IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET {MT-3)

1.0

I.I

1.25

|50 '""^

12.5
2.0

1.8

U iii 1.6

^;j

Photographic

Sdences

Corporation

33 WEST MAIN STREET

y,"»BSTFR, N.Y. 14580

(710) 372-4503

11^

12.0

23 WEST MAIN STREET

V/'BSTFR.N.Y 14580

(71«<) 372-4503

CIHM/ICM
Microfiche
Series.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microrep

CIHM/ICMH
Collection de
microfiches.

oreproductions / Institut canadien de microreproductions historiques

Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques

The Institute has attempted to obtain the best
original copy available for filming. Features of this
copy which may be bibliographically unique,
which may alter any of the images in the
.-eproduction, or which may significantly change
the usual method of filming, are checked below.

L'Institut a
qu'il lui a 6
de cet exer
point de vu
une image
modificatic
sont indiqu

Coloured covers/
Couverture de couleur

I I Covers damaged/

Couverture endommagt&s

Covers restored and/or laminated/
Couverture restaurie et/ou pelliculde

I I Cover title missing/

Le titre de couverture manque

I I Coloured maps/

Cartes gdographiques en couleur

Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/
Encre de coulaur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire)

□ Colou
Pages

□Pages
Pages

r-l^ages
Itn Pages

□Pages
Pages

I 1/Show
LM Trans

□ Coloured plates and/or illustrations/
Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur

I — 1 Qualii

Qualil

D
D

Bound with other material/
Reli6 avec d'autres documents

Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion
along interior margin/

I areliure serree peut causer de I'ombre ou de la
distortion le long de la marge int^rieure

Blank leaves added during restoration may
appear within tho text. Whenever possible, these
have been omitted from filming/

II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajouties
lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte,
mais, lorsque cela itait possible, ces pages n'ont
pas iti filmdes.

□ Indue
Comp

□ Only
Seule

Pages

slips,

ensur

Les pi

obscu

etc.

obten

Additional comments:/
Commentaires suppi^mentaires:

This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/

Ce document est filmd au taux de reduction indiqu6 ci-dessous.

10X 14X 18X 22X

12X

16X

20X

24X

)ues et bibliographiques

tut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire
li a it6 possible de se procurer. Les details
exemplaire qui sont peut-dtre uniques du
ie vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier
lage reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une
cation dans la mithode normale de filmage
idiquds ci-dessous.

}oloured pages/
•ages de couleur

*ages damaged/
*ages endommagdes

'ages restored and/or laminated/
'ages restaurdes et/ou pellicul^es

•ages discoloured, stained or foxed/
'ages ddcolordes, tachet^es ou piqu^es

'ages detached/
•ages ddtachdes

ihowthrough/
'ransparence

luality of print varies/
lualiti indgale de I'impression

icludes supplementary material/
lomprend du materiel suppl^mentaire

)nly edition available/
ieule Edition disponible

'ages wholly or partially obscured by errata
lips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to
nsure the best possible image/
es pages totalement ou partiellement
bscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure,
tc, ont it6 filmdes & nouveau de fagon d
btenir la meilleure image possible.

26X

30X

The copy filmed here has bean reproduced thanli
to the generosity of:

Vancouver Public Library

The images appearing here are the best quality
possible considering the condition and legibility
of the original copy and in keeping with the
filming contract specifications.

Original copies in printed paper covers are filmei
beginning with the front cover and ending r>n
the last page with a printed or illustrated impres
sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All
other original copies are filmed beginning on the
first page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, and ending on the last page with a printed
or illustrated impression.

The last recorded frame on each microfiche
shall contain the symbol ^^ (meaning "CON-
TINUED 'I, or the symbol V (meaning "END"),
whichever applies.

Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at
different reduction ratios. Those too large to be
entirely included in one exposure are filmed
beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to
right and top to bottom, as many frames as
required. The following diagrams illustrate the
method:

24X

28X

32X

bean reproduced thanks

Public Library

L'exemplaire film* fut reproduit grAce A la
ginArositi da:

Vancouver Public Library

a are the bast quality
:ondition and legibility
n keeping with the
tions.

Les images suivantes ont At6 reproduites avec le
plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et
de la nettetA de l'exemplaire filmi, et en
conformity avec les conditions du contrat de
filmage.

paper covers are filmed
cover and ending rn
ed or illustrated impres-
hen appropriate. All
'ilmed beginning on the
)r illustrated impres-
ist page with a printed

Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en
papier est imprimAe sont film6s en commen^ant
par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la
derniire page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second
plat, salon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires
originaux sont filmAs en commengant par la
premiere page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par
la dernidre page qui comporte une telle
empreinte.

>n each microfiche
^^ (meaning "CON-
y (meaning "END"),

Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la
dernidre image de cheque microfiche, salon le
can: le symbole — *> signifie "A SUIVRE". le
symbols V signifie "FIN".

may be filmed at
Those too large to be
xposure are filmed
ft hand corner, left to
as many frames as
iagrams illustrate the

Les cartes, plar^ches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre
film6s d des taux de reduction diffirents.
Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre
reproduit en un seul cliche, ii est film6 A partir
de Tangle supirieur gauche, de gauche d droite,
et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre
d'images n^cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants
illustrent la m^thode.

DONOHUE & HENNEBERRY
PRINTERS AND BINDERS

1 ' t

*,, l" '"

'.VU^

THE TENTS OF SHEM

Bv GRANT ALLEN,

Author •/ •*r*fj Mortal Coil," *'Thi DeviVt Di$," etc.

OHAPTEB L

01 TBS DABS CONTINENT.

Two young men of most Britannic aspect lat lounging
together in long wicker chairs, on the balcony of the English
Club at Algiers. They had much reason. It was one of those
glorious days, by no mean:? rdye.«VhGi>the sky and climate of
the city on the Sahe/i'joaJctfteiRmufej)<jrfe&'fit)n The wisteria
was draping the'yaVitpo'frOf the. halpo^'y witK/it^i'.^rofuse tresses
of rich amethyst blo'ssom ; tljft'Uong and sweeping semicircle
of the bay gleiinjq^ .lilte jjk pea*c?odk[tf'neck in hue, or a brilliant
opal with i%& ih4iiig^f|il iCrid'(38c*9ncar4»d:the'>sr)Cw,rc}ad peaks
•f the Djarjura ixt ske. bwckgroTj.nd- c^^SQ' i^ig?^', iii 'he air,
glistening whi!<e and pink in the reflected glory of the after-
noon sun. But the two young men of Britannic aspect,
gazing grimly in front of them, made no comment to one
another on the beauty and variety of that basking scene.
How could they, indeed ? They had no*^ been introduced to
one anothft^r I To admire nature, however obtrusive, in com-
pany with a man to whom you have not been introduced is a
social solecism. So they sat and lounged, and stroked their
moustaches reflectively, and looked at the paim-trees, and the
orange-groves, and the white Moorish villas that stud the
steep, smiling slopes of Mustapha Superieur, in the solemn
silence of the true-'born Englishman.

They might have sat there forever and said nothing (in
which case the world must certainly have lost this present
narrative) had ,not the felt presence of a Common Want
impelled t!)Gm at last spasmodicrally to a conversational effort.

** I beg your pardon, but do you happen to have a light

316725

Mil

rim nxm ot ihxm.

tl^oal J9%T' tht elder of the two flaid, in tn apologetie Tofe«,
rawing a cigar, as he spoko, from the neat little morocco-

se in his pocket.

" Curious, but I was jnst going to aak tou the very same
thing," bis younger cuntpanioo answered, with a bashful
•iiniU. " I've iinished my last vesuvian. Suppose we go
into the smoking-room unJ look for a match. Can 70Q tell
me where, in this abode of luxury, the smoking-room finds
itself f"

" Why, I hav'nt yet investigated the question," the other
replied, rising from his seat as he spoke, " but I'm open to
conviction. Let's go and see. My trade's exploring."

♦• Then I take it for granted you're a new-comer, like
myself, as you don't know your way about the club-rooms

yetf"

"You put your finger plump on the very point," the elder
answered, opening a door on tlie left in search of the common
need. '• The fact is, I arrived in Algiers only yesterday
evening."

" Another coincidence I Precisely my case. I crossed by

the smoking-
'f. Thanks,
do you feel
to-day, after CliAi terrible jouF)f(5y?"

The elder Briton smiled, a {?otnpwJiat, prira Ri?d; restraine«l
smile. .IJe*Y^as;t'9,Il-^:'it).Cair, but' ujikli.bVftiike^ w\;th tlie sun
" Never )jiad'9tui5h h ihf.sm'^*inn:U M- fif^'bti-fore*,'" h6 answered.
quietly. "A horrid voyage. Swayi)ig to and fro from sidt
to side till I thought I should fall olT. and be lost to Inunanity
Talk of the good ship phiiiLritig on the sea indeed, as The»
Marzials does in that rollicking song of his ; any other shi]
I ever sailed on's the nuTest trille to it."

"And when did you hmve Knglatid?" his nompanion weni
on, with a poUte desire, commendable in youth, to keep up
the successfully inauguratcil conversation. " Von weren't O'
the Abd-el-Kader witli us from Maiseilles on Tuesday."

•• When did I leave I'ngland ?" the new acip.iaintanc
answered, with a faint twinkle in Ins eye. amused at tli.
chance of a momentary mystification. " I left l'',iif.:laTid las .
October, and I've been ever since getting to Al^'urs /''
vario$ caius, per tot di^c)-i>ni.n<i ret urn,"

•'Goodness, gracious I By what route?" the youth witi
the d&rk moustache inguirud. diotruiiting i\\ti I.aiiU, mid

tttft TtNtI et iBlM.

v'afjnely auspecting some wily attempt to practise apon his
vtiUiler yeara and credulity.

" By the land-route from Tunis, back of the desert, via
• Wskra and Laghouat."

•• i)ut I thought you said you'd had such an awful tossing ?"

" bo I did. Never felt such a tossing in the world before.
Hni it v/asn I the sea ; it was the ship of the desert. I came
liere, as far as Dlidah at least, true Arab-wise, see-saw, on
oamel-back."

The dark young man puffed away at his weed for a moment
vigorously, in deep contemplation. He was a shy person who
didn't like to be taken in ; and he strongly suspected his new
acquaintance of a desire to humbug him. " What were you
doing ?" he asked at last, in a more constrained voice, after a
short pause.

" Picking flowers," was the curt and unexpected answer.

'♦ Oh, come now, you know," the dark young man expos-
tulated, with a more certain tone, for he felt he was being
hoaxed. " A fellow doesn't go all the way to the desert, of
all places in the world, just for nothing else but to pick
flowers."

" Excuse me, a fellow does, if he happens to be a fellow in
the flower and beetle business, which is exactly my own
humble but useful avocation."

•• Why, surely, there aren't any flowers there. Nothing but
sand, and sunset, and skeletons."

" Pardon me. I've been there to see. Allow me to show
you. I'll just go and fetch that portfolio over there." And
he opened it in the sunlight. '* Here are a few Uttle water-
colour sketches of my desert acquaintances."

The dark young man glanced at them with some languid
curiosity. An artist b> trade himself, here at least he knew
his ground. He quaked and trembled before no dawdling
amateur. Turning over the first two or three sheets atten-
tively,

" Well, you can-draw," he said at last, after a brief scru-
tiny. " I don't know whether flowers like those grow in the
desert or not — I should rather bet on not, of the two — but
I'm a painter myself, and I know at any rate you can paint
them excellently, as amateurs go."

*• My one accomplishment," the explorer answered, with a
pleased expansion of the comers of his mouth ; — it is human
to receive approbation «ruteiuU\ i'rom thoae whr know " J

VBK TKMiTg 09 fHIM.

W '

oouldn'l sketch a scene or draw a figure with tolerable aeon-
rao> to save my life ; but I understand the birds, and creep-
ing chings, and (lowers ; and sympathy, I suppose, makes mc-
draw them at least sympathetically."

'• Precisely so. That's the very word," the artist went on,
examining each drawing he turned over with more and more
care. " Though your technique's amateurish, of course, 1 can
see you know the flowers, their tricks and their manners,
down to the very ground. But tell me now ; do these things
really grow in the desert ?"

" On the oases, yes. The flowers there are quite brilliant
and abundant. Like the Alpine flora, they seem to grow
loviihest near their furthest limit. Butterfly-fertilised. But
what brings you to Alf3:eria so late in tiie season ? All the
rest of the world is turning its bade now upon Africa, and
hurrying awayto Aix-les-Bains, and Biarritz, and Switzer-
land, and England. You and I will be the only people, bar
Arabs and Frenchmen (who don't count), left here for the
Bummer."

" What, are you going to stop the summer here too ?"

" Well, not in Algiers itself," the explorer answered, flick-
In us boot with his cane for an imaginary dust-spot. •• I've
bet. baked enough in the desert for the last six months to
cooV. a turtle, and I'm going over yonder now, where ices
grow free, for coolness and refreshment." And he waved his
hand, with a sweep across the sapphire semicircle of the
glassy bay, to the great white block of rearin^^' mountains
that rose witli their sheet of virgin snow against the pro-
found azure of an African sky in the far background.

" What, to Kabylie 1" the artist exclaimed, with a start of
■urprise.

" To Kabylie, yes. The very place. You've learnt its
name and itb fame already then ?"

" Why, I see in this the finger of fate," the artist an-
swered, with more easy confidence. *• We have here in fact
a third conicidence. It's in Kabylie that I, too, have decided
cij -spending the summer. Perhaps, as you seem to know the
way, we might manage to start on our tour together."

•' But what are you going for?" the elder man continued,
with an amused air.

" Oh. jii t. to paint. Nothing more than that. The coun-
tr '\(i rat leonle : new ground for the exhibitions. Spain's
usba u]j, -' souiu feiiows in En^jland who know the markets

.*..*<.;. .-•-.'

VHB TBMTt or ■B1M«

>«

idvisecl me to go to Eabylie on an artistio eTp!orIng oxpficli-
&ion. From our point of view, you see, it's unbroken ground,
they «ay, or almost unbroken ; and everytliing civilised has
Seen »o painted up, an^ painted down, and painted round
.kbout, of late years, by every one everywhere, that one's glad
to get a hint of the chance of finding some unhackneyed sub-
ject in a corner of Africa. Besides, they tell me it is all
extremely naive, and I like nnivrte. That's my lino in art.
I'm in quest of the unsophisticated. I paint simplicity."

•• You'll find your sitter in Kabylie then : naivete rampant
and simplicity with a vengeance," the explorer answered.
" It's quit# untouched and unvulgarized as yet by any taint
or tinge t^i Parisian civilization. The aboriginal Kabylea
haven't even learnt the A B C of French culture — to sit at an
estaminet and play dominoes."

•• So much the better. That's just wlwit 1 want. Unvar-
nished man. The antique vase in real life. And I'm toid
the costumes are almost Greek in their naturalness."

" Quite Greek, or even more so," the explorer replied ;
" thoHgh perhaps, considering its extreme simplicity, we
ought rather to say, even less so. But where do you mean
to stop, and how to travel ? Accommodation in ancient
Greece, you know, wasn't exactly luxurious."

♦♦ Oh, I'll just set out from Algiers by diligence, I supposo,
and put np for awhile at some Uttle hotel in the country
villages."

The explorer's face could not resist a gentle smile of sup-
pressed merriment. " An hotel, my dear sir l" he said, with
surprise. •• An hotel in Kabylie I You'll find ft difficult, I'm
afraid, to meet with the article. Except at Fort National,
which is a purely French settlement, where you could study
only the common or French Zouave engaged in his famihar
avocations of playing bowls and sipping absintlie, there's not
such a thing as a cabaret, a lodging, a way-side inn, in tlie
whole block of mountain country. Strangers who want to
explore Kabylie may go if they like to the house of the village
headman, the amine as they called him, where you may sup
off a nasty mess of pounded kous-koua, and sleep at night on a
sort of shelf or ledge among the goats and the cattle. Govern-
ment compels every amin^ to provide one night's board and
entertainment for any European traveller who cares to demand
it. But the entertainment provided is usually so very varied
and so very lively that those who have tried it qqco report oo

VU TSNTl Of IHUI.

it nnfayorably. Verbum 8ap, It's too tentomologioal. When
you go to Kabylie, don't do a8 the Kabyles do."

" But how do you mean to manage yourself?" the artist
adked, with the prudence of youth. Ue was nettled at having
made so stapid a mistake at the very outset about the re-
sources of the mountains, and not quite certain that he
grasped the meaning of verbmn sap. (his Latin being strictly a
negative quantity), so he took refuge in the safe devise of a
question that turned the tuules. " I came to Algiers hoping
to pick up some information as to ways and means as soon as
I got here ; and since you seem to know the ropes so well,
perhaps you'll give a raw hand the benefit of your riper
experience."

"Oh, / have my tent," the traveller answered, with the
quiet air of a man who has made bis way alone about the
world. ** It's a first-rate tent for camping out in ; it's sup-
plied with the electric light, a hydrauUo lift, hot water laid
on, and all the latest modern improvements — metaphorically
speaking," he hastened to add by an afterthought, for he saw
his companion's large grey eyes opening wider and wider with
astonishment each moment. "It's awfully comfortable, you
know, as deserts go ; and I could easily rig up a spare bed ; so
if you really mean to paint in Kabylie, and will bear a share
in the expenses of carriage, it might suit both our books, per-
haps, if you were to engage my furnished apartments. For
I'm not over-burdened with spare cash myself — no naturalist
ever is — and I'm by no means above taking in a lodger, if any
eligible person presents himself at the tent with good refer-
ences and an unblemished character. Money not so much an
object as congenial society in a respectable family."

It was a kind offer, playfully veiled under the cloak of
mutual accommodation, and the painter took it at once as it
was meant. " How very good of you," he said. •• I'm im-
mensely obliged. Nothing on earth would suit my plans
better, if it wouldn't be trespassing wO much on your kind
hospitality."

" Not at all," the explorer answered, with a good-hum-
oured nod. •' Don't mention that. To say the truth, I shall
be glad of a companion. The Arab pails after a month or
two of his polite society. And I love Art, too, though I don't
pretend myself to understand it. We'll talk the matter over
a Uttle, as to business arrangements, over a cup of coffee, and
I dare say, when we've compared notes, we shall manage to
bit things off comfortably together."

NF^jpir

m*7^fr

TBI TBMTf Of MIM.

" Maj we exchange cards 7" the artist aiked. palling oat %
lilver-bound case from his broast- pocket, and banding ont of
its httle regulation pasteboards to his new friend.

The explorer glanced at it, and read the oamo, " Vemoa
Dlake, Grcsholm Road, Guildford."

" I've no card of my own," he made answar, as he pocketed
it ; "in the desert, you see, cards were of very little use ;
Bedouins don't drop them on one another. But my name's
Le Marchant — Eustace Le Marchant, of Jersey, beetle-
sticker."

•* Oh, but I know your name,** Blake cried eagerly, de-
lighted to show himself not wholly ignorant of a distinguished
naturalist. " You're an F. B. S., aren't yon ? Ah, yes, I
thought so. I've seen notices of you often in the paper, I'm
sure, as having gone somewhere and found out something.
Do you know, if I'd only known that before, I think I should
have been afraid to accept your kind offer. I'm 9JDl awfully
/ ignorant sort of fellow mys'slf — far too V ''^nt to go camp-
ing out with an F. B. S. in ilio wilds of Afi .ca."

