance would have called for no especial comment; the brand is not a rare one. but for many months the salient of ypres had been cleared of its civilian population; and this sudden appearance was not likely to pass unnoticed. "venez, ici, monsieur, tout de suite." at the major's words the old man stopped, and paused in hesitation; then he shuffled towards the two men. "will you talk to him, colonel?" the major glanced at his senior officer. "er--i think not; my--er--french, don't you know--er--not what it was." the worthy officer retired in good order, only to be overwhelmed by a perfect deluge of words from the belgian. "what's he say?" he queried, peevishly. "that damn flemish sounds like a dog fight." "parlez-vous français, monsieur?" the major attempted to stem the tide of the old man's verbosity, but he evidently had a grievance, and a belgian with a grievance is not a thing to be regarded with a light heart. "thank heavens, here's the interpreter!" the colonel heaved a sigh of relief. "ask this man what he's doing here, please." for a space the distant rattle of a machine-gun was drowned, and then the interpreter turned to the officers. "'e say, sare, that 'e has ten thousand franc behind the german line, buried in a 'ole, and 'e wants to know vat 'e shall do." "do," laughed the major. "what does he imagine he's likely to do? go and dig it up? tell him that he's got no business here at all." again the interpreter spoke. "shall i take 'im to yper and 'and 'im to the gendarmes, sare?" "not a bad idea," said the colonel, "and have him----" what further order he was going to give is immaterial, for at that moment he looked at the belgian, and from that villainous old ruffian he received the most obvious and unmistakable wink. "er--thank you, interpreter; i will send him later under a guard." the interpreter saluted and retired, the major looked surprised, the colonel regarded the belgian with an amazed frown. then suddenly the old villain spoke. "thank you, colonel. those ypres gendarmes would have been a nuisance." "great scot!" gasped the major. "what the----" "what the devil is the meaning of this masquerade, sir?" the colonel was distinctly angry. "i wanted to see if i'd pass muster as a belgian, sir. the interpreter was an invaluable proof." "you run a deuced good chance of being shot, brent, in that rig. anyway, i wish for an explanation as to why you're walking about in that get-up. haven't you enough work to do?" "shall we go inside, sir? i've got a favour to ask you." * * * * * we are not very much concerned with the conversation that took place downstairs in that same cellar, when two senior officers of the corps of royal engineers listened for nearly an hour to an apparently disreputable old farmer. it might have been interesting to note how the sceptical grunts of those two officers gradually gave place to silence, and at length to a profound, breathless interest, as they pored over maps and plans. and the maps were all of that country which lies behind the german trenches. but at the end the old farmer straightened himself smartly. "that is the rough outline of my plan, sir. i think i can claim that i have reduced the risk of not getting to my objective to a minimum. when i get there i am sure that my knowledge of the patois renders the chance of detection small. as for the actual demolition itself, an enormous amount will depend on luck; but i can afford to wait. i shall have to be guided by local conditions. and so i ask you to let me go. it's a long odds chance, but if it comes off it's worth it." "and if it does, what then? what about you?" the colonel's eyes and jim brent's met. "i shall have paid for my keep, colonel, at any rate." everything was very silent in the cellar; outside on the road a man was singing. "in other words, jim, you're asking me to allow you to commit suicide." he cleared his throat; his voice seemed a little husky. "good lord! sir--it's not as bad as that. call it a forlorn hope, if you like, but ..." the eyes of the two men met, and brent fell silent. "gad, my lad, you're a fool, but you're a brave fool! for heaven's sake, give me a drink." "i may go, colonel?" "yes, you may go--as far, that is, as i am concerned. there is the general staff to get round first." but though the colonel's voice was gruff, he seemed to have some difficulty in finding his glass. as far as is possible in human nature, jim brent, at the period when he gained his v.c. in a manner which made him the hero of the hour--one might almost say of the war--was, i believe, without fear. the blow he had received at the hands of the girl who meant all the world to him had rendered him utterly callous of his life. and it was no transitory feeling: the mood of an hour or a week. it was deeper than the ordinary misery of a man who has taken the knock from a woman, deeper and much less ostentatious. he seemed to view life with a contemptuous toleration that in any other man would have been the merest affectation. but it was not evinced by his words; it was shown, as his major had said, by his deeds--deeds that could not be called bravado because he never advertised them. he was simply gambling with death, with a cool hand and a steady eye, and sublimely indifferent to whether he won or lost. up to the time when he played his last great game he had borne a charmed life. according to the book of the words, he should have been killed a score of times, and he told me himself only last week that he went into this final gamble with a taunt on his lips and contempt in his heart. knowing him as i do, i believe it. i can almost hear him saying to his grim opponent, "dash it all! i've won every time; for heaven's sake do something to justify your reputation." but--he didn't; jim won again. and when he landed in england from a dutch tramp, having carried out the maddest and most hazardous exploit of the war unscathed, he slipped up on a piece of orange-peel and broke his right leg in two places, which made him laugh so immoderately when the contrast struck him that it cured him--not his leg, but his mind. however, all in due course. * * * * * the first part of the story i heard from petersen, of the naval air service. i ran into him by accident in a grocer's shop in hazebrouck--buying stuff for the mess. "what news of jim?" he cried, the instant he saw me. "very sketchy," i answered. "he's the worst letter-writer in the world. you know he trod on a bit of orange-peel and broke his leg when he got back to england." "he would." petersen smiled. "that's just the sort of thing jim would do. men like him usually die of mumps, or the effects of a bad oyster." "quite so," i murmured, catching him gently by the arm. "and now come to the pub over the way and tell me all about it. the beer there is of a less vile brand than usual." "but i can't tell you anything, my dear chap, that you don't know already!" he expostulated. "i am quite prepared to gargle with you, but----" "deux bières, ma'm'selle, s'il vous plaît." i piloted petersen firmly to a little table. "tell me all, my son!" i cried. "for the purposes of this meeting i know nix, and you as part hero in the affair have got to get it off your chest." he laughed, and lit a cigarette. "not much of the heroic in my part of the stunt, i assure you. as you know, the show started from dunkirk, where in due course jim arrived, armed with credentials extracted only after great persuasion from sceptical officers of high rank. how he ever got there at all has always been a wonder to me: his colonel was the least of his difficulties in that line. but jim takes a bit of stopping. "my part of the show was to transport that scatter-brained idiot over the trenches and drop him behind the german lines. his idea was novel, i must admit, though at the time i thought he was mad, and for that matter i still think he's mad. only a madman could have thought of it, only jim brent could have done it and not been killed. "from a height of three thousand feet, in the middle of the night, he proposed to bid me and the plane a tender farewell and descend to terra firma by means of a parachute." "great scot," i murmured. "some idea." "as you say--some idea. the thing was to choose a suitable night. as jim said, 'the slow descent of a disreputable belgian peasant like an angel out of the skies will cause a flutter of excitement in the tender heart of the hun if it is perceived. therefore, it must be a dark and overcast night.' "at last, after a week, we got an ideal one. jim arrayed himself in his togs, took his basket on his arm--you know he'd hidden the gun-cotton in a cheese--and we went round to the machine. by jove! that chap's a marvel. think of it, man." petersen's face was full of enthusiastic admiration. "he'd never even been up in an aeroplane before, and yet the first time he does, it is with the full intention of trusting himself to an infernal parachute, a thing the thought of which gives me cold feet; moreover, of doing it in the dark from a height of three thousand odd feet behind the german lines with his pockets full of detonators and other abominations, and his cheese full of gun-cotton. lord! he's a marvel. and i give you my word that of the two of us--though i've flown for over two years--i was the shaky one. he was absolutely cool; not the coolness of a man who is keeping himself under control, but just the normal coolness of a man who is doing his everyday job." petersen finished his beer at a gulp, and we encored the dose. "well, we got off about two. we were not aiming at any specific spot, but i was going to go due east for three-quarters of an hour, which i estimated should bring us somewhere over courtrai. then he was going to drop off, and i was coming back. the time was chosen so that i should be able to land again at dunkirk about dawn. "i can't tell you much more. we escaped detection going over the lines, and about ten minutes to three, at a height of three thousand five hundred, old jim tapped me on the shoulder. he understood exactly what to do--as far as we could tell him: for the parachute is still almost in its infancy. "as he had remarked to our wing commander before we started: 'a most valuable experiment, sir; i will report on how it works in due course.' "we shook hands. i could see him smiling through the darkness; and then, with his basket under his arm, that filthy old belgian farmer launched himself into space. "i saw him for a second falling like a stone, and then the parachute seemed to open out all right. but of course i couldn't tell in the dark; and just afterwards i struck an air-pocket, and had a bit of trouble with the bus. after that i turned round and went home again. i'm looking forward to seeing the old boy and hearing what occurred." and that is the unvarnished account of the first part of jim's last game with fate. incidentally, it's the sort of thing that hardly requires any varnishing. * * * * * the rest of the yarn i heard later from brent himself, when i went round to see him in hospital, while i was back on leave. "for heaven's sake, lady, dear," he said to the sister as i arrived, "don't let anyone else in. say i've had a relapse and am biting the bed-clothes. this unpleasant-looking man is a great pal of mine, and i would commune with him awhile." "it's appalling, old boy," he said to me as she went out of the room, "how they cluster. men of dreadful visage; women who gave me my first bath; unprincipled journalists--all of them come and talk hot air until i get rid of them by swooning. my young sister brought thirty-four school friends round last tuesday! of course, my swoon is entirely artificial; but the sister is an understanding soul, and shoos them away." he lit a cigarette. "i saw petersen the other day in hazebrouck," i told him as i sat down by the bed. "he wants to come round and see you as soon as he can get home." "good old petersen. i'd never have brought it off without him." "what happened, jim?" i asked. "i've got up to the moment when you left his bus, with your old parachute, and disappeared into space. and of course i've seen the official announcement of the guns being seen in the river, as reported by that r.f.c. man. but there is a gap of about three weeks; and i notice you have not been over-communicative to the half-penny press." "my dear old man," he answered, seriously, "there was nothing to be communicative about. thinking it over now, i am astounded how simple the whole thing was. it was as easy as falling off a log. i fell like a stone for two or three seconds, because the blessed umbrella wouldn't open. then i slowed up and floated gently downwards. it was a most fascinating sensation. i heard old petersen crashing about just above me; and in the distance a search-light was moving backwards and forwards across the sky, evidently looking for him. i should say it took me about five minutes to come down; and of course all the way down i was wondering where the devil i was going to land. the country below me was black as pitch: not a light to be seen--not a camp-fire--nothing. as the two things i wanted most to avoid were church steeples and the temporary abode of any large number of huns, everything looked very favourable. to be suspended by one's trousers from a weathercock in the cold, grey light of dawn seemed a sorry ending to the show; and to land from the skies on a general's stomach requires explanation." he smiled reminiscently. "i'm not likely to forget that descent, petersen's engine getting fainter and fainter in the distance, the first pale streaks of light beginning to show in the east, and away on a road to the south the headlamps of a car moving swiftly along. then the humour of the show struck me. me, in my most picturesque disguise, odoriferous as a family of ferrets in my borrowed garments, descending gently on to the hun like the fairy god-mother in a pantomime. so i laughed, and--wished i hadn't. my knees hit my jaw with a crack, and i very nearly bit my tongue in two. cheeses all over the place, and there i was enveloped in the folds of the collapsing parachute. funny, but for a moment i couldn't think what had happened. i suppose i was a bit dizzy from the shock, and it never occurred to me that i'd reached the ground, which, not being able to see in the dark, i hadn't known was so close. otherwise i could have landed much lighter. yes, it's a great machine that parachute." he paused to reach for his pipe. "where did you land?" i asked. "in the middle of a ploughed field. couldn't have been a better place if i'd chosen it. a wood or a river would have been deuced awkward. yes, there's no doubt about it, old man, my luck was in from the very start. i removed myself from the folds, picked up my cheeses, found a convenient ditch alongside to hide the umbrella in, and then sat tight waiting for dawn. "i happen to know that part of belgium pretty well, and when it got light i took my bearings. petersen had borne a little south of what we intended, which was all to the good--it gave me less walking; but it was just as well i found a sign-post almost at once, as i had no map, of course--far too dangerous; and i wasn't very clear on names of villages, though i'd memorized the map before leaving. i found i had landed somewhere south of courtrai, and was about twelve kilometres due north of tournai. "and it was just as i'd decided that little fact that i met a horrible hun, a large and forbidding-looking man. now, the one thing on which i'd been chancing my arm was the freedom allowed to the belgians behind the german lines, and luck again stepped in. "beyond grunting 'guten morgen' he betrayed no interest in me whatever. it was the same all along. i shambled past uhlans, and officers and generals in motor-cars--huns of all breeds and all varieties, and no one even noticed me. and after all, why on earth should they? "about midday i came to tournai; and here again i was trusting to luck. i'd stopped there three years ago at a small estaminet near the station kept by the widow demassiet. now this old lady was, i knew, thoroughly french in sympathies; and i hoped that, in case of necessity, she would pass me off as her brother from ghent, who was staying with her for a while. some retreat of this sort was, of course, essential. a homeless vagabond would be bound to excite suspicion. "dear old woman--she was splendid. after the war i shall search her out, and present her with an annuity, or a belle vache, or something dear to the belgian heart. she never even hesitated. from that night i was her brother, though she knew it meant her death as well as mine if i was discovered. "'ah, monsieur,' she said, when i pointed this out to her, 'it is in the hands of le bon dieu. at the most i have another five years, and these allemands--pah!' she spat with great accuracy. "she was good, was the old veuve demassiet." jim puffed steadily at his pipe in silence for a few moments. "i soon found out that the germans frequented the estaminet; and, what was more to the point--luck again, mark you--that the gunners who ran the battery i was out after almost lived there. when the battery was at tournai they had mighty little to do, and they did it, with some skill, round the beer in her big room. "i suppose you know what my plan was. the next time that battery left tournai i proposed to cut one of the metals on the bridge over the river scheldt, just in front of the engine, so close that the driver couldn't stop, and so derail the locomotive. i calculated that if i cut the outside rail--the one nearest the parapet wall--the flange on the inner wheel would prevent the engine turning inwards. that would merely cause delay, but very possibly no more. i hoped, on the contrary, to turn it outwards towards the wall, through which it would crash, dragging after it with any luck the whole train of guns. "that being the general idea, so to speak, i wandered off one day to see the bridge. as i expected, it was guarded, but by somewhat indifferent-looking huns--evidently only lines of communication troops. for all that, i hadn't an idea how i was going to do it. still, luck, always luck; the more you buffet her the better she treats you. "one week after i got there i heard the battery was going out: and they were going out that night. as a matter of fact, that hadn't occurred to me before--the fact of them moving by night, but it suited me down to the ground. it appeared they were timed to leave at midnight, which meant they'd cross the bridge about a quarter or half past. and so at nine that evening i pushed gently off and wandered bridgewards. "then the fun began. i was challenged, and, having answered thickly, i pretended to be drunk. the sentry, poor devil, wasn't a bad fellow, and i had some cold sausage and beer. and very soon a gurgling noise pronounced the fact that he found my beer good. "it was then i hit him on the base of his skull with a bit of gas-pipe. that sentry will never drink beer again." brent frowned. "a nasty blow, a dirty blow, but a necessary blow." he shrugged his shoulders and then went on. "i took off his top-coat and put it on. i put on his hat and took his rifle and rolled him down the embankment into a bush. then i resumed his beat. discipline was a bit lax on that bridge, i'm glad to say; unless you pulled your relief out of bed no one else was likely to do it for you. as you may guess, i did not do much pulling. "i was using two slabs of gun-cotton to make sure--firing them electrically. i had two dry-cells and two coils of fine wire for the leads. the cells would fire a no. detonator through thirty yards of those leads--and that thirty yards just enabled me to stand clear of the bridge. it took me twenty minutes to fix it up, and then i had to wait. "by gad, old boy, you've called me a cool bird; you should have seen me during that wait. i was trembling like a child with excitement: everything had gone so marvellously. and for the first time in the whole show it dawned on me that not only was there a chance of getting away afterwards, but that i actually wanted to. before that moment i'd assumed on the certainty of being killed." for a moment he looked curiously in front of him, and a slight smile lurked round the corners of his mouth. then suddenly, and apropos of nothing, he remarked, "kathleen goring tea'd with me yesterday. of course, it was largely due to that damned orange-skin, but i--er--did not pass a sleepless night." which i took to be indicative of a state of mind induced by the rind of that nutritious fruit, rather than any reference to his broken leg. for when a man has passed unscathed through parachute descents and little things like that, only to lose badly on points to a piece of peel, his sense of humour gets a jog in a crucial place. and a sense of humour is fatal to the hopeless, undying passion. it is almost as fatal, in fact, as a hiccough at the wrong moment. "it was just about half-past twelve that the train came along. i was standing by the end of the bridge, with my overcoat and rifle showing in the faint light of the moon. the engine-driver waved his arm and shouted something in greeting and i waved back. then i took the one free lead and waited until the engine was past me. i could see the first of the guns, just coming abreast, and at that moment i connected up with the battery in my pocket. two slabs of gun-cotton make a noise, as you know, and just as the engine reached the charge, a sheet of flame seemed to leap from underneath the front wheels. the driver hadn't time to do a thing--the engine had left the rails before he knew what had happened. and then things moved. in my wildest moments i had never expected such a success. the engine crashed through the parapet wall and hung for a moment in space. then it fell downward into the water, and by the mercy of allah the couplings held. the first two guns followed it, through the gap it had made, and then the others overturned with the pull before they got there, smashing down the wall the whole way along. every single gun went wallop into the scheldt--to say nothing of two passenger carriages containing the gunners and their officers. the whole thing was over in five seconds; and you can put your shirt on it that before the last gun hit the water yours truly had cast away his regalia of office and was legging it like a two-year-old back to the veuve demassiet and tournai. it struck me that bridge might shortly become an unhealthy spot." jim brent laughed. "it did. i had to stop on with the old lady for two or three days in case she might be suspected owing to my sudden departure--and things hummed. they shot the feldwebel in charge of the guard; they shot every sentry; they shot everybody they could think of; but--they never even suspected me. i went out and had a look next day, the day i think that r.f.c. man spotted and reported the damage. two of the guns were only fit for turning into hairpins, and the other four looked very like the morning after. "then, after i'd waited a couple of days, i said good-bye to the old dear and trekked off towards the dutch frontier, gaining immense popularity, old son, by describing the accident to all the soldiers i met. "that's all, i think. i had words with a sentry at the frontier, but i put it across him with his own bundook. then i wandered to our ambassador, and sailed for england in due course. and--er--that's that." such is the tale of jim brent's v.c. there only remains for me to give the wording of his official report on the matter. "i have the honour to report," it ran, "that at midnight on the th ult., i successfully derailed the train conveying six guns of calibre estimated at about -inch, each mounted on a railway truck. the engine, followed by the guns, departed from sight in about five seconds, and fell through a drop of some sixty feet into the river scheldt from the bridge just west of tournai. the gunners and officers--who were in two coaches in rear--were also killed. only one seemed aware that there was danger, and he, owing to his bulk, was unable to get out of the door of his carriage. he was, i think, in command. i investigated the damage next day when the military authorities were a little calmer, and beg to state that i do not consider the guns have been improved by their immersion. one, at least, has disappeared in the mud. a large number of germans who had no connection with this affair have, i am glad to report, since been shot for it. "i regret that i am unable to report in person, but i am at present in hospital with a broken leg, sustained by my inadvertently stepping on a piece of orange-peel, which escaped my notice owing to its remarkable similarity to the surrounding terrain. this similarity was doubtless due to the dirt on the orange-peel." * * * * * which, i may say, should not be taken as a model for official reports by the uninitiated. chapter vi retribution on the promenade facing the casino at monte carlo two men were seated smoking. the riviera season was at its height, and passing to and fro in front of them were the usual crowd of well-dressed idlers, who make up the society of that delectable, if expensive, resort. now and again a casual acquaintance would saunter by, to be greeted with a smile from one, and a curt nod from the other, who, with his eyes fixed on the steps in front of him, seemed oblivious of all else. "cheer up, jerry; she won't be long. give the poor girl time to digest her luncheon." the cheerful one of the twain lit a cigarette; and in the process received the glad eye from a passing siren of striking aspect. "great cæsar, old son!" he continued, when she was swallowed up in the crowd, "you're losing the chance of a