" If being an F. B. S. is the worst orin o you can bring to
< my charge," Le Marchant answerec' ith ^ smile, " I dare
say we shall pull together all very wea. And ^f vou meet no
// Ww;ar' society than F. R. S.'s in the wild* of Amoa, though

it's me that sj.ys it as oughtn't to Bay il, yuur luck will have
been very exceptional indeed. But I don't think yoa need be
much afraid of me. I'm an F. B. S. of tlie mildest type. I
never call anything by its longest and ugliest Latin name ; I
never bore other people with interesting detuils of anatomical
structure ; I never cut up anything ahve (bar oystersV, and I
never lecture, publicly or privately, to anybody, anywliere, on
any consideration. There are two kinds of naturalists, you
know ; and I'm one of the wrong kind. The superior clast
live in London or Paris, examine everything minutely with a
Xgreat big microscope, tack on inches of Greek nomenclature
to an insignificant mite or bit of moss, and split hairs against
anybody with marvellous dexterity. That's science. It dwells
in a museum. For my part I detest it. The inferior class
live in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America, as fate or fancy
carries ; and, instead of looking at everything in a dried
specimen, go out into the wild woods with rifle on shoulder,
or box in hand, and observe the birds, and beasts, and green
things of the earth, as God made them, in their own natural
and lovely surroundmgs. That's natural history, old-fashioned,

-if ■ . w ^'^'^*r^ "^ '■

tm TX9T8 Of tBBII.

fitnple, coTTiTnon-place, natural history ; anfl I, for my partt
ftm an old-fashioned naturalist. I've been all winter v7atoh«
ing the sanJy-^ay creatures on the eandy-grey desert, pre-
paring for my i^reafc work on * Btmcture and Function,' And
now, through tiis summer, I want to correct and correlate my
results by observin.^ the plr^ts, and animals, and insects of
the tnoiintains In Kabylio. To tfeU you the truth, I think I
rfiall like you — for I, too, have a ta«l3 I'or simplicity. If you
come with ma, I can promise you sport and healthy fare, and
make you comfortable in my fcniishsd apartments. Let'i
descend to details — for this is busiogja — and we must under-
stand exactly what cac!i of U9 want* before either of us binds
himself dorm formally for fi?e irioiiV.ia to the other. Alph-
onse, a couple of colfeea and tv/o petits verrea at once, here,
will you ?" . .

And by the clarifying lid of a ci^^.r and a ehassg-cafe, it was
finally decided, before iba evening biui flushed the Djurjura
purpie, and turned the wiiitu Ar:»\) w^iils to pink, that Vernon
Blake ehould acco:xi}^j.ny Ijlustuco La Marchant, on almoafc
Domirinl terms as to ihs fhi^ring of expenses, on his fiuibimtr
Ui]^ (0 ih& juuanlaioa of Urande Kabju«.

•:|fk«'?;f»lP555?^!gW'

tun 'HiiSi'Sli »Jf tUUUL,

CHAPTER a

HONOURS.

Somewhere about the same time, away over in England*
Iris Knyvett sat one morning at lunch, drummmg with her
fingers on the table before her that particular tatttoo which
the wisdom of our ancestors ascribed to the author of all evil.

Iris Knyvett, herself, would, no doubt, have been very
much astonished if only she could have been told, by some
prescient visitor, that her own fate was in any way bound up
with the proposed expedition of two unknown young men,
from the English Club at Algiers, into the wilda of Kabylie.
She had hardly heard (save in the catalogue of the Institute)
the name of Vernon I31ake ; while Eustace Le Marchant's
masterly papers, before the Linnean Society, on the Longi-
corn Beetles of the Spice Islands, had never roused her girlish
enthusiasm, or quickened her soul to a fiery thirst for the
study of entomology. And yet, if she had but known it, Irii
Knyvett's whole future in life depended utterly, as so often
happens with every one of us, on the casual encounter of
those two perfect strangers among the green ' recesses of the
North African mountains.

In absolute ignorance of which profound truth, Iris Kny-
vett herself went on drumming with her fingers impatiently
on the table, and leaving the filleted sole on her plate to grow
cold, unheeded, in the cool shade of a fair lady's neglect.

'* Iris, my dear," Mrs. Knyvett said, sharply, with a dry
cDugh, " why don't you eat your lunch ? Your appetite's
frightful. What makes you go on hammering away at that
dreadful tattoo so ?"

Iris's eyes came back with a bound from a point in space
lying apparently several thousand miles behind the eminently
conventional Venetian scene that hangs above the sideboard
in eVery gentleman's dining-room. *' I can't eat anything, I
really think, mamma," she said, with a slight sigh, *• till I've
had ^lihat telegram."

Mrs. Knyvett helped herself to a second piece of filleted
sole and its due proportion of anchovy sauce with great d«lib-

k^i

TUB tSMIS OF 8U£M.

eration, before she answered slowly, " Oh, so you're expecting
a telegram I"

** Yes, mamma," Iris replied, with scarcely a shade of rea-
sonable vexation on her pretty face. " Don't you remember,
dear, I told you my tutor promised to telegraph to me."

" Your tutor I oh, did he ?" Mrs. Knyvett went on, with
polite acquiescence, letting drop her pince-nez with a dexter-
ous elevation of her arched eyebrows. The principal feature
of Mrs. Knyett's character, indeed, was a Roman nose of
finely developed proportions ; but it was one of those insipid
Boman noses which stand for birth alone — which impart
neither dignity, firmness, nor strength to a face, but serve
only to attest their owner's aristocratic antecedents. Mrs.
Knyvett's was useful mainly to support her pince-nez, but as
her father had been the Dean of a Southern cathedral, it also
managed incidentally to support the credit of her family.
" Oh, did he," Mrs. Knyvett, repeated after a pause, during
which Iris continued to tattoo uninterruptedly. •• That was
very kind of him." Though why on earth, or concerning
what, he should wish to telegraph, Mrs. Knyvett, who had
never been told more than five hundred times before, had
really not the slightest conception.

'• Not he^ mamma. You must surely remember I've re-
minded you over and over again that my tutor's name is
Emily Vanrenen."

" Then why does she sign herself • B. Vanrenon, B.A. and
D.Sc.,* I wonder ?" Mrs. Knyvett went on, with dreamy un-
certainty. " A Doctor of Science ought surely to be a man ?
And Bachelor of Arts, too — Bachelor of Arts. Bachelors and
spinsters are getting too mixed, too mixed altogether."

Iris was just going to answer something, gently as was her
wont, in defence of the mixture, when a rap at the door made
her jump up hastily. " That must be the telegram I" she
;ried, with a tremor, and darted off to the door in a vigorous
lash that sufficiently showed her Girton training had at least
not quite succeeded in crushing the life out of her.

" Iris, Iris I" her mother called after her in horror ; •• let
lane answer the door, my dear. This unseemly procedure —
and at lunch time, too — is really quite unpardonable. In my
time girls "

But Iris was well out of hearing long since, and Mrs.
Kn3rvett was forced to do penance vicariously herself on her
daughter's account to the oireuded fetish of the British draw-
ing-room.

fBK IKMTg or 0HX1I.

In another minnte the bright young girl had eome bacit,
crest-fallen, ushering iu before her a stout and rosy-faced
middle-aged gentleman, also distinguished by a Roman nosp
to match, and dressed wdtli the scrupulous and respeotabh
neatness of the London barrister.
" It's only Uncle Tom," she cried, disappointed.
"Only Uncle Tom ?" the stout, red-faced gentleman echoed
<,fOod-humouredly. •• Well, for taking the conceit out of a
man, I'll back the members of one's own family, and morf
especially and particularly one's prettiest and most favourite
niece, against all comers, for a hundred pounds a side, even
money. That's all the thanks I get, is it, Iris, for cominj>
out of Court in the midst of a most important case, an'l
leaving my junior, as thick-headed a Scotchman as ever wai"
lom, to cross-examine the leading witnesses for the othei
ide — on purpose to ask you whether you've got a telegram
uid • Only Uncle Tom ' are the very first words my pret
iest niece thinks fit to greet me with after all my devotion.'
And he stooped down as Iris seated herself at the tabl<
lice more, and kissed her affectionately on her smooth whit
irehead.

'•Oh, Uncle," Iris cried, blushing up to her pretty bin.
yes with ingenuous distress at having even for a momeni
ppeared to slight him. '• I didn't mean that. You know 1
idn't mean it. I'm always pleased and delighted to see you
)ut the fact is I was expecting the telegram ; and I ran to th.
oor when you rattat-tatted, thinking it was the telegrapl
oy; and when I saw it was only you — 1 mean, wlien I sav
t was you, of course — why I was naturally disappointed rid
o have got the news about it all. But did you really com
ip all the way from Court on purpose to hear it, you dear oh
mole?"

'♦All the way from Court, with Coleridge, C.J., smilin.i
cynically at my best witnesses, I give you my word of honour
I'is," the red-faced old gentleman answered, mollifiod, " fo
lothing on earth except to hear about a certain pretty litt!
lieoe of mine — because I knew the pretty little niece wasi <
ery anxious on the subject."

"Oh, Uncle, that wm kind of you." Iris cried aloud, (Jusb
iig up to her eyes once more, this time with pleasure. A
ttle sympathy went a Icmi way witii her. " li'si ao good of
ou to take so much interest in me."

My unfortunate client won't say so," Undo Tom mutterp'^

"T-irrffrw

TH< TSNT8 OF SBXll.

ft-

., ¥

half alond to himself. And, indeed, the misf^rnided perionf
who had retained and refreshed Thomas Kyimorsley Whit-
marsh, Q.C., the eminent authority on probate cases, would
probably not have learned with unmixed pleasure this touoh-
mg instance of his domestic aifection.

•• But what's it all about, dear Tom ?'* Mrs. Knyvett ex-
claimed, in a querulous tone and with a puzzled air. '* What
do Iris and you want to get a telegram from this ambiguoui
tutor of hers for?"

Uncle Tom was just about to enlighten Ins sister's darkness
(for the five hundred and first time), when poor Iris, unable
to control her feelings any longer, rose from the table, with
tears standing in her pretty blue eyes, and remarked, in a
flhghtly husky voice, that she could eat nothing, . and would
go and wait for the telegram in the drawing-room.

Mrs. Enyveit looked after her, bewildered and amazed.
" This sort of thing makes girls very strange," she said,
eapiently.

" This sort of thing " being that idol of her age, the Higher
Education.

" Well, well, it's done her no harm, anyhow," Uncle Tom
answered, with stout good humour, for his niece was a great
favourite of his, in spite of her heresies. " I don't approve
of all this fal-lal and nonsense myself, either ; but Iris is a
Knyvett, you see, and the Knyvetts always struck out a
Une for themselves ; and each Knyvett strikes out a different
one. She's struck out hers. She didn't get that from tti,
you may be sure. Nobody could ever accuse the Whitmarshei
of eccuutricity or originality. We get on, but we get on
steadily. It's dogged that does it with our family, Auie'ia.
The Knyvetts are different. They go their own way, and it's
no good anybody else trying to stop them."

" What would her poor dear father say to it all, I won-
der?" Mrs. Knyvett remarked parenthetically, through a mist
of siglis.

"He Would say, 'Let her go her own way,* " the eminent
Q.C. rephed with cheerful haste ; V and if it comes to that,
wliotlrer he said it or not wouldn't much matter, for in her
own quiet, peaceful, unobtrusive manner, offending nobody,
Iris would go her own way, in spite of , him. Yes, Amelia, I
lay, in spite of him. After all, it's not been at all a bad
thin,*^, in some respects, tlujt our dear girl should have taken
Vkjf With this higher educaiion fad. We don't approve of il;

it's

nm TBMTf or ram. H

tnt, if H*8 flone nothing else, it's kept ber at least out of the

way of the fortune hunters."

•• Iris has great expectations," Mrs. Knrvett remarked com-
placently. She remarked it, not because her brother was not
already well aware of the fact, but bi'^ait ^a the thought was
in her own mind, and she uttered it, as slie uttered all other
platitudes that happened to occur to her, in tho full ezpec-
tation that her hearer would find them m interesting as she
d\

" Iris has great expectations," her brother echoed. ** No
doubt in the world, I think, about that. By the f.rms of the
old Admiral's will, ridiculous as they are, I hardly imagine
Sir Arthur would venture to leave tha property. otherwise.
To do so would be risky, with me agaiust him. And if Irif
had gone into London Society, and been thro^m into the
whirl of London life, mat' ad of reading her 'Odyssey* and
her . 'Lucretius,' and mugj ng up aniu*ing works on oonie
sections, it's my belief soma peuiiMess beggar — an Lrish ad-
venturer, perhaps, if such a creature survives nowadays —
would have fallen upon her and snapped her up long ago ;
especially before she came into her fortune. Then it seems
to be almost disinterested. Now, this Cambridge scheme has
saved us from all the trouble and bother of that sort of
thing — it's ferried us across the most dangerous time — it's
helped us to bridge over the thin ice ; till Iris is a woman,
and quite fit to take care of herself."

" There's something in that," Mrs. Knyvett responded, with
a' stately nod of the prominent feature. It seemed somehow
to revolve independently on its own axis.

** Something in that 1" ber brother cried, amazed, as though
his own " devil " had ventured to agree with him. •* There's
a great deal in that, Amelia I There's everything in that I
There's worlds in that I It's the * Iliad ' in a nutshell. The
girl's done the very best thing on earth for herself. She's
saved her expectations — her great expectations — from the
^eedy mawof every eaves-dropping London fortune-hunter."

At that moment another rat-tat at the door made Uncle
Tom start in his chair, and Iris's voice was heard upon the
stairs as she brushed down from the drawing-room to the
front door ?v 'sudden trepidation. Endless terrors crowded
upon her mind as she went. She was quite safe about her
Latin prose, to be sure, but oh I that unspeakable, that terri-
ble mistake in the unseen passage from Plato's " Eepublio 1"

p^fT

■ jiiimii m|uii",f.iiiji.<i'^n^vi^

:.iW!yiif|jpi^i"HiM|ii

ii2

TBB TSMTl Of MUUI.

ft -

l( would spoil all, that false socond aorist 1 It wan the tele
gram this time, sure enough, without farther delay. Iris tore
it open in an agony of suspense. Had the second aorist be-
trayed her girlish trust ? Had Plato repelled her platonic
affections ? Then her heart stopped beating for a moment
as she read the words, " Cambridge University, Classical
Tripos : Women, First Class, Iris Knyvett, Girton, bracketed
equal, Third Classic. Sincer«st congratulations. We are all
so proud. Affectionately yours, K. Vanrenen."

Oh, cruel century that has put such a strain upon a grow
ing woman I Unfcle Tom seized the half-fainting girl tenderl}
in his arms, and, wringing her band a dozen times over, in
spite of his disapproval of the higher education for women
(which his present chronicler blushes to share), kissed her
and congratulated her turn about in one unceasing tide for
the next five minutes ; while poor Iris's head, giddy with her
triumph, swam round and round in a wild delirium of delight
and amazement. Third Ch.^sic! In her highest mood ol
hope she had never expected anytliing like this. She cried
to herself silently in her joy and satisfaction.

•• But what does it all mean ?" Mrs. Knyvett exclaimed,
adjusting the pince-nez on its pre-ordained stand once more
with practised skill, and gazing vacantly from the telegram
to Iris, and from Iris to the telegram. " Is it — verynnuch
worse — much lower than she expected ?"

" What does it all mean, ma'am ?" Uncle Tom exclaimed,
Hinging prudtnce to the dogs, and his cherished convictions;
to the four winds of heaven. •* What does it all mean ? 1
like your question, indeed! Why it means just this — God
bless my soul, how the girl trembles I — that your own daugh-
ter. Iris Knyvett, has bcnton all the men hut two, in Cam
bridge University, into a cocked hat. That's what it means,
ma'am. That's what it means ! 1 don't approve of it ; but.
upon my soul, I'm proud of her. Your daughter Iris ii
third Glassio.

\ \

ipiii

WM:^f"

It was the tele

delay. Iris tore

jcond aorist be

id her platonic

for a moment

^rsity, Classical

irton, bracketed

ns. We are all
II
■

in upon a grow

ng girl tenderl}

n times over, in

tion for women

ire), kissed her

leasing tide for

giddy with her

irinm of delight

igliest mood ol

•his. She cried

vett exclaimed,

and once mort

n the telegram

it — very^nuch

lorn exclaimed,

led conviction?

t all mean ? 1

MHt this — God

>ur own daugh-

t two, in Cam

what it means,

rove of it ; but,

nughter Iria ii

flU IHMW W/ UHMM,

CHAPTER III.

BT MOUUIMU MOUNTAINS.

I I

A WEEK later, preparations were complete. The tent had
been arranged for mountain travelling ; a folding«b«d had
been set up for the lodger's accommodation ; stores bad been
laid in from that universal provider of Algerian necessities,
Alexander Dunlop, in the line d'lsly ; a Mahonnais Spaniard
from the Balearic Isles iiad been secured as servant to guard
tlie camp ; and Blake and Le Marchant, on varying ends
intent, had fairly started off for their tour of inspection
through the peaks and passes of the Kabylian Highlands.
The artist's kit included a large and select assortment of
easels, brushes, pigments, canvas, pencils and Whatman's
paper ; the naturalist's embraced a good modem fowling-
piece, an endless array of boxes for skins and specimens, and
a fine collection of butterlly-nets, chloroform bottles, entomo-
logical pins, and materials for preserving birds, animals, and
botanical treasures. Le Marchant, as the older and more
experienced traveller, had charged himself with all the neces-
sary arrangements as to i)ii,cking and provisions ; and when
Blake looked on at the masterly way in which his new friend
managed to make a couple of packing-cases and a cork mat-
tress do duty for a bedstead, at the same time that they con-
tained, in their deep recesses, the needful creature comforts
for a three months' tour among untrodden ways, he could not
sufficiently congratulate himself upon the lucky chance which
had thrown him on the balcony of the Club at Algiers that
particular afternoon, in company with so competent and so
skilful an explorer. He had fallen on his feet, indeed, without
knowing it.

A lovely morning of bright African sunshine saw the two
set forth in excellent spirits from the hotel at Tizi-Ouzou, the
furthest French village in the direction of Kabyhe, whither
they had come the previous day by diligence from Algiers, to
attack the mountains of the still bftrbario and half-uncou
qaered Kabylei.

t>^y'^T.^!f;f,^r^'',)gjpiH//^r»lf^yf--

TBB ntHTS OV IHSM.

F. ■

*' Are the mnlei ready ?" Le Marohant asked of the waiter
at the little country inn where they had passed the nighty as
he iwallowed down the last drpp of his morning coffee.

"MoDBieur," the waiter answered, wiping his mouth with
his greasy apron as he spoke, '* the Arabs say the mules will
be at the door in half an hour."

" The Arabs say I " Le Marchant repeated, with an impa-
tient movement of his bronzed hand. " In half an hour,
indeed I The sloth of the Arab 1 . 1 know these fellows.
That means ten o'clock, at the very earliest. It't^ now seven,
and unless we get under way within twenty minutes, the
Bun *11 be so hot before we reach a resting-place, that we shall
deliquesce like Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs in ' The
Vicar of Wakefield.' I'll go out and hurry them up, Blake, with
a little gentle moral suasion."

Blake followed his host curiously to the door, where half-a-
dozen ragged Orientals, picturesquely clad in a costume about
equally divided between burnouse and dirt, were sprawling at
their ease on a heap of soft dust in the full front of the morning
sunshine.

♦• Get, up, my friends," Le Marchant cried aloud in excellent
Arabic, for he was a born linguist. •• If the mules are not ready
in five minutes on the watch which I hold in my hand, by the
beard of < 'le Prophet, I solemnly tell you, you may go every man
to his own home without a sou, and I will hire other mules, with
the blessing of Allah, from better men than you are to take us
on our journey."

Blake did not entirely understand colloquial Arabic when
rapidly spoken — in fact, his own linguistic studies stopped sud-
denly short at his mother tongue, and so much French in the
OUendorffian dialect as enabled him to state fluently that the
gardener's son had given his apple to the daughter of the car-
penter — but he was greatly amused to see the instantaneous
effect which this single sonorous sentence, rolled quietly but
very firmly out in distinct tones, produced upon the nerves of
the sprawling Arabs. They rose from the dust heap as if by
magic. In a moment all was bustle and turmoil, and confusion.
The tent and beds were hastily laden with infinite shrieks on
the patient mules ; boxes were strapped on with many strange
cords and loud cries of " Arri I " to the backs of donkeys ; arms
and legs were flung wildly about in multitudinous gesticulations
of despair and inability : and before the five minutes were fairly
•▼•r by that inexorable watch which Le Marchant held with stem

ppp

tas TBNTB or BMKll.

rt folTe before him, the little cavalcade started off at a trot in the
direction of the still snow-clad summits of the nearer Djurjura.

It was a quaint small caravan, as it mounted the hillside.
The two Englishmen rode unburdened mules ; tiie ragged Arabs,
barefoot and melting, ran after them with shouts of guttural
depth, and encouraged the pack-beasts with loud jerky remon-
strances — " Oh, father of fools, and son of a jackass, will you
not get up and hurry yourself more quickly *? "

"Where are we going?" Blake asked at last, as the high
road that had conducted them for a mile from Tizi-Ouzoa
dwindled down abruptly near a steep slope to a mere aboriginal
Kabyle mule-track, beset with stones, and overhung by thickets
of prickly cactus.

•' How should I know ? " the naturalist answered, with a
vague wave of the hand. '♦ We're going to Kabylio. That's
enough for the moment. When we get there, we'll look about
for a suitable spot, and pitch our tent wherever there's a patch
of smooth enough ground for a man to pitch on. • Sufficient
unto the day ' is the explorer's motto. Your tru. traveller never
decides anything beforehand. He goes where fate and fortune
lefti him. What we both want is to explore the unknown. We'll
make our headquarter? within its border, wherever we find a
convenient resting-place."

"Are the Kabyles black?* Blake ventured to ask, wHh a
side-long look ; onburdening his soul of a secret doubt that had
long possessed it.

" Oh, dear no, scarcely even brown," Le Marchant answered.
•• They're most of them every bit as white as you and I are.
They're the old aboriginal Romanised population —the Berbers,
in fact — driven up into the hills by the Arab invasion in the
seventh century. Practically speaking, you know, Jugurthaand
Masinissa and Juba were Kabyles."

Blake had never heard of these gentlemen's namea'before; but
he veiled his ignorance with an acquiescent '• Really I "

They rode on, talking of many things and various, for two or
three hours, under the brilliant sunshine. But all the way as
they rode, they were mounting steadily," by devious native tracks,
steep and picturesque, just broad enough for two mules to mount
abreast, and opening out at every step magniiicent views over the
surrounding country. To right and left stood several white
villages perched on spurs of the mountain tops, with their olive
groves, and tombs, and tiny domed mosques ; while below lay
hooded gorges of torrent streams, overhung and draped by rich
fet^toons of great African clematis. Bluke had nevur tri^yelUd (v

316725

m tBMtf Of IBfiM.

' N^

the Booth beiore, and his artist eye was oharmed at each tarn hj
such novel beauties of the Southern scenery.

"This is glorious," he cried at last, halting his mule at a
sudden bend of the track. " I shall do wonders here. I feel
the surroundings exactly suit me. What could be more lovely
than the luxuriant vegetation ? I understand iiuw those lines of
Tennyson's in the • Daisy.' So rich. So luscious ! And look,
up there on the mountain side, that beautiful littlo raosfjue with
its round white dome, embowered in its thicket of orainj^e trees
and fan -palms ! It's a dream of delight, it almost makes a
man drop into poetry I "

" Yes, it's beautiful, certainly, very, very beautiful," Le Mar-
chant replied, in a soberer voice, glancing up meditatively. " You
never get mountain masses shaped like these in the cold North ;
those steep scarped precipices and jagged pinnacles would be quite
impossible in countries ground Hat and worn into shape by the
gigantic mangle of the Great Ice Age."

•• The great what ? " Blake asked, with a faint tingling sense
of doubt and shame. He was afraid for his life that La Mar
chant was going to be horribly scientific.

•• The Great Ice Age — the glacial epoch, you know . the p- nod
of universal glacier development, which planed and -ihavHil all
the mountain heights in Northern Europe to a common dead
level."

••I never heard of it," Blake answered, shaking his head, with
a blush, but thmking it best at the same time to make a clean
breast of his igiiurance at one fell swoop. " I ... I don't
think it was mentioned in ray history of England, f'ra such a
duflfer at books, you know. To tell you the truth. I understand
very Uttle, except perspective. I've read nothing hut the En^dish
poets ; and these I've got on my finger ends ; hut I don't
remember anything in ^iilton or Shelley about the (ircat Ice
Age. My father, you see, was a painter before me . and as I
began to show a — well, a disposition for painting very early, he
took me away from school when I was quite a httle chap, and
put me into his own studio, and let me pick up what I eould by
the way ; so I've never had any <i:oneral education at all to speak
of. But I admire learning — in other fellows. I aiwavs like Xo
hear clever men talk together."

•' The best of all educations Is the one you picked up,' Le
Marchant answered, kindly. •' Those of us who have been to
schools and universities generally look back upon our Wfistod
time there as the worst-spent part of all our hvea. You're

(«r'>>nrvif>fl 'V,»5rri i^''f|) rubbish wllij'li VOU ^^tV9 iffnrwqr^* t-^ lis

tttk nCNtM 0» tRRII.

:«i'd in favonr of tnch ronlitios as tlio«?e you mention — penpco
riv«, for examplM, And Knj^Mish litcrrtturo."

As he spolte. tliey mriuui almrply down to a rushing brook by
I Kabyle villa^'e, whure two or thrne tall and lissome native ^'irls
air aa Itahans, or even as I'jnglishwomen, in their simple, and
i)ictnreaque Oriental costume, were washing clothes at a tiny
ford, and laughing and talking merrily with one another as the)
hent over their work. The scene irresistibly attracted Mlake.
The garb of the girls was, indeed, most Greek and graceful ; and
cheir supple limbs and lithe natural attitudes might, well arouse
,i painter's or a sculptor's interest.

" By Jove I " he cried. '* Le Marchant, I should like to
sketch them. Anything so picturesque I never saw in all my
life before. • Sunburnt mirth,' as Keats calls it in ' The Niu'ht
ingale.' Just watch that girl stoopirtg down to pound a cloth
vith a big round stone there. Why Phidias never imagined
inything more graceful, more shapely, more exquisite! "

" She's splendid, certainly," the naturalist answered, survey
ng the girl's pose with more measured coinnuuulation. " A fine
igure, I admit, well propped and vigorous. No tight lacuig
here. No deformity of fashion. The human form divine, in
;nspoiled beauty, as it came straight i'rum the hands of its
'reator."

•* Upon my word, Le Marchant," the painter went or
lUhusiastically, " I've half a mind to stop the caravan this very
loraent, undo the pack, unroll the papers, and get out my
lachinery on the spot to sketch her."

Maturer years yielded less to the passing impulse of the
iioment.
" I wouldn't if I were you," the naturalist answered more
)olly. •* You'll see lots more of the same sort, no doubt, all
hrough Kabyhe. The si»ecies is probably well diffused. You
in paint them by the score when we reach our resting-place."
As Blake paused, irresolute, the girls looked up and laughed
)od-humouredly at the evident admiration of the two well
ressed and well-equipped young infidels. They were not veiled
ke Arab women ; the faces and arms and backs were bare, and
!eir feet and ankles naked to the knee ; for the old P»erber
)pulation of North Africa, to whose race the Kabylesol" Algeria
• ilong, retain unchanged to this day their antique Uoinaii
•eedom of manners and intorcnurse. The girls' features wcrt
11 of thtm pretty, with a certain frank and barbaric boi»lni'^>« o'
outline. Though shy of strangers, they were clearly huimm.i
the one who had HUmcUM] thfir ■special fltfr>nt.ion 1m,-\I ..• , .., .^i

YES TKNtS OV IHSM.

Lj^

L ?'■"."

f: 4

eoqaAttlsMy acrosn at Le Marchant, as he turner! hif beast w{Q
sterner resolve up the slope of the mountain.

♦• They're splendid creatures," the naturalist said, looking
back a little regretfully, while they rode up the opposite side
and left the brook and the girls for ever behind thorn. " Tha^
sort of face certainly hvcs long in one's memory. I immense!)
admire these free children of nature. Just watch that gin
coming down the hillside yonder with her pitclier on her head-
how gracefully she poses it I how li<^htly she trips I What
freedom, what ease, what untrammelled movement I "

** By George, yes," Blake answered, taking in the scene with
his quick, artistic glance. " It's glorious I It's splendid I From
the purely Ksthetio point of view, you know, these women ar«
.far better and finer in every way than the civilised product."

•• And why from the purely lesthetic point of view alone ? '*
his companion asked, quickly, with a shade of surprise. " Why
not also viewed as human beings in thoir concrete totality ?
Surely there's something extremely aitructive to a sympathetic
mind in the simplicity, the naivete, the frank and unpretentious
innate humanity of the barbaric woman."

•' Oh, hang it all, you know, Le Marchant," the artist expos-
tulated in a half amused tone. " They're all very well as models
to sketch, but you can't expect a civilized man to be satisfied
permanently — on any high ground — with such creatures as that,
now."

" I don't exactly see why not," Le Marchant answered
seriously, gazing down once more from the zigzag path on the
laughing group of barefooted Kabyle girls, with their smooth
round arms and their well-turned ankles. ♦* Humanity to me is
always hun:au. I've lived a great deal among many queer peo-
ple — Malays and Arabs and Japanese, and so forth — and I've
come in the end to the modest conclusion that man, as man, is
everywhere man, and man only. Emotionally, at least, we are
all of one blood all the world over."

" But you couldn't conceive yourself marrying a Kabyle girl,
could you ? "

" As at present advised, I see no just cause or impediment to
the contrary."

Blake turned up his eyes to heaven for a moment^ in mute
ftmazemeiit,

*• Well, I'm not built that way, any how,** he went on, after a
pause, with a certain subdued sense of inward self-congratulation.
** ' I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains,
Lflte a beas t with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains I '

.f»?'ll

'mwrnw-

Jv»^^

THS TINTS Of IHZU.

No. thank yon. For my part, I agree with tho poet. I count
the grey barbarian lower than the Christian child. None of
your squalid savages for me. If ever I marry, wiiich I hope I
sliall bo able to do some of those fine days, thu girl I marry
must be at least my equal in hitoUoct and attaiimionta — and
that, bar painting, she might easily manage in all conscience ;
but for choice, I should prefer hdr to be highly educated — a
Princess Ida sort of a woman."

" Then I take it, you admire those new-fashioned over-educated
epicene creatures," Le Marchant interposed, smiling.

•"' Well, not exactly over-educated, perhaps," lilake answered,
apologetically (he. was too much c ;erawed to handle epicene)
'• but. at any rate I like them thorough ladies, and well brought
up, and as clever as they make them."

'• Clever. Ah, yes I That's quite another thing. Cleverness
is an underlying natural endowment ; but crannncd ; no, thank
you, not for me, at any rate I "

They p; ised for a moment, each pursuing his o^vn lin« of
thought unchecked ; then the paniter began again, in a musing
voice, " Did you happen to see in the English papers before we
left Algiers, that a Girton girl had just been made Third Classic
at Cambridge?"

"I did," Le Marchant answered, with a touch of pity in his
tone ; " and I was heartily sorry for her."

" Why sorry for her ? It's a very great honour t"

' Because I think the strain of such a preparation too great to
put upon ii / woman. Then that's the sort of girl you'd Uke to
marry, is it ? "

" Well, yes, other things equal, such as beauty and position,
I'm inclined to think so. She must be pretty, of course, that
goes without saying — pretty and graceful, and a lady, and all
thiit sort of thing one takes that for granted ; but, given so
much I should like her to be really well educatod. You see,
I've never had any education to speak of myself, bo I should
prefer my wife to have enough of that commodity on hand for
both of us."

" Quite so," Le Marchant answered with a faint smile.
'* You'd consent to put up in fact with a perfect paragon, who
was a Girton girl and a Third Classic I I admire your modesty,
and I hope you may get her."

A fork in the road, with the practical necessity for deciding
which of the two alternative tracks they should next take, put s
limit for the moment to their converaation.

''^WW^W ■ '

mmt

ran rsNTH u> mubm.

1 1

CHAPTER IV.

BKTBB 4 HEROnm,

«4

Which way shall we go? " Blake asketi, halting his mule for
a second where the paths divided.

" I leave these questions always to the divine arhitrament of
my patron goddess," Le Marchant answered -lightly, tossing a
sou, and HttJe knowing how much his future fate depended upon
the final decision. " Let chance decide. Heads, right ! tails,
left ! Tlie heads have it. Hi, you, Ahmed or Ah, or whatever
your blessed name is," lie went on in Arabic, to the men behind,
** do you know where this path on the right leads to ? "

" To the mountain of the Beni-Merzoug, Excellency," the
ragged Arab nearest his mule made answer, respectfully. " It's
a good village for you to stop at, as Allah decrees. The Beni-
Merzoug are the most famous makers of jewellery and pottery
among all the Kabylea."

" That'll just suit our book, I say," Le Marchant went on in
English, translating the remark m the vernacular to Blake.
" Chance, as usual, has decided rightly. A wonderful goddess.
To the Beni-Merzoug let it be at once then." And he pocketed
the sou that had sealed his fortune. Oh, fateful sou, to be gilt
hereafter in puresi, gold, and worn round fair lady's neck in a
jewelled locket I •

They mounted still, past rocky ledges, where hardly a goat
could find a dubious foothold, but where Kabyle industry had
nevertheless sown pathetic plots or strips of corn or cabbages —
for is there not pathos in ineffective labour ? — till they came at
last, late in the afternoon, to a grey old village, grimly perched
on the summit of a minor mountain. " These are the Beni-
Merzoug," the Arabs said, halting their mules m a line at th('
entry of the street. " Here the track stops. We can go no
further."

*• Let's look about for a spot to pitch our tent upon then," Le
Marchant exclaimed, as they unloaded their burden. •* No ias}
job h'Teabouts, either, I should say. On the desert, one bao
ftlways Uie embarrassment of riches in that respect ; here, ol

THS TKNTB OP 8HXII.

thei3e rugged rocky slopes, it would be hard to find ten iqaare

yards of level ground anywhere."

Nevertheless, after a quarter-of-an-hour'a dili^'ent search, not
unembarrassed by the curiosity of the Kabylos a3 to the new
comers, a spot was found, close by the village headman's house,
in the shadow of a pretty little white-domed tomb, overhung by
ash-trees, from whose spreading boughs the wild vine drooped in
graceful tresses. It seemed to Blake the absolute ideal summer
cumping-place. Around, great masses of tumbled mountairi!^
swayed and tossed like the waves of a boisterous sea ; below,
deep ravines hung in mid-air, with their thick covering of Medi-
terranean pine and evergreen oak aad Spanish chestnut ; while
above, in the distance, the silent white peaks of the snowy Djur
jura still gleamed and shjmmered, high over the hill-tops, in the
evening sun. The panitor could have stood and gazed at it for
hijurs, but for the need for action ; it was wi^h an ell'ort that he
turned from that lovely prospect to bear nis part in the prosaic
work of tent-pegging and unpa'iking for the evening's rest.

By this time a noisy crowd of Kabyles from the village had
gathered round the spot selected by the visitors, and begun to
canvass in eager terms the motive of their visit and the nature
of their arrangements. The natives were clearly ill-satisfied at
their choice. Le Marchant, though a tolerable Arabic scholar,
knew not one word as yet of the Kabyle language ; so he was
unable to hold any communication with the men, who them-
selves were equally guiltless for the most part of either French
or Arabic. It was evident, however, that the Kabyles as a whole
regarded their proceedings with extreme distaste, and that the
head man of the village and a girl by his side, who seemed to be
either his wife or daughter, had considerable trouble in restrain-
ing this feeling from breaking out into acts of open hostility.

The girl, in particular, at once arrested both the young
Englishmen's passing attention. It was no wonder if she did.
So glorious a figure they had seldom seen. Tall and lithe, with
strong and well-made limbs, she seemed scarcely so dark as
many English ladies, but with a face of peculiar strength and
statutesque beauty. In type, she was not unlike the merry
Kabyle maiden who had looked up at them and laughed as they
passed the vrasliing place by the torrent that morning ; but her
style was in every way nobler and higher. The features were bold
and sculpturesque and powerful ; serene intelligence shone out
from her hi" eyes ; she looked, Le Marchant thought, as a Spartan
maiden might have looked m the best days of Sparta — a^ free a>i
sh«» was aupple. aiui so stront; as she was beautiful. At first

■TT

""''T'

«"IIB 1

■^^^^■^•■^■■■•■•^•■n^i

•1

THS TENT3 OV eH£M.

I ■

whilt the earlier preparations were being made ; she hung aloof
from the new-comers as if ii! ^ptn^ryiless awe ; but after a short
time, as the crowd around gitw ui>,^ unruly and boisterous, and
the attempts at intercommunica:ion bugan to succeed, she
approached somewhat nearer, and, equally removal from
coquetry or boldness, watched their proceedhigs with the uLniost
interest.

At the outset, while the Spaniard and the Arabs helped in the
work of setting up camp, conversation between the new-comers
was carried on almost entirely in pigeon French. And of French,
even in its pigeon variety., the girl was clearly ignorant.

•• Voiu ne paries pus Francais / " Le Marcliaut asked her,
tentatively.

But the Kabyle maiden shook hev head with a vigorous dissent,
and put her finger to her mouth in sign of silence. So he
turned away, and went on with his unpacking, vhile the girl,
poised in a most picturesque attitude, with her arm on the ledge
of the littlu domed tomb, stood by expectant, with a mutely
attentive face, or made some remark now and again, in a low
voice, to hen fellow countrymen, who stood aloof in the distance.
They seemt d to treat her with unusual respect, as a person of
some distiuriion. No doubt she must be the headman's wife,
Lo Marchaiit thought, from the tone of command in which she
spoke to ti turn.

♦* Hand me that rope there, quick," the naturalist called out
at last, in English to Blake. •• Look sharp, will you ? I want
to fasten it down at once to this peg here."

The beautiful Kabyle girl started at the words in the most pro-
found surprise ; but, to Le Marchant's astonishment, rose up at
once, and handed him the rope, as though it was her he had
asked for it, w thout a moment's hesitation.

•• Curious how quick these half-barbaric people are to under-
stand whatever one says to them in an unknown language," Le
Marchant went on, in a satisfied tone, to his English companion.
•• This girl snapped up what I meant at once by the inflexion of
my voice, yu sue, when I asked you for the rope, though I
never even pointed my hand towards what I wanted."

•• I can talk like that myself," the girl answered quietly, in
English almost as good as Le Marchant's own, though with a
very faint flavour of liquid Oriental accent. " I hoard you ask
for the rope, and I fancied, of course, you were speaking to me,
and 80 I gave it to you. But I thought," she added, with much
natural dignity, "you might have asked me a little more
polild/."

>■.■, ■*.,'■,

tarn TJfiNtf Of BHSll.

If tlie girl was surprised to hear Le Marchant, Le Marohant,
In turn, was positively thunderstruck to hear the girl. He coiil«l
hardly believe the direct evidence of his own ears.

" Do they speak with tongues in these parts I " he ori^d,
amazed ; •* or has much wandering made me mad, I wowd/^r ?
Come ovei" here, Blake, nnd explain this mystery. This lady
positivbly answered me nj r.nglish."

" We speak with our tougui s, of c -urse," the girl went on,
half angrily, misunderstanding his old-fashioned Scriptural
phrase, " just the same as you and everybody else do. We're
human, I suppose ; we're rfot monkeys. But, perhaps, you
think like all other Frenchmen, that Kabyles are no better than
dogs and jackals."

She spoke with pride, and fire flashed from her eyes. She was
clearly angry. Le Marchant thought her pride and auger
became her.