lifetime. here, gathered together to bid us welcome, are countless beautiful women and brave men. we are for the moment the star turn of the show--the brave british sailors whom the ladies delight to honour. never let it be said, old dear, that you failed them in this their hour of need." "confound it, ginger, i know all about that!" the other man sighed and, coming suddenly out of his brown study, he too leant forward and fumbled for his cigarette-case. "but it's no go, old man. i'm getting a deuced sight too old and ugly nowadays to chop and change about. there comes a time of life when if a man wants to kiss one particular woman, he might as well kiss his boot for all the pleasure fooling around with another will give him." ginger lawson looked at him critically. "my lad, i fear me that nemesis has at length descended on you. no longer do the ortolans and caviare of unregenerate bachelorhood tempt you; rather do you yearn for ground rice and stewed prunes in the third floor back. these symptoms----" "ginger," interrupted the other, "dry up. you're a dear, good soul, but when you try to be funny, i realise the type of man who writes mottoes for crackers." he started up eagerly, only to sit down again disappointed. "not she, not she, my love," continued the other imperturbably. "and, in the meanwhile, doesn't it strike you that you are committing a bad tactical error in sitting here, with a face like a man that's eaten a bad oyster, on the very seat where she's bound to see you when she does finish her luncheon and come down?" "i suppose that means you want me to cocktail with you?" "more impossible ideas have fructified," agreed ginger, rising. "no, i'm blowed if----!" "come on, old son." lawson dragged him reluctantly to his feet. "all the world loves a lover, including the loved one herself; but you look like a deaf-mute at a funeral, who's swallowed his fee. come and have a cocktail at ciro's, and then, merry and bright and caracoling like a young lark, return and snatch her from under the nose of the accursed teuton." "do you think she's going to accept him, ginger?" he muttered anxiously, as they sauntered through the drifting crowd. "my dear boy, ask me another. but she's coming to the ball dance on board to-night, and if the delicate pink illumination of your special kala jugger, shining softly on your virile face, and toning down the somewhat vivid colour scheme of your sunburned nose, doesn't melt her heart, i don't know what will----" which all requires a little explanation. before the war broke out it was the custom each year for that portion of the british fleet stationed in the mediterranean, and whose headquarters were at malta, to make a cruise lasting three weeks or a month to some friendly sea-coast, where the ports were good and the inhabitants merry. trieste, perhaps, and up the adriatic; alexandria and the countries to the east; or, best of all, the riviera. and at the time when my story opens the officers of the british mediterranean fleet, which had come to rest in the wonderful natural anchorage of villefranche, were doing their best to live up to the reputation which the british naval officer enjoys the world over. everywhere within motor distance of their vessels they were greeted with joy and acclamation; there were dances and dinners, women and wine--and what more for a space can any hard-worked sailor-man desire? during their brief intervals of leisure they slept and recuperated on board, only to dash off again with unabated zeal to pastures new, or renewed, as the case might be. foremost amongst the revellers on this, as on other occasions, was jerry travers, torpedo-lieutenant on the flagship. endowed by nature with an infinite capacity for consuming cocktails, and with a disposition which not even the catering of the maltese mess man could embitter, his sudden fall from grace was all the more noticeable. from being a tireless leader of revels, he became a mooner in secret places, a melancholy sigher in the wardroom. which fact did not escape the eyes of the flagship wardroom officers. and lawson, the navigating lieutenant, had deputed himself as clerk of the course. staying at the hôtel de paris was an american, who was afflicted with the dreadful name of honks; with him were his wife and his daughter maisie. maisie honks has not a prepossessing sound; but she was the girl who was responsible for jerry travers's downfall. he had met her at a ball in nice just after the fleet arrived, and, from that moment he had become a trifle deranged. brother officers entering his cabin unawares found him gazing into the infinite with a slight squint. his marine servant spread the rumour on the lower deck that "'e'd taken to poetry, and 'orrible noises in his sleep." like a goodly number of men who have walked merrily through life, sipping at many flowers, but leaving each with added zest for the next, when he took it he took it hard. and maisie had just about reduced him to idiocy. i am no describer of girls, but i was privileged to know and revere the lady from afar, and i can truthfully state that i have rarely, if ever, seen a more absolute dear. she wasn't fluffy, and she wasn't statuesque; she did not have violet eyes which one may liken to mountain pools, or hair of that colour described as spun-gold. she was just--maisie, one of the most adorable girls that ever happened. and jerry, as i say, had taken it very badly. unfortunately, there was a fly in the ointment--almost of bluebottle size--in the shape of another occupant of the hôtel de paris, who had also taken it very badly, and at a much earlier date. the baron von dressler--an officer in the german navy, and a member of one of the oldest prussian families--had been staying at monte carlo for nearly a month, on sick leave after a severe dose of fever. and he, likewise, worshipped with ardour and zeal at the honks shrine. moreover, being apparently a very decent fellow, and living as he did in the same hotel, he had, as jerry miserably reflected, a bit of a preponderance in artillery, especially as he had opened fire more than a fortnight before the british navy had appeared on the scene. this, then, was the general situation; and the particular feature of the moment, which caused an outlook on life even more gloomy than usual in the heart of the torpedo-lieutenant, was that the baron von dressler had been invited to lunch with his adored one, while he had not. * * * * * "something potent, fritz." lawson piloted him firmly to the bar and addressed the presiding being respectfully. "something potent and heady which will make this officer's sad heart bubble once again with the joie de vivre. he has been crossed in love." "don't be an ass, ginger," said the other peevishly. "my dear fellow, the credit of the navy is at stake. admitted that you've had a bad start in the honks stakes, nevertheless--you never know--our teuton may take a bad fall. and, incidentally, there they both are, to say nothing of honks père et mère." he was peering through the window. "no, you don't, my boy!" as the other made a dash for the door. "the day is yet young. lap it up; repeat the dose; and then in the nonchalant style for which our name is famous we will sally forth and have at them." "confound it, ginger! they seem to be on devilish good terms. look at the blighter, bending towards her as if he owned her." travers stood in the window rubbing his hands with his handkerchief nervously. "what d'you expect him to do? look the other way?" the navigating officer snorted. "you make me tired, torps. come along if you're ready; and try and look jaunty and debonair." "heavens! old boy; i'm as nervous as an ugly girl at her first party." they were passing into the street. "my hands are clammy and my boots are bursting with feet." "i don't mind about your boots; but for goodness' sake dry your hands. no self-respecting woman would look at a man with perspiring palms." ten minutes later three pairs of people might have been seen strolling up and down the promenade. and as the arrangement of those pairs was entirely due to the navigating lieutenant, their composition is perhaps worthy of a paragraph. at one end, as was very right and proper, jerry and miss honks discussed men and matters--at least, i assume so--with a zest that seemed to show his nervousness was only transient. in the middle the stage-manager and mrs. honks discussed society, with a capital "s"--a subject of which the worthy woman knew nothing and talked a lot. at the other end mr. honks poured into the unresponsive ear of an infuriated prussian nobleman his new scheme for cornering sausages. which shows what a naval officer can do when he gets down to it. * * * * * now, it is certainly not my intention to recount in detail the course of jerry travers's love affair during his stay on the riviera. sufficient to say, it did not run smoothly. but there are one or two things which i must relate--things which concern our three principals. they cover the first round in the contest--the round which the german won on points. and though they have no actual bearing on the strange happenings which brought about the second and last round, in circumstances nothing short of miraculous at a future date, yet for the proper understanding of the retribution that came upon the hun at the finish it is well that they should be told. they occurred that same evening, at the ball given by the british navy on the flagship. few sights, i venture to think, are more imposing, and to a certain extent more incongruous, than a battleship in gala mood. for days beforehand, men skilled in electricity erect with painstaking care a veritable fairyland of coloured lights, which shine softly on the deck cleared for dancing, and discreet kala juggers prepared with equal care by officers skilled in love. everywhere there is peace and luxury; the music of the band steals across the silent water; the engine of death is at rest. almost can one imagine the mighty turbines, the great guns, the whole infernal paraphernalia of destruction, laughing grimly at their master's amusements--those masters whose brains forged them and riveted them and gave them birth; who with the pressure of a finger can launch five tons of death at a speck ten miles away; whose lightest caprice they are bound to obey--and yet who now cover them with flimsy silks and fairy lights, while they dance and make love to laughing, soft-eyed girls. and perhaps there was some such idea in the gunnery-lieutenant's mind as he leant against the breech of a twelve-inch gun, waiting for his particular guest. "not yet, old man," he muttered thoughtfully--"not yet. to-night we play; to-morrow--who knows?" above, the lights shone out unshaded, silhouetting the battle-cruiser with lines of fire against the vault of heaven, sprinkled with the golden dust of a myriad stars; while ceaselessly across the violet water steam-pinnaces dashed backwards and forwards, carrying boatloads of guests from the landing-stage, and then going back for more. at the top of the gangway the admiral, immaculate in blue and gold, welcomed them as they arrived; the flag-lieutenant, with the weight of much responsibility on his shoulders, having just completed a last lightning tour of the ship, only to discover a scarcity of hairpins in the ladies' cloak-room, stood behind him. and in the wardroom the engineer-commander--a scotsman of pessimistic outlook--reviled with impartiality all ball dances, adding a special clause for the one now commencing. but then, off duty, he had no soul above bridge. in this setting, then, appeared the starters for the honks stakes on the night in question, only, for the time being, the positions were reversed. now the baron was the stranger in a strange land; jerry was at home--one of the hosts. moreover, as has already been discreetly hinted, there was a certain and very particular kala jugger. and into this very particular kala jugger jerry, in due course, piloted his adored one. i am now coming to the region of imagination. i was not in that dim-lit nook with them, and therefore i am not in a position to state with any accuracy what occurred. but--and here i must be discreet--there was a midshipman, making up in cheek and inquisitiveness what he lacked in years and stature. also, as i have said, the honks stakes were not a private matter--far from it. the prestige of the british navy was at stake, and betting ran high in the gunroom, or abode of "snotties." where this young imp of mischief hid, i know not; he swore himself that his overhearing was purely accidental, and endeavoured to excuse his lamentable conduct by saying that he learned a lot! his account of the engagement was breezy and nautical; and as there is, so far as i know, no other description of the operations extant, i give it for what it is worth. jerry, he told me in the union club, valetta, at a later date, opened the action with some tentative shots from his lighter armament. for ten minutes odd he alternately honked and maisied, till, as my ribald informant put it, the deck rang with noises reminiscent of a jibbing motor-car. she countered ably with rhapsodies over the ship, the band, and life in general, utterly refusing to be drawn into personalities. then, it appeared, jerry's self-control completely deserted him, and with a hoarse and throaty noise he opened fire with the full force of his starboard broadside; he rammed down the loud pedal and let drive. he assured her that she was the only woman he could ever love; he seized her ungloved hand and fervently kissed it; in short, he offered her his hand and heart in the most approved style, the while protesting his absolute unworthiness to aspire to such an honour as her acceptance of the same. "net result, old dear," murmured my graceless informant, pressing the bell for another cocktail, "nix--a frost absolute, a frost complete." "she thought he and the whole ship were bully, and wasn't that little boy who'd brought them out in the launch the cutest ever, but she reckoned sailors cut no ice with poppa. she was just too sorry for words it had ever occurred, but there it was, and there was nothing more to be said." for the truth of these statements i will not vouch. i do know that on the night in question jerry was refused by the only woman he'd ever really cared about, because he told me so, and the method of it is of little account. and if there be any who may think i have dealt with this tragedy in an unfeeling way, i must plead in excuse that i have but quoted my informant, and he was one of those in the gunroom who had lost money on the event. anyway, let me, as a sop to the serious-minded, pass on to the other little event which i must chronicle before i come to my finale. in this world the serious and the gay, the tears and the laughter, come to us out of the great scroll of fate in strange, jumbled succession. the lucky dip at a bazaar holds no more variegated procession of surprises than the mix up we call life brings to each and all. and so, though my tone in describing jerry's proposal has perhaps been wantonly flippant, and though the next incident may seem to some to savour of melodrama--yet, is it not life, my masters, is it not life? i was in the wardroom when it occurred. jerry, standing by the fireplace, was smoking a cigarette, and looking like the proverbial gentleman who has lost a sovereign and found sixpence. there were several officers in there at the time, and--the baron von dressler. and the prussian had been drinking. not that he was by any means drunk, but he was in that condition when some men become merry, some confidential, some--what shall i say?--not exactly pugnacious, but on the way to it. he belonged to the latter class. all the worst traits of the prussian officer, the domineering, sneering, aggressive mannerisms--which, to do him justice, in normal circumstances he successfully concealed, at any rate, when mixing with other nationalities--were showing clearly in his face. he was once again the arrogant, intolerant autocrat--truly, _in vino veritas_. moreover, his eyes were wandering with increasing frequency to jerry, who, so far, seemed unconscious of the scrutiny. after a while i caught ginger lawson's eye and he shrugged his shoulders slightly. he told me afterwards that he had been fearing a flare-up for some minutes, but had hoped it would pass over. however, he strolled over to jerry and started talking. "mop that up, jerry," he said, "and come along and do your duty. baron, you don't seem to be dancing much to-night. can't i find you a partner?" "thank you, but i probably know more people here than you do." the tone even more than the words was a studied insult. "lieutenant travers's duty seems to have been unpleasant up to date, which perhaps accounts for his reluctance to resume it. are you--er--lucky at cards?" this time the sneer was too obvious to be disregarded. jerry looked up, and the eyes of the two men met. "it is possible, baron von dressier," he remarked icily, "that in your navy remarks of that type are regarded as witty. would it be asking you too much to request that you refrain from using them in a ship where they are merely considered vulgar?" by this time a dead silence had settled on the wardroom, one of those awkward silences which any scene of this sort produces on those who are in the unfortunate position of onlookers. von dressler was white with passion. "you forget yourself, lieutenant. i would have you to know that my uncle is a prince of the blood royal." "that apparently does not prevent his nephew from failing to remember the customs that hold amongst gentlemen." "gentlemen!" the prussian looked round the circle of silent officers with a scornful laugh; the fumes of the spirits he had drunk were mounting to his head with his excitement. "you mean--shopkeepers." with a muttered curse several officers started forward; no ball is a teetotal affair, i suppose, and scenes of this sort are dangerous at any time. travers held up his hand, sharply, incisively. "gentlemen, remember this--er--prussian officer and gentleman is our guest. that being the case, sir"--he turned to the german--"you are quite safe in insulting us as much as you like." "the question of safety would doubtless prove irresistible to an englishman." the face of the german was distorted with rage, he seemed to be searching in his mind for insults; then suddenly he tried a new line. "bah! i am not a guttersnipe to bandy words with you. you will not have long to wait, you english, and then--when the day does come, my friends; when, at last, we come face to face, then, by god! then----" "well, what then, baron von dressler?" a stern voice cut like a whiplash across the wardroom; standing in the door was the admiral himself, who had entered unperceived. for a moment the coarse, furious face of the prussian paled a little; then with a supreme effort of arrogance he pulled himself together. "then, sir, we shall see--the world will see--whether you or we will be the victor. the old and effete versus the new and efficient. der tag." he lifted his hand and let it drop; in the silence one could have heard a pin drop. "the problem you raise is of interest," answered the admiral, in the same icy tone. "in the meanwhile any discussion is unprofitable; and in the surroundings in which you find yourself at present it is more than unprofitable--it is a gross breach of all good form and service etiquette. as our guest we were pleased to see you; you will pardon my saying that now i can no longer regard you as a guest. will you kindly give orders, lieutenant travers, for a steam-pinnace? baron von dressler will go ashore." such was the other matter that concerned my principals, and which, of necessity, i have had to record. such an incident is probably almost unique; but when there's a girl at the bottom of things and wine at the top, something is likely to happen. the most unfortunate thing about it all, as far as jerry was concerned, was an untimely indisposition on the part of honks mère. as a coincidence nothing could have been more disastrous. the pinnace was at the foot of the gangway, and the baron--his eyes savage--was just preparing to take an elaborate and sarcastic farewell of the silent torpedo-lieutenant, who was regarding him with an air of cold contempt, when mr. honks appeared on the scene. "say, baron, are you going away?" "i am, mr. honks. my presence seems distasteful to the officers." the american seemed hardly to hear the last part of the remark. "i guess we'll quit too. my wife's been taken bad. can we come in your boat, baron?" "i shall be more than delighted." his eyes came round with ill-concealed triumph to travers's impassive face as the american bustled away. "i venture to think that the honks stakes are still open." "by heaven! you blackguard!" muttered jerry, his passion overcoming him for a moment. "i believe i'd give my commission to smash your damned face in with a marline-spike and chuck you into the sea." "i won't forget what you say," answered the german vindictively, "one day i'll make you eat those words; and then when i've sunk your rat-eaten ship, it will be me that uses the marline-spike--you swine." it was as well for jerry, and for the baron too, that at this psychological moment the honks ménage arrived, otherwise that german would probably have gone into the sea. "good night, lady," murmured jerry, when he had solicitously inquired after her mother's health. "is there no hope?" he was desperately anxious to seize the second or two left; he knew she would not hear the true account of what had happened from the baron. "i guess not," she answered softly. "but come and call." with a smile she was gone, and from the boat there came the baron's voice mocking through the still air, "good night, lieutenant travers. thank you so much." and, drowned by the band that started at that moment, the wonderful and fearful curse that left the torpedo-lieutenant's lips drifted into the night unheard. * * * * * let us go on a couple of years. the moment thought of by the gunnery-lieutenant, the day acclaimed by the prussian officer had come. england was at war. der tag was a reality. no longer did silks and shaded lights form part of the equipment of the navy, but grim and sombre, ruthlessly stripped of everything not absolutely necessary, the great grey monsters watched tirelessly through the flying scud of the north sea for "the fleet that stayed at home." only their submarines were out, and these, day by day, diminished in numbers, until the men who sent them out looked at one another fearfully--so many went out, so few came back. tearing through the water one day, away a bit to the south-west of bantry bay, with the haze of ireland lying like a smudge on the horizon, was a lean, villainous-looking torpedo-boat-destroyer. she was plunging her nose into the slight swell, now and again drenching the oilskinned figure standing motionless on the bridge. behind her a great cloud of black smoke drifted across the grey water, and the whole vessel was quivering with the force of her engines. she was doing her maximum and a bit more, but still the steady, watchful eyes of the officer on the bridge seemed impatient, and every now and again he cursed softly and with wonderful fluency under his breath. it was our friend jerry, who at the end of his time on the flagship had been given one of the newest t.b.d.'s, and now with every ounce he could get out of her he was racing towards the spot from which had come the last s.o.s. message, nearly an hour ago. there was something grimly foreboding about those agonised calls sent out to the world for perhaps twenty minutes, and then--silence, nothing more. german submarines, he reflected, as for the tenth time he peered at his wrist-watch, german submarines engaged once again in the only form of war they could compete in or dared undertake. and not for the first time his thoughts went back to the vainglorious boastings of his friend the baron. "damn him," he muttered. "i haven't forgotten the sweep." there were many things he hadn't forgotten; how, when he'd gone to call on the lady as requested, she had been "out," and it was that sort of "out" that means "in." how a letter had been answered courteously but distinctly coldly, and, impotent with rage, he had been forced to the conclusion that she was offended with him. and with the prussian able to say what he liked, it was not difficult to find the reason. then the fleet left, and jerry resigned himself to the inevitable, a proceeding which was not made easier by the many rumours he heard to the effect that the baron himself had done the trick. distinctly he wanted once again to meet that gentleman. "we ought to see her, if she hasn't sunk, sir, by now." the sub-lieutenant on the bridge spoke in his ear. travers nodded and shrugged his shoulders. he had realised that fact for some minutes. "something on the starboard bow." the voice of the look-out man came to his ears. "it's a boat, an open boat," cried the sub., after a careful inspection, "and it's pretty full, by jove!" a curt order, and the t.b.d. swung round and tore down on the little speck bobbing in the water. and they were still a few hundred yards away when a look of dawning horror strangely mixed with joy spread over jerry's face. his glass was fixed on the boat, and who in god's name was the woman--impossible, of course--but surely.... if it wasn't her it was her twin sister; his hand holding the glass trembled with eagerness, and then at last he knew. the woman standing up in the stern of the boat _was_ maisie, and as he got nearer he saw there was a look on her face which made him catch his breath sharply. "great god!" the sub's voice roused him. "what have they been doing?" no need to ask whom he meant by "they." "the boat is a shambles." the destroyer slowed down, and from the crew who looked into that little open boat came dreadful curses. it ran with blood; and at the bottom women and children moaned feebly, while an elderly man contorted with pain in the stern, writhed and sobbed in agony. and over this black scene the eyes of the man and the woman met. "carefully, carefully, lads," travers sang out. this was no time for questions, only the poor torn fragments counted. afterwards, perhaps. very tenderly the sailors lifted out the bodies, and one of them--a little girl in his arms, with a dreadful wound in her head--jabbered like a maniac with the fury of his rage. and so after many days they again came face to face. "are you wounded?" he whispered. "no." her voice was hard and strained; she was near the breaking point. "they sunk us without warning--the _lucania_--and then shelled us in the open boats." "dear heavens!" jerry's voice was shaking. "ah! but you're not hurt, my lady; they didn't hit you?" "my mother was drowned, and my father too." she was swaying a little. "it was the u ." "ah!" the man's voice was almost a sigh. "submarine on the port bow, sir." a howl came from the look-out, followed by the sharp, detonating reports of the destroyer's quick-firers. and then a roaring cheer. like lightning jerry was upon the bridge, and even he could scarcely contain himself. there, lying helpless in the water, with a huge hole in her conning tower, wallowed the u . two direct hits from the destroyer's guns in a vital spot, and the submarine was a submarine no longer. just one of those strokes of poetic justice which happen so rarely in war. like rats from a sinking ship the germans were pouring up and diving into the water, and with snarling faces the englishmen waited for them, waited for them with the dying proofs of their vileness still lying on the deck as one by one they came on board. suddenly with a sucking noise the submarine foundered, and over the seething, troubled waters where she had been a sheet of blackish oil slowly spread. but jerry spared no glance for the sinking boat--he did not so much as look at the german sailors huddled fearfully together. with hard, merciless eyes he faced the submarine commander. for the first time in his life he saw red: for the first time in his life there was murder in his soul, and the heavy belaying-pin in his hand seemed to goad him on. "suppose the positions had been reversed," mocked a voice in his brain. "would he have hesitated?" the night two years ago surged back to his mind; the plaintive crying of the dying child struck on his ears. he stepped a pace forward with a snarl--his grip tightened on the bar--when suddenly the man who had carried up the little girl gave a hoarse cry, and with all his force smote the nearest german in the mouth. the german fell like a stone. "stand fast." jerry's voice dominated the scene. the old traditions had come back: the old wonderful discipline. the iron pin dropped with a clang on the deck. "it is not their fault, they were only obeying his orders." and once again his eyes rested on their officer. "so we meet again, baron von dressler," he remarked, "and the rat-eaten ship is not sunk. is this your work?" he pointed to the mangled bodies. "it is not," muttered the prussian. "you lie, you swine, you lie! unfortunately for you you didn't quite carry out your infamous butchery completely enough. there is one person on board who knows the u sank the _lucania_ without warning and was in the boat you shelled." "i don't believe you, i----" "then perhaps you'll believe her. i rather think you know her--very well." as he spoke he was looking behind the prussian, to where maisie--roused from her semi-stupor by the baron's voice--had got up, and with her hand to her heart was swaying backwards and forwards. "look behind you, you cur." the prussian turned, and then with a cry staggered back, white to the lips. "you, great heavens, you--maisie----" and so once again the three principals of my little drama were face to face: only the setting had changed. no longer sensuous music and the warm, violet waters of the riviera for a background; this time the moaning of dying men and children was the ghastly orchestra, and, with the grey scud of the atlantic flying past them, the englishman and the german faced one another, while the american girl stood by. and watching them were the muttering sailors. at last she spoke. "this ring, i believe, is yours." she took a magnificent half-hoop of diamonds from her engagement finger and flung it into the sea. then she moved towards him. "you drowned my mother, and for that i strike you once." she hit him in the face with an iron-shod pin. "you drowned my father, and for that i strike you again." once again she struck him in the face. "i will leave a fighting man and a gentleman to deal with you for those poor mites." with a choking sob she turned away, and once again sank down on the coil of rope. the prussian, sobbing with pain and rage, with the blood streaming from his face, was not a pretty sight; but in travers's face there was no mercy. "'the old and effete versus the new and efficient!' i seem to recall those words from our last meeting. may i congratulate you on your efficiency? bah! you swine"--his face flamed with sudden passion--"if you aren't skulking in kiel, you're butchering women. by heavens! i can conceive of nothing more utterly perfect than flogging you to death." the prussian shrank back, his face livid with fear. "they were my orders," he muttered. "for god's sake----" "oh, don't be frightened, baron von dressler." the englishman's voice was once again under control. "the old and effete don't do that. you were safe as our guest two years ago; you are safe as our prisoner now. your precious carcass will be returned safe and sound to your royal uncle at the end of the war, and my only hope is that your face will still bear those honourable scars. moreover, if what you say is true, if the orders of your government include shelling an open boat crammed with defenceless women and children--and neutrals at that--i can only say that their infamy is so incredible as to force one to the conclusion that they are not responsible for their actions. but--make no mistake--they will get their retribution." for a moment he fell silent, looking at the cowering, blood-stained face opposite him, and then a pitiful wail behind him made him turn round. "mummie, i'se hurted." on her knees beside the little girl was maisie, soothing her as best she could, easing the throbbing head, whispering that mummie couldn't come for a while. "i'se hurted, mummie--i'se hurted." travers turned back again, and the eyes of the two men met. "my god! is it possible that a sailor could do such a thing?" his voice was barely above a whisper, yet the prussian heard and winced. in the depths of even the foulest bully there is generally some little redeeming spark. "i'se hurted; i want my mummie." the prussian's lips moved, but no sound came, while in his eyes was the look of a man haunted. travers watched him silently; and at length he spoke again. "as i said, your rulers will get their deserts in time, but i think, baron von dressler, your nemesis has come on you already. that little poor kid is asking you for her mother. don't forget it in the years to come, baron. no, i don't think you _will_ forget it." * * * * * my story is finished. later on, when some of the dreadful nightmare through which she had passed had been effaced from her mind, maisie and the man who had come to her out of the grey waters discussed many things. and the story which the prussian had told her after the dance on the flagship was finally discredited. can anyone recommend me a good cheap book on "things a best man should know"? chapter vii the death grip two reasons have impelled me to tell the story of hugh latimer, and both i think are good and sufficient. first i was his best friend, and second i know more about the tragedy than anyone else--even including his wife. i saw the beginning and the end; she--poor broken-hearted girl--saw only the end. there have been many tragedies since this war started; there will be many more before finis is written--and each, i suppose, to its own particular sufferers seems the worst. but, somehow, to my mind hugh's case is without parallel, unique--the devil's arch of cruelty. i will give you the story--and you shall judge for yourself. let us lift the curtain and present a dug-out in a support trench somewhere near givenchy. a candle gutters in a bottle, the grease running down like a miniature stalactite congeals on an upturned packing-case. on another packing-case the remnants of a tongue, some sardines, and a goodly array of bottles with some tin mugs and plates completes the furniture--or almost. i must not omit the handsome coloured pictures--three in all--of ladies of great beauty and charm, clad in--well, clad in something at any rate. the occupants of this palatial abode were hugh latimer and myself; at the rise of the curtain both lying in corners, on piles of straw. outside, a musician was coaxing noises from a mouth-organ; occasional snatches of song came through the open entrance, intermingled with bursts of laughter. one man, i remember, was telling an interminable story which seemed to be the history of a gentleman called nobby clark, who had dallied awhile with a lady in an estaminet at bethune, and had ultimately received a knock-out blow with a frying-pan over the right eye, for being too rapid in his attentions. just the usual dull, strange, haunting trench life--which varies not from day's end to day's end. at intervals a battery of our own let drive, the blast of the explosion catching one through the open door; at intervals a big german shell moaned its way through the air overhead--an express bound for somewhere. had you looked out to the front, you would have seen the bright green flares lobbing monotonously up into the night, all along the line. war--modern war; boring, incredible when viewed in cold blood.... "hullo, hugh." a voice at the door roused us both from our doze, and the adjutant came in. "will you put your watches right by mine? we are making a small local attack to-morrow morning, and the battalion is to leave the trenches at . exactly." "rather sudden, isn't it?" queried hugh, setting his watch. "just come through from brigade headquarters. bombs are being brought up to h. . further orders sent round later. bye-bye." he was gone, and once more we sat thinking to the same old accompaniment of trench noises; but in rather a different frame of mind. to-morrow morning at . peace would cease; we should be out and running over the top of the ground; we should be... "will they use gas, i wonder?" hugh broke the silence. "wind too fitful," i answered; "and i suppose it's only a small show." "i wonder what it's for. i wish one knew more about these affairs; i suppose one can't, but it would make it more interesting." the mouth-organ stopped; there were vigorous demands for an encore. "poor devils," he went on after a moment. "i wonder how many?--i wonder how many?" "a new development for you, hugh." i grinned at him. "merry and bright, old son--your usual motto, isn't it?" he laughed. "dash it, ginger--you can't always be merry and bright. i don't know why--perhaps it's second sight--but i feel a sort of presentiment of impending disaster to-night. i had the feeling before clements came in." "rot, old man," i answered cheerfully. "you'll probably win a v.c., and the greatest event of the war will be when it is presented to your cheeild." which prophecy was destined to prove the cruellest mixture of truth and fiction the mind of man could well conceive.... "good lord!" he said irritably, taking me seriously for a moment; "we're a bit too old soldiers to be guyed by palaver about v.c.'s." then he recovered his good temper. "no, ginger, old thing, there's big things happening to-morrow. hugh latimer's life is going into the melting-pot. i'm as certain of it as--as that i'm going to have a whisky and soda." he laughed, and delved into a packing-case for the seltzogene. "how's the son and heir?? i asked after a while. "going strong," he answered. "going strong, the little devil." and then we fell silent, as men will at such a time. the trench outside was quiet; the musician, having obliged with his encore, no longer rendered the night hideous--even the guns were still. what would it be to-morrow night? should i still be...? i shook myself and started to scribble a letter; i was getting afraid of inactivity--afraid of my thoughts. "i'm going along the trenches," said hugh suddenly, breaking the long silence. "i want to see the sergeant-major and give some orders." he was gone, and i was alone. in spite of myself my thoughts would drift back to what he had been saying, and from there to his wife and the son and heir. my mind, overwrought, seemed crowded with pictures: they jumbled through my brains like a film on a cinematograph. i saw his marriage, the bridal arch of officers' swords, the sweet-faced, radiant girl. and then his house came on to the screen--the house where i had spent many a pleasant week-end while we trained and sweated to learn the job in england. he was a man of some wealth was hugh latimer, and his house showed it; showed moreover his perfect, unerring taste. bits of stuff, curios, knick-knacks from all over the world met one in odd corners; prints, books, all of the very best, seemed to fit into the scheme as if they'd grown there. never did a single thing seem to whisper as you passed, "i'm really very rare and beautiful, but i've been dragged into the wrong place, and now i know i'm merely vulgar." there are houses i wot of where those clamorous whispers drown the nightingales. but if you can pass through rooms full of bric-à-brac--silent bric-à-brac: bric-à-brac conscious of its rectitude and needing no self apology, you may be certain that the owner will not give you port that is improved by a cigarette. then came the son, and hugh's joy was complete. a bit of a dreamer, a bit of a poet, a bit of a philosopher, but with a virility all his own; a big man--a man in a thousand, a man i was proud to call friend. and he--at the dictates of "kultur"--was to-morrow at . going to expose himself to the risk of death, in order to wrest from the hun a small portion of unprepossessing ground. truly, humour is not dead in the world!... a step outside broke the reel of pictures, and the sapper officer looked in. "i hear a whisper of activity in the dark and stilly morn," he remarked brightly. "won't it be nice?" "very," i said sarcastically. "are you coming?" "no, dear one. that's why i thought it would be so nice. my opposite number and tireless companion and helper to-morrow morning will prance over the greensward with you, leading his merry crowd of minions, bristling with bowie knives, sandbags, and other impedimenta." "oh! go to hell," i said crossly. "i want to write a letter." "cheer up, ginger." he dropped his bantering tone. "i'll be up to drink a glass of wine with you to-morrow night in the new trench. tell latimer that the wire is all right--it's been thinned out and won't stop him, and that there are ladders for getting out of the trench on each traverse." "have you been working?" i asked. "four hours, and got caught by shrapnel in the middle. night-night, and good luck, old man." he was gone; and when he had, i wished him back again. for the game wasn't new to him--he'd done it before; and i hadn't. it tends to give one confidence.... it was about four i woke up. for a few blissful moments i lay forgetful; then i turned and saw hugh. there was a new candle in the bottle, and by its flicker i saw the glint in his sombre eyes, the clear-cut line of his profile. and i remembered.... i felt as if something had caught me by the stomach--inside: a sinking feeling, a feeling of nausea: and for a while i lay still. outside in the darkness the men were rousing themselves; now and again a curse was muttered as someone tripped over a leg he didn't see; and once the sergeant-major's voice rang out--"'ere, strike a light with them breakfasts." "awake, ginger?" hugh prodded me with his foot. "you'd better get something inside you, and then we'll go round and see that everything is o.k." "have you had any sleep, hugh?" "no. i've been reading." he put maeterlinck's "blue bird" on the table. with his finger on the title he looked at me musingly, "shall we find it to-day, i wonder?" * * * * * i have lingered perhaps a little long on what is after all only the introduction to my story. but it is mainly for the sake of hugh's wife that i have written it at all; to show her how he passed the last few hours before--the change came. of what happened just after . on that morning i cannot profess to have any very clear idea. we went over the parapet i remember, and forward at the double. for half an hour beforehand a rain of our shells had plastered the german trenches in front of us, and during those eternal thirty minutes we waited tense. hugh latimer alone of all the men i saw seemed absolutely unconscious of anything unusual. some of the men were singing below their breath, and one i remember sucked his teeth with maddening persistency. and one and all watched me curiously, speculatively--or so it seemed to me. then we were off, and of crossing no-man's-land i have no recollection. i remember a man beside me falling with a crash and nearly tripping me up--and then, at last, the huns. i let drive with my revolver from the range of a few inches into the fat, bloated face of a frightened-looking man in dirty grey, and as he crashed down i remember shouting, "there's the blue bird for you, old dear." little things like that do stick. but everything else is just a blurred phantasmagoria in my mind. and after a while it was over. the trench was full of still grey figures, with here and there a khaki one beside them. a sapper officer forced his way through shouting for a working-party. we were the flanking company, and vital work had to be done and quick. barricades rigged up, communication trenches which now ran to our front blocked up, the trench made to fire the other way. for we knew there would be a counter-attack, and if you fail to consolidate what you've won you won't keep it long. it was while i slaved and sweated with the men shifting sandbags--turning the parados, or back of the trench into the new parapet, or front--that i got word that hugh was dead. i hadn't seen him since the morning, and the rumour passed along from man to man. "the captain's took it. copped it in the head. bomb took him in the napper." but there was no time to stop and enquire, and with my heart sick within me i worked on. one thing at any rate; it had only been a little show, but it had been successful--the dear chap hadn't lost his life in a failure. then i saw the doctor for a moment. "no, he's not dead," he said, "but--he's mighty near it. you know he practically ran the show single-handed on the left flank." "what did he do?" i cried. "do? why he kept a hun bombing-party who were working up the trench at bay for half an hour by himself, which completely saved the situation, and then went out into the open, when he was relieved, and pulled in seven men who'd been caught by a machine-gun. it was while he was getting the last one that a bomb exploded almost on his head. why he wasn't killed on the spot, i simply can't conceive." and the doctor was gone. but strange things happen, and the hand of death is ever capricious. was it not only the other day that we exploded a mine, and sailing through the air there came a hun--a whole complete hun. stunned and winded he fell on the parapet of our trench, and having been pulled in and revived, at last sat up. "goot," he murmured; "i hof long vanted to surrender...." hugh latimer was not dead--that was the great outstanding fact; though had i known the writing in the roll of fate, i would have wished a thousand times that the miracle had not happened. there are worse things than death.... and now i bring the first part of my tragedy to a halt; the beginning as i called it--that part which hugh's wife did not know. she, with all the world, saw the announcement in the paper, the announcement--bald and official of the deed for which he won his v.c. it was much as the doctor described it to me. she, with all the world, saw his name in the casualty list as wounded; and on receipt of a telegram from the war office, she crossed to france in fear and trembling--for the wire did not mince words; his condition was very critical. he did not know her--he was quite unconscious, and had been so for days. that night they were trephining, and there was just a hope.... the next morning hugh knew his wife. * * * * * for the next three months i did not see him. the battalion was still up, and i got no chance of going down to boulogne. he didn't stay there long, but, following the ordinary routine of the r.a.m.c., went back to england in a hospital ship, and into a home in london. sir william cremer, the eminent brain specialist, who had operated on him, and been particularly interested in his case, kept him under his eye for a couple of months, and then he went to his own home to recuperate. all this and a lot more besides i got in letters from his wife. the king himself had graciously come round and presented him with the cross--and she was simply brimming over with happiness, dear soul. he was ever so much better, and very cheerful; and sir william was a perfect dear; and he'd actually taken out six ounces of brain during the operation, and wasn't it wonderful. also the son and heir grew more perfect every day. which news, needless to say, cheered me immensely. then came the first premonition of something wrong. for a fortnight i'd not heard from her, and then i got a letter which wasn't quite so cheerful. "... hugh doesn't seem able to sleep." so ran part of it. "he is terribly restless, and at times dreadfully irritable. he doesn't seem to have any pain in his head, which is a comfort. but i'm not quite easy about him, ginger. the other evening i was sitting opposite to him in the study, and suddenly something compelled me to look at him. i have never seen anything like the look in his eyes. he was staring at the fire, and his right hand was opening and shutting like a bird's talon. i was terrified for a moment, and then i forced myself to speak calmly. "'why this ferocious expression, old boy,' i said, with a laugh. for a moment he did not answer, but his eyes left the fire, and travelled slowly round till they met mine. i never knew what that phrase meant till then; it always struck me as a sort of author's license. but that evening i felt them coming, and i could have screamed. he gazed at me in silence and then at last he spoke. "'have you ever heard of the death grip? some day i'll tell you about it.' then he looked away, and i made an excuse to go out of the room, for i was shaking with fright. it was so utterly unlike hugh to make a silly remark like that. when i came back later, he was perfectly calm and his own self again. moreover, he seemed to have completely forgotten the incident, because he apologised for having been asleep. "i wanted sir william to come down and see him; or else for us to go up to town, as i expect sir william is far too busy. but hugh wouldn't hear of it, and got quite angry--so i didn't press the matter. but i'm worried, ginger...." i read this part of the letter to our doctor. we were having an omelette of huit-oeufs, and une bouteille de vin rouge in a little estaminet way back, i remember; and i asked him what he thought. "my dear fellow," he said, "frankly it's impossible to say. you know what women are; and that letter may give quite a false impression of what really took place. you see what i mean: in her anxiety she may have exaggerated some jocular remark. she's had a very wearing time, and her own nerves are probably a bit on edge. but----" he paused and leaned back. "encore du vin, s'il vous plaît, mam'selle. but, ginger, it's no good pretending, there may be a very much more sinister meaning behind it all. the brain is a most complex organisation, and even such men as cremer are only standing on the threshold of knowledge with regard to it. they know a lot--but how much more there is to learn! latimer, as you know, owes his life practically to a miracle. not once in a thousand times would a man escape instant death under such circumstances. a great deal of brain matter was exposed, and subsequently removed at boulogne by sir william, when he trephined. and it is possible that some radical alteration has taken place in hugh latimer's character, soul--whatever you choose to call that part of a man which controls his life--as a result of the operation. if what mrs. latimer says is the truth--and when i say that i mean if what she says is to be relied on as a cold, bald statement of what happened--then i am bound to say that i think the matter is very serious indeed." "god almighty!" i cried, "do you mean to say that you think there is a chance of hugh going mad?" "to be perfectly frank, i do; always granted that that letter is reliable. i consider it vital that whether he wishes to or whether he doesn't, sir william cremer should be consulted. and--_at once_." the doctor emphasised his words with his fist on the table. "great scott! doc," i muttered. "do you really think there is danger?" "i don't know