♦• I beg your pardon," he went on in haste, t'ory deferentially
raising his hat by pure instinct, for he saw that without any
intention of his own he had hurt her feelings. •' I really don't
think you quite understood me.« I was surprised to find any-
body speaking my own tongue here so far ill Kabylie."

"Then you aren't French at all?" the girl asked, eagerly,
with a flush of expectation.

♦' No, not French — English ; and I'm sorry I seemed, against
ray will, to annoy you."

" If you're English we're friends," the girl answered, looking
up at him with a flushed face, as naturally as if she had met with
stray Englishmen every day of her life. " It was my father who
taught me to talk like this — I loved my father — and he was an
Enghshman."

Le Marchant and Blake both opened their eyes together in
mute astonishment.

*' And what's your name ? " the painter ventured to asS:, half
dumb with surprise, alter a moment's pause.

" My name's Meriem," the girl replied, simply.

•'MeriemI Ah, yes, I dare say; that's Kabyle. But your
father's ? "

" My father's was Yusuf."

" Yusuf ? " Le Marchant cried. " Wliy Yusufs not English I
The English for that, you know is plain Joseph. Was your
father's name Joseph somebody ? "

•* No," the girl answered, shaking her head firmly, " Hii
name was Yusuf. Only Yusuf. Uis Kabyle name I mean.

fWW

■■.""':,LT'5!"".''-.V"iW»A!W >r

' ■ "m

tHX IKMII OJr BUKM.

And mine's Meriem. i.u English, Tnsnf ased klwayi to tell me,
it's Mary."

" But your surname ? " Le Marchant suggested, with a smile
at her simplicity.

Meriem shook her head once more, with a puzzled look. *' I
don't understand that, at all," she said, with a dubious air. *' I
don't know all English. You say some things I don't make out.
I never heard that word before — surname."

" Look here,"Le Marchant went on, endeavouring to siiiplify
matters to her vague little mind. *' Have you any other name
at all but Meriem."

'* Yes, I told you — Mary."

" Ah, of course. I know. But besides that again. Think ;
any other ? "

The girl looked down with a bewildered glance at her pretty
bare feet. " I'm sure I can't say," she said, shaking her heaa.
'♦ I never heard any."

" But your father had I Surely he must have borne an Eng-
lish name. You must have heard him say it. lie's dead, I
suppose. But can't you remember ? "

•* Yes, Yusuf s dead, and so's my mother, and I live with my
uncle. My uncle's the amine, you know, the head of the village."
And she waved her hand toward him with native gracefulness.

*• Well, what was your father's English name ? " Le Marcliant
persisted, piqued by this strange and unexpected mystery, •• and
how did he come to be living here in Algeria ? "

♦• He had an English name, a sort of a double name," Meriem
answered dreamily, after a moment's pause, during which it was
clear she had been fishing with small success in the very depths
of her memory. *♦ It was Somebody Sometliing, I remember
that. He told me that English name of his, too, one day, and
begged me never, never to forget it. It was to be .very useful to
me. But I was not to tell it to anybody on any account. It
was a great secret, and I was to keep it strictly. You see, it was
so long ago, more than three years now, and I was so little then.
I've never spoken this way, ever since Yusuf died, before. And
I've quite forgotten what the name was that he told me. I otily
remember his Kabyle name, Yusuf, and his French one, of course
— that was Joseph Leboutillier."

♦♦ What? he had a Frencli name, too ? " Le Marchant cried,
looking up in fresh surprise.

" Oh yes, he had a French one," Meripm answered quietly, M
if every one might be expected to know such simple facts.
** And that, of course, was what they wanted to shoot him for."

mrw^l^

'-,>r»

tILB XKMTB or IBBM.

CHAPTlR V.

PBOBLKH8.

k'T that very moment, before Le Marchant could gratify his
uriosit)^ an)' further, a voice from the crowd of Kabyie bystand-
■ra called out sternly, in a commanding tone, ** Meriem I Ho
igha t " and the girl, with a start, hurried off at the sound into
lie eager group of her own fellow-tribesmen. The crowd
athered round hor in hot debate. For awhile, Le Marchant
md Blake observed with dismay that their new friend was being
•losely questioned as to what she herself had said in the unknown
Longue to the infidel strangers, and what the infidel strangers
!uid said in return' with so much apparent kindliness to her.
Vngry glances were cast from time to time in their direction, and
voices were raised, and fingers and hands gesticulated fiercely.
liut, after awhile, the beautiful girl's calm report seemed some-
what to still the excitement of the indignant Kabyles. She
stood before them with outstretched arms and open palms, pro-
testing, as Le Marchant gathered from her eloquent attitude,
that these were indeed friends and not enemies. Her protest
prevailed. After a few minutes interval, she returned once more,
with a smiling faqe, this time accompanied by her uncle, the
Headman, and two other Kabyles of evident tribal importance ;
and the three proceeded to hold an informal palaver with the
strangers from Europe, Meriem acting the roU of interpreter
between the two high contracting parties.

The Headman spoke a few words first to the girl who endea-
voured, to the best of her ability, to impart their meaning in
English to the attentive new-comers.

"My uncle asks," she said, "what you have come for, and
why you have brought all these strange things on the ground
here with you?"

"My friend is an artist," Le Marchant answered simply, "and
I am a naturalist, a man of science. " We've eouie to see the
mountains and the country, and all that grows in tliem."

Miiricra shook her head with a gesture of deprecation.

"I don't know those words," she said. " Yusuf never used
them. 1 don't know what is an artist and what is a naturalist.
Why do you want to see the country?" And she added a few
«f( j^frnpop rnnidlv in Kabyie to the three natives.

n^^PpiiniFlilli^ ;.";,' If" '"■

■*^^^ ■'■'■•'•'. '• ■■■ ''-■'*:,'--.'i-V""5''"^i^^J^P^'ff(p

ffBs nurrf or raxM.

fe^

ii|^- ''^■

■' t: :i

r-;

Le Marchant saw his mistake at once. The English words he
had used were above the girl's simple childish level. He must
come down to her platform. He tried over again.

'* My friend paints pictures," he said, with a smile, holding up
» half-finished sketch of Blake's, " and I shoot birds, and pick
plants and flowers and insects."

Meriem nodded a satisfied nod of complete comprehension,
and reported his speech in Kabyle to her uncle.

" My people say," she went on again, after a brief colloquy
with her three compatriots, " why do you want so much pencils
and paper ? Have you come to do good or harm to Kabyle ?
Does not the pulling out of pencils and paper mean much mis>
chief ? "

" Some of the paper is for my friend to paint on," Le Mar-
chant 8,nswered, with the calmness of a man well used to such
dealings with suspicious foreigners, " and part of it is for myself .
to dry plants and flowers in." *

•' My uncle says," Meriem went on once more, after another
short colloquy, •• are you not come to plant out .-ew roads and
forts, and will not the Kabyles be forced to work on them,
whether they will, or whether they will not ? Have not the
French, who are the enemies of my people, sent you to look if
the country is good, so that they may send Frenchmen to take
it, and plough it ? Did they not make roads the same way to
Fort National, and give the land of the Kabyles over there to be
ploughed and used by their own soldiers ? "

" Explain to your people," Le Marchant said gently, in his cool
way, " that we are English like your fatlier, not French, like the
people who live at Fort National. We are Yusufs countrymen.
We have nothing to do with the Government at all. We plan
rib roads, and build no forts. We have only come for our own
amusement, to paint the mountains, and to see what flowers and
birds live in them."

" And did you know Yusuf ? " Meriem cried, excitedly,

" No," Le Marchant answered, and the girl's face fell sadly at
the answer. " But we are friends as he was. We wish well to
the Kabyles, and all true believers."

When Meriem had translated and dilated upon these last
remarks with her own comments, the Kabyles seemed greatly
mollified and reassured. The Headman ni particular, with some
effusion, seized Le Marchant's hand, fl,nd wrung it hard, mur-
muring many times over fervently, as he did so, " Ingleez good,
Frbncb bad ; Yusuf Ligleez," with considerable empressewf^it.

^ ^TBF»3f35P!^JP9^Wf!P:

rUX TIMTI or 8UKM.

•7

.,!.. of Fm:

'MMl'IIIX

titu

Hsh,

and

you see," Meriem
my father, in the

•« He has picked up a ffw m'ov
went on, refiectively, " \'ynu\
old days, talk so much iii;^. t

II was all 80 simple and ii.aiiiiil to licrsolf that she seemed
hardly to realise bow strange it sounded in the uuacoastomed
ears of the two new comera.

But they had no time then to gratify their curiosity by making
any further investigations or inquiries into . the singular mystery
of Meriem 's antecedents. Strange as the problem was, they
must lay it aside unsolved for the present. EvcMiing was coming
on, and the practical work of getting things slap-shape in the
tent for the night inexorably demanded all their immediate ener-
gies. There were the Arabs to be paid, and the mules to be
dismissed. Diego, the Mahonnais servant, httd still to light a
fire of green sticks, and prepare supper ; and the two young
Englishmen had to make their own beds before they could lie on
thein, and prepare their quarters generally against the chance of
rain or hail, or cold wind, or thunderstorm. Meriem and the
three Kabyles, now passively friendly, stopped and looked on with
profomid interest at all these arrangements. The men. for their
part, were too proud to do more than stand and gaze, with many
expressions of wonder and surprise, — '• Allah is great I Ilis
works are marvellous I " — at the lamps and etnas, and tin bis-
cuit-boxes, that came forth, one after another, in bewildering
array, from the magical recesses of Le Marchant's capacious
leather travelling-case. But Meriem, more accustomed to house-
hold work, and even to a certain amount of something very like
what we in England would call drudgery, lent a willing hand,
with womanly instinct, in picking up sticks, and blowing the jBre,
and helping to lay out the strange metal pans, and plates, and
pipkins.

•• My people gay they're not afraid now," she remarked, with a
gracious smile to Blake, as she looked up, all gUnving, from the
fire she was puffing with her own pretty mouih. "If you're
really English, they know you're good, for i usuf was good,
and he was an Englislwiian. Besides, I've told them I'm sure
by your talk you're really English : I know it because it's just
like Yusuf's. The reason they were afraid at first was partly
because they thought you were the wicked Frenchmen come to
make a road and plant vines, the same as happened to our friends
the Beni-Yenni, whom they turned out to die on the mountains.
And then they were displeased, too, because you pitched your
tent too near the tomb. They thought that was wrong, because

•sj^SWWl^yy;-.

\ \

»a

THB nXTS Of SHAM.

ihis ground'i saored. Nobody comes here with ihoes on hit
feet. It's the tomb of a Marabout."

•' What's a Marabout ? " Blake asked, looking up good-
humouredly. He was a handsome young fellow, and his teeth,
when he smiled, showed white and even.

•* A holy man — I think you call it a priest in English — who
served Allah, and read the Koran much ; and now that he's
dead, he's made into a saint, and our people come to say prayers
at his tomb here."

I* But we can shift the tent if you Uke," Le Marchant put in,
eagerly, for he knew how desirable it is in dealing with Mahom*
medans to avoid shocking in any way, their fierce and fanatical
religious sentiments. •' We thought it was only an ordinary
tomb, we'd no idea we were trespassing on a sacred enclosure."

•• Oh no ; it doesn't matter now, at all," Meriem answered,
with a nod toWards the three observant Kabyles. •* Those two
men who are standing beside my uncle are marabouts too — very
holy ; and as soon- as they heard you were really Enghsh, they
were quite satisfied, for they loved my father and protected him
when the French wanted to catch him and shoot him. They've
looked in the Koran, and tried the book ; and they say the bones
of the just will sleep none the worse for two just men sleeping
peaceably beside them."

♦• Whoever her father was," Le Marchant remarked in a low
tone to Blake, **it's cbar, anyhow, that he's fortunately predis-
posed these suspicious Kabyles in favour of his own fellow-
countrymen and successors. We're lucky, indeed, to have
lighted by accident on probably the only Kabyle village in Algeria
where a single soul can speak a word of English. We find an
interpreter ready to our hand. I'm glad I trusted, as usual, to
chance. My patron goddess has not deserted me."

•* And they say," Meriem went on, after a few more word*
interchanged in a low voice with her own people, ♦* that they'll
sell you milk and eggs and flour, and, as long as you stop, I
may come down here at times, and .... and explain the
things, you know, you want to say to them."

" Act as interpreter," Le Marchant suggested, quickly.

Meriem's face hghted up with a fiash of recognition at the
sound. " Yes, that's the word," she said. •* I couldn't remem-
ber it. Literpret what you say to them. I'd forgotten * inter-
pret.' I expect I've forgotten a great many words. 'Translate'!'
another. I recollect it now. You see, it'o lo long since I'Tt
spoken Enj^liah.'*

tSMTt «V

•♦ The wondeT is that you remember any at all," Le Marchant

answered , with a polite httle wave. It was impossible to treat
that barefooted Kabyle girl otherwise than as a lady. " But
it'll icon come back now if you often run down and talk with us
at the tent here. We shall want you to help us with the buying
and selling."

" Yusuf would have likod that," Meriem replied, with a faint
sigh. " He was anxious that I should talk often, and shouldn't
on any account forget my English."

Le Marchant was silent. That naive expression of her natural
afifection touched him to the heart by its quaint simplicity.

At that moment, Diego, looking up from the pan he was hold-
ing over the fire with the omelette for supper, called out sharply,
'• Viens done, Mouresqu«l Donne la main icil Viens vite, jt te
dis. Nous te voulons pour nous nider ! "

In a second Meriem drew herself up proudly, for though she
did not understand the meaning of the words, or the habitual
insolence to the indiffenes implied in the tutoieinent, she caught
readily enough at the imperiousness of the tone and the rude
vulgarity of the gesture that accompanied it. The Kabyles, too,
looked on angrily at this interference of a mere European with
one of their own women — as who should pr3sume to use their
beast of burden without the preliminary politeness of asking
them for the loan of it. But Le Marchant intervened with a
conciliatory and deferential wave of his hand toward the offended
Meriem. " Overlook it," he said softly, '• ami forgive the fel-
low's rudeness. He knows no better ; he's only a boor ; I shall
take care to teach him politer manners. — Diego," he went on in
French to the Mahonnais, •* if you dare to speak so to this young
lady again, remember you go back that moment to Algiers
witliout your wages. We depend here entirely on the goodwill
of the indigenes. Treat her as you would treat a European lady."

Diego could hardly believe his senses. Cette demoiselle-ci, for-
sooth, of a mere indigene ! He turned back to the perusal of his
peninsular cookery, full of muttered discontent. '• Pigs of
natives," he murmured, half aloud to himself, shredding in some
garlic. *' Like a European lady ! Things have come to a pretty
pass in Algeria, indeed, if we must say Ma'amzelle to a canaille
of a Mauresque I "

But the Kabyles nodded their hooded heads with a comical air
of sagacioua triumph. *' They are English, indeed," the Head
man exclaimed aloud in his own tongue to his friends. " By
the staff of the Prophet tliey are indeed English. Allah be

■•«•

nU TBUffl or SHSM.

praised that we hnve soen tliis day ! These are good wordi I
They take the part of a Kabyle girl against a dog of an infideJ."

""We go now," Meriein siiid, moving back to her tribesmen,
and waving an aciieu to the Enghalimon with her delicate small
hand. '* We know you are friends. Fear no disturbance ; this
place is youra. We will send you a cons-coiui."

•' A C0US-C0U8 ! What's that ? " Blake asked, turning round to
his more experienced companion.

" Oh, just the ordinary native dish, a sort of porridge or
macaroni," Le Marchant answered sotto voce. •• It's the cus-
tomary mark of politeness and recognition to a stranger, like
paying a first call among the Arabs and Kabyles. To send you
a cous-cous is to make a friend of you. We needn't eat it, you
know. It's a sloppy, soppy, pappy mess, evan when made by a
European, and the native cookery isn't likely to improve it."

•* From her hands," Blake answered with unpremediated
enthusiasm, " I could eat anything, even a dog-biscuit. What
luck we're in, Le Marchant. She's a pp'f^ndid creature. A
model of ten thousand. I could hardly take my eyes off her as
long as she stopped here."

Le Marchant gazed round at him with a sharp and hasty
glance of inquiry. *• So you've altered your opinion, have you,"
he asked, wonderingly, " about the merits and potentialities of
these natural Kabyle women ? "

** Oh, viewed as a model only, I mean," Blake corrected in
haste. " I should love to paint her, of course ; she's so splendid
as an example of the pure unadulterated human figure. I don't
go back one word of what I said otherwise. For wives, I prefer
them civilised and educated. But if it comes to that, you must
remember, Le Marchant, the girl's at least one half an English-
woman."

As he spoke, Meriem, tripping lightly and gracefully up the
rocky path above, that led by zigzag gradients to her uncle's hut
— for it was hardly more — turned round again and waved them
a last farewell with that faultless arm of hers. Both young men
raised their hats by some inner impulse as to an English lady.
Then the Kabyles turned round a sharp ledge of rock, and left
them undisturbed to their supper and their conjectures. Le
Marchant gazing after her, saw a vision of glory. Blake saw
but the picture of n Tn-eek gnddp'^s. waving her arm, as on aom«
antique vautj, to i'aiMia or Eiiu^iuxun.

■>A

■iiiiii

TSMTS OF ttlUS|«

CHAPTER VI.

mil KNTVXTT EXPLAINS HERSELF.

That same afternoon, in London town, where the atmosphere
was perhaps a trifle less clear than on the mountains of Eabylie,
Thomas Kynnersley Whitmarsh, Q.C., the eminent authority
upon probate and divorce cases, was somewhat surprised at
receiving an unexpected Visit in his own chambers in Old Square,
Lincoln's Inn, from his pretty little niece, Iris Knyvett. The
Third Classic had by this time got over the first flush and whirl
of congratulations and flattery. Her fame had almost begun to
pall upon her. The Times had had a leader in her honour, of
course, and the illustrated papers had eni,^raved her portrait,
from which a captious world rejoiced to leurn she did, not wear
blue spectables. Fogeys, of whom the present writer is one, had
croaked in letters to the public press about the danger of the
precedent to all her sex ; and enthusiastic speakers on ladies'
platforms had hailed her success with jubilant whoops as the
first dawn of a; new era for emancipated womanhood. The
Third Classic, in short, had been the talk of the town — a nine
days' wonder. But owing to the opportune intervention of a
small boy who could play the violin, and a new design for blow-
ing up the Czar in the Summer Palace, the hubbub was begi^'ning
to die away a little now, and Iris Knyvett wag able to face a
trifle more calmly the momentous question of her own future
career and place in the universe.

It is a characteristic of the present age that even women have
begun at last to develop the rudiments of a social conscience.
No longer content to feed like drones at the world's table, giving
nothing in return towards the making of the feast save the
ornamental effect of their own gracious smiles and pretty faces,
they have awoke with a start in these latter days to the sense of
a felt need in life — to a consciousness of the waut of a definite
mission. It was a mission that Iris was now in search of, and it
was on the subject of the choice or nature of that proposed mis-
sion that she came down dutifully to Old Square that fine after-
noon to consult her uncle. This was nice of her ; for, believe me,
the higher education has not wholly succeeded in onsexing a

[limil '■»" 'iW'W^'y),

WfWI

^p^p^^p

TBI henti of ibkii.

ft"

woman if ihe still pretends, in the decorous old fashion, to paj
a certain amount of ostensible exttirnul deference to the opinions
and experience of her male relations.