enough of the case to say that. but i do know something about the brain, enough to say that there might be not only danger, but hideous danger, to everyone in the house." he was silent for a bit and then rapped out. "does mrs. latimer share the same room as her husband?" "i really don't know," i answered. "i imagine so." "well, i don't know how well you know her; but until sir william gives a definite opinion, if i knew her well enough, i would strongly advise her to sleep in another room--_and lock the door_." "good god! you think ..." "look here, ginger, what's the good of beating about the bush. it is possible--i won't say probable--that hugh latimer is on the road to becoming a homicidal maniac. and if, by any chance, that assumption is correct, the most hideous tragedy might happen at any moment. mam'selle, l'addition s'il vous plaît. you're going on leave shortly, aren't you?" "in two days," i answered. "well, go down and see for yourself; it won't require a doctor to notice the symptoms. and if what i fear is correct, track out cremer in his lair--find him somehow and find him quickly." we walked up the road together, and my glance fell on the plot of ground on the right, covered so thickly with little wooden crosses. as i looked away the doctor's eyes and mine met. and there was the same thought in both our minds. * * * * * three days later i was in hugh's house. his wife met me at the station, and before we got into the car my heart sank. i knew something was wrong. "how is he?" i asked, as we swung out of the gates. "oh! ginger," she said. "i'm frightened--frightened to death." "what is it, lady," i cried. "has he been looking at you like that again, the way you described in the letter?" "yes--it's getting more frequent. and at nights--oh! my god! it's awful. poor old hugh." she broke down at that, while i noticed that her hands were all trembling, and that dark shadows were round her eyes. "tell me about it," i said, "for we must do something." she pulled herself together, and called through the speaking-tube to the chauffeur. "go a little way round, jervis. i don't want to get in till tea-time." then she turned to me. "since his operation i've been using another room." the doctor's words flashed into my mind. "sir william thought it essential that he should have really long undisturbed nights, and i'm such a light sleeper. for a few weeks everything panned out splendidly. he seemed to get better and stronger, and he was just the same dear old hugh he's always been. then gradually the restlessness started; he couldn't sleep, he became irritable,--and the one thing which made him most irritable of all was any suggestion that he wasn't going on all right; or any hint even that he should see a doctor. then came the incident i wrote to you about. since that evening i've often caught the same look in his eye." she shuddered, and again i noticed the quiver in her hands, but she quickly controlled herself. "last night, i woke up suddenly. it must have been about three, for it was pitch dark, and i think i'd been asleep some hours. i don't know what woke me; but in an instant i knew there was someone in the room. i lay trembling with fright, and suddenly out of the darkness came a hideous chuckle. it was the most awful, diabolical noise i've ever heard. then i heard his voice. "he was muttering, and all i could catch were the words 'death-grip.' i nearly fainted with terror, but forced myself to keep consciousness. how long he stood there i don't know, but after an eternity it seemed, i heard the door open and shut. i heard him cross the passage, and go into his own room. then there was silence. i forced myself to move; i switched on the light, and locked the door. and when dawn came in through the windows, i was still sitting in a chair sobbing, shaking like a terrified child. "this morning he was perfectly normal, and just as cheerful and loving as he'd ever been. oh! ginger, what am i to do?" she broke down and cried helplessly. "you poor kid," i said; "what an awful experience! you must lock your door to-night, and to-morrow, with or without hugh's knowledge, i shall go up to see cremer." "you don't think; oh! it couldn't be true that hugh, my hugh, is going----" she wouldn't say the word, but just gazed at me fearfully through her tears. "hush, my lady," i said quietly. "the brain is a funny thing; perhaps there is some pressure somewhere which sir william will be able to remove." "why, of course that's it. i'm tired, stupid--it's made me exaggerate things. it will mean another operation, that's all. wasn't it splendid about his getting the v.c.; and the king, so gracious, so kind...." she talked bravely on, and i tried to help her. but suppose there wasn't any pressure; suppose there was nothing to remove; suppose.... and in my mind i saw the plot with the little wooden crosses; in my mind i heard the express for somewhere booming sullenly overhead. and i wondered ... shuddered. * * * * * hugh met us at the door; dear old hugh, looking as well as he ever did. "splendid, ginger, old man! so glad you managed the leave all right." "not a hitch, hugh. you're looking very fit." "i am. fit as a flea. you ask elsie what she thinks." his wife smiled. "you're just wonderful, old boy, except for your sleeplessness at night. i want him to see sir william cremer, ginger, but he doesn't think it worth while." "i don't," said hugh shortly. "damn that old sawbones." in another man the remark would have passed unnoticed; but the chauffeur was there, and a maid, and his wife--and the expression was quite foreign to hugh. but i am bound to say that except for that one trifling thing i noticed absolutely nothing peculiar about him all the evening. at dinner he was perfectly normal; quite charming--his own brilliant self. when he was in the mood, i have seldom heard his equal as a conversationalist, and that night he was at the top of his form. i almost managed to persuade myself that my fears were groundless.... "i want to have a buck with ginger, dear," he said to his wife after dinner was over. "a talk over the smells and joys of flanders." "but i should like to hear," she answered. "it's so hard to get you men to talk." "i don't think you would like to hear, my dear." his tone was quite normal, but there was a strange note of insistence in it. "it's shop, and will bore you dreadfully." he still stood by the door waiting for her to pass through. after a moment's hesitation she went, and hugh closed the door after her. what suggested the analogy to my mind i cannot say, but the way in which he performed the simple act of closing the door seemed to be the opening rite of some ceremony. thus could i picture a morphomaniac shutting himself in from prying gaze, before abandoning himself to his vice; the drunkard, at last alone, returning gloatingly to his bottle. perhaps my perceptions were quickened, but it seemed to me that hugh came back to me as if i were his colleague in some guilty secret--as if his wife were alien to his thoughts, and now that she was gone, we could talk.... his first words proved i was right. "now we can talk, ginger," he remarked. "these women don't understand." he pushed the port towards me. "understand what?" i was watching him closely. "life, my boy, _the_ life. the life of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. gad! it was a great day that, ginger." his eyes were fixed on me, and for the first time i noticed the red in them, and a peculiar twitch in the lids. "did you find the blue bird?" i asked quietly. "find it?" he laughed--and it was not a pleasant laugh. "i used to think it lay in books, in art, in music." again he gave way to a fit of devilish mirth. "what damned fools we are, old man, what damned fools. but you mustn't tell her." he leaned over the table and spoke confidentially. "she'd never understand; that's why i got rid of her." he lifted his glass to the light, looking at it as a connoisseur looks at a rare vintage, while all the time a strange smile--a cruel smile--hovered round his lips. "music--art," his voice was full of scorn. "only we know better. did i ever tell you about that grip i learned in sumatra--the death grip?" he suddenly fired the question at me, and for a moment i did not answer. all my fears were rushing back into my mind with renewed strength; it was not so much the question as the tone--and the eyes of the speaker. "no, never." i lit a cigarette with elaborate care. "ah! someday i must show you. you take a man's throat in your right hand, and you put your left behind his neck--like that." his hands were curved in front of him--curved as if a man's throat was in them. "then you press and press with the two thumbs--like that; with the right thumb on a certain muscle in the neck, and the left on an artery under the ear; and you go on pressing, until--until there's no need to press any longer. it's wonderful." i can't hope to give any idea of the dreadful gloating tone in his voice. "i got a prussian officer like that, that day," he went on after a moment. "i saw his dirty grey face close to mine, and i got my hands on his throat. i'd forgotten the exact position for the grip, and then suddenly i remembered it. i squeezed and squeezed--and, ginger, the grip was right. i squeezed his life out in ten seconds." his voice rose to a shout. "steady, hugh," i cried. "you'll be frightening elsie." "quite right," he answered; "that would never do. i haven't told her that little incident--she wouldn't understand. but i'm going to show her the grip one of these days. as a soldier's wife, i think it's a thing she ought to know." he relapsed into silence, apparently quite calm, though his eyelids still twitched, while i watched him covertly from time to time. in my mind now there was no shadow of doubt that the doctor's fears were justified; i knew that hugh latimer was insane. that his loss of mental balance was periodical and not permanent was not the point; layman though i was, i could realise the danger to everyone in the house. at the moment the tragedy of the case hardly struck me; i could only think of the look on his face, the gloating, watching look--and elsie and the boy.... at half-past nine he went to bed, and i had a few words with his wife. "lock your door to-night," i said insistently, "as you value everything, lock your door. i am going to see cremer to-morrow." "what's he been saying?" she asked, and her lips were white. "i heard him shouting once." "enough to make me tell you to lock your door," i said as lightly as i could. "elsie, you've got to be brave; something has gone wrong with poor old hugh for the time, and until he's put right again, there are moments when he's not responsible for his actions. don't be uneasy; i shall be on hand to-night." "i shan't be uneasy" she answered, and then she turned away, and i saw her shoulders shaking. "my hugh--my poor old man." i caught the whispered words, and she was gone. * * * * * i suppose it was about two that i woke with a start. i had meant to keep awake the whole night, and with that idea i had not undressed, but, sitting in a chair before the fire, had tried to keep myself awake with a book. but the journey from france had made me sleepy, and the book had slipped to the floor, as has been known to happen before. the light was still on, though the fire had burned low; and i was cramped and stiff. for a moment i sat listening intently--every faculty awake; and then i heard a door gently close, and a step in the passage. i switched off the light and listened. instinctively, i knew the crisis had come, and with the need for action i became perfectly cool. soft footsteps, like a man walking in his socks, came distinctly through the door which i had left ajar--once a board creaked. and after that sharp ominous crack there was silence for a space; the nocturnal walker was cautious, cautious with the devilish cunning of the madman. it seemed to me an eternity as i listened--straining to hear in the silent house--then once again there came the soft pad-pad of stockinged feet; nearer and nearer till they halted outside my door. i could hear the heavy breathing of someone outside, and then stealthily my door was pushed open. in the dim light which filtered in from the passage hugh's figure was framed in the doorway. with many pauses and very cautious steps he moved to the bed, while i pressed against the wall watching him. his hands wandered over the pillows, and then he muttered to himself. "old ginger--i suppose he hasn't come to bed yet. and i wanted to show him that little grip--that little death-grip." he chuckled horribly. "never mind--elsie, dear little elsie; i will show her first. though she won't understand so well--only ginger would really understand." he moved to the door, and once again the slow padding of his feet sounded in the passage; while he still muttered, though i could not hear what he said. then he came to his wife's door and cautiously turned the handle.... what happened then happened quickly. he realised quickly that it was locked, and this seemed to infuriate him. he gave an inarticulate shout, and rattled the door violently; then he drew back to the other side of the passage and prepared to charge it. and at that moment we closed. i had followed him out of my room, and, knowing myself to be far stronger than him, i threw myself on him without a thought i hadn't reckoned on the strength of a madman, and for two minutes he threw me about as if i were a child. we struggled and fought, while frightened maids wrung their hands--and a white-faced woman watched with tearless eyes. and at last i won; when his temporary strength gave out, he was as weak as a child. poor old hugh! poor old chap!... * * * * * sir william cremer came down the next day, and to him i told everything. he made all the necessary wretched arrangements, and the dear fellow was taken away--seemingly quite sane--and telling elsie he'd be back soon. "they say i need a change, old dear, and this old tyrant says i've been restless at night." he had his hand on sir william's shoulder as he spoke, while the car was waiting at the door. "jove! little girl--you do look a bit washed out have i been worrying you?" "of course not, old man." her voice was perfectly steady. "there you are, sir william." he turned triumphantly to the doctor. "still perhaps you're right. where's the young rascal? give me a kiss, you scamp--and look after your mother while i'm away. i'll be back soon." he went down the steps and into the car. "and very likely he will, mrs. latimer. keep your spirits up and never despair." sir william patted her shoulder paternally, but over her bent head i saw his eyes. "god knows," he said reverently to me as he followed hugh. "the brain is such a wonderful thing; just a tiny speck and a genius becomes a madman. god knows." * * * * * later on i too went away, carrying in my mind the picture of a girl--she was no more--holding a little bronze cross in front of a laughing baby--the cross on which is written, "for valour." and once again my mind went back to that little plot in flanders covered with wooden crosses. chapter viii james henry james henry was the sole remaining son of his mother, and she was a widow. his father, some twelve months previously, had inadvertently encountered a motor-car travelling at great speed, and had forthwith been laid to rest. his sisters--whom james henry affected to despise--had long since left the parental roof and gone to seek their fortunes in the great world; while his brothers had in all cases died violent deaths, following in the steps of their lamented father. in fact, as i said, james henry was alone in the world saving only for his mother: and as she'd married again since his father's death he felt that his responsibility so far as she was concerned was at an end. in fact, he frequently cut her when he met her about the house. relations had become particularly strained after this second matrimonial venture. an aristocrat of the most unbending description himself, he had been away during the period of her courtship--otherwise, no doubt, he would have protected his father's stainless escutcheon. as it was, he never quite recovered from the shock. it was at breakfast one morning that he heard the news. lady monica told him as she handed him his tea. "james henry," she remarked reproachfully, "your mother is a naughty woman." true to his aristocratic principle of stoical calm he continued to consume his morning beverage. there were times when the mention of his mother bored him to extinction. "a very naughty woman," she continued. "dad"--she addressed a man who had just come into the room--"it's occurred." "what--have they come?" "yes--last night. five." "are they good ones?" lady alice laughed. "i was just telling james henry what i thought of his family when you came in. i'm afraid harriet emily is incorrigible." "look at james!" exclaimed the earl--"he's spilled his tea all over the carpet." he was inspecting the dishes on the sideboard as he spoke. "he always does. his whiskers dribble. jervis tells me that he thinks harriet emily must have--er--flirted with a most undesirable acquaintance." "oh! has she?" her father opened the morning paper and started to enjoy his breakfast. "we must drown 'em, my dear, drown---- hullo! the russians have crossed the----" it sounded like an explosion in a soda-water factory, and james henry protested. "quite right, henry. he oughtn't to do it at breakfast. it doesn't really make any one any happier. did _you_ know about your mother? now don't gobble your food." lady monica held up an admonishing finger. "four of your brothers and sisters are more or less respectable, james, but there's _one_--there's one that is distinctly reminiscent of a dachshund. oh! 'arriet, 'arriet--i'm ashamed of you." james henry sneezed heavily and got down from the table. always a perfect gentleman, he picked up the crumbs round his chair, and even went so far as to salvage a large piece of sausage skin which had slipped on to the floor. then, full of rectitude and outwardly unconcerned, he retired to a corner behind a cupboard and earnestly contemplated a little hole in the floor. outwardly calm--yes: that at least was due to the memory of his blue-blooded father. but inwardly, he seethed. with his head on one side he alternately sniffed and blew as he had done regularly every morning for the past two months. his father's wife the mother of a sausage-dog! incredible! it must have been that miserable fat beast who lived at the pig and whistle. the insolence--the inconceivable impertinence of such an unsightly, corpulent traducer daring to ally himself with one of the fox terriers. he growled slightly in his disgust, and three mice inside the wall laughed gently. but--still, the girls are ever frail. he blushed slightly at some recollection, and realised that he must make allowances. but a sausage dog! great heavens! "james--avançons, mon brave." lady monica was standing in the window. "we will hie us to the village. dad, don't forget that our branch of the federated association of women war workers are drilling here this afternoon." "good heavens! my dear girl--is it?" her father gazed at her in alarm. "i think--er--i think i shall have to--er--run up to town--er--this afternoon." "i thought you'd have to, old dear. in fact, i've ordered the car for you. come along, henry--we must go and get a boy scout to be bandaged." james henry gave one last violently facial contortion at the entrance of the mouse's lair, and rose majestically to his feet. if she wanted to go out, he fully realised that he must go with her: emily would have to wait. he would go round later and see his poor misguided mother and reason with her; but just at present the girl was his principal duty. she generally asked his advice on various things when they went for a walk, and the least he could do was to pretend to be interested at any rate. apparently this morning she was in need of much counsel and help. having arrived at a clearing in the wood, on the way to the village, she sat down on the fallen trunk of a tree, and addressed him. "james--what am i to do? derek is coming this afternoon before he goes back to france. what shall i tell him, henry--what _shall_ i tell him? because i know he'll ask me again. thank you, old man, but you're not very helpful, and i'd much sooner you kept it yourself." disgustedly james henry removed the carcase of a field mouse he had just procured, and resigned himself to the inevitable. "i'm fond of him; i like him--in fact at times more than like him. but is it the _real_ thing? now what do you think, james henry?--tell me all that is in your mind. ought i----" it was then that he gave his celebrated rendering of a young typhoon, owing to the presence of a foreign substance--to wit, a fly--in a ticklish spot on his nose. "you think that, do you? well, perhaps you're right. come on, my lad, we must obtain the victim for this afternoon. i wonder if those little boys like it? to do some good and kindly action each day--that's their motto, james. and as one person to another you must admit that to be revived from drowning, resuscitated from fainting, brought to from an epileptic fit, and have two knees, an ankle, and a collarbone set at the same time is some good action even for a boy scout." * * * * * it was not until after lunch that james henry paid his promised call on his mother. maturer considerations had but strengthened his resolve to make allowances. after all, these things do happen in the best families. he was, indeed, prepared to be magnanimous and forgive; he was even prepared to be interested; the only thing he wasn't prepared for was the nasty bite he got on his ear. that settled it. it was then that he finally washed his hands of his undutiful parent. as he told her, he felt more sorrow than anger; he should have realised that anyone who could have dealings with a sausage-hound must be dead to all sense of decency--and that the only thing he asked was that in the future she would conceal the fact that they were related. then he left her--and trotting round to the front of the house, found great activity in progress on the lawn. "good heavens! james henry, do they often do this?" with a shout of joy he recognised the speaker. and having told him about harriet, and blown heavily at a passing spider and then trodden on it, he sat down beside the soldier on the steps. the game on the lawn at first sight looked dull; and he only favoured it with a perfunctory glance. in fact, what on earth there was in it to make the soldier beside him shake and shake while the tears periodically rolled down his face was quite beyond henry. the principal player seemed to be a large man--also in khaki--with a loud voice. up to date he had said nothing but "now then, ladies," at intervals, and in a rising crescendo. then it all became complicated. "now then, ladies, when i says number--you numbers from right to left in an heven tone of voice. the third lady from the left 'as no lady behind 'er--seeing as we're a hodd number. she forms the blank file. yes, you, mum--you, i means." "what are you pointing at me for, my good man?" the vicar's wife suddenly realised she was being spoken to. "am i doing anything wrong?" "no, mum, no. not this time. i was only saying as you 'ave no one behind you." "oh! i'll go there at once--i'm so sorry." she retired to the rear rank. "dear mrs. goodenough, _did_ i tread upon your foot?--so clumsy of me! oh, what is that man saying now? but you've just told me to come here. you did nothing of the sort? how rude!" but as i said, the game did not interest james henry, so he wandered away and played in some bushes. there were distinct traces of a recently moving mole which was far more to the point. then having found--after a diligent search and much delight in pungent odours--that the mole was a has-been, our henry disappeared for a space. and far be it from me to disclose where he went: his intentions were always strictly honourable. when he appeared again the earl had just returned from london, and was talking to the tall soldier-man. the women war workers had departed, and, as james henry approached, his mistress came out and joined the two men. "have those dreadful women gone, my dear?" asked the earl as he saw her. "you're very rude, dad. the federated association of the w.w.w. is a very fine body of patriotic women. what did you think of our drill, derek?" "wonderful, monica. quite the most wonderful thing i've ever seen." the soldier solemnly offered her a cigarette. "you men are all jealous. we're coming out to france as v.a.d.'s soon." "good lord, derek--you ought to have seen their first drill. in one corner of the lawn that poor devil of a sergeant with his face a shiny purple alternately sobbed and bellowed like a bull--while twenty-seven w.w.w.'s tied themselves into a knot like a rugby football scrum, and told one another how they'd done it. it was the most heart-rending sight i've ever seen." "dear old dad!" the girl blew a cloud of smoke. "you told it better last time." "don't interrupt, monica. the final tableau----" "which one are you going to tell him, dear? the one where james henry bit the vicar's wife in the leg, or the one where the sergeant with a choking cry of 'double, damn you!' fell fainting into the rhododendron bush?" "i think the second is the better," remarked the soldier pensively. "dogs always bite the vicar's wife's leg. not a hobby i should personally take up, but----" they all laughed. "now run indoors, old 'un, and tell john to get you a mixed vermouth--i want to talk to derek." the girl gently pushed her father towards the open window. it was at that particular moment in james henry's career that, having snapped at a wasp and partially killed it, he inadvertently sat on the carcase by mistake. as he explained to harriet emily afterwards, it wasn't so much the discomfort of the proceeding which annoyed him, as the unfeeling laughter of the spectators. and it was only when she'd bitten him in the other ear that he remembered he had disowned her that very afternoon. * * * * * but elsewhere, though he was quite unaware of the fact, momentous decisions as to his future were being taken. the earl had gone in to get his mixed vermouth, and outside his daughter and the soldier-man sat and talked. it was fragmentary, disjointed--the talk of old friends with much in common. only in the man's voice there was that suppressed note which indicates things more than any mere words. monica heard it and sighed--she'd heard it so often before in his voice. james henry had heard it too during a previous talk--one which he had graced with his presence--and had gone to the extent of discussing it with a friend. on this occasion he had been gently dozing on the man's knee, when suddenly he had been rudely awakened. in his dreams he had heard her say, "dear old derek--i'm afraid it's no. you see, i'm not sure;" which didn't seem much to make a disturbance about. "would you believe it," he remarked later, "but as she spoke the soldier-man's grip tightened on my neck till i was almost choked." "what did you do?" asked his friend, a disreputable "long-dog." "did you bite him?" "i did not." james henry sniffed. "it was not a biting moment. tact was required. i just gave a little cough, and instantly he took his hand away. 