The eminent Q.C. looked up in surprise from his •• devil's "
short notes on a fresh brief, which he was just that moment
engaged in skimming. It was a slack afternoon in Old Square,
as it hapjiened, and, by a sort of minor miracle or special pro-
vidence, Uncle Tom had really half an hour to spare upon his
pretty and now distinguished niece ; but, even had it been other-
wise, some client's case would surely have fared but scurvily at
his hands at such a moment; for Uncle Tom was fond and
proud of Iris, in spite of her heresies, and would have neglected
Colpfidge, C.J., himself to attend to her slightest whim or
fa

" v^od bless my soul, my dear," he exclaimed, in surprise,
rising up from his desk, and pushing his niece with a hearty kiss
and a vigorous shove into the one arm-chair (so dusty in the
back that Ins, being still, though Third Classic, a woman for all
that, trembled inwardly in silence for her nice new best afternoon
frock), *• what on earth brings a learned lady like you down to
Lmco.n's Inn at this time of day, eh ? "

" Well. uiK-le," Ins answered, with modest eyes, "to tell you
Llie truth, 11 I may venture to bother you, I've come down to ask
your advice this afternoon about a private matter that greatly
fonc Ilia me."

Thr old barrister rubbed his fat hands together with a distinct

u'nw of mward satisfaction. "That's right, my dear," he

i:-w<r' 1 warmly. "That's the right spirit. The good old

J 111 glad to see it, Iris ; I'm very glad to see it. I was

\<»n d be too puli'ed up now even to look at me in the light

.)i ' ■• adviser."

iris glanced down, demureh und smiled. "Uncle dear,"

she said, with w'^anly softness, "I hope I shall never be too

pulled up to consult you about /;.Dything and everything on earth

that concerns me. Since dear papa died, I feel that you've

'^^ ' Ift'fin as good as a father to me. You know that as well

' iiiily you like to make me tell you again. But are you

<■• you dfar, that I'm not interrupting you ? "

d mail s eyes had a gentle glisten in them as he took his

u.Hf.'s hand in his, tenderly. "Iris," he answered,

- u it with old-fashioned chivalry to his pursed-up hps (for

(ill diHJ fat as he was, the eminent Q.C. was an old gentleman
9I inuch unsuspected sentiment), " you never interrupt me, and

J,J,J|;V»ill.lMl^i|^7JJ^

TBI TBNT8 Of

yoa never ihall. My most litigious olient muflt wait year plea-
sure. I'm always glad at any time to see you here or elnewhore.
My dear, I, who never had a daughter of my own, love you as
ck'iirly as if you were my own daughter. I'm only too glad to
lie of'any help to you. I don't think I shall come down here
much longer, Iris. The fact is, Im getting tired of th»< Bar —
its duiness and its hol'owncss. My boys are well-enough pro-
vided for now, and I shall never be a judge — I've been far too
honest for that — done no dirty work for either party. So thore's
nothing to keep me with my nose at the grindstone here much
longer. I've feathered my nest in spite of 'em, and I shall soun
retire ; and then I shall have nothing to do in life but to po.su as
your guardian, guide, philosopher, and friend, Miss Third
Classic," And he eyed her admiringly. It was very wrong, but
he liked his pretty niece all the better for having achieved those
academical honours which he, nevertheless, felt bound to
deprecate.

Iris's eyes fell down once more. ' You're too good, uncle —
and you're a darling," she answered. " Well, what I wanted to
consult you about to-day is just this. Now that I've finished mj

I'ducation "

Uncle Tom shook his head in vigorous dissent. •' Bad phrase,
my dear," he said, " bad phrase, very. Too youthful altogether,
Betray's mexperience. Nobody ever finished his education yet.
Mine goes on still. It's in progress daily. Each ni*w case
teaches me something. And the judges teach me, if nothing
else, cuutempt of Court daily."

Iris accepted the correction in good part. •' Well, then," she
went on with a pretty smile, "now that I've completed my

University course "

" Much better," the old man muttered, "much bettor; much
better. Though not feminine."

" 1 want to begin some work in life — somothiii;.' tliat will do

^'ood in some way to others — something that will make me feel

I'm being of use to the world in my generation."
Uncle Tom sniffed high. *• In short," he said with a pitying

-;inile, " a Mission."

Ins rtmiled in return, in spite of herself. " Well, yes," she

jiumuin-d good-humouredly, " if you chouse to put it so, just

iiai tt Mis.sion."
Uncle Tom rose and went over without a word to a gmall tin

'OX on a shelf opposite, conspicuously labelled in large white

letters, " Estate of the late Hev. HeginuUl Kuyveti." From the

^mimf^mir

tSB TBNT8 Of •HXll,

boi he l(X)k out ft few papers and parcliments, and from among
tliem he soon aelected one, tied round with a neat little tag of
red tape, and niaria'd on tiie back in a round legal hand,
•• Descendants of the late Rear-Admiral William Clarence Kny-
vett, O.B." He handed this formidable document over with a
little silent bow to Iris, and seating himself then athia own desk,
proceeded with uplifted pen to address her, as jury on the
question at issue.

•• My dear," he said, in so forensic a tone, that Iris half
expected " My Lud, I mean," to follow, *' you must remember
that you have already a mission cut out for you, and a mission
for which it is your bounden duty as a citizen and a Christian
most strenuously to prepare yourself. I know, of course, the
sf.ri of thnig you had in your head. Come now," and he
assumed his croaa-examiring tone, with a dig of his quill in the
direction of the unwilling witness ; '• confess, you were thinking
of being a nurse in a hospital."

Ins blushed a guilty acquiescence. " Well, either that," she
answered grudgingly, ** or a tutorship or lectureship at some ladies'
college."

" Precisely so," Uncle Tom responded, with ^ crushing
triumph. " I knew as much. I was morally certain of it. It's
always so. Young women in search of a mission now-a-days
have two ideas, and two ideas only — nursing or teaching. They
want to turn the world into one vast hospital or one vast board-
ing-school. They'd like us all to break our legs or go into the
Fourth Form again, that they might exercise their vocation
by bandaging us up with ambulance shreds, and list, or giving us
lectures at great length in political economy. Now the fact is.
Iris, that's all very well for plain young women of limited means,
whom nobody's ever likely to think of marrying. Let them exer-
cise their vocation by all means, if they like it, provided always
they don't always expect me to break my leg to please them, or
listen to their lectures on political economy. 1 draw a line

there; no Mill or Ricardo But you, my dear, will

have a great fortune. Somebody worthy of you will some day
marry you — if anybody worthy of you exists anywhere. Now, to
dispense that great fortune aright, to use it for the best good ol
humanity, you ought to be otherwise engaged than in bandaging,
I think. Your main work in life will be, not to bandage, but to
fulfil the part of a good wife and a good mother. I may be old-
''ashioncd in thinking thus, perhaps. I may even be indelicate,
■ince womeii uow-a-days are too delicate to face the facts of life —

; kit-

lliX TENTS OF 8U£U.

but, at any rate, I'm practical. These views are not the views in
vogue at Girton, I'm aware, but they're common sense — they're
common sense for all that. The species won't die out because
you've got the higher education. What then ? You ought to
be trying to prepare yourself for your duties in life — the duties
in life that will naturally devolve upon you as the mistress, dis-
penser, and transmitter of a Great Property." The last two
words Uncle Tom pronounced with peculiar unction, for pro-
perty in his eyes was something almost sacred in its profound
impoii/ance.

•• But how do I know," Iris objected faintly, '♦ tliat Uncle
Arthur will leave his money to me at all ? Let alone- the odious
idea of waiting and watching till you come into somebody else's
fortune."

•• How do you know ? " Uncle Tom repeated, with a sudden
explosion of virtuous indignation. " Just look at that paper you
i'old in your hand, and I'll explain the whole thing to you, as
clear as mud, in half-a-second. He'd hardly dare to leave it
otherwise, I tell you, with me against him. I'd hke to see him
try, that's all. Iris. Just cast your eye on the paper ir your
hand, and recollect that your grandfather, the Admiral — like a
green bay-tree — had five sons — his quiver full of them. Five
sons. Alexander, the Squire, never married ; Clarence, the
scapegrace — the less said about Clarence the better ; Sir Arthur,
the General, whose wife pre-deceased him ; Reginald, the par-
son, your father, my dear, and a better man never breathed,
though he married my sister ; and, lastly, Churles, that rascally
lawyer, who has issue your cousin Harold. Well, your grand-
father was ill-advised enough, though not a lawyer to draw up
his own will hini': ;lf — a thing oven I would hardly venture to do,
with all my knowialge ; ' but fouls rush in,' &c.,, &c. As always
happens in such cases, he drew it up badly, very badly — the
Nemesis of the amateur — used technical terms he didn't under-
sfcand, and omitted to explain his intentions clearly. Now he
left the propert;^ in the first instance, for life only, to your uncle
Alexander, the eldest son, as you see by that paper — but you're
not looking at it. Alexander, you observe, ie there set down as
d. s. p. — decessit sine prole — which I need hardly say to a Third
Classic means that he died without lawful issue."

" I see," Iris answered, endeavoring to assume an interested
expression, for the technicalities of t]it. la^v failed to arouse in
her the same enthusiasm as in the eminent authority on probate
and divorce cases. '

•>:

THX TINTS Of WBMM.

** Well, by the terms of the will in that case made and pro
vided," Uncle Tom went on, with demonstrative forefinger,
the property was next to go for life to your Uncle Clarence, pro-
vided he outlived your Uncle Alexantljr. Clarence, who was to
have power of appointment if he died with issue, was, as you will
remember, an oflficer of hussars, and, not to put too tine a point
upon it, he disappeared under a cloud, getting killed abroad in
the French service, in whkjh he had enlisted, before, nnu'k you,
before the death of your Uncle Alexander, who deceased at Bath,
on April the 4th, 1883, without lawful issue. So tliat, so far as
this present question is concerned, we may safely leave Clarence
out of consideration. Mortuus est sine prate — he died without
lawful issue of his body begotten, killed in action in foreign
parts, on or about the 20th of June, anno domini, 1868, and has
no further interest in this present inquiry."

" I see." Iris once more made answer, dutifully stifling a ya-.;'n.

••Well, then, and in that case," Uncle Tom went on, witU j
forensic quill pointed firmly towards her, '• the proi)erty was to
devolve on the third brother, your uncle Arthur — yon see him
down there, Major-General Sir Arthur Wellesley Knyvett, K.C.B.
— no doubt as your grandfather fondly expected on the same
terms as his elder brothers. And Sir Arthur, in fact, as you well
know, is now and at present the actual holder. But then,
and this is hujIUy important, your grandfather omitted, in
Arthur's case, to insvsrt the limiting clause he had elsewhere
used for his other children, and left, by implication, your uncle
Arthur (purely by accident, I don't for a moment doubt) full
power to beq'ueath it to whomsoever he chose, whether he had
issue hving or otherwise. And that power," Uncle Tom con-
tinued, with a vicious snap of the jaw, •• your Uncle Arthur now
and always lays claim to exercise."

" Then how am I to know," Iris asked with a shudder, scarcely
overcoming her natural objection to ask such a question, •• that
Uncle Arthur means to exercise in my favour ? "

*• Because," Uncle Tom answered, with a wise air of exclusive
knowledge, •' I have let him kiiow privately, through a safe
medium, that he daren't do otherwise. The terms of the will,
in the latter part, are so vague and contradictory tli;it nobody
but I can understand them, and I can make that mean anything
I like, or everything, or nothing. Your grandfather then goes
on to provide, after allowing your Uncle Arthur to do as he will —
so far as I can read his ungrammatical sentences— that in case
your Uncle Arthur dies without issue, the money shall ^:o to the
fourth son, the Rev. Reginald Knyvett, decease 1, wii) married

\ '■

THS TKNTI or ■■BM.

mj sister, Ainelia Whitroarsh ; or, in case of his prt-decoMe, to
his lawful issue, who. as ^-ou will see from the paper hefore you,
and are indeed perhaps already aware, is Iris Enyyetl, of Qirton
College, Cambridge, spinster, here present."

" 1 suspected as much already," Iris answered, imiling.
" Last of all on that paper, you will observe," Uncle Tom
remarked, growing suddenly severe and red in face, as was his
wont in dealing with a specially awkward and damaging witness,
" comes the name of the, fifth and youngest son, that rascally
lawyer, Charles Wilberforce Knyvett. Now, your late uncle,
Charles Wilberforce Knyvett, for some unknown reason, was
never in any way a favourite with his father. In fact, the
Admiral profoundly disliked him. People say the old gentleman
in his latter days thought his youngest son a sneak and a cui
(which was unhappily true), and harboured a peculiar grudgt
against him. At any rate, he is conspicuously omitted from any
benefit under the will, or rather, it is provided in so many words
that after all these lives have run out, the property shall not
descend to Charles Wilberforce Knyvett, his heirs, executors, or
assigns, but shall be diverted to another branch of the family, to
the total exclusion of your Uncle Charles and his sole issue,
your Cousin Harold."

"Then Uncle Arthur couldn't leave the property to Harold,
even if he wanted to ? " Iris asked, somewhat languidly, but
with a resolute desire, since her uncle wished it, to master the
intricacies of this difficult problem in the law of inheritance.

" He says he can, but / say he can't," Uncle Tom answered,
with a glow of righteous triumph. •• I've tried the will by all
the precedents, and all I've got to say is this — I'd just like to
see him try it." And Uncle Tom unconsciously assumed the
attitude of defence familiar to the patrons of the British prize ring.
** That's a pity," Iris answered, looking him straight in the
face ; *' and it seems somehow awfully unfair ; for Uncle
Arthur's so fond of Harold, yon know ; and he's never seen ms
since I was a baby in swaddling-clothes."

Uncle Tom laid down his glasses on his desk with a bounce
* Cod bless my soul," he cried, in a paroxysm of astonishment.
' I« the girl crurked ? Has much learning made her mad at
(lirtun ? Going to play into your enemy's hand, eh, and chuck
ip u furtiiMe of SIX thousand a year ; all for the sake of a piece
if sentiment ! No, no. thank heaven, I know the law ; and not
t siMi^h [)enny of the Admiral's property shall that scoundrel
liaiold ever touch or handle. Not a doit, not a cent, not a sou
,,.( ■, -rivpr Hh won't, and Ije shan't, so that's all about it I "

IBS TBNTB OV IHUI.

CHAPTER Vn.

▲BT kND NATURB.

&-;

•^ v'Tj few days Eustace Le Marchant and Venion Rlftkf
.1 ;,.i'd down comfortably to their respective pursuits on tin/
wiiid-' \>opt summit of the mountain of the Beni-Merzoug, Tli^j
simple-hearted /'iSyles, as soon as they were quite convincwl
that the new-corn '■ ^e neither French spies nor agricultural
pioneers sent out to ^ad the concomitant blessings of civiliHa-
tion and confiscation oi land, welcomed the young Englislmifji,
with most cordial hospitality to their lonely hill -tops, Theii
courtesy, in fact, seemed likely at first to prove, if anything, i
tv'Ale too pressing ; for almost every family in the village insistec
on sending a cous-cous in turn, in polite recognition of the new
visitors. Now, Meriem's coim-cous, much to the Englishirum't
int^enuous surprise, prepared as it was by those dainty and dextur-
uu^ fingers, had turned out upon tasting a triumphant success ,
but the cous-com which succeeded it, and all of which politeiiusi.
compelled the inhabitants of the camp to devour in public to tlu
utmost morsel before the entertainers' eyes, were far from attiiin'
ing the same high level of primitive cookery. Deft fingers count
for much even in the smallest matters. Meriem herscilf, indeed
was of infinite use to them in arranging supplies ; and her undo
the Headman, with his friends the Marabouts, gave them ever}
facility for shooting and sketching, and hunting specJnuMu
throughout the whole country-side for miles in either directio;).
. On the first morning after their arrival in the hills, ljluk(-
strolled out by himself, with sketch-book in hand, for a wall,
through the village, while Le Marchant was busy unpacking anu
arranging his bird-stufiing and beetle-preserving apparatus. To
Vernon Blake the village was indeed a fresh world of untoU*
enjoyment. The rough-built houses with their big stone walKi
and tile-covered roofs ; the broad eaves projecting over the open
court-yard, and supported by rude wood Ionic columns ; the tali
lithe men with their simple but picturesque and efi'ective garb,
their bronzed features, and their long oval faces ; the women aj
the fouutaiu with water jars on their'heads, walking Btat«ly aud

mfmmm^T'^r'^^

tEM TSMTS OF BHKU.

«f

•rool, with exquisite bu^ts and rounded limbs, jnst peeping
through the gi*aceful folds of tlieir hangijig chiton — each and all
of these suggested to his soul endless subjects for innumerable
pictures, where girls of this exquisite Italian type might form
the figures in the foreground, exactly suited to his eyinpathetio
pencil. He had come to the very right place for his art. Modeli
crowded upon him spontaneously at every corner.

A turn of the road near the Headman's cottage brought him
suddenly, with a start, face to face with Meriem herself,- engaged
on a little flat platform with a group of Kabyle girls of her own
age in moulding coarse vases of hand-made pottery. Blake, with
his soft-soled white-linen shoes, came upon them so noiselessly
and unexpectedly that for half-a-minute the giris themselves,
intent upon their work, never so much as perceived the presence
of a stranger. The artist, drawing-back, for fear he might dig- ,
turb them, drank in the whole group with unspoken delight.
He paused on the path a little above where they stood, and
looked down, all interest, upon that unstudied picture. The
graceful Kabyle maidens in their simple loose dress, with feet
bare to the ankle, were stooping picturesquely over the jars they
were moulding, in unconscious attitudes of grace and beauty.
Some of them were bii re-headed, others wore on their hair a sort
of pointed fez, oV Phrygian kaftan, which half confined, half let
loose to the wind, their raven-black locks. The jars, in shape
like an old Roman amphora, were poised upon the ground by
means of a little round mud base ; the naive young potters,
each full of her own task, and unmindful of the others, built up
the big vessels stage after stage by adding on loose handfuls of
moist and flattened clay to the half-finished outline. They were
evidently ignorant of the use of the wheel — so remote and
uiisophjsticuited are these wild mountain-people — yet the shapes
which grew slowly under their moulding fingers were each
almost perfect of their own simple kind, and bore each the dis-
iinct and ujimistakable impress of an individual fancy. It was
pretty to ses them stooping, thus unconscious, over the wet vases
of yellow clay, witli 'one hand inside supporting and modelling
the fresJjIy-added portion, while the other without was eirsployed
in smoothing it, and shaping the whole, by dexterous side-pres-
sure, to the required roundness.

Blake would have pulled out his pencil on the spot, and
dketched thorn roughly in their attitudes all unwitting as they
Ktood, had not one little fair-haired and blue-eyed maiden, of
^hat almost Scaudioaviaa type so common here and ik%t% ixK

'fo

TBI TENTS or Sfflll.

aabyle villages, looked laughingly up from her two-handled lat.
and caught his eye on a sudden with a frig-htened httle scream
of shyness and astonishment. An infidel was standing there
gazing upon them unseen. " A stranger I A stranger I " At
the sound, all the others started up in concert, and in a moment
all was giggling and blushing confusion. So strange a visitor
never before had disturbed their peace. Some of the girls held
their hands to their faces lilft wayward children to hide their
blushes ; ethers fell back a pace or two in startled haste under
th« overhanging eaves of the Headman's cottage. Who could
■ay what designs the infidel might harbour ? Meriem alone
raised herself erect, and gazed the painter fairly in the face with
th« irank self-possession of a European lady.

Blake lifted his hat as instinctively as before, for he felt her
presence ; and Meriem, in reply, raised her hand with a wave,
to the level of her face with a easy and graceful natural saluta-
tion.

" Good morning, mademoiselle," the artist said, gaily, in high
spirits at the SC' ne and its pictorial capabilities.

" Good morning, friend," Meriem answered quickly, a slight
shade pa^^sing as she spoke, over her open countenance. •• But
but why do you call me mademoiselle, if you please ? I'm not a
Frenchwoman as you seem to think me."

Blake saw she was evidently annoyed by the politely-meant
title.

" I called you mademoiselle," he said, apologetically, ** because
I wanted to call you something, and as I suppose you're a French
citizen, I didn't know what else on earth to call you."

•' Why not call me by my name, as every one else does 7 " tlic
beautiful barbarian answered, simply. ** I'm just Meriem to all
the village."

Blake was a little taken aback at the startling proposal. So
much familiarity fairly took his breath away. This was indeeii
to rush in medias res, with undue precipitancy,

" Am I to say Meriem, then ? " he inquired rather low, witl
natural bashfulness.

" Wha? else should you say?" Meriem answered, naively.
" Don't people call one another by their names everyw here ? "

** Why, yes," Blake answered, with some little hesitation.
"but not by their Christian names, you know — at least, in [-'ai^
land — except as a mark of special favour and close intimacy "

" Meriem is not a Christian name," the girl anawered ha.stilv
itlmost indignantly, " and 1 lu uot a CLndtiuu , 1 tu » UMi
belitTcr."

TBS n«n Of IBBM.

•1

witl

' But your father was a Christian," Blake ventured to repi?,
Aonished at the unwonted tone of her disclaimer, " and you told
k.s yesterday your English name at least was Mary."

"My father was no Christian!" Meriera cried aloud, with
(lashing eyes and fiery indignation. " People in the village
accused him of that sometimes, I know, but it was never true ;
I'm sure it was never true, for Yusuf was kinder and better than
any one — no infidel could ever be as kind as that. He was a good
Moslem, and he read the Koran and prayed at the tombs, and
went to moyque like the reat on Fridays regularly. He was a
a'ue man, and every one loved him. No one shall sfty a word
<)efore me against my father. As to my name, why Mary and
Meriem's all the same, of course ; and I was called, so the
women in the village say, after the name of the mother of Aissa-
ben- Menem. But Moslems, too, honour him as a very great
prophet, you know, though not so great, naturally, aa our own
Prophet Mahomnied."

Blake hardly understood her meaning to the full, for his
acquaintance with her creed was strictly confined to " The
Arabian Nights " and •• The Revolt of Islam ; " but it gave him
I little shuck of surprise and horrpr to hear any one, and espe-
ually a woman, so indignantly'rfgertj'ie'';ipi)iu;tat.i9n of Christian-
ity. Yet a moment'8,.»'eilticlAoi^ fiferv-ed'SO di.u)w hW.'^iiough by no
means » philo8ophicai\\->ninded pV. ccjymop6lifcan»'y*^^iig man,
that in such surroundings nnthinglf^fep '.would have" been natural,

" Qhristians
r-A^etesta-
'(Ity't^ven'o'cijUfred i'o'her sikiple mind
that \^^:-^ hearer hiiuHelf, infidel as he was, could think seriously
vvyll ol them, or regard tliem as the equals of true believers.

He turned the conversation, accordingly, of set purpose.
" You all looked so pretty," he said, •* as I came along the path,
bending over your jars and modelling }our pottery, that I was
longing in my heart to stand still and study you. I wanted to
iketch you all just as you stood there."

•• To triiiit ' " Meriem cried, with a little start of dismay ; an
unknown word encloHen for a woman such infinite possibilities.

"To skt'ifh you, you know," Blake repeated, reassuringly.
• To put sou in my book like this, you see. To make a little
puliire of >()U."

Meriem lau;^hed, a sweet, frank laugh, as she turned the pages
of his book with wondering eyes. "That would be nice," she
said. ** They'ro pretty things, these. But would it be right, I

TBB TKNT8 OF BHXM.

wonder ? AH good Moslems are forbidden, you know, hy th*
Prophet's law, to make a picture or image of anything in heavt n
or earth or the water under them. There are no pictures any
where in any of the mosques. Would the Marabouts think ii
was right for us to be painted ? "

•' But I'm not a Moslem, you see," Blake replied, smiling.
with ready professional casuistry. " And all you've got to do
yourselves, you know, is just to stand leaning as you were over
your pottery, and allow me to commit the sin of sketching you
on my own account. It won't hurt me : I'm a hardened otrender.
Ask the other girls, there's a good soul, whether they'll come
back as they were and let me sketch them."

••And are the other girls to be put in the picture, too?"
Meriem asked, looking up, with a faint undertone of disappro-
bation.

•• Certainly," Blake replied, without perceiving the slight
inflection of disappointment in her voice. " Now go, there's a
good girl, and make them come back and stand nicely as I tell
them."

'• My father used to say that, • Now go, there's a good girl,' "
Meriem answered, with . a^ faint rising flush of pleasure ; and
pleased at the.word^, Bhe Svent 66' A.!, ooce to do as he directed her.
He had 8ti,rbed'a)ri'/5ld'6"bbVd |n (ler.sinjiile .nature.

In half-a'-I(itoE\in minCites l31^,ke had gottwo sitters, with a little
coaxing ancf manual posing; which they seerned ,to resent far less
than Europ,ea|i, girl:8;!<rotiid! have, done ^ijiKlei tbe circumstances,
into tolerabWoi'der'.of ' his proppse'<i ,^tud'y.. , At-first, to be sure,
he had on little Hiffiicuity in getting them to keep for five seconds
together to one posture or attitude. They seemed to think it a
matter of supreme indifference whether a face begun at one angle
should be continued at the same or a totally unlike one. But
with some small trouble, by Meriem's aid, and with the magni-
ficent promise of untold wealth in the shape of a silver half-franc,
a piece visibly dangled before their antonished eyes, he succeeded
at last in inducing each girl to maintain something like a con-
sistent attitude, at least while he was engaged upon his first
rough sketch of her own particular face and figure. The guileless
damsels, dazzeled at the prospect of such unexpected wealth,
would have sat there all day as still as mice for so magnificent a
payment ; but at the end of an hour or two, Blake dismissed
them all with mutual satisfaction tc their various homes, and pre-
pared himself to return in excellent spirits to the tent with hu
priM for luncheon. *• That ought to fetch them," he murmured

THB TKNTB OF ■HKM.

9 "

to himseVf, as he surveyed his own dainty and tmaffected sketch
with parental partiality. '• Now, Meriem, you've done more for *
me to-day than all the rest of them put together. You must
have a whole franc yourself for your share of the proceedings."
And he held that vast store of potential enjoyment, proffered in
a shining coin, between his delicate thumb and opposing fore-
finger.

Meriem had never possessed so much money in her life before ;
but she drew her hand back from him with a startled gesture, and
held it like a child behind her back with an unsophisticated
expression of offended dignity. '• Oh, no," she answered, blush-
ing crimson to the neck ; *' I could never take that. Please don't
ask me again. I'm glad I was able to help you with your pic-
ture. Though of course it was wrong for us tc let you draw us."

Blake saw at a glance that she really meant it, and with the
innate courtesy of a gentleman refrained at once from pressing
the obnoxious coin any further upon the girl's unwilling notice.
He replaced the franc quietly in his waistcoat pocket, and said
as he did so in an unconcerned voice, to tvirn the current of both
their thoughts, •* I suppose the other girls will go off with their
money to get themselves something at the shops in the village."

•' At the what ? " Meriem asked, with a look of bewilderment.

" At the shops," Blake answered, in a jaunty tone. " I sup-
pose you've got shops of some sort or other in this benighted
country."

" I don't know what you mean," Meriem answered, shaking
her head vigorously. •' I never heard of them. Shops, did you
say ? I don't think we've got any — unless it's cakes ; but if I
only knew exactly what you meant, and could say it in Kabyle,
I'd ask my uncle."

Blake laughed a laugh of unaffected amusement. It seemed
so odd to be talking to somebody in his own tongue— and so
familiarly too — who had never even so much as heard what sort of
thing a shop was. " Why, where do you buy things ? " he
asked, curiously. " Where do you get the food and utensils, and
so on, that you're in want of ? "

" We make them, or grow them mostly, of course," Meriem
answered, quickly (everything, it seemed, was " of course,"
to Meriem, because her experience had all been so limited, and
so uncontradicted) ; "but when we want to buy anything from
other tribes, we go down and get them with money at the mar-
kets. Or, sometimes we exchange a goat or a chicken. There's a
market one day of the week, but I don't remember its Englrsb

THS TENTS OF •Hill.

nam« — the (lay after Friday — here with as at BenioMercong ;
and there are others on other days at neighboring villages, some-
times one and sometimes another. And that's where we always
go to buy things."

Blake smiled to himself a smile of amused superiority. To
think that Le Marchant should have talked seriously, from a
marrying point of view, about a girl who had never even heard
of shopping 1 And yet in more civilised European climes many
a good man would be heartily glad to find himself a wife on whose
innocent mind — but on second thoughts 1 refrain from making
any nasty reflections.

He shut up his sketch-book, and rose to leave. Meriem
looked after him with a look of regret. How wonderful that a
man should be able to make pictures like that ! They seemed
to live and breath, she fancied. She had hardly ever seen a pic-
ture at all before, except a few coarse French lithographs brought
by the villagers at Tizi-Ouzou. But she had never been so far
as Tizi-Ouzou even, herself. Her narrow little experience was
bounded hard and fast by her own mountain peak, and its
adjacent valleys.

And how beautiful he looked when he turned and smiled at
her I

But Blake went away and thought of nothing. He showed
his sketch to Le Marchant in high spirits when he reached th©
tent. Le Marchant's face feU as be looked at it. ** So you've
been drawing Meriem 1 " he said. *' You've found her out
already I A very pretty picture. You ought to work it into
something very good I It's lifelike, and therefore of course its
beautiful. . . . But vou've been with Meriem all the mom-
ing, while I've been unpacking my goods and chattels. I won-
dered she hadn't been up here before to visit us.*'

^im^^

THE TENTS OF BIIEM.

6«

CHAPTER Vra.

NO SOUL.

For the next wed: n^ -.n the two young Enghshmen wei»; ' u y
enough hunting and .SAUiching all day long among the fresii
ground they had thus successfully broken for themselves in the
North African llighUuids. Le i\larcliant spent much of his time
up among the jagged peaks and bare rocks of the mountains,
happy enough if he returned at night with a specimen of " that
rare and local bird, the Algerian titmouse," or with a snail as
big as a pin's head, *• a perfect treasure, you know, my dear
fellow, hitherto only known to science in the mountains of Cala-
bria and in the Albanian Highlands." Zeal for his great work
on " Structure and Function " had swallowed him up, and gave
zost and importance to the minutest find in beetles or gadflies.

Blake, on the other liand, loitered much more around the pre-
cincts of the village itself and the cultivated plots tiiat hung
along the narrow ledges of the hillside ; for his quarry was man,
and he loved to drink his fill of that idyllic life, so purely Arca-
ilian in its surviving simplicity, that displayed itself with such
charming frankness and unconcern before his observant eyes each
sunny morning. It was the artist's Greece revived for his
behoof; the Italy of the Georgics in real life again. The
labourer leaning hard on his wooden plough, the yoke of moun-
tain oxen that tugged it through the ground, the women at the
well with their coarse hand -made jars, the old men chatting
under the shade of the ash-trees beside the tiny mosque, all
afforded him subjects for innumerable studies. He beheld
before his face a Virgilian eclogue for ever renewing itself ; and
the young painter, who had never read his Eclogues in the Latin
at all, could appreciate whatever was most vivid anc' "rtureprj^ue
in the life of these simple idyllic mountaineers wiiii an «';'e as
keen in its way as Virgil's own had been.

Meriem, too, often came up in the evenings to the tent in her
capacity as interpreter ; and Le Marchant, who could see and
idmire strong traits of character wherever he found them, soon
learnt to read ici the Eabyle-bred girl, with her open mind uid

'■?^-

-^irsj^wr

IBB TKiti •! Nam.

serene intelligence, many marki of fine and sterling qnalities
But he could gather little further by all his inquiries about the
mystery of her origin. All that Meriem herself could tell hiui
of her parentage was simply this — Yusuf had a French name a?
well as an English, and a Kabyle one ; and if his Frencii name
had ever leaked out, the people at Fort National would have
taken hira and shot him. Le Marchant, indeed, was just at first
inclined to consider the beautiful girl's father was a runaway
convict !

Inquiries directed through Meriem 's mouth to her uncle tlio
Amine were met in a distinctly reserved spirit. It seemed f
though the old Kabyle was afraid even now of betraying the deau
man's secret — if indeed he had one, or if the Amine knew it.
Perhaps these English might be in league with the infidel French
after all, and might be plotting harm against himself and his
tribesmen — else why should they thus minutely inquire about
the girl's antecedents ? A mere girl ; why bother their heads
with her ? Yusuf was dead ; let him sleep in peace where good
Moslems had laid him. All that the Amine could or would tell
them amounted in the end simply to this — that Meriem 's father
had come to them as a guest after a great battle in a local insur-
rection (one of those petty risings, no doubt, in which the tribes
of Kabyle are forever striving to reassert their independence of
French authority) ; that he was a good man, who loved th(
Kabyles ; that he wore the native dress, and lived as the tri'
lived ; that he was a faithful Moslem, and a clever hunter, cc-
siderations apparently of equal importance in the eyes of the
villagers ; that he had married Amine's sister, Meriem's mother,
long since dead, according to the rites and ceremonies of the
Kabyle people ; and that he had died by falling over a ledge of
rock three years back, while wandering by himself under unex-
plained circumstances among the high mountains. So much the
Amine, bit by bit, suspiciously admitted. With that scanty
information, no more being forthcoming, Le Marchant for the
present was forced to content himself.

Blake, on the other hand, with his more easy-going and
pleasure-loving artistic temperament, troubled himself little about
all these things. Gallio that he was, it sufficed him to sit in th(
shade of the chestnuts and paint Meriem as the foreground figure
in almf3st all his pictures rather than indulge in otiose specula
tions as to her possible ancestry and problematical parentage
*• She's a first-rate model," 1 ' said, " whoever her father may be
King Cophetua's beggar-maid could xieyer have been lovelisr.'

7 ""!j>r7'*'T^'7r " ' t*'?^ "-T^^^"^ r?^ ™ - f^'

THJI TBim or tUKil.

•7

\nd that eontflnted him. He wanted only to find physical
beauty. So he got to work soon on atiidioa for a large canvas,
with Meriem in the centre, her watef -jar poisod witli queenly gracf-
upon her stately head ; and he was well satifl.fiud to sketcli lu
her shapely chin and throat without any remote gonealo^'ica!
inquiries to distract his mind from the excjuisite curve of her
nock and shouidors.

"But if you're going to give me regular 8ittiiiy;H, Mi'i'iem," ho
.said to her seriously one morning under the clinstnuts, vLMituring
to broach once more the tabooed subject, •' you must really let
niG pay you so mucli a day, because I sliall want you, of course,
for so many hours every morning regulnrly, and it'll take you
away altogether at times from your bouHciiold duties."

" My aunt can do those," Meriem answere<l quietly shaking
her head. " I like to sit for you ; it gives me pleasure. I like
to see these beautiful pictures growing up so curiously under
your hands ; it's almost hke magic."

" Thank you," tlia Englishman answered. " That's very kind
of you, Praise from your lips, Meriem, is worth a great deal
10 me."

He said it lightly, with a smile and a )0W, as a commonplace
of politeness, for to him the words meant V(!ry little. But to
Meriem, who had never heard women treatoil with ordinary
Western chivalry before, they were full of profoimd and delicious
meaning; they struck some unknown heart-string deep down in
her being. She blushed up to her eyes (a good moment for a
|)ainter ; J31ake seized it gratefully), and then relapsed for a while
into joyful silence.

♦' Yes, yes ! just so ! " Blake cried, stopping her on a sudden, •
with both his hands uphfted in warning, as she fell naturally
into one of her easy, graceful Hellenic attitu(l(!S. •' That's just
how I want you ; don't move a mu.s(de — you're beautiful that
way. It shows off your arm and head and the pose of your neck
to such absolute perfection. You're prettier than ever like that,
I dechire, Meriem."

Menem, all conscious of herself for the first time in her life,
stood as lie directed her, without moving a line, bhe could have
stood there for ever, indeed, with Blake to paint her.

The artist went on without noticing her emotion.

** Don't let my uncle know," she said, after a short pause, with
some slight embarrassment, and hesitating as she spoke, •' that
you offered — that you wanted — toinve me money for sitting."
I won't," BUke answeretl, laughing ; •• I can piomi«e yon

'si I

TBS TENTS OF 8HS1I.

that. With my present knowledge of his language, indeed, I
iliould find it diflBcult." He played with his brush— dab, dab,
on the canvas. •• But why not, Meriem ? "

The girl blushed again. •♦ Because — he would take it/' she
answered simply.

Blake smiled and nodded, but said nothing.

They were standing outside the village on the open space in
front of the tiny whitewashed mosque, and men and women
came past frequently, and paused to look, with clicks of surprise
or interest or approbation, at the portrait on the easel, as Blake
sat and painted it. Presently, a young Kabyle of handsome
form, and well-made features came up in his turn, and loolied,
hke the others ;^then he turned round sharply, and spoke for a,
while, with a somewhat earnest air, to Meriem ; and, as Blake
imagined, there was audible in his tone some undercurrent of
imperious and angry expostulation.

" Who's that ? " the Englishman asked, looking up with a
quick glance from his seat on the rock as the Kabyle turned on
his heel and retired half-haughtily.

•♦ That's Ahmed," Meriem answered, in the same •* of course "
style of conversation as usual, as if everybody must needs know
all her fellow-villagers.

" And who's Ahmed ? " the painter went on, still working
steadily at the flesh-tints of the shoulder.

" The man who's going to marry mo," Meriem answered, in
just as quiet and matter-of-fact a voice as that in which she
vvould have told him tlie price of spring chickens.

Blake starred back in almost speechless surprise.

•' That man marry you I " he cried, with a toss of his hand-
some head. " Why, he's nothing but a common Kabyle mule-
driver. What impudence I What presumption ! And do you
love him, Meriem ? "

** No," Meriem answered, in the sjime calm and downriglit
voice, without the slightest attempt at concealmg ber feelings in
that particular.

" Then why on earth are you going to marry him ? " Blake
ask, astonished.

" Because my uncle has agreed to sell me to hira," Meriem
said, simply. " As soon as Ahmed's earned money enou,L,^h to
buy me, my uncle's going to let him have me clieap. Perhaps
Ahmed *11 have saved enougli by the rieNt olive harvest. He's
offered my uncle a very fair price ; he's going to give him ?»
natch of land and two Inindrod francs for me."

"T?

not TBNTl or SfiSM. tv

Blake was genninely shocked and surprlserl -^f thisfinful 'T-«?-
closure. In spite of his contempt for barbu-.o women, he .cit
instinctively already that Meriem was far too much of an En<,'lish
girl at heart to be bought and sold Uke a sheep or a chattel. He
explained to her, briefly, m simple words, that in En^-Jund such
means of arra^nging marriages were not openly countenanced bj
either law or custom ; indeed, with a generous disregard of plain
facts — allowable, perhaps, under the peculiar circumstances — he
avoided all reference to settlements or jointures, and boldly
averred, with pardonable poetic license, that Englishwomen
always bestowed their hearts and hands on the man of V\"'a
choice who seemed to them most worthy of their young affections.

" That's a beautiful way," Meriem murmured, reflectively,
after the handsome painter had dilated with enthusiasm for s^
few minutes on the purity and nobility of our English marriage
system. *• That's a lovely way. I should like that ever so much.
I wish for some things I had been born in England. Althougi
you're all infidels, you have some good ways there. But here, iu
Kabyhe, of course, I must follow in all things the Kabyk
custom."

*♦ So you mean to obey, and to marry Ahmed ? " Blake asked,
half-shocked, but continuing to work at the elbow and forearm.

"What else can I do?" Meriem asked, looking up with %
quiet sigh. *• I can't refuse to go where my uncle bids me."

" But how can you find it in your soul — " Blake began, hall
indignantly,

" I've got no soul," Meriem interrupted, in a perfectly serioua
voice. " We Mussulmuii women are born without any."