'old man,' he whispered to me--she'd left us--'i'm sorry. i didn't mean to--i wasn't thinking.' so i licked his hand to show him i understood." "i know what you mean. i'm generally there when my bloke comes out of prison, and he always kicks me. but it's meant kindly." "as a matter of fact that is not what i mean--though i daresay your experiences on such matters are profound." james was becoming blue-blooded. "the person who owns you, and who is in the habit of going to--er--prison, no doubt shows his affection for you in that way. and very suitable too. but the affair to which i alluded is quite different. the soldier-man is almost as much in my care as the girl. and so i know his feelings. at the time, he was suffering though why i don't understand; and therefore it was up to me to suffer with him. it helped him." "h'm," the lurcher grunted. "daresay you're right. what about a trip to the gorse? i haven't seen a rabbit for some time." and if henry had not sat on the wasp, his neck might again have been squeezed that evening. as it was, the danger period was over by the time he reappeared and jumped into the girl's lap. not only had the sixth proposal been gently turned down--but james's plans for the near future had been settled for him in a most arbitrary manner. "well, old man, how's the tail?" laughed the soldier. james henry yawned--the subject seemed a trifle personal even amongst old friends. "have you heard you're coming with me to france?" "and you must bring him to me as soon as i get over," cried the girl. "at once, dear lady. i'll ask for special leave, and if necessary an armistice." "won't you bark at the huns, my cherub?" she laughed and got up. "go to your uncle--i'm going to dress." what happened then was almost more than even the most long-suffering terrier could stand. he was unceremoniously bundled into his uncle's arms by his mistress, and at the same moment she bent down. a strange noise was heard such as he had frequently noted, coming from the top of his own head, when his mistress was in an affectionate mood--a peculiar form of exercise he deduced, which apparently amused some people. but the effect on the soldier was electrical. he sprang out of his chair with a shout--"monica--you little devil--come back," and james henry fell winded to the floor. but a flutter of white disappearing indoors was the only answer.... "she's not sure, james, my son--she's not sure." the man pulled out his cigarette case and contemplated him thoughtfully. "and how the deuce are we to make her sure? i want it, and her father wants it, and so does she if she only knew it. they're the devil, james henry--they're the devil." but his hearer did not want philosophy; he wanted his tummy rubbed. he lay with one eye closed, his four paws turned up limply towards the sky, and sighed gently. never before had the suggestion failed; enthusiastic admirers had always taken the hint gladly, and he had graciously allowed them the pleasure. but this time--horror upon horror--not only was there no result, but in a dreamy, contemplative manner the soldier actually deposited his used and still warm match carefully on the spot where james henry's wind had been. naturally there was only one possible course open to him. he rose quietly, and left. it was only when he was thinking the matter over later that it struck him that his exit would have been more dignified if he hadn't sat down halfway across the lawn to scratch his right ear. it was more than likely that a completely false construction would be put on that simple action by anyone who didn't know he'd had words with harriet emily. * * * * * thus james henry--gentleman, at his country seat in england. i have gone out of my way to describe what may be taken as an average day in his life, in order to show him as he was before he went to france to be banished from the country--cashiered in disgrace a few weeks after his arrival. which only goes to prove the change that war causes in even the most polished and courtly. i am told that the alteration for the worse started shortly after his arrival at the front. what did it i don't know--but he lost one whisker and a portion of an ear, thus giving him a somewhat lopsided appearance; though rakish withal. it may have been a detonator which went off as he ate it--it may have been foolish curiosity over a maxim--it may even have been due to the fact that he found a motor-bicycle standing still, what time it made strange provocative noises, and failed to notice that the back wheel was off the ground and rotating at a great pace. whatever it was it altered james henry. not that it soured his temper--not at all; but it made him more reckless, less careful of appearances. he forgot the repose that stamps the caste of vere de vere, and a series of incidents occurred which tended to strain relations all round. there was the question of the three dead chickens, for instance. had they disappeared decently and in order much might have been thought but nothing would have been known. but when they were deposited on their owner's doorstep, with james henry mounting guard over the corpses himself, it was a little difficult to explain the matter away. that was the trouble--his sense of humour seemed to have become distorted. the pastime of hunting for rats in the sewers of ypres cannot be too highly commended; but having got thoroughly wet in the process, james henry's practice of depositing the rat and himself on the adjutant's bed was open to grave criticism. but enough: these two instances were, i am sorry to state, but types of countless other regrettable episodes which caused the popularity of james henry to wane. the final decree of death or banishment came when james had been in the country some seven weeks. on the day in question a dreadful shout was heard, followed by a flood of language which i will refrain from committing to print. and then the colonel appeared in the door of his dug-out. "where is that accursed idiot, murgatroyd? pass the word along for the damn fool." "'urry up, conky. the ole man's a-twittering for you." murgatroyd emerged from a recess. "what's 'e want?" "i'd go and find out, cully. i think 'e's going to mention you in 'is will." at that moment a fresh outburst floated through the stillness. "great 'eavens!" murgatroyd reluctantly rose to his feet. "so long, boys. tell me mother she was in me thoughts up to the end." he paused outside the dug-out and then went manfully in. "you wanted me, sir." "look at this, you blithering ass, look at this." the colonel was searching through his fortnum and mason packing-case on the floor. "great heavens! and the caviar too--imbedded in the butter. five defunct rodents in the brawn"--he threw each in turn at his servant, who dodged round the dug-out like a pea in a drum--"the marmalade and the pâté de fois gras inseparably mixed together, and the whole covered with a thick layer of disintegrating cigar." "it wasn't me, sir," murgatroyd spoke in an aggrieved tone. "i didn't suppose it was, you fool." the colonel straightened himself and glared at his hapless minion. "great heavens! there's another rat on my hairbrush." "one of the same five, sir. it ricocheted off my face." with a magnificent nonchalance his servant threw it out of the door. "i think, sir, it must be james 'enry." "who the devil is james henry?" "sir derek temple's little dawg, sir." "indeed." the colonel's tone was ominous. "go round and ask sir derek temple to be good enough to come and see me at once." what happened exactly at that interview i cannot say; although i understand that james henry considered an absurd fuss had been made about a trifle. in fact he found it so difficult to lie down with any comfort that night that he missed much of his master's conversation with him. "you've topped it, james, you've put the brass hat on. the old man threatens to turn out a firing party if he ever sees you again." james feigned sleep: this continual harping on what was over and done with he considered the very worst of form. even if he had put the caviar in the butter and his foot in the marmalade--well, hang it all--what then? he'd presented the old buster with five dead rats, which was more than he'd do for a lot of people. "in fact, james, you are not popular, my boy--and i shudder to think what monica will do with you when she gets you. she's come over, you may be pleased to hear, henry. she is v.a.d.-ing at a charming hospital that overlooks the sea. james, why can't i go sick--and live for a space at that charming hospital that overlooks the sea? think of it: here am i, panting to have my face washed by her, panting----" for a moment he rhapsodised in silence. "breakfast in bed, poached egg in the bed: oh! james, my boy, and she probably never even thinks of me." he took a letter out of his pocket and held it under the light of the candle. "'not much to do at present, but delightful weather. the hospital is nearly empty, though there's one perfect dear who is almost fit--a major in some highland regiment.' "listen to that, james. some great raw-boned, red-kneed scotchman, and she calls him a perfect dear!" his listener blew resignedly and again composed himself to slumber. "'how is james behaving? i'd love to see the sweet pet again.' sweet pet: yes--my boy--you look it. 'do you remember how annoyed he was when i put him in your arms that afternoon at home?' do you hear that, james?--do i remember? monica, you adorable soul...." he relapsed into moody thought. * * * * * at what moment during that restless night the idea actually came i know not. possibly a diabolical chuckle on the part of james henry, who was hunting in his dreams, goaded him to desperation. but it is an undoubted fact that when sir derek temple rose the next morning he had definitely determined to embark on the adventure which culminated in the tragedy of the cat, the general, and james. the latter is reputed to regard the affair as quite trifling and unworthy of the fierce glare of publicity that beat upon it. the cat, has, or rather had, different views. now, be it known to those who live in england that it is one thing to say in an airy manner, as derek had said to lady monica, that he would come and see her when she landed in france; it is another to do it. but to a determined and unprincipled man nothing is impossible; and though it would be the height of indiscretion for me to hint even at the methods he used to attain his ends, it is a certain fact that in the afternoon of the second day following the episode of the five rodents he found himself at a certain seaport town with james henry as the other member of the party. and having had his hair cut, and extricated his companion from a street brawl, he hired a motor and drove into the country. now, derek temple's knowledge of hospitals and their ways was not profound. he had a hazy idea that on arriving at the portals he would send in his name, and that in due course he could consume a tête-à-tête tea with monica in her private boudoir. he rehearsed the scene in his mind: the quiet, cutting reference to highlanders who failed to understand the official position of nurses--the certainty that this particular one was a scoundrel: the fact that, on receiving her letter, he had at once rushed off to protect her. and as he got to this point the car turned into the gates of a palatial hotel and stopped by the door. james henry jumped through the open window, and his master followed him up the steps. "is lady monica travers at home; i mean--er--is she in the hospital?" he addressed an r.a.m.c. sergeant in the entrance. "no dawgs allowed in the 'ospital, sir." the scandalised n.c.o. glared at james henry, who was furiously growling at a hot-air grating in the floor. "you must get 'im out at once, sir: we're being inspected to-day." "heel, james, heel. he'll be quite all right, sergeant. just find out, will you, about lady monica travers?" "beg pardon, sir, but are you a patient?" "patient--of course i'm not a patient. do i look like a patient?" "well, sir, there ain't no visiting allowed when the sisters is on duty." "what? but it's preposterous. do you mean to say i can't see her unless i'm a patient? why, man, i've got to go back in an hour." "very sorry, sir--but no visiting allowed. very strict 'ere, and as i says we're full of brass 'ats to-day." for a moment derek was nonplussed; this was a complication on which he had not reckoned. "but look here, sergeant, you know..." and even as he spoke he looked upstairs and beheld lady monica. unfortunately she had not seen him, and the situation was desperate. forcing james henry into the arms of the outraged n.c.o., he rushed up the stairs and followed her. "derek!" the girl stopped in amazement. "what in the world are you doing here?" "monica, my dear, i've come to see you. tell me that you don't really love that damn scotchman." an adorable smile spread over her face. "you idiot! i don't love anyone. my work fills my life." "rot! you said in your letter you had nothing to do at present. monica, take me somewhere where i can make love to you." "i shall do nothing of the sort. in the first place you aren't allowed here at all; and in the second i don't want to be made love to." "and in the third," said derek grimly, as the sound of a procession advancing down a corridor came from round the corner, "you're being inspected to-day, and that--if i mistake not--is the great pan-jan-drum himself." "oh! good heavens. derek, i'd forgotten. do go, for goodness' sake. run--i shall be sacked." "i shall not go. as the great man himself rounds that corner i shall kiss you with a loud trumpeting noise.' "you brute! oh! what shall i do?--there they are. come in here." she grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into a small deserted sitting-room close by. "you darling," he remarked and promptly kissed her. "monica, dear, you must listen----" "sit down, you idiot. i'm sure they saw me. you must pretend you're a patient just come in. i know i shall be sacked. the general is dreadfully particular. put this thermometer in your mouth. quick, give me your hand--i must take your pulse." "i think," said a voice outside the door, "that i saw--er--a patient being brought into one of these rooms." "surely not, sir. these rooms are all empty." the door opened and the cavalcade paused. "er--lady monica... really." "a new patient, colonel," she remarked. "i am just taking his temperature." derek, his eyes partially closed, lay back in a chair, occasionally uttering a slight groan. "the case looks most interesting." the general came and stood beside him. "most interesting. have you--er--diagnosed the symptoms, sister?" his lips were twitching suspiciously. "not yet, general. the pulse is normal--and the temperature"--she looked at the thermometer--"is--good gracious me! have you kept it properly under your tongue?" she turned to derek, who nodded feebly. "the temperature is only ." she looked at the group in an awestruck manner. "most remarkable," murmured the general. "one feels compelled to wonder what it would have been if he'd had the right end in his mouth." derek emitted a hollow groan. "and where do you feel it worst, my dear boy?" continued the great man, gazing at him through his eyeglass. "dyspepsia, sir," he whispered feebly. "dreadful dyspepsia. i can't sleep, i--er--good lord!" his eyes opened, his voice rose, and with a fixed stare of horror he gazed at the door. through it with due solemnity came james henry holding in his mouth a furless and very dead cat. he advanced to the centre of the group--laid it at the general's feet--and having sneezed twice sat down and contemplated his handiwork: his tail thumping the floor feverishly in anticipation of well-merited applause. it was possibly foolish, but, as derek explained afterwards to monica, the situation had passed beyond him. he arose and confronted the general, who was surveying the scene coldly, and with a courtly exclamation of "your cat, i believe, sir," he passed from the room. * * * * * the conclusion of this dreadful drama may be given in three short sentences. the first was spoken by the general. "let it be buried." and it was so. the second was whispered by lady monica--later. "darling, i had to _say_ we were engaged: it looked so peculiar." and it was even more so. the third was snorted by james henry. "first i'm beaten and then i'm kissed. damn all cats!" part two the land of topsy turvy part two the land of topsy turvy chapter i the grey house you come on it unexpectedly, round a little spur in the side of the valley, which screens it from view. it stands below you as you first see it, not a big house, not a little one, but just comfortable. it seems in keeping with the gardens, the tennis courts, the orchards which lie around it in a hap-hazard sort of manner, as if they had just grown there years and years ago and had been too lazy to move ever since. peace is the keynote of the whole picture--the peace and contentment of sleepy unwoken england. down in the valley below, the river, brown and swollen, carries on its bosom the flotsam and jetsam of its pilgrimage through the country. now and then a great branch goes bobbing by, only to come to grief in the shallows round the corner--the shallows where the noise of the water on the rounded stones lulls one to sleep at night, and sounds a ceaseless reveille each morning. on the other side of the water the woods stretch down close to the bank, though the upper slopes of the hills are bare, and bathed in the golden light of the dying winter sun. slowly the dark shadow line creeps up--creeps up to meet the shepherd coming home with his flock. faint, but crisp, the barks of his dog, prancing excitedly round him, strike on one's ears, and then of a sudden--silence. they have entered the purple country; they have left the golden land, and the dog trots soberly at his master's heels. one last peak alone remains, dipped in flaming yellow, and then that too is touched by the finger of oncoming night. for a few moments it survives, a flicker of fire on its rugged tip, and then--the end; like a grim black sentinel it stands gloomy and sinister against the evening sky. the shepherd is out of sight amongst the trees; the purple is changing to grey, the grey to black; there is no movement saving only the tireless swish of the river.... to the man leaning over the gate the scene was familiar--but familiarity had not robbed it of its charm. involuntarily his mind went back to the days before the madness came--to the days when others had stood beside him watching those same darkening hills, with the smoke of their pipes curling gently away in the still air. back from a day's shooting, back from an afternoon on the river, and a rest at the top of the hill before going in to tea in the house below. so had he stood countless times in the past--with those others.... the rabbit, with a gun under his arm, and his stubby briar glowing red in the paling light. the rabbit, with his old shooting-coat, with the yarn of the one woodcock he nearly got, with his cheery laugh. but they never found anything of him--an eight-inch shell is at any rate merciful. torps--the naval candidate: one of the worst and most gallant riders that ever threw a leg across a horse. somewhere in the depths of the pacific, with the great heaving combers as his grave, he lies peacefully; and as for a little while he had gasped and struggled while hundreds of others gasped and struggled near him--perhaps he, too, had seen the hills opposite once again even as the last fence loomed in front and the whispered kismet came from his lips.... hugh--the son of the house close by. twice wounded, and now out again in mesopotamia. did the sound of the water come to him as the sun dropped, slow and pitiless, into the west? the same parching, crawling days following one another in deadly monotony: the same.... "dreaming, jim?" a woman's voice behind him broke on the man's thoughts. "yes, lady," he answered soberly. "dreaming. some of the ghosts we knew have been coming to me out of the blue grey mists." he fell into step beside her, and they moved towards the house. "ah! don't," she whispered--"don't! oh! it's wicked, this war; cruel, damnable." she stopped and faced him, her breast rising and falling quickly. "and we can't follow you, jim--we women. you go into the unknown." "yes--yours is the harder part. you can only wait and wonder." "wait and wonder!" she laughed bitterly. "hope and pray--while god sleeps." "hush, lady!" he answered quietly; "for that way there lies no peace. is sybil indoors?" "yes--she's expecting you. thank goodness you're not going out yet awhile, jim; the child is fretting herself sick over her brother as it is--and when you go...." "yes--when i go, what then?" he asked quietly. "because i'm very nearly fit again, lady alice. my arm is nearly all right." "do you want to go back, jim?" her quiet eyes searched his face. "look at that." they had rounded a corner, and in front of them a man was leaning against a wall talking to the cook. they were in the stage known as walking-out--or is it keeping company? the point is immaterial and uninteresting. but the man, fit and strong, was in a starred trade. he was a forester--or had been since the first rumour of compulsion had startled his poor tremulous spirit. a very fine, but not unique example of the genuine shirker.... "what has he to do with us?" said jim bitterly. "that thing takes his stand along with the criminals, and the mental degenerates. he's worse than a conscientious objector. and we've got no choice. he reaps the benefits for which he refuses to fight. i don't want to go back to france particularly; every feeling i've got revolts at the idea just at present. i want to be with sybil, as you know; i want to--oh! god knows! i was mad over the water--it bit into me; i was caught by the fever. it's an amazing thing how it gets hold of one. all the dirt and discomfort, and the boredom and the fright--one would have thought...." he laughed. "i suppose it's the madness in the air. but i'm sane now." "are you? i wonder for how long. let's go in and have some tea." the woman led the way indoors; there was silence again save only for the sound of the river. chapter ii the women and--the men when jim denver told lady alice conway that he was sane again, he spoke no more than the truth. a few weeks in france, and then a shattered arm had brought him back to england with more understanding than he had ever possessed before. he had gone out the ordinary englishman--casual, sporting, easy going, somewhat apathetic; he had come back a thinker as well, at times almost a dreamer. it affects different men in different ways--but none escape. and that is what those others cannot understand--those others who have not been across. even the man who comes back on short leave hardly grasps how the thing has changed him: hardly realises that the madness is still in his soul. he has not time; his leave is just an interlude. he is back again in france almost before he realises he has left it. in mind he has never left it. there is humour there in plenty--farce even; boredom, excitement, passion, hatred. every human emotion runs its full gamut in the land of topsy turvy; in the place where the life of a man is no longer three-score years and ten, but just so long as the great reaper may decide and no more. and you are caught in the whirl--you are tossed here and there by a life of artificiality, a life not of one's own seeking, but a life which, having once caught you, you are loath to let go. which is a hard saying, and one impossible of comprehension to those who wait behind--to the wives, to the mothers, to the women. to them the leave-train pulling slowly out of victoria station, with their man waving a last adieu from the carriage window, means the ringing down of the curtain once again. the unknown has swallowed him up--the unknown into which they cannot follow him. be he in a staff office at the base or with his battalion in the trenches, he has gone where the woman to whom he counts as all the world cannot even picture him in her mind. to her flanders is flanders and war is war--and there are casualty lists. what matter that his battalion is resting; what matter that he is going through a course somewhere at the back of beyond? he has gone into the unknown; the whistle of the train steaming slowly out is the voice of the call-boy at the drop curtain. and now the train has passed out of sight--or is it only that her eyes are dim with the tears she kept back while he was with her? at last she turns and goes blindly back to the room where they had breakfast; she sees once more the chair he used, the crumpled morning paper, the discarded cigarette. and there let us leave her with tear-stained face and a pathetic little sodden handkerchief clutched in one hand. "o god! dear god! send him back to me." our women do not show us this side very much when we are on leave; perhaps it is as well, for the ground on which we stand is holy.... * * * * * and what of the man? the train is grinding through herne hill when he puts down his _times_ and catches sight of another man in his brigade also returning from leave. "hullo, old man! what sort of a time have you had?" "top-hole. how's yourself? was that your memsahib at the station?" "yes. dislike women at these partings as a general rule--but she's wonderful." "they're pulling the brigade out to rest, i hear." "so i believe. anyway, i hope they've buried that dead hun just in front of us. he was getting beyond a joke...." he is back in the life over the water again; there is nothing incongruous to him in his sequence of remarks; the time of his leave has been too short for the contrast to strike him. in fact, the whirl of gaiety in which he has passed his seven days seems more unreal than his other life--than the dead german. and it is only when a man is wounded and comes home to get fit, when he idles away the day in the home of his fathers, with a rod or a gun to help him back to convalescence, when the soothing balm of utter peace and contentment creeps slowly through his veins, that he looks back on the past few months as a runner on a race just over. he has given of his best; he is ready to give of his best again; but at the moment he is exhausted; panting, but at rest for the time the madness has left him; he is sane. but it is only for the time.... * * * * * he is able to think coherently; he is able to look on things in their proper perspective. he knows. the bits in the kaleidoscope begin to group coherently, to take definite form, and he views the picture from the standpoint of a rational man. to him the leave-train contains no illusions; the territory is not unknown. no longer does a dead hun dwarf his horizon to the exclusion of all else. he has looked on the thing from close quarters; he has been mad with passion and shaking with fright; he has been cold and wet, he has been hot and thirsty. like a blaze of tropical vegetation from which individual colours refuse to be separated, so does the jumble of his life in flanders strike him as he looks back on it. isolated occurrences seem unreal, hard to identify. the little things which then meant so much now seem so paltry; the things he hardly noticed now loom big. above all, the grim absurdity of the whole thing strikes him; civilisation has at last been defined.... he marvels that men can be such wonderful, such super-human fools; his philosophy changes. he recalls grimly the particular night on which he crept over a dirty ploughed field and scrambled into a shell-hole as he saw the thin green streak of a german flare like a bar of light against the blackness; then the burst--the ghostly light flooding the desolate landscape--the crack of a solitary rifle away to his left. and as the flare came slowly hissing down, a ball of fire, he saw the other occupant of his hiding-place--a man's leg, just that, nothing more. and he laughs; the thing is too absurd. it is; it is absurd; it is monstrous, farcical. the realisation has come to him; he is sane--for a time. sane: but for how long? it varies with the type. there are some who love the game--who love it for itself alone. they sit on the steps of the war office, and drive their c.o.'s mad: they pull strings both male and female, until the powers that be rise in their wrath, and consign them to perdition and--france. there are others who do not take it quite like that. they do not _want_ to go back particularly--and if they were given an important job in england, a job for which they had special aptitude, in which they knew they were invaluable, they would take it without regret. but though they may not seek earnestly for france--neither do they seek for home. their wants do not matter; their private interests do not count: it is only england to-day.... and lastly there is a third class, the class to whom that accursed catch-phrase, "doing his bit," means everything. there are some who consider they have done their bit--that they need do no more. they draw comparisons and become self-righteous. "behold i am not as other men are," they murmur complacently; "have not i kept the home fires burning, and amassed money making munitions?" "i am doing my bit." "i have been out; i have been hit--and _he_ has not. why should i go again? i have done my bit." well, friend, it may be as you say. but methinks there is only one question worth putting and answering to-day. don't bother about having done your bit. are you doing your _all_? let us leave it at that. chapter iii the woman and the man "when's your board, jim?" the flickering light of the fire lit up the old oak hall, playing on the face of the girl buried in an easy chair. tea was over, and they were alone. "on tuesday, dear," he answered gravely. "but you aren't fit, old man; you don't think you're fit yet, do you?" there was a note of anxiety in her voice. "i'm perfectly fit, sybil," he said quietly--"perfectly fit, my dear." "then you'll go back soon?" she looked at him with frightened eyes. "just as soon as they'll send me. i am going to ask the board to pass me fit 'for general service.'" "oh, jim!"--he hardly caught the whisper. "oh, jim! my man." "well----" he came over and knelt in front of her. "it makes me sick," she cried fiercely, "to think of you and hugh and men like you--and then to think of all these other cowardly beasts. my dear, my dear--do you _want_ to go back?" "at present, i don't. i'm utterly happy here with you, and the old peaceful country life. i'm afraid, syb--i'm afraid of going on with it i'm afraid of its sapping my vitality--i'm afraid of never wanting to go back." his voice died away, and then suddenly he leant forward and kissed her on the mouth. "come over here a moment," he stood up and drew her to him. "come over here." with his arm round her shoulders he led her over to a great portrait in oils that hung against the wall, the portrait of a stern-faced soldier in the uniform of a forgotten century. to the girl the picture of her great-grandfather was not a thing of surpassing interest--she had seen it too often before. but she was a girl of understanding, and she realised that the soul of the man beside her was in the melting-pot; and, moreover, that she might make or mar the mould into which it must run. so in her wisdom she said nothing, and waited. "i want you to listen to me for a bit, syb," he began after a while. "i'm not much of a fist at talking--especially on things i feel very deeply about. i can't track my people back like you can. the corresponding generation in my family to that old buster was a junior inkslinger in a small counting-house up north. and that junior inkslinger made good: you know what i'm worth to-day if the governor died." he started to pace restlessly up and down the hall, while the girl watched him quietly. "then came this war and i went into it--not for any highfalutin motives, not because i longed to avenge belgium--but simply because my pals were all soldiers or sailors, and it never occurred to me not to. in fact at first i was rather pleased with myself--i treated it as a joke more or less. the governor was inordinately proud of me; the mater had about twelve dozen photographs of me in uniform sent round the country to various bored and unwilling recipients; and lots of people combined to tell me what a damn fine fellow i was. do you think he'd have thought so?" he stopped underneath the portrait and for a while gazed at the painted face with a smile. "that old blackguard up there--who lived every moment of his life--do you think he would have accounted that to me for credit? what would _he_ say if he knew that in a crisis like this there are men who cloak perfect sight behind blue glasses; that there are men who have joined home defence units though they are perfectly fit to fight anywhere? and what would he say, sybil, if he knew that a man, even though he'd done something, was now resting on his oars--content?" "go on, dear!" the girl's eyes were shining now. "i'm coming to the point this morning the old dad started on the line of various fellows he knew whose sons hadn't been out yet; and he didn't see why i should go a second time--before they went. the business instinct to a certain extent, i suppose--the point of view of a business man. but would _he_ understand that?" again he nodded to the picture. "i think----" she began to speak, and then fell silent. "ah! but would he, my dear? what of hugh, of the rabbit, of torps? with them it was bred in the bone--with me it was not. for years i and mine have despised the soldier and the sailor: for years you and yours have despised the counting-house. and all that is changing. over there the tinkers, the tailors, the merchants, are standing together with the old breed of soldier--the two lots are beginning to understand one another--to respect one another. you're learning from us, and we're learning from you, though _he_ would never have believed that possible." jim was standing very close to the girl, and his voice was low. "it's because i'm not very sure of one of the lessons i've learnt: it's because at times i do think it hard that others should not take their fair share that i must get back to that show quick--damn quick. "i want to be worthy of that old ancestor of yours--now that i'm going to marry one of his family. i know we're all mad--i know the world's mad; but, syb, dear, you wouldn't have me sane, would you; not for ever? and i shall be if i stay here any longer...." "i understand, jim," she answered, after a while. "i understand exactly. and i wouldn't have you sane, except just now for a little while. because it's a glorious madness, and"--she put both her arms round his neck and kissed him passionately--"and i love you." which was quite illogical and inconsequent--but there you are. what is not illogical and inconsequent nowadays? from which it will be seen that jim denver was not of the first of the three types which i have mentioned. he did not love the game for itself alone; my masters, there are not many who do. but there was no job in england in which he would prove invaluable: though there were many which with a little care he might have adorned beautifully. and just because there _is_ blood in the counting-house, which only requires to be brought out to show itself, he knew that he must go back--he knew that it was his job. * * * * * that wild enthusiasm which he had shared with other subalterns in his battalion before they had been over the first time was lacking now; he was calmer--more evenly balanced. he had attained the courage of knowledge instead of the courage of ignorance. no longer did the men who waited to be fetched excuse him--even though he had "done his bit." no longer was it possible to shelter behind another man's failure, and plead for so-called equality of sacrifice. to him had come the meaning of tradition--that strange, nameless something which has kept regiments in a position, battered with shells, stunned with shock, gassed, brain reeling, mind gone, with nothing to hold them except that nameless something which says to them, "hold on!" while other regiments, composed of men as brave, have not held. to him had come that quality which has sent men laughing and talking without a quaver to their death; that quality which causes men--eaten with fever, lonely, weary to death, thinking themselves forsaken even of god--to carry on the empire's work in the uttermost corners of the globe, simply because it is their job. he had assimilated to a certain extent the ideas of that stern, dead soldier; he had visualised them; he had realised that the destinies of a country are not entrusted to all her children. many are not worthy to handle them, which makes the glory for the few all the greater.... winds of the world, give answer! they are whimpering to and fro-- and what should they know of england, who only england know? the poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, they are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the english flag. * * * * * never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, but a soul goes out on the east wind that died for england's sake-- man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid-- because on the bones of the english the english flag is stayed. chapter iv "the regiment" on the tuesday a board of doctors passed jim denver fit for general service, having first given him the option of a month's home service if he liked. two days after he turned up at the depôt of his regiment, where he found men in various stages of convalescence--light duty, ordinary duty at home, and fit to go out like himself. one or two he knew, and most of them he didn't. there were a few old regular officers and a large number of very new ones--who were being led in the way they should go. but there is little to tell of the time he spent waiting to go out. this is not a diary of his life--not even an account of it; it is merely an attempt to portray a state of mind--an outlook on life engendered by war, in a man whom war had caused to think for the first time. and so the only incidents which i propose to give of his time at the depôt is a short account of a smoking concert he attended and a conversation he had the following day with one vane, a stockbroker. the two things taken individually meant but little: taken together--well, the humour was the humour of the land of topsy turvy. a delicate humour, not to be appreciated by all: with subtle shades and delicate strands and bloody brutality woven together.... * * * * * a sudden silence settled on the gymnasium; the man at the piano turned round so as to hear better; the soldiers sitting astride the horse ceased laughing and playing the fool. at a table at the end of the big room, seen dimly through the smoke-clouded atmosphere, sat a group of officers, while the regimental sergeant-major, supported by other great ones of the non-commissioned rank near by, presided over the proceedings. occasionally a soldier-waiter passed behind the officers' chairs, armed with a business-like bottle and a box of dangerous-looking cigars; and unless he was watched carefully he was apt to replenish the liquid refreshment in a manner which suggested that he regarded soda as harmful in the extreme to the human system. had he not received his instructions from that great man the regimental himself? for an hour and a half the smoking concert had been in progress; the brothers bimbo, those masterly knock-about comedians, had given their performance amid rapturous applause. in life the famous pair were a machine-gun sergeant and a cook's mate; but on such gala occasions they became the buffoons of the regiment. they were the star comics: a position of great responsibility and not to be lightly thought of. an officer had given a couple of rag-time efforts; the melancholy corporal in c company had obliged with a maundering tune of revolting sentimentality, and one of a company scouts had given a so-called comic which caused the padre to keep his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, though at times his mouth twitched suspiciously, and made the colonel exclaim to his second in command in tones of heartfelt relief: "thank heavens, my wife couldn't come!" knowing his commanding officer's wife the second in command agreed in no less heartfelt voice. but now a silence had settled on the great room: and all eyes were turned on the regimental sergeant-major, who was standing up behind the table on which the programme lay, and behind which he had risen every time a new performer had appeared during the evening, in order to introduce him to the assembly. there are many little rites and ceremonies in smoking concerts.... this time, however, he did not inform the audience that private macpherson would now oblige--that is the mystic formula. he stood there, waiting for silence. "non-commissioned officers and men"--his voice carried to every corner of the building--"i think you will all agree with me that we are very pleased to see colonel johnson and all our officers here with us to-night. it is our farewell concert in england: in a few days we shall all be going--somewhere; and it gives us all great pleasure to welcome the officers who are going to lead us when we get to that somewhere. therefore i ask you all to fill up your glasses and drink to the health of colonel johnson and all our officers." a shuffling of feet; an abortive attempt on the part of the pianist to strike up "for he's a jolly good fellow" before his cue, an attempt which died horribly in its infancy under the baleful eye of the sergeant-major; a general creaking and grunting and then--muttered, shouted, whispered from a thousand throats--"our officers." the pianist started--right this time--and in a second the room was ringing with the well-known words. cheers, thunderous cheers succeeded it, and through it all the officers sat silent and quiet. most were new to the game; to them it was just an interesting evening; a few were old at it; a few, like jim, had been across, and it was they who had a slight lump in their throats. it brought back memories--memories of other men, memories of similar scenes.... at last the cheering died away, only to burst out again with renewed vigour. the colonel was standing up, a slight smile playing round his lips, the glint of many things in his quiet grey eyes. to the second in command, a sterling soldier but one of little imagination, there came for the first time in his life the meaning of the phrase, "the windows of the soul." for in the eyes of the man who stood beside him he saw those things of which no man speaks; the things which words may kill. he saw understanding, affection, humour, pain; he saw the pride of possession struggling with the sorrow of future loss; he saw the desire to test his creation struggling with the fear that a first test always brings; he saw visions of glorious possibilities, and for a fleeting instant he saw the dreadful abyss of a hideous failure. aye, for a few moments the second in command looked not through a glass darkly, but saw into the unplumbed depths of a man who had been weighed in the balance and not found wanting; a man who had faced responsibility and would face it again; a man of honour, a man of humour, a man who knew. "my lads," he began--and the quiet, well-modulated voice reached every man in the room just as clearly as the harsher voice of the previous speaker--"as the sergeant-major has just said, in a few days we shall be sailing for--somewhere. the bustle and fulness of your training life will be over; you will be confronted with the real thing. and though i do not want to mar the pleasure of this evening in any way or to introduce a serious tone to the proceedings, i do want to say just one or two things which may stick in your minds and, perhaps, on some occasion may help you. this war is not a joke; it is one of the most hideous and ghastly tragedies that have ever been foisted on the world; i have been there and i know. you are going to be called on to stand all sorts of discomfort and all sorts of boredom; there will be times when you'd give everything you possess to know that there was a picture-palace round the corner. you may not think so now, but remember my words when the time comes--remember, and stick it. "there will be times when there's a sinking in your stomach and a singing in your head; when men beside you are staring upwards with the stare that does not see; when the sergeant has taken it through the forehead and the nearest officer is choking up his life in the corner of the traverse. but--there's still your rifle; perhaps there's a machine-gun standing idle; anyway, remember my words then, and stick it. "stick it, my lads, as those others have done before you. stick it, for the credit of the regiment, for the glory of our name. remember always that that glory lies in your hands, each one of you individually. and just as it is in the power of each one of you to tarnish it irreparably, so is it in the power of each one of you to keep it going undimmed. each one of us counts, men"--his voice sank a little--"each one of us has to play the game. not because we're afraid of being punished if we're found out, but because it _is_ the game." he looked round the room slowly, almost searchingly, while the arc light spluttered and then burnt up again with a hiss. "the regiment, my lads--the regiment." his voice was tense with feeling. "it is only the regiment that counts." he raised his glass, and the men stood up: "the regiment." a woman sobbed somewhere in the body of the gym., and for a moment, so it seemed to denver, the wings of death flapped softly against the windows. for a moment only--and then: "private mulvaney will now oblige." jim walked slowly home. he remembered just such another evening before his own battalion went out. would those words of the colonel have their effect: would some white-faced man stick it the better for the remembrance of that moment: would some machine-gun fired with trembling dying hands take its toll? perhaps--who knows? the ideal of the soldier is there--the ideal towards which the new armies are led. thus the first incident.... chapter v the contrast the following afternoon denver, strolling back from the town, was hailed by a man in khaki, standing in the door of his house. he knew the man well, vane, by name--had dined with him often in the days when he was in training himself. a quiet man, with a pleasant wife and two children. vane was a stockbroker by trade: and just before jim went out he had enlisted. "come in and have a gargle. i've just got back on short leave." vane came to the gate. "good," jim answered. "mrs. vane must be pleased." they strolled up the drive and in through the door. "you're looking very fit, old man. flanders seems to suit you." "my dear fellow, it does. it's the goods. i never knew what living was before. the thought of that cursed office makes me tired--and once"--he shrugged his shoulders--"it filled my life. say when." "cheer oh!" they clinked glasses. "i thought you were taking a commission." "i am--very shortly. the colonel has recommended me for one, and i gather the powers that be approve. but in a way i'm sorry, you know. i've got a great pal in my section--who kept a whelk stall down in whitechapel." "they're the sort," laughed jim. "the cockney takes some beating." "this bird's a flier. we had quite a cheery little show the other night, just him and me. about a week ago we were up in the trenches--bored stiff, and yet happy in a way, you know, when master boche started to register.[ ] i suppose it was a new battery or something, but they were using crumps, not shrapnel. they weren't very big, but they were very close--and they got closer. you know that nasty droning noise, then the hell of an explosion--that great column of blackish yellow smoke, and the bits pinging through the air overhead." "i do," remarked jim tersely. vane laughed. "well, he got a bracket; the first one was fifty yards short of the trench, and the second was a hundred yards over. then he started to come back--always in the same line; and the line passed straight through our bit of the trench. "''ere, wot yer doing, you perishers? sargint, go and stop 'em. tell 'em i've been appointed purveyor of winkles to the royal 'ouse of the 'un emperor.' our friend of the whelk stall was surveying the scene with intense disfavour. a great mass of smoke belched up from the ground twenty yards away, and he ducked instinctively. then we waited--fifteen seconds about was the interval between shots. the men were a bit white about the gills--and, well the feeling in the pit of my tummy was what is known as wobbly. you know that feeling too?" "i do," remarked jim even more tersely. vane finished his drink. "then it came, and we cowered. there was a roar like nothing on earth--the back of the trench collapsed, and the whole lot of us were buried. if the shell had been five yards short, it would have burst in the trench, and my whelk friend would have whelked no more." vane laughed. "we emerged, plucking mud from our mouths, and cursed. the hun apparently was satisfied and stopped. the only person who wasn't satisfied was the purveyor of winkles to the royal 'ouse. he brooded through the day, but towards the evening he became more cheerful. "'look 'ere,' he said to me, ''ave you ever killed a 'un?' "'i think i did once,' i said. 'a fat man with a nasty face.' "'oh! you 'ave, 'ave you? well, wot abaht killing one to-night. if they thinks i'm going to stand that sort of thing, they're ---- ---- wrong.' the language was the language of whitechapel, but the sentiments were the sentiments of even the most rabid purist of speech. "to cut a long story short, we went. and we were very lucky." "you bumped your face into 'em, did you?" asked jim, interested. "we did. man, it was a grand little scrap while it lasted, and it was the first one i'd had. it won't be the last." "did you kill your men?" "did we not? welks brained his with the butt of his gun; and i did the trick with a bayonet." vane became a little apologetic. "you know it was only my first, and i can't get it out of my mind." then his eyes shone again. "to feel that steel go in--good god! man--it was it: it was...." then came the interruption. "dear," said a voice at the door, "the children are in bed; will you go up and say good night."... thus the second incident.... * * * * * as i said, taken separately the two incidents mean but little: taken together--there is humour: the whole humour of war. an itinerant fishmonger and a worthy stockbroker are inculcated with wonderful ideals in order to fit them for sallying forth at night and killing complete strangers. and they revel in it.... the highest form of emotionalism on one hand: a hole in the ground full of bluebottles and smells on the other.... war ... war in the twentieth century. but there is nothing incompatible in it: it is only strange when analysed in cold blood. and jim denver, as i have said, was sane again: while vane, the stockbroker, was still mad. in fact, it is quite possible that the peculiar significance of the interruption in his story never struck him: that he never noticed the contrast. and what is going to be the result of it all on the vanes of england? "once the office filled my life." no man can go to the land of topsy turvy and come back the same--for good or ill it will change him. though the madness leave him and sanity return, it will not be the same sanity. will he ever be content to settle down again after--the lawyer, the stockbroker, the small clerk? back to the old dull routine, the same old train in the morning, the same deadly office, the same old home each evening. it hardly applies to the jim denvers--the men of money: but what of the others? will the scales have dropped from the eyes of the men who have really been through it? shall we ever get back to the same old way? heaven knows--but let us hope not. anyway, it is all mere idle conjecture--and a digression to boot. footnote: [footnote : for the benefit of the uninitiated, let me explain that the process of registering consists of finding the exact range to a certain object from a particular gun or battery. to find this range it is necessary to obtain what is known as a bracket: _i.e._ one burst beyond the object, and one burst short. the range is then known to lie between these two: and by a little adjustment the exact distance can be found.] chapter vi black, white, and--grey four weeks after his board jim denver once again found himself in france. having reported his arrival, he sat down to await orders. boulogne is not a wildly exhilarating place; though there is always the hotel where one may consume cocktails and potato chips, and hear strange truths about the war from people of great knowledge and understanding. moreover--though this is by the way--in boulogne you get the first sniff of that atmosphere which england lacks; that subtle, indefinable something which war _in_ a country produces in the spirit of its people.... gone is the stout lady of doubtful charm engaged in mastering the fox-trot, what time a band wails dismally in an alcove; gone is the wild-eyed flapper who bumps madly up and down the roads on the carrier of a motor-cycle. it has an atmosphere of its own this fair land of france to-day. it is laughing through its tears, and the laughter has an ugly sound--for the huns. they will hear that laughter soon, and the sound will give them to think fearfully. but at the moment when jim landed it was all very boring. the r.t.o. at boulogne was bored; the a.s.c. officers at railhead were bored; the quartermaster guarding the regimental penates in a field west of ypres was bored. "cheer up, old son," jim remarked, slapping the last-named worthy heavily on the back. "you look peevish." "confound you," he gasped, when he'd recovered from choking. "this is my last bottle of whisky." "where's the battalion?" laughed denver. "where d'you think? in a turkish bath surrounded by beauteous houris?" the quartermaster snorted. "still in the same damn mud-hole near hooge." "good! i'll trot along up shortly. you know, i'm beginning to be glad i came back. i didn't want to particularly, at first: i was enjoying myself at home--but i felt i ought to, and now--'pon my soul---- how are you, jones?" a passing sergeant stopped and saluted. "grand, sir. how's yourself? the boys will be glad you've come back." denver stood chatting with him for a few moments and then rejoined the pessimistic quartermaster. "don't rhapsodise," begged that worthy--"don't rhapsodise; eat your lunch. if you tell me it will be good to see your men again, i shall assault you with the remnants of the tinned lobster. i know it will be good--no less than fifteen officers have told me so in the last six weeks. but i don't care--it leaves me quite, quite cold. if you're in france, you pine for england; when you're in england, you pine for france; and i sit in this damn field and get giddy." which might be described as to-day's great thought. * * * * * thus did jim denver come back to his regiment. once again the life of the moles claimed him--the life of the underworld: that strange existence of which so much has been written, and so little has been really grasped by those who have not been there. a life of incredible dreariness--yet possessing a certain "grip" of its own. a life of peculiar contrasts--where the suddenness--the abruptness of things strikes a man forcibly: the extraordinary contrasts of black and white. sometimes they stand out stark and menacing, gleaming and brilliant; more often do they merge into grey. but always are they there.... as i said before, my object is not to give a diary of my hero's life. i am not concerned with his daily vegetation in his particular hole, with hooge on his right front and a battered farm close to. sleep, eat, read, look through a periscope and then repeat the performance. occasionally an aerial torpedo, frequently bombs, at all times pessimistic sappers desiring working parties. but it was very much the "grey" of trench life during the three days that jim sat in the front line by the wood that is called "railway." one episode is perhaps worthy of note. it was just one of those harmless little jests which give one an appetite for a hunk of bully washed down by a glass of tepid whisky and water. now be it known to those who do not dabble in explosives, there are in the army two types of fuze which are used for firing charges. each type is flexible, and about the thickness of a stout and well-nourished worm. each, moreover, consists of an inner core which burns, protected by an outer covering--the idea being that on lighting one end a flame should pass along the burning inner core and explode in due course whatever is at the other end. there, however, their similarity ends; and their difference becomes so marked that the kindly powers that be have taken great precautions against the two being confused. the first of these fuzes is called safety--and the outer covering is black. in this type the inner core burns quite slowly at the rate of two or three feet to the minute. this is the fuze which is used in the preparation of the jam-tin bomb: an instrument of destruction which has caused much amusement to the frivolous. a jam tin is taken and is filled with gun cotton, nails, and scraps of iron. into the gun cotton is inserted a detonator; and into the detonator is inserted two inches of safety-fuze. the end of the safety-fuze is then lit, and the jam tin is presented to the hun. it will readily be seen by those who are profound mathematicians, that if three feet of safety-fuze burn in a minute, two inches will burn in about three seconds--and three seconds is just long enough for the presentation ceremony. this in fact is the principal of all bombs both great and small. the second of these fuzes is called instantaneous--and the outer covering is orange. in this type the inner core burns quite quickly, at the rate of some thirty yards to the second, or eighteen hundred times as fast as the first. should, therefore, an unwary person place two inches of this second fuze in his jam tin by mistake, and light it, it will take exactly one- th of a second before he gets to the motto. which is "movement with a meaning quite its own." to jim then came an idea. why not with care and great cunning remove from the inner core of instantaneous fuze its vulgar orange covering, and substitute instead a garb of sober black--and thus disguised present several bombs of great potency _unlighted_ to the hun. the afternoon before they left for the reserve trenches he staged his comedy in one act and an epilogue. a shower of bombs was propelled in the direction of the opposing cave-dwellers to the accompaniment of loud cries, cat calls, and other strange noises. the true artist never exaggerates, and quite half the bombs had genuine safety-fuze in them and were lit before being thrown. the remainder were not lit, it is perhaps superfluous to add. the lazy peace of the afternoon was rudely shattered for the huns. quite a number of genuine bombs had exploded dangerously near their trench--while some had even taken effect in the trench. then they perceived several unlit ones lying about--evidently propelled by nervous men who had got rid of them before lighting them properly. and there was much laughter in that german trench as they decided to give the epilogue by lighting them and throwing them back. shortly after a series of explosions, followed by howls and groans, announced the carrying out of that decision. and once again the hymn of hate came faintly through the drowsy stillness.... those are the little things which occasionally paint the grey with a dab of white; the prowls at night--the joys of the sniper who has just bagged a winner and won the bag of nuts--all help to keep the spirits up when the pattern of earth in your particular hole causes a rush of blood to the head. incidentally this little comedy was destined to be jim denver's last experience of the hun at close quarters for many weeks to come. the grey settled down like a pall, to lift in the fulness of time, to _the_ black and white day of his life. but for the present--peace. and yet only peace as far as he was concerned personally. that very night, close to him so that he saw it all, some other battalions had a chequered hour or so--which is all in the luck of the game. to-day it's the man over the road--to-morrow it's you.... they occurred about a.m.--the worries of the men over the road. denver had moved to his other hole, courteously known as the reserve trenches, and there seated in his dug-out he discussed prospects generally with the major. there were rumours that the division was moving from ypres, and not returning there--a thought which would kindle hope in the most pessimistic. "don't you believe it," answered the major gloomily. "those rumours are an absolute frost." "cheer up! cully, we'll soon be dead." denver laughed. "have some rum." he poured some out into a mug and passed the water. "quiet to-night--isn't it? i was reading to-day that the italians----" "you aren't going to quote any war expert at me, are you?" "well--er--i was: why not?" "because i have a blood-feud with war experts. i loathe and detest the breed. before i came out here their reiterated statement made monthly that we should be on the rhine by tuesday fortnight was a real comfort. we always got to tuesday fortnight--but we've never actually paddled in the bally river." "to err is human; to get paid for it is divine," murmured jim. "bah!" the major filled his pipe aggressively. "what about the steam-roller, what about the germans being reduced to incurable epileptics in the third line trenches--what about that drivelling ass who said the possession of heavy guns was a disadvantage to an army owing to their immobility?" "have some more rum, sir?" remarked jim soothingly. "but i could have stood all that--they were trifles." the major was getting warmed up to it. "this is what finished me." he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "read that, my boy--read that and ponder." jim took the paper and glanced at it. "i carry that as my talisman. in the event of my death i've given orders for it to be sent to the author." "but what's it all about?" asked denver. "'at the risk of repeating myself, i wish again to asseverate what i drew especial attention to last week, and the week before, and the one before that; as a firm grasp of this essential fact is imperative to an undistorted view of the situation. whatever minor facts may now or again crop up in this titanic conflict, we must not shut our eyes to the rules of war. they are unchangeable, immutable; the rules of cæsar were the rules of napoleon, and are in fact the rules that i myself have consistently laid down in these columns. they cannot change: this war will be decided by them as surely as night follows day; and those ignorant persons who are permitted to express their opinions elsewhere would do well to remember that simple fact.'" "what the devil is this essential fact?" "would you like to know? i got to it after two columns like that." "what was it?" laughed jim. "'an obstacle in an army's path is that which obstructs the path of the army in question.'" "after that--more rum." jim solemnly decanted the liquid. "you deserve it. you...." "stand to." a shout from the trench outside--repeated all along until it died away in the distance. the major gulped his rum and dived for the door--while jim groped for his cap. suddenly out of the still night there came a burst of firing, sudden and furious. the firing was taken up all along the line, and then the guns started and a rain of shrapnel came down behind the british lines. away--a bit in front on the other side of the road to jim's trench there were woods--woods of unenviable reputation. hence the name of "sanctuary." in the middle of them, on the road, lay the ruined château and village of hooge--also of unenviable reputation. and towards these woods the eyes of all were turned. "what the devil is it?" shouted the man beside jim. "look at them lights in the trees." the devil it was. dancing through the darkness of the trees were flames and flickering lights, like will-o'-the-wisps playing over an irish bog. and men, looking at one another, muttered sullenly. they remembered the gas; what new devilry was this? up in the woods things were moving. hardly had the relieving regiments taken over their trenches, when from the ground in front there seemed to leap a wall of flame. it rushed towards them and, falling into the trenches and on to the men's clothes, burnt furiously like brandy round a plum pudding. the woods were full of hurrying figures dashing blindly about, cursing and raving. for a space pandemonium reigned. the germans came on, and it looked as if there might be trouble. the regiments who had just been relieved came back, and after a while things straightened out a little. but our front trenches in those woods, when morning broke, were not where they had been the previous night.... liquid fire--yet one more invention of "kultur"; gas; the moat at ypres poisoned with arsenic; crucifixion; burning death squirted from the black night--suddenly, without warning: truly a great array of kultured triumphs.... and with it all--failure. to fight as a sportsman fights and lose has many compensations; to fight as the german fights and lose must be to taste of the dregs of hell. but that is how they _do_ fight, whatever interesting surmises one may make of their motives and feelings. and that is how it goes on over the water--the funny mixture of the commonplace of everyday with the great crude, cruel realities of life and death. * * * * * but as i said, for the next few weeks the grey screen cloaked those crude realities as far as jim was concerned. rumour for once had proved true; the division was pulled out, and his battalion found itself near poperinghe. "months of boredom punctuated by moments of intense fright" is a definition of war which undoubtedly noah would have regarded as a chestnut. and i should think it doubtful if there has ever been a war in which this definition was more correct. jim route marched: he trained bombers: he dined in poperinghe and went to the follies. also, he allowed other men to talk to him of their plans for leave: than which no more beautiful form of unselfishness is laid down anywhere in the law or the prophets. on the whole the time did not drag. there is much of interest for those who have eyes to see in that country which fringes the cock pit of europe. hacking round quietly most afternoons on a horse borrowed from someone, the spirit of the land got into him, that blood-soaked, quiet, uncomplaining country, whose soul rises unconquerable from the battered ruins. horses exercising, lorries crashing and lurching over the pavé roads. g.s. wagons at the walk, staff motors--all the necessary wherewithal to preserve the safety of the mud holes up in front--came and went in a ceaseless procession; while every now and then a local cart with mattresses and bedsteads, tables and crockery, tied on perilously with bits of string, would come creaking past--going into the unknown, leaving the home of years. ypres, that tragic charnel house, with the great jagged holes torn out of the pavé; with the few remaining walls of the cathedral and cloth hall cracked and leaning outwards; with the strange symbolical touch of the black hearse which stood untouched in one of the arches. rats everywhere, in the sewers and broken walls; in the crumbling belfry above birds, cawing discordantly. the statue of the old gentleman which used to stand serene and calm amidst the wreckage, now lay broken on its face. but the stench was gone--the dreadful stench of death which had clothed it during the second battle; it was just a dead town--dead and decently buried in great heaps of broken brick.... vlamertinghe, with the little plot of wooden crosses by the cross roads; elverdinghe, where the gas first came, and the organ pipes lay twisted in the wreckage of the unroofed church; where the long row of french graves rest against the château wall, graves covered with long grass--each with an empty bottle upside down at their head. and when thyself with shining foot shall pass among the guests star-scatter'd on the grass, ... turn down an empty glass. * * * * * and in the family archives are some excellent reproductions--not photographs of course, for the penalty for carrying a camera is death at dawn--of ruined churches and shell-battered châteaux. perhaps the most interesting one, at any rate the most human, is a "reproduction" of a group of cavalry men. they had been digging in a little village a mile behind the firing-line--a village battered and dead from which the inhabitants had long since fled. working in the garden of the local doctor, they were digging a trench which ran back to the cellar of the house, when on the scene of operations had suddenly appeared the doctor himself. by signs he possessed himself of a shovel, and, pacing five steps from the kitchen door and three from the tomato frame, he too started to dig. "his wife's portrait, probably," confided the cavalry officer to jim, as they watched the proceeding. "or possibly an urn with her ashes." it was a sergeant who first gave a choking cry and fainted; he was nearest the hole. "yes," remarked jim, "he's found the urn." with frozen stares they watched the last of twelve dozen of light beer go into the doctor's cart. with pallid lips the officer saw three dozen of good champagne snatched from under his nose. "heavens! man," he croaked, "it was _dry_ too. if our trench had been a yard that way...." he leant heavily on his stick, and groaned. the moment was undoubtedly pregnant with emotion. "'e'ad a nasty face, that man--a nasty face. oh, 'orrible." hushed voices came from the group of leaners. the "reproduction" depicts the psychological moment when the doctor with a joyous wave of the hand wished them "_bonjour, messieurs,_" and drove off. "not one--not one ruddy bottle--not the smell of a perishing cork. stung!" but jim had left. which very silly and frivolous story is topsy-turvy land up to date, or at any rate typical of a large bit of it. chapter vii archie and others however, to be serious. it was as he came away from this scene of alarm and despondency that jim met an old pal who boasted the gunner badge, and whom conversation revealed as the proud owner of an archie, or anti-aircraft gun. and as the salient is perhaps more fruitful in aeroplanes than any other part of the line, and the time approached five o'clock (which is generally the hour of their afternoon activity), jim went to see the fun. in front, an observing biplane buzzed slowly to and fro, watching the effect of a mother[ ] shooting at some mark behind the german lines. with the gun concealed in the trees, a gunner subaltern altered his range and direction as each curt wireless message flashed from the 'plane. "lengthen --half a degree left." and so on till they got it. occasionally, with a vicious crack, a german anti-aircraft shell would explode in the air above in a futile endeavour to reach the observer, and a great mass of acrid yellow or black fumes would disperse slowly. various machines, each intent on its own job, rushed to and fro, and in the distance, like a speck in the sky, a german monoplane was travelling rapidly back over its own lines, having finished its reconnaissance. behind it, like the wake of a steamer, little dabs of white plastered the blue sky. english shrapnel bursting from other anti-aircraft guns. jim's gunner friend seemed to know most of them by name, as old pals whom he had watched for many a week on the same errand; and from him jim gathered that the moment approached for the appearance of panting lizzie. lizzie, apparently, was a fast armoured german biplane which came over his gun every fine evening about the same hour. for days and weeks had he fired at it, so far without any success, but he still had hopes. the gun was ready, cocked wickedly upon its motor mounting, covered with branches and daubed with strange blotches of paint to make it less conspicuous. round the motor itself the detachment consumed tea, a terrier sat up and begged, a goat of fearsome aspect looked pensive. in front, in a chair, his eye glued to a telescope on a tripod, sat the look-out man. * * * * * it was just as jim and his pal were getting down to a whisky and soda that lizzie hove in sight. the terrier ceased to beg, the goat departed hurriedly, the officer spoke rapidly in a language incomprehensible to jim, and the fun began. there are few things so trying to listen to as an archie, owing to the rapidity with which it fires; the gun pumps up and down with a series of sharp cracks, every two or three shots being followed by more incomprehensible language from the officer. adjustment after each shot is impossible owing to the fact that three or four shells have left the gun and are on their way before the first one explodes. it was while jim, with his fingers in his ears, was watching the shells bursting round the aeroplane and marvelling that nothing seemed to happen, that he suddenly realised that the gun had stopped firing. looking at the detachment, he saw them all gazing upwards. from high up, sounding strangely faint in the air, came the zipping of a maxim. "by gad!" muttered the gunner officer; "this is going to be some fight." bearing down on panting lizzie came a british armoured 'plane, and from it the maxim was spitting. and now there started a very pretty air duel. i am no airman, to tell of spirals, and glides, and the multifarious twistings and turnings. at times the german's maxim got going as well; at times both were silent, manoeuvring for position. the archies were not firing--the machines were too close together. once the german seemed to drop like a stone for a thousand feet or so. "got him!" shouted jim--but the gunner shook his head. "a common trick," he answered. "he found it getting a bit warm, and that upsets one's range. you'll find he'll be off now." sure enough he was--with his nose for home he turned tail and fled. the gunner shouted an order, and they opened fire again, while the british 'plane pursued, its maxim going continuously. generally honour is satisfied without the shedding of blood; each, having consistently missed the other and resisted the temptations of flying low over his opponents' guns, returns home to dinner. but in this case--well, whether it was archie or whether it was the maxim is really immaterial. suddenly a great sheet of flame seemed to leap from the german machine and a puff of black smoke: it staggered like a shot bird and then, without warning, it fell--a streak of light, like some giant shooting star rushing to the earth. the maxim stopped firing, and after circling round a couple of times the british machine buzzed contentedly back to bed. and in a field--somewhere behind our lines--there lay for many a day, deep embedded in a hole in the ground, the battered remnants of panting lizzie, with its great black cross stuck out of the earth for all to see. somewhere in the débris, crushed and mangled beyond recognition, could have been found the remnants of two german airmen. which might be called the black and white of the overworld. footnote: [footnote : · " howitzer.] chapter viii on the staff but now rumour was getting busy in earnest--things were in the air. there were talks of a great offensive--and although there be rumour in england, though bucolic stationmasters have brushed the snow from the steppes of russia out of railway carriages, i have no hesitation in saying that for quality and quantity the rumours that float round the army in france have de rougemont beat to a frazzle. in this case expectations were fulfilled, and two or three days after the decease of panting lizzie, jim and his battalion shook the dust of the ypres district from their feet and moved away south. it was then that our hero raised his third star. shades of wellington! a captain in a year. but i make no comment. a sense of humour, invaluable at all times, is indispensable in this war, if one wishes to preserve an unimpaired digestion. but another thing happened to him, too, about this time, for, owing to the sudden sickness of a member of his general's staff, he found himself attached temporarily for duty. no longer did he flat foot it, but in a large and commodious motor-car he viewed life from a different standpoint. and, solely owing to this temporary appointment, he was able to see the launching of the attack near loos at the end of september. he saw the wall of gas and smoke roll slowly forward towards the german trenches over the wide space that separated the trenches in that part of the line. great belching explosions seemed to shatter the vapour periodically, as german shells exploded in it, causing it to rise in swirling eddies, as from some monstrous cauldron, only to sink sullenly back and roll on. and behind it came the assaulting battalions, lines of black pigmies charging forward. and later he heard of the scotsmen who chased the flying huns like terriers after rats, grunting, cursing, swearing, down the gentle slope past loos and up the other side; on to hill , where they swayed backwards and forwards over the top, while some with the lust of killing on them fought their way into the town beyond--and did not return. he heard of the battery that blazed over open sights at the germans during the morning, till, running out of ammunition, the guns ceased fire, a mark to every german rifle. the battery remained there during the day, for there was not cover for a terrier, let alone a team of horses, and between the guns were many strange tableaux as death claimed his toll. they got them away that night, but not before the gunners had taken back the breech-blocks--in case; for it was touch and go. but this attack has already been described too often, and so i will say no more. i would rather write of those things which happened to jim denver himself, before he left the land of topsy turvy for the second time. only i venture to think that when the full story comes to be written--if ever--of that last week in september, or the surging forward past loos and the lone tree to hulluch and the top of , of the cavalry who waited for the chance that never came, and the german machine-guns hidden in the slag-heaps, the reading will be interesting. what happened would fill a book; what might have happened--a library. it was a couple of days afterwards that he saw his first big batch of german prisoners. five or six miles behind the firing-line in a great grass field, fenced in on all sides by barbed wire, was a batch of some seven hundred--almost all of them prussians and jägers. munching food contentedly, they sat in rows on the ground; their dirty grey uniforms coated with dust and mud--unwashed, unshaven, and--well, if you are contemplating german prisoners, get "up wind." all around the field tommies stood and gazed, now and again offering them cigarettes. a few prisoners who could speak english got up and talked. it struck jim denver then that he viewed these men with no antipathy; he merely gazed at them curiously as one gazes at animals in a "zoo." and as we english are ever prone to such views, and as the hymn of hate and like effusions are regarded, and rightly so, as occasions for mirth, it was perhaps as well for jim to realise the other point of view. there are two sides to every question, and the germans believe in their hate just as we believe in our laughter. but when it is over, it will be unfortunate if we forget the hate too quickly. * * * * * "what a nation we are!" said a voice beside jim. he turned round and found a doctor watching the scene with a peculiar look in his eyes. "suppose it had been the other way round! suppose those were our men while the germans were the captors! do you think the scene would be like this?" his face twisted into a bitter smile. "there would have been armed soldiers walking up and down the ranks, kicking men in the stomach, hitting them on the head with rifle butts, tearing bandages off wounds--just for the fun of the thing. sharing food!"--he laughed contemptuously--"why, they'd have been starving. giving 'em cigarettes!--why, they'd have taken away what they had already." he turned and looked up the road. walking down it were thirty or so german officers. from the button in the centre of their jackets hung in nearly every case the ribbon of the iron cross. laughing, talking--one or two sneering--they came along and halted by the gate into the field. they had been questioned, and were waiting to be marched off with the men. a hundred yards or so away the cavalry escort was forming up. "man," cried the doctor, suddenly gripping jim's arm in a vice, "it's wicked!" in his eyes there was an ugly look. "look at those swine--all toddling off to donington hall--happy as you like. and think of the other side of the picture. stuck with bayonets, hit, brutally treated, half-starved, thrown into cattle trucks. good heaven! it's horrible." "we're not the sort to go in for retribution," said jim, after a moment. "after all--oh! i don't know--but it's not quite cricket, is it? just because they're swine...?" "cricket!" the other snorted. "you make me tired. i tell you i'm sick to death of our kid-glove methods. no retribution! i suppose if a buck nigger hit your pal over the head with a club you'd give him a tract on charity and meekness. what would our ranting pedagogues say if their own sons had been crucified by the germans as some of our wounded have been? you think i'm bitter?" he looked at jim. "i am. you see, i was a prisoner myself until a few weeks ago." he turned and strolled away down the road.... and now the escort was ready. an order shouted in the field, and the men got up, falling in in some semblance of fours. slowly they filed through the gate and, with their own officers in front, the cortège started. led by an english cavalry subaltern, with troopers at four or five horses' lengths alongside--some with swords drawn, the others with rifles--the procession moved sullenly off. a throng of english soldiers gazed curiously at them as they passed by; small urchins ran in impudently making faces at them. and in the doors of the houses dark-haired, grim-faced women watched them pass with lowering brows.... a mixture, those prisoners--a strange mixture. some with the faces of educated men, some with the faces of beasts; some men in the prime of life, some mere boys; slouching, squelching through the mud with the vacant eyes that the prussian military system seems to give to its soldiers. the look of a man who has no vestige of imagination or initiative; the look of a stoical automaton; callous, boorish, sottish as befits a man who willingly or unwillingly has sold himself body and soul to a system. and as they wind through the mining villages on their way to a railhead, these same grim-faced french women watch them as they go by. they do not see the offspring of a system; they only see a group of beast-men--the men whose brothers have killed their husbands. after all, has not madame got in her house a refugee--her cousin--whose screams even now ring out at night...? * * * * * for a few days more jim stayed on with the general. their feeding-place was a little café on the main road to lens. there each morning might our hero have been found, in a filthy little back room, drinking coffee out of a thick mug, with an omelette cooked to perfection on his plate. never was there such dirt in any room; never a household so prolific of children. every window was smashed; the back garden one huge shell hole; but, absolutely unperturbed by such trifles, that stout, good-hearted frenchwoman pursued her sturdy way. she had had the boches there--"mais oui"--but what matter? they did not stay long. "une omelette, monsieur; du café? certainement, monsieur. toute de suite." it might have been in a different world from ypres and poperinghe--instead of only twenty miles to the south. gone were the flat, cultivated fields; great slag-heaps and smoking chimneys were everywhere. and in spite of the fact that active operations were in progress, there seemed to be no more gunning than the normal daily contribution at lizerne, boesinge, and jim's old friend and first love, hooge. aeroplanes, too, seemed scarcer. true, one morning, standing in the road outside the café, he saw for the first time a fleet of 'planes starting out on a raid. now one and then another would disappear behind a fleecy white cloud, only to reappear a few moments later glinting in the rays of the morning sun, until at length the whole fleet, in dressing and order like a flight of geese, their wings tipped with fire, moved over the blue vault of heaven. the drone of their engines came faintly from a great height, until, as if at some spoken word from the leader, the whole swung half-right and vanished into a bank of clouds. chapter ix no answer but the grey period for jim was drawing to a close. to-day it's the man over the road that tops the bill; to-morrow it's you, as i said before: and a change of caste was imminent in our friend's performance. one does not seek these things--they occur; and then they're over, and one waits for the next. there is no programme laid down, no book of the words printed. things just happen--sometimes they lead to a near acquaintance with iodine, and a kind woman in a grey dress who takes your temperature and washes your face; and at others to a dinner with much good wine where the laughter is merry and the revelry great. of course there are many other alternatives: you may never reach the hospital--you may never get the dinner; you may get a cold in the nose, and go to the riviera--or you may get a bad corn and get blood-poisoning from using a rusty jack knife to operate. the caprice of the spirit of topsy turvy is quite wonderful. for instance, on the very morning that the staff officer came back to his job, and jim returned to his battalion, his company commander asked him to go to a general bomb store in a house just up the road, and see that the men who were working there were getting on all right. the regiment was for the support trenches that night, and preparing bombs was the order of the day. just as he started to go, a message arrived that the c.o. wished to see him. so the company commander went instead; and entered the building just as a german shell came in by another door. by all known laws a man going over niagara in an open tub would not willingly have changed places with him; an -inch shell exploding in the same room with you is apt to be a decisive moment in your career. but long after the noise and the building had subsided, and from high up in the air had come a fusillade of small explosions and little puffs of smoke, where the bombs hurled up from the cellar went off in turn--jim perceived his captain coming down the road. he had been hurled through the wall as it came down, across the road, and had landed intact on a manure heap. and it was only when he hit the colonel a stunning blow over the head with a french loaf at lunch time that they found out he was temporarily as mad as a hatter. so they got him away in an ambulance and jim took over the company. as i say--things just happen. that night they moved up into support trenches--up that dirty, muddy road with the cryptic notices posted at various places: "do not loiter here," "this cross-road is dangerous," "shelled frequently," etc. and at length they came to the rise which overlooks loos and found they were to live in the original german front line--now our support trench. they were for the front line in the near future--but at present their job was work on this support trench and clearing up the battlefield near them. now this war is an impersonal sort of thing taking it all the way round. those who stand in front trenches and blaze away at advancing huns are not, i think, actuated by personal fury against the men they kill. you may pick out a fat one perhaps with a red beard and feel a little satisfaction when you kill him because his face offends you, but you don't really feel any individual animosity towards him. one gets so used to death on a large scale that it almost ceases to affect one. an isolated man lying dead and twisted by the road, where one doesn't expect to find him, moves one infinitely more than a wholesale slaughter. the thing is too vast, too overpowering for a man's brain to realise. * * * * * but of all the things which one may be called on to do, the clearing of a battlefield after an advance brings home most poignantly the tragedy of war. you see the individual then, not the mass. every silent figure lying sprawled in fantastic attitude, every huddled group, every distorted face tells a story. here is an r.a.m.c. orderly crouching over a man lying on a stretcher. the man had been wounded--a splint is on his leg, while the dressing is still in the orderly's hand. then just as the orderly was at work, the end came for both in a shrapnel shell, and the tableau remains, horribly, terribly like a tableau at some amateur theatricals. here are a group of men caught by the fire of the machine-gun in the corner, to which even now a dead hun is chained--riddled, unrecognisable. here is an officer lying on his back, his knees doubled up, a revolver gripped in one hand, a weighted stick in the other. his face is black, so death was instantaneous. out of the officer's pocket a letter protrudes--a letter to his wife. perhaps he anticipated death before he started, for it was written the night before the advance--who knows? and it is when, in the soft half-light of the moon, one walks among these silent remnants, and no sound breaks the stillness save the noise of the shovels where men are digging their graves; when the guns are silent and only an occasional burst of rifle fire comes from away in front, where the great green flares go silently up into the night, that for a moment the human side comes home to one. one realises that though monster guns and minenwerfer and strange scientific devices be the paper money of this war, now as ever the standard coinage--the bed-rock gold of barter--is still man's life. the guns count much--but the man counts more. take out his letter carefully--it will be posted later. scratch him a grave, there's work to be done--much work, so hurry. his name has been sent in to headquarters--there's no time to waste. easy, lads, easy--that's right--cover him up. a party of you over there and get on with that horse--_there's no time to waste_.... but somewhere in england a telegraph boy comes whistling up the drive, and the woman catches her breath. with fingers that tremble she takes the buff envelope--with fearful eyes she opens the flimsy paper. superbly she draws herself up--"there is no answer...." lady, you are right. there is no answer, no answer this side of the great divide. just now--with your aching eyes fixed on _his_ chair you face your god, and ask why? he knows, dear woman, he knows, and in time it will all be clear--the why and the wherefore. surely it must be so. but just now it's hell, isn't it? you know so little: you couldn't help him at the end; he had to go into the deep waters alone. with the shrapnel screaming overhead he lies at peace, while above him it still goes on--the work of life and death: the work that brooks no delay. he is part of the price.... chapter x the madness all the next day the battalion worked on the trenches. to men used to the water and slush of ypres they came as a revelation--the trenches and dug-outs in the chalk district. great caves had been hollowed out of the ground under the barbed wire in front, with two narrow shafts sloping steeply down from the trench to each, so small and narrow that you must crawl on hands and knees to get in or out. and up these shafts they hauled and pushed the dead germans. caught like rats, they had been gassed and bombed before they could get out, though some few had managed to crawl up after the assaulting battalions had passed over and to open fire on the supporting ones as they came up. jim and his men threw them out to be buried at night, and they confined their attention during the day to building up the trenches and shifting the parapet round. german sandbags look like an assortment out of a cheap village draper's--pink and black and every kind of colour, but they hold earth, which is the main point. so with due care the battalion patted them into shape again and then took a little sleep. that night they moved on again. now the first trench which they had occupied had been behind loos, and there our new line was a mile away to their front on the side of a hill. the place they were now bound for was nothing like so peaceful. it was that part of the original german front where their old line marked the limit of our advance. we had not pushed on beyond it, and the fighting was continuous and bloody. now without going into details, perhaps a few words of explanation might not be amiss. to many who may read them, they will seem as extracts from the "child's guide to knowledge," or reminiscent of those great truths one learned at one's nurse's knee. but to some, who know nothing about it, they may be of use. when one occupies the german front line and the hun has been driven into his second, the communication trenches which ran between are still there. the trenches which used to run to their rear now run to your front and are a link between you and the enemy. and as somewhat naturally their knowledge of the position is accurate and yours is sketchy, the situation is not all it might be. moreover, as no communication trenches exist between the two old front lines--over what was no-man's-land--any reserves must come across the open, and should it be necessary to retire, a contingency which must always be faced, the retreat must be across the open as well. * * * * * but when you're in a german redoubt, where the trenches would have put a maze to shame, the work of consolidating the position is urgent and difficult. communication trenches to your front have to be reconnoitred and partially filled in; wire put up; maxims arranged to shoot down straight lengths of trench; new trenches dug to the rear. which is all right if the enemy is half a mile away, but when the distance is twenty yards, when without cessation he bombs you from unexpected quarters, your temper gets frayed. this type of fighting ceases to be impersonal. no longer do you throw bombs mechanically from one trench to another. no longer do you have no actual animosity against the men over the way. you understand the feelings of the guard when their german prisoners laughed on seeing men gassed--earlier in the war. and you realise that when a man's blood is up, you might just as well preach on the wickedness of retribution as request a man-eating tiger to postpone his dinner. the joy of killing a man you hate is wonderful; the unfortunate thing is that in these days, when far from leading to the hangman, it frequently leads to much kudos and a medal, so few of us have ever really had the opportunity.... in the place where jim found himself it was at such close quarters that bombs were the only possible weapon. for two days and two nights it went on. little parties of germans surged up unexpected openings, sometimes establishing themselves, sometimes fighting hand-to-hand in wet, sticky chalk. then, unless they were driven out--bombers to the fore again: a series of sharp explosions, a dash round a traverse, a grunting, snarling set-to in the dark, and all would be over one way or the other. * * * * * then one morning jim's company got driven out of a forward piece of the trench they were holding. worn out and tired, their faces grey with exhaustion, their clothes grey with chalk, heavy-eyed, unshaven, driven out by sheer weight of numbers and bombs, they fell back--those that remained--down a communication trench. but they were different men from the men who went into the place three days before; the primitive passions of man were rampant--they asked no mercy, they gave none. back, after a short breather, they went, and when they won through by sheer bloody fighting, they found a thing which sent them tearing mad with rage. the wounded they had left behind had been bombed to death. the junior subaltern was pulled out of a corner by a traverse--mangled horribly--and he told jim. "they packed us in here and between the next two or three traverses and lobbed bombs over," he whispered. and jim swore horribly. "they're coming back," muttered the dying boy. "listen." the next instant the germans were at it again, and the fighting became like the fighting of wild beasts. men stabbed and hacked and cursed; rifle butts cracked down on heads; triggers were pulled with the muzzle an inch from a man's face. and because the german face to face is no match for the english or french, in a short time there was peace, while men, panting like exhausted runners, bound up one another's scratches, and passed back the serious cases to the rear. they knew it was only a temporary respite, and while jim eased the dying boy, they stacked bombs in heaps where they could get at them quickly. it was then that the german officer crawled out. down some hole or other in a bomb recess he had hidden during the fight--and then, thinking his position dangerous, decided for peaceful capture. it was unfortunate for him the junior subaltern was still alive--but only jim heard the whisper: "that's the man who told them to bomb us." "that's interesting," said jim, and his face was white, while his eyes were red. quietly he picked up a pick, and moved towards the german officer. through the huns who had come back again, fighting, stabbing, picking his way, jim denver moved relentlessly. and at last he reached him--reached him and laughed gently. the german sprang at him and jim struck him with his fist; the german screamed for help, but there was none to help; every man was fighting grimly for his own life. then still without a word he drove the pick.... once again he laughed gently, and turned his mind to other things. for hours they hung on, bombing, shooting, at a yard's range, and in the forefront, cheering them, holding them, doing the work of ten, was jim. his revolver ammunition was exhausted, his loaded stick was broken; his eyes had a look of madness: temporarily he was mad--mad with the lust of killing. it was almost the last bomb the germans threw that took him, and that took him properly. but the remnant of his company who carried him back, when relief came up from the battalion, contained no one more cheery than him. as a fight they'll never have a better; and it's better to take it when the fighting is bloody, and it's man to man, than to stop a shrapnel at the estaminet two miles down the road. that isn't even grey--it's mottled; especially if the red wine is just coming.... chapter xi the grey house again so they carried him home for the second time--back to the land of sanity: to the place where the noise of the water sounded ceaselessly over the rounded stones. and resting one afternoon on a sofa in the drawing-room jim dozed. the door burst open, and sybil came in. "boy, do you see, they've given you a d.s.o. 'for conspicuous gallantry in holding up an almost isolated position for several hours against vastly superior numbers of the enemy. he was badly wounded just before relief came.'" her eyes were shining. "oh! my dear--i'm so proud of you! do you remember saying it was a glorious madness?" into his mind there flashed the picture of a german officer's face--distorted with terror--cringing: just as a pick came down.... "yes, girl, i remember," he answered softly. "i remember. but, thank god! i'm sane again now." * * * * * and now i will ring down the curtain. for jim denver the black and white have gone; even the grey of the land of topsy turvy is hazy and indistinct. the guns are silent: the men and the women are--sane. the shepherd is out of sight amongst the trees; the purple is changing to grey, the grey to black; there is no sound saving only the tireless murmur of the river.... the end * * * * * transcriber's notes herman cyril mcneile was an officer in the royal engineers who published under the pseudonym "sapper". obvious punctuation errors repaired. hyphen added: "bed[-]rock" (p. ). hyphen removed: "ward[-]room" (p. ), "sand[-]bags" (p. ), "stock[-]broker" (p. ). the following words are inconsistently hyphenated but have not been changed: "dug[-]out", "half[-]way", "sand[-]bags", "sign[-]post", "super[-]human", "table[-]cloth". page : "panting lizze" changed to "panting lizzie".