** Weil, soul or no soul, wouldn't you much prefer," Blal e
went on with fire, warming up to his subject, " instead of marry-
ing that fellow with the mules, who'll probably abuse you, and
over-work you, and beat you, and ill-treat you, to marry some
Enghshman with a heart and a head, who'd love you well, and
be proud of your beauty, and dehght in decking you out in
becoming dress, and be to you a friend, and a shield, and a
lov«r, and a protector ? "

A bright light burned for a moment like a flame in Meriem's
eyes ; then she cast them down to the ground, and her bosom
lieaved, as she answered slowly in a very low voice, " No Kabyle
ever spoke to a woman like that. They don't know how. It's
not in their language. But Yusuf used to speak to me often that
s y. And he loved my mother, and was, oh, so kind to her, till
1)8 day she died. I thmk you English, infidels as you aru^

must be in some ways a blessed people ; bo diflferent from tlie
French — the French are wicked. It's a pity the EngUsh aren't
true believers."

Her heart was beating visibly through her robe now. ' Blake
felt he had said a Httle too much, perhaps, for lie meant notlnng
more than the merest flirtation ; so he turned the subject with a
careless smile to the get-up of tlie picture. " I'm going on to
your hand and wrist next, Meriein," he said with a wave, rising
up to pose her fingers exactly as he wanted thein. •• Look here,
this locket round your neck's in the way. Coaldn't you take it
off? It spoils the natural folds of your drapery, and incom-
modes the hand so."

It was a small square charm, in shape like a ^ box or book,
made of coarse silver work, inlaid with enamel, .jid relieved by
bosses of lapus-lazuli, and other cheap stones, such as all Kabyle
women wear as an amulet hung round their necks to protect
them from the evil eye, and other misfortunes. •• With coral
clasps and amber studs," Blake murmured to himself, as he
looked at it closely. He laid his hand upon it with a gosture of
apology, and a " Will you permit me, Meriem ? " — moaning to
remove it by passing the chain over her head and kaftan. But
the girl, with a sudden convulsive eii'ort of both her hands,
clasped it hard and tight to her bosom. •* Oh, no," she cried,
" not that, not that, please I You must never take that. I
couldn't possibly allow you. You mustn't even touch it. Its
very precious. You mast keep your hands off it."

" Is it something, then, so absolutely sacred ? " Blake asked,
half laughingly, and suspecting some curious Mahoramedan
superstition,

•' Yes, more than sacred," Meriem answered low. " It was
Ynsnf who hung it there when he was going away, and he told
nic often, witli tears in his eyes, never to let anybody lay hands
npon it anywhere. And nobody ever shall, till 1 die with it on
my neck. For lusuf's sake it shall always hang there. When
I've borne a son " — she said it so simply that Blake hardly
noticed the unconventional phrase — •' the Kabyle custom is to
wear the charm, for an honour, on the forehead. But I shall
never move mine from my neck at all, though the women may
laugh at me. I shall wear it for ever where my father hung it."

The painter, abashed, held his peace at once, and asked her no
more. He saw she felt too deeply on the subject to malie it
either wise or kind for him to interfere with her feehng.

That evening; at the tent, as he sat with Le Marchant, stofi^g

noi Txmri of shxu.

birds and pinning out butterflies, Meriem came tip with a mes-
sage from the Amine about some domestic trifle of milk supply
or goat'-mntton. Le Marchant was glad to see her. too, for he
wanted to ask her a favour for himself. Perhaps he was jealous
that his handsome lodger should monopolise so large a portion
of the beautiful Kabyle girl's time and attention ; perhaps, being
by nature of a studious turn, he was genuinely anxious to make
the best of his linguistic opportunities. At any rate, he wanted
to inquire of Meriem whether she would give him lessons in the
evening in the Kabyle language. Meriem laughed. She was
perfectly ready to do her best, she said, provided always the
lessons were given with all publicity on the platform outside
the Amine's cottage.

•* For our Kabyle men,'-' she added, with her transparent sim-
plicity, •* are very jealous, you know — very, very jeaious. They
would never allow me to come here to teach you. If I came
without leave, they would stick knives into me."

" And may I learn too 7 " the painter asked, with his sunny
smile.

" Yes, Blake, certainly," Meriem answered at once, with
natural politeness.

Both the men laughed. From that stately and beautiful

girl's lips the mannish colloquialism sounded irresistibly funny.

" You mustn't say * Blake,' " the painter exclaimed, in answer

to Meriem's startled look of mute enquiry at their unexpected

merriment.

" But Le Marchant always calls you Blake," Meriem objected,
much puzzled. " Li England don't people think it right for
women to call men by their own names, then ? "

** Well, not by their surnames alone ; it doesn't sound nice.
They generally put a Mr. before them. But if you like," Blake
went on with audacious ease, for he was far from shy before the
poor Kabyle girl, " you may call me Vernon. That's my Chris-
tian name ; and that's how Englishwomen alwaya call a man
they know well and really care for."

" I really care for you, Vernon ; I like you very much,"
Meriem said, straightforwardly.

" In that case, I too shall claim the same privilege of friend-
ship, and ask you to call me plain Eustace," Le Marchant put
in, with gentle solicitude.

" Very well, Plain Eustace," Meriem answered, in her inno-
cence, taking the name in good faith as a single compound
oae.

™.^^ "iwr ." ^'^ ,5r; ."■ '^'

TBM VSMTI or 8HSM.

i:-

The laaghter that met this anintontional sally WM 90 ffltj
Rontagious, that Meriem herself joined in it heartily, though it
A'ds some minutes before she could be made fully to oncUritand
liie intricate mysteries of European nomenclature.

When she had left the tent, that night, her errand flniihed,
Le Marchant turned round to his easy-going travelling ooxnpan*
ion with much earnestness in his quiet eye. " Blake," he laid,
seriously, " I hope you're not trying to make that poor girl fall
ill love with you."

" I'm not domg anything to make her fail in love," Blake an-
swered, evasively ; •' but she's never met anybody who treated
lier decently in her Hfe before, and I suppose she can't help per-
ceiving the . . . well, you know, the difference between you
or me, for example, and these ignorant Kabyle fellows.'*

" Blake, you must surely see for yourself that in feeling and
iij intellect the girl's more than half an Englishwoman. If you
u'in her heart, and then go away and leave her without a word
to this man you say her uncle's sold her to, you'U murder her as
truly as if, like the Kabyles, you stuck a knife into her."

Blake shuffled about uneasily on his camp-stool. *• She can't
be such a fool as to think I should ever dream of marrying her,"
he replied, with a half-averted face.

li€ Marchant looked across at him with mild eyes of wonder.
' At any rate, Blake, ' he said, in a very solemn, warning vole*,
•' don't engage her affections and then desert ner. She may bo
a Kabyle in outward dress ; but to do that would bo ae cruel n
deed as ever you could do to one of those educated EngliH
ladies you think so much about. Of one blood — all the nation-
of the earth. Hearts are hearts the whole world over."

BlaJte was silent, and threw back his head carelessly to ius^u* t
the aketch he was busily cooking.

TTTK TENTS Of SHEIf.

OHAPTEB TL

STBnUNa ▲ 0LT7B.

It was a glorious hot day in an Algerian July. The mountains
stood clear from cloud in every direction, wioh their peaks etched
out distinctly against the grey background of the hazy-white
sky ; and Le Marchant made up his mind early in the morning
to attempt the upper slopes of the Lalla Khadidja dome, one of
the highest umong the surging giants of the Djurjura, covered
thick with snow for nine months of the year, but now just free
at last, under the influence of a burning hot spell of sirocco, from
the white cap it had worn since the beginning of winter. Blake,
ever eager in the quest of the picturesque, was rnady enough to
join him in his mountaineering expedition ; while Meriem, who
had once or twice made her way on foot as a pilgrim to the tiny
Mahommedan shrine of the Lalla Khadidja, which hes nestled
amid snowdrifts just below the summit, had after some hesita-
tion agreed to accompany them, with two other of tlie village
girls, as guide and interpreter. Nothing could have been nicer
or more satisfactory — to the painter. Just at the last moment,
however, as the party was on the very point of starting, t-hat for-
midable Ahmed came lounging up, v.ith his full-fed air of Oriental
insolence, to interpose his prospective veto. It made Blake's
hlood boil to see how the fellow treated that beautiful model.
For some minutes he spoke in a hectoring .voice with Meriem ;
and it was clear from the gestures and tones of the pair that
Meriem for her part was by uo means measured in the terms of
her answers.

" What does the man say ? " Blake asked at last unable to
restram his disgust and anger.

•' He ssys," the girl answered, with a flushed face, •• he'll
never let me go mountain climbing with the infidels. But I don't
care a pin. He's a bad man. He's jealous — jealous ; that's
what he means by it."

" And what did you tell him ? "

•• I told him," Meriem replied with a little stamp of her shoe
less foot on the bare rock, " ho might order me about when he'd

!<»f .

•*fr-- •-

nn nMxs •r shxm.

bought me and paid for me ; but at present I'm free, and my
own mistress. I shall go whera I choose — till I'm bought and
paid for."

As she spoke, the young Kabyle's hand played ominously on
the hilt of the short steel knife that every mountaineer of the
Algerian hills carries always in his girdle as a weapon of offence.
For a straw, he would have drawn it and stabbed her to the
heart. Le Marchant observed the gesture with his quick eye,
and suggested hastily, •' Ask him if he'll go himself and guide
us ? We'U pay him well — give him two' francs for conducting
•18 to the summit."'

Yomr Kabyle never refuses money. Ahmed assented with
-leUght to the modified proposal, and his fingers ceased toying at
once with the handle of his dagger. Le Marchant had done a
double stroke of business ; appeased his jealousy and gratified
his innate loye of gain — the two universal mainsprings of action
in the poor and passionate Kabyle nature.

They started on their wuj , the three men alone ; and Meriem
gazed long and wistfully after them with a surging sense of
unrest and disappointment. Something within her stirred her
deeply — something she could never venture to confide to Mouni
or to Yamina, her closest intimates. How handsome he looked,
in his rough tourist suit, that delicate young painter with the
speaking eyes, beside Ahmed, her betrothed, in his dirty bur-
nouse and his ragged undershirt I How beautifully he talked
and how beautifully he painted, and what strangely divine things
he knew how to say to her I Echoes of some unknown world,
those sweet fresh words of his ! She gazed and gazed, and
tears filled her eyes. Her soul revolted with a shock against
Ahmed.

Could she really be falling in love — with an infidel ?

And then a sudden terror began to seize her heart when they
were well on their way, and past hope of overtaking. Should
she run after them and warn them of the possible danger ?
fialla Khadidja is a steep and precipitous mountain, Ml of rear-
ing crags and crevasses and gullies. Supposing Ahmed, whom
she knew to be jealous of the two young Englishmen, were to
push them over some dangerous ledge, and pretend they had
fallen by accident while climbing I To a Kabyle such treatment
of the infidel would seem positively meritorious. The idea
turned her sick with alarm and anxiety. She could hardly hold
the threads at the upright frame where -she sat all day, in tlie
Amine's hut, weaving a many-coloured native haik for herself, a

*'■- .^f ■ ■•!v'',f^;,"»"(JT'Mf.5» yP- ■■.''

fBB TBMTt OF

mighty labour of the loom, to wear — ^hen she was married to
Ahmed. Married to Ahmed I The thought of it sickened her.
Till lately it seemed so natural — and now ! She longed for the
evening and the travellers' return. Allah in His goodness protect
the Englishmen I

But the two young men, meanwhile; all ignorant of her fears
toiled up the craggy slopes towards the bold summit of the great
shadowy mountain. As soon as Meriem was fairly out of hear-
ing, Blake turned round to his companion, and asked in a tone
half angry, half disappointed. •• What on earth made you bring
this fellow along with us at all ? We could have found our own
way to the top very well without him."

'* Why, I was afraid to leave him behind with Meriem," Le
Marchant answered, with a quick glance at the sinister face of
their scowUng guide. " In the fellow's present temper, with
his blood up, it would take very httle to make him stick a knife
into her. I know these people ; they're quick, and they're
revengeful. A word and a stab is the rule of the tribes, espe-
cially with women. They kill a woman with far less compunc-
tion than you or I would show in treading on a scorp:on."

" He's a brute," Blake answered, striking the rock with his
stick, " and I'm glad she hates him."

For some hours they continued their toilsome march, ever
up and up, with the wide view opening wider each step before
them.

Towards the summit of the xiountain, where the rocks were
hardest, they came suddenly on a rearing crag of porphyry, as
red as blood, and as hard as granite. It was a beautiful mass,
and a beautiful prospect spread out in front of it. Le Marchant
sat down at its base in the shade (for, high as they stood, the
sun's rays still scorched fiercely), and refreshed himself with a
pull at his pocket flask of whisky and water. On its north side,
a cave or rock-shelter ran far into its face. Something on the
precipitous wall of the crag within this cave caught Blake's quick
eye as he glanced up at the ferns in the crannied rock with a
painter's interest. ♦• Surely," he cried, in immense surprise,
pointing up with his stick, ♦• that's an inscription written or
carved on the "cliff in English letters I "

Le Marchant jumped up and looked at the object hard. It
was indeed an inscription, covered thick with moss and lichen,
which gather so rapidly in these southern climates, and over-
grown by masses of maiden hair and ceterach ; but, by scraping
it with a knife, it soon became legible. The letters were firm

iiiii

TBI TBNTC Of IHXM

And boldly incised, and the legend rau thus, pm Le Marahant read
ii oat aloud, in Boman capitals —

CLARENCE KNYVETT.

SUA IPSIU8 MANU FKCIT *.

ANNO nEj\njE
aiocLxiv.

"What does it all mean ? " Blake asked, somewhat timidly,
for he hated to display his ignorance of the learned languages
before his scientific companion, who seemed to knoyir everything.

'• It means," Le Marchant answered, " ' Clarence Knyvett
wrote this with his own hand in the year of the Hejira 1204.' "

" What the dickens is the Hejira ? " Blake asked again.

•• The year of Mahommed's flight to Medina," Le Marchant
answered, with a politely stifled smile at such ingenuous ignor-
ance. " It stands in the East for a. d. with us. It's the date
from which the Mussulmans reckon their era."

" And how long ago was 1264 by this precious date ? " Blake
asked once more, suspecting it, vaguely, to be somewhere about
the days of the Crusaders.

" I don't know exactly — I'm not up in my calendar — but quite
recently, I should be inclined to say. Somewhere within the
last twenty years or so at most. The Hejira, you know, was
early in the seventh century."

" Then I'^'l tell you what," Blake cried, with a start of sur-
prise, *' Meriom's father must have written that up there I " .

♦• Great wit? jump. The very same thought had just occurred
to me at the very same moment."

'♦ I'll copy it in my skotch-book, exactly as it stands," Blake
cried, sitting down again and pulling out that faithful companion
of his wanderings. And in ten minutes he had produced on
paper a vongh facsimile of the inscription in its own letters, with
an outline of the mass of rock on which it was cut, and the wall-
flowers and stocks and maiden hair fenis that sprang out of the
crannies in the crag all around it.

*• If Meriem's father really wrote it," he said, as he shut up
the book again, " it'll be a pleasant souvenir to caVry away with
us of the girl ; and, in any case, it's interesting as the record of
a previous European visit in such a spot. I thought we were
the first who evur burst into that silent cave. Besides, it makes
quite a pretty little picture."

As he spoke AJimod signifie<1. with a wave of his hand, that
it was time for theiu tu go if tliry wished to rise and descend

TOjK

''^f'rW^mW^'

na TBMTl Of SBXM.

Again before sunset ; and in a few minutes they were fairly at

the summit.

It was with a beating heart that Meriem waited for them to
come back again that evening, safe and sound, from the terrors
of the treacherous mountain. She watched for them on the path
some way out, whither she had gone to meet them, ostensibly
for the purpose of driving the goats home to the milking, but
really to relieve her own inner anxiety. As she saw them her
bosom gave one great bound. Blake raised his hat with jaunty
gallantry, and opening his book handed her over the sketch, on
purpose to see if the name on the rock roused any latent chord
in her uncertain memory. But she looked at it blankly. " It's
pretty," she said, " though not so pretty as most of your sketches "
— for her stock of English was rapidly increasing under her new
teachers. '* I don't see much in it — only a piece of rook and a
few small scratches. Are those letters, I wonder 7 They look
like letters ; yet they're not the same as one reads in the Koran."

•« What I Can't you read English ? " Blake cried, in surprise.
It seemed strange to him that one who could speak so well, with
the accent and manner of an educated lady, should be unable to
spell out one word of our language.

•• No," Meriem answered, with a shake of her head. " I can't
read it. Yusuf meant I should learn to read it in time ; but we
had no books ; and he died so suddenly ; and then, of course, it
was all forgotten."

" Well," Le Marchant interposed, with a fresh test — for he,
too, was anxious to try experiments — " the first word — this one
here on the face of the rouk, you see — is Clarence."

Meriem's brow gathered suddenly. One moment her memory
aeemed to strike at last a long-forgotten track. Next instant she
cried with a brijjht flash of recognition, ♦• Yes, yes, that's it !
He wrote it ! He wrote it ! I remember now. I remember
it well. My father's English name was .... Clarence
Knyvett I "

" Right ! " Le Marchant answered, with a gleam of triumpli.
" That's just what's written there ; • Clarence Knyvett, with hi?
own hand, in the year V.ICA of the Hejira.' "

The girl seized the book rapturously in her hand, and kissed
the picture three or four times over. "It's his!" she cri?'!
again, hi an ecstasy of joy. " He wrote it ! He wrote it I ilo
good of you to bring it. It was Yusut' ! Yusuf ! "

He was the only soul on esu'tli she had ever known-- «!avp one
perhaps — who friltillnd to the utmost the yuanuiigs ol Uer pro
found liuropean erootional nature, •

^*^u

^^^

■•iPf^f^B^^^!^?^''!?!?*^

ffHM TXKTB or SEOUL

■M ^

As tllo two men sat alone in their tent that night, while Diego
was bii^a^ed in pressing the Alpine flowers from Le Marchant'a
collecting case, the artist looked up, and said to his friend, sud-
denly, •♦ Wasn't Knyvett the name of that Girton girl, you
remember, who was made Third Olassio or something of the
sort the other day at Cambridge ? "

** Yes," Le Marchant answered ; " a Miss Iiii Enyvett. She's
a nieoe, I believe, of Sir Arthur, the rich old General, I thought
oi that myself, as soon as I saw it. The name's an unoommon
one. It's a curious coincidence."

" How queer it would be," Blake went on, reflectively, " if
this girl were to turn out a member of the same family."

** It wouldn't at all surprise me," his friend replied, with pro-
founder meaning. *' Whoever her father was, he must at least
have been an educated man. Her English, as far as it goes,
you must surely have noticed, is the pure English of ladies and
gentlemen."

** But what a gulf between them t " Blake exclaimed, with
emphasis. " A girl who can't even read or write — and a Third
Gassic I "

" She can read the Koran," Le Marchant answered, quickly.
*' One language is always the key of another. And, indeed, I
think I can see in her something of the same earnest and vigor-
ous qualities that imply, to one who looks below externals, the
stuff for making many Third Classics.**

" My dear Le Marchant, you carry things too far I " Upon
my word, I really believe you're half in love with her I **

Le Marchant paused for a moment before replying. " It's-
more to the point to remember," he said at last, a little con-
strainedly, " that she's very much bettBr than half in love with
you, Blake, and that you've got no right, thinking as you do, to
encourage the fueling."

Blake laughed gaily. " Oh, it's all right," he answered', in an
tmooncemed tone. " In the autumn, you know, she's to marry
Ahmed." To say the truth, the implied imputation of being a
lady-killer, even in the case of a mere Kabyle ppRsant girl,
nihAT iatUiAd'hu seuaiUvd artifii'g soul than othaiwiati.

OHAPTEB X.

IXTAL OLAIUS.

Harold Entvett, Esquire, of the Board of Trade, and late of
Irinity College, Oambridge, lounged lazily back in a leather-
uovered arm-chair in the comfortable smoking-room of the
Cheyne Row Club, Piccadilly.

" Well yes, my dear fellow," he remarked, with a languid sigh
to the sympathetic friend (last left in town) who stood com-
placently, cigarette in hand, with his back to the empty carved
marble fire-place, •' I ought to come in for it ; there's no doubt
at all in the world about that. And I expect I shall too, for I've
laid my plans dee|)ly, and I've played my cards warily. Sir
Arthur's a difficult person to deal with, I admit — between you
and me and the club clock, as selfish an old pig as ever walked
this earth, and pig-headed to match, into the bargain. But
allowing for all that — and I've allowed liberally — I've made
tilings moderately certain in the end, I flatter myself ; so that
one way or the other I'm tolerably sure to turn up trumps,
unless the cards miscarry."

"That's well," the sympathetic friend responded, cheerfully.
" I believe the only other person who has any cl.?im to the estate
is your famous cousin, that unspeakable Girton girl, who licked
all tlio men but two in the 'Varsity into a cooked hat, isn't she ? "

" Exactly so. The only other person ; and to make things
doubly sure, I've kept my hand well in meanwhile vnth her, too ;
so that if the worst should ever come to the worst, I shall
simply marry her, you see, and take the property that way —
with an encumbrance, unfortunately. For I confess, being by
Miiture a lover of freedom, I should prefer it for my own part
wholly unburdened."

" And suppose she won't have yon ? " his Mend suggested,
with a faint smile of doubt.

"Won't have me ? My dear sir, at the present day any man
on earth may have any girl he chooses, if he only takes the
trouble to set about the preliminaries properly. Women at
present are a drug in the market. Girls without monoy you

\ fc'7^^-'^^'"

^"l5^r',T»N;:i^-/«-,^'^^l

'"T^^JV*--

VMS TXNTS nw SHSM

mhj b*<rci for the asking ; girls with monej, or with expeotatlona
of money, you may have by appruaulini^' thorn in a propur apirit
from the side of the emotions. // J'aut lew fair$ la cow hien
>'ntfn</u — and that, I admit, is a d^^ading mode of exercise —
i)ut v\hen the money can bo had on no other condition, the wise
man will not disdain even that last unpleasant one. He will
stoop to conquer ; and then, having once secured what are
popularly known as the girl's afifections, he'll take care that the
settlements, which form the kernel of the whole transaction,
should not be drawn up too stringently in the lady's favour.
Those are my sentirueiita on the matrimonial position." And
Harold Knyvett, having thus delivered himself on his social
views, rose from his chair with the resolute manner of a man
who knows his one mind to the bottom, and buried his hands
deep in his trousers pockets.

" However," he went on, after a brief pause, during part of
which he had been engaged in selecting a really good cigar with
deliberate care from the box a club servant had brought in to his
order, *• I don't anticipate any such misfortune as that, I'm happy
to say, I've very little doubt Sir Arthur, sellish pig though he is,
will do the right thing in the end before he kicks the bucket. 1
rejoice to say he's a man with a conscience. You see, when he
first came into the property, he made a will, a most disgusting
will, which he left with his solicitors, and the concents of which
are perfectly well known to me,' through the kind intervention of
Sir Arthur's valet — as a principle in life, always cultivate yom-
rich uncle's valet ; it can do you no harm, a -J may be of infinite
use to you ; a guinea or two bestowed in judicious tips, in that
particular quarter, may be regarded in the light of a lucrative
long investment."

" A quid pro qiw," his friend suggested, jocosely, emphasising
the *' quid " with a facetious stress, after the manner of that
most objectionable animal, the common punster.

Harold Knyvett winced, but he smiled for all *hpl/, or pre-
tended to smile. Always smile when you see its expected of you.
As a man of taste, he detested puns, especially old ones • ''
native politeness, of which he possessed a large stock- * he ;rvilt
politeness of all mean natures — made him carefu' ugh at

them, however outrageous or however antiquated. i.*recisely
80," he made answer. •• A quid pro quo,'' without t: ^mpl sis.
" Well, by this beastly will, ho gives and bequeaths ais 1 nded
estate and his entire fortune, save and except his own paltry
Bayings from his military pay, to my cousin, the root-grubber,

f^^'lK

^^m

wm^^fmsn^

9^^m

T'Wm

« BB TSNTg OF tHBII.

rviic
h at
ecisely
sis.
nded
paltry
libber,

the Greek root-grubber on no better ground, if you plwiee, than
jnst because my gran dfa tin !r the admiral, out of the pure vindic-
tivenesa of his nasty tiinpur, desired him, hy implication, so to
leave it. My grandfatlip:, you know — a most uniuitural person —
bad a grudge againsi my father, his own youngest son, and
expressly ex-.ludecl hvoi, by the terms of his will, from all rever-
sionary interest in the propo'-ty."

"Bad-blooded old gent'eman I " the gympathetio listener
piously ejaculated.

•♦ Extremely," Harold went n , with a smile that showed his
iven row of white transparent tectli. ''A worse-blooded old
:;entleman, indeed, never lived, for, not only did he cut off my
father with a shiUing, an act wliich I could, perhaps, have
endured with equanimity, but he cut me too out of all benoiit of
succession — me, a babe unborn (at the time I am speaking of),
who had never done anything on earth, good or bad, to offend
him. Such mean vindictiveness positively disgusts me. But
the will was badly drawn up, it appears, and so the wicked old
man, by his own mistake, made the grievous error of leaving Sir
Arthur — alone, of all his sons— tlirou<,'li an omitted phrase, the
power of appointment. Now, Sir Arthur, at the time he came
into the property, had seen practically nothing of either my
cousin Iris, the root-grubber, or myself — been away in Indiahalf
his life, you see, and knew neither »/// good points nor her weak
ones. The consequence was, influoiicod by the bad old man's
expressed wishes, he drew up a will at once — the ill-advised will
I've already described to you — cutting me off with a few
wretched thousands of personal estates, but leaving the bulk of
the landed property absolutely to Iris."

•• And that will he means to stick to ? " the sympathetic
listener enquired politely.

" I hope not," Harold Knyvett replied, with a glance at his
ash. *• You see, the other side played their cards badly. This
girl Iris has a meddling old busybody of an uncle — you know
liim by name ; Whitmarsh, Q.C., the man who muddles all th«'
famous Probate cases. Wei', this old fool of a man Whitmarsh,
Ignorant of the fact that hir Aioli'if had made such a will
already, began to bully and badger my uncie Ix* Ms vulgar fashion,
by insinuating to him privately that he'd bettor not leave the
property to me, or else he'd find a good case made out against
aim on the strength of the Admiral's express disapprobation.
Naturally, that put Sir Arthur's back up. Nobody, and espe-
c.iilly not a peppery old General who's served more than half

THE T£NTS OF BHEM.

his life in India, likea to have it dictated to him by rank out
siders what disposition he's to make of his own money. I wan
wiser than that. I did'nt try bullying ; I tried soft sawder. 1
approached Sir Arthur, as I approach the young woman, from
the side of the affections. Then Iris herself, again, instead of
assiduously captivating the old gentleman, as any girl with, a
grain of commor. sense would, of course, have tried to do, posi-
tively neglecter! him for something she calls the higher culture,
and, immersed in her Hellenic agricultural operations, dug roots
exclusively, when she might rather have been sedulously water-
ing and nursing her relations with Sir Arthur."

" Thought more of her Odyssey tlian of her uncle, I suppose.
That was lucky for you, Knyvett ; for, by Jove, she'': a pretty
girl, you know, and agreeable into the bargain. If she'd chosen
to make up to him, I expect your chances would have been
shaky.'*

" You say the truth, my dear boy. It was lucky for me. I
admit it frankly. But I, who always play my cards carefully,
have taken great pains to eliminate luck. I've visited the old
gentleman every blessed year witli recurrent regularity at his
summer quarters at Aix-les-Bains, much to my own personal dis-
comfort, for he's a selfish old epicure, and I hate selfishness ; but
the end, of course, justified the means ; and I think I've made
it pretty safe by this time that he either has drawn up, or is
about to draw up, a new and more sensible will in my favour.
As a matter of conscience, he's sure to see to it. I shall snap
my fingers then at the man whitmarsh. And, indeed, it'd be a
pity, when one comes to think of it, that a Quixotic impulsive
girl like Iris should have the sole management of all that
splendid property. She's like all tlie learned ladies ; she's quite
unpractical. 1 met her last week at a garden party at Staines
(where I was very attentive to her, of course, just to keep my
hand in) ; and what do you think the girl actually told me ?
She's going to train as a hospital nurse. Her uncle, old Whit-
marsh — who, though a meddling old fool, is a man of the world,
one can't deny — did his best to dissuade her from it; but she
wouldn't be dissuaded. She wanted to do some good in her
generation I Utopian, quite 1 It'd never do for her to come
into the property ! "

*' If I were you," the sympathetic friend responded, sugges-
tively, *' I'd make haste all the same to assure myself as a fact that
Sir Arthur had really altered the will. Testamentary dispositions
are ticklish Things. Men put them off so, from day to day, espe-

inn TENTS or aUKil.

inilv at his time of life, you know. He mit^lit die nnv mnming,
)ui o: pure misuJLiiei', aiid leave you in the lurch, and your cousin
.n clover."

" That contingency, unfortunately," Harold replied, with a
^igL, " it'8 impossible for the wisest of men to guard against.
>ut I've hedged even so; I've made my book cautiously. It
ccurred to me to pay marked attention beforehand to my cousin
'ris, who's a pretty girl after all, and not insensible, I fancy, in
spite of her Aristotle, to a man's advances ; and I mean to get
ip an informal engagement with her, of a non -committing
•harucier, you see, of a non-committing character ; so that if by
accident she should come into the money (which heaven forbid),
I can aimex the property that way, girl and all inchided ; and
if, on the other hand, all goes well, I can shuffle out of it quietly
by letting the thing die a natural death, and come into the
estate wholly unencumbered."

" That's neat and cute of you," his hearer responded, a little
lubiously ; but perhaps a trifle too sharp for most ine«'B fancy,"

Hai'old Knyvett's reply was suddenly cut short by the entr}
jf a boy in buttons with a telegram. " For you, sir," he said,
handing him tlie flimsy pink paper on a tray. Harold took it
and tore open the envelope carelessly. An invit.itioii for a day
on the moors, no doubt ; or an urgent request from the editor
of the PirafiUllii Review for a hasty notice of that forthooining
work of Kekewich's on the " blavonic hlement m the iJaikan
Peninsula."

X As he read it, his face turned white with mingled dir,appoint-
ment, rage, and impoterice. "What's up?" his friend asked,
scentinj^ fnihire on the breeze.

" Why this," Harold answered, as he haiul'Ml him the
trum))ery liule crumpled sci'apof Government ecuhoaiy. " From
my uncle's valet. The fruit of my investment."

The friend read it mechanically aloud. ** Sir Arthur rliod at
two this al'ternoon, at his residence at Aix, quitf suddenly, of
an</tnn peitoris. I have searched his papf!rs up and down, but can
find no trace of any other will than the one now in the hands of
his solicitors. Your obedient servant, Gilhert Mo.ntgomeiiy.

A crushing blow I The cards had failed him I

It was a minute or two before Harold Knyvett recovered his
usual presence of mind after that deadly reverse. Dead, and
with no other will yet made ! Dead, with no cliance of inllu-
eucm^ his decmioail Dead, bufgrt) Utt had t^vuu ^ru^juiied to

Tu tmxnm w ihim.

Iris I To ask her now woald be too open and wxiblQfhinff a eoxi>
lession of furtuna- hunting. Proorastination had lost him both
aaiices at onoe, his unoie'i proorasti nation in the one case, his
>\vn in the other. If only he had proposed a week since at that
garden party at Staines I Fool, foul that he wasi to ie6 the oppor-
tunity sUp idly by him I

It was only for a moment, however. Next minute, strategy
had resumed the command. Vein regret was very little in
Harold Knyvctt's line. Like a strong man, he nerved himself
after his defeat, and proceeded to bring up his reserves for action.
He looked at his watch. The hand was on the very nick of five.
News of Sir Arthur's death wouldn't get into even the last edition
of this evening's papers. Iris would therefore not probably hear
of it all to-morrow morning, No more procrastination ; no
more c.elay. The last moment for the forlorn hope had now
arrived. If he took his pretty cousin by storm to-night, all
might yet be well, and the estate micjht be secured, even though
burdened with the undesirable encumbrance.

Harold Knyvett was not a marrying man ; but if the worst
came to the worst, ha reflected with a sigh, a man might marry
a plainer girl than his cousin Iris.

He had an engagement with his superior in the oflBoe at seven,
to dine at his club, worse luck, and he dared not neglect it.
Cautious before all things, Harold Knyvett would never throw
away the substance for the shadow. The office was a certainty ;
Iris was a chance. No gambler he ; he would stick to his
enfjagement. But he could go away early, thank heaven — say at
9.80, or thereabouts (pleading an At Home) — and be up at his
aunt's before the clock struck ten. Filled with the scheme, he
ruslied to the door and hailed in all haste a passing hausoin. It
took him to his chambers in less than ten minutes. Then he
sat down at his old oak desk and wrote at full speed two hurried
letters. The first was to the heiress ; ** A most judicious step,"
he said to himself with a chuckle.

" M? DEAB Inis, »

•• I am very particularly anxious to Ftr^A yon ihU evenir;'
about ten o'clock on a matter of some eerimis iinpurtiiuce to both
of 113 alike. Yon are always kindness itself to me, I know.
May I ask you, if possible, as the best and sweetest of cousins,
not to go out at all to-niglit, or, in case you have an engnf^eraent
for the evening to come home again early, so tliat I may manage

THK TKNT8 OF aOKM

•76

u. hnve ten minutea* talk ^vith you alone ? I know you'll do this
w me. lik« ft dear good girl. With much love, in breatlilest:
sia,

•* Your very affectionate cousin,

Harold.

The second was a hasty note to his solicitor.

• Deab Hardt, —

. " The old man has popped off the hooks this afternoon at

.\, and, as far as I can make out, has neglected to draw up au}

her will than the one I told you of. This is beastly. We

iust resist all probate of the existing document to the utmost ol

ur power. I'll see you upon the subject to-morrow morning.

, lean while, look over my grandfather's will — you have a copy,

i believe — and take all necessary steps immediately to prevent

I surprise by the other party. •• Yours, in hot haste,

*• Harold Knyvett."

Then, being nothing if not a methodical man, Mr. Harold
I^vnyvett proceeded to put both letters, out of pure force of habit,
') copy in his copying press — the sohci tor's first, and Iris's after-
wards. A copy is always a handy thing ; you can produce it
vhen necessary, and suppress it when inconvenient. That done,
le rang the bell for his servant.

" Send those at once to their addresses by a commissionaire,"
le said abruptly. " Let him take a cab. At Miss Knyvett's I
^,.\ifiJA like him to wait for an uiiswef."

N ■

tsM tMMU tf »nm,*

CHAPTER XL

WMWM FROM AH.

Abottt ft§ tmm9 ttnae, that identical afterno«f!, TTncl« Tom
arrived by liansom, verv red-faced, at Mrs. Knyvett h houBe in
West Kensington. Great tr^idaftion nossos.sed his soul, and an
open telegram fluttered ostoniatiously in kis left hand. " Galrn
yourself, my dear, ' he remarked, with sondry pofli and blows,
to Iria, wbo, indeed, had only just come in from tenuis, and
seemed to the eye of a mere casual observer as calm as any Thir'?
Classic ought always to be ; *• don't be too agitated, thtTw'p
nothing to alarm you. I've brought you news — most important
news. Your uncle, Sir Arthur, died at Aix-les-Bains at two
this afternoon, of amjina pectoris."

" Well, really. Uncle Tom," Iris answered, with a smile,
throwing her pretty lutle arms caressingly around him, *" I sup-
pose, of course, I ouglit to be awfully sorry ; he's papa's hi'othor
and all that sort of thing ; but, as a matter of fact, I hai'iJJy
remember seeing him when I was quite a bnby, and hnvir'^
always regarded him only as one of the family portraits, I do.rt
feel as if I could screw up even a convyntionaJ tear now lo
lament his demise with."

'• Sorry I " Uncle Tom exclaimed, in a fervour of astonisil»' ■ '
"Why, you ouL;ht to he lielij^hted I overjoyed I irreprossihh I
Sorry at ccnnng in to six thousand a year, indeed I Why, tht '
girl's gone cracked I I'll trouble you for her calmness I Son},
indeed I Sorry I "

At the words, Mrs. Knyvett, who was standing by, fell back in
her chair, with lier mam aquiline fcatuie [JOintcd sti-ai^'ht tovvardt"
the rose in the centre of the ceiling, and iiKhilgod parenthetically
in a loud fit of mingled hysterical sobs and laughter. If IriiH
was insensible to her own good fortune, Mrs. Knyvett, at least,
as an irreproachable British mother, felt bound to rise vicitnoUHly
on her account to tha height of the situation. But as soon as
this httle interrupt n had been partially compcjsed, according to
iue precedent ')y the app' ■•'''<ti of sal. voUitilf m\(] f<ni ili> ( 'oloijuf,
Incle Tom wa^ enableil ti- ,> " I'tid more aysLem.iUcaiiy vvitlj hil
>> ".poaiUon oi th« eiiuuu^ oribik.

;' '?^yR,-i'^K-«c*^ .

THK TENTS OF 8HXM.

•• Now calm yourself, my dear," the fat little old gerttleman
'egan aji^ain, with much energy, being, in fact, very far from
aim himself, and therefore, like many other people in the^ame
ircumstances, particularly anxious to quiet the nerves of other
K'ople. "Here's the telegram I've just received from Savoy: —

'• • Sir Arthur died at two tliis afternoon, at his residence at
\ix, quite suddenly, of anrfina prcUins. I have searched his
papers up and down, but can find no trace of any other will
Uian the one now in the hands of his sohcitor.

Your obedient servant,

'* * Gilbert Montgomery.' "

U was word for word the self-same telegram that Harold

lyvett had received at the Cheyene Row Club ; but of that
•tie peculiarity in its duplicate form Uncle Tom, of coui'se, was
s yet unaware.

" He's a treasure, that valet,' he murmured to himself, with
• hug of delight. " Behaved inDst admirably. Never expended
'■n pounds in my life to better -advantage I "

'* But why does he telegr<r^n to you, Uncle dear ? " Iris asked,
luch puz/.led.

" Well, the fact is, my child," the old barrister answered, with
. .somewhat shame-faced look, for he felt he must confess the one
in of an otherwise blameless life openly, " in any other cr.se I
Nouldn't have descended to obtaining information from any otlier
nan's servants, by fair means or foul, but in dealing with gi
scoundrel of the cahbre and metal of Harold Knvveit "

'• Uncle !" Iris cried, firing up, "you've no right to preivTidge
lim I You've no right to speak so of any of my relations!
You've no right to call my cousin a scoundrel."

" Exactly so, my dear," the old man went on in a pleased tone.
•' I like you none the worse for withstanding me to my face, as
Paul did somebody, and sticking up for your relative, though he
loes happen to be a sneak and a cur and a bully ; but, at any
rate, in dealing with a claim like his (if that phrase will satisfy
you) I thought it best to ensure beforehand prior and exclusive
information of my own from your uncle's body-servant ; so that
:lie moment Sir Arthur was comfortably dead, and past the pos-
sibility of meddling with his lasu will and testament, we might
-iec.ire ourselves at once against Harold's machinations. Tha4
fellow 'd stick at nothing, I can tell you, my child. He's a bad
lot. Why, he'd forge a will, I know, if he saw no other way of
getting ^hat he wanted, as soon as look at you."

'1'? .T nr>7' v;v" ;. •-» ■- ^ t,

THX TENTS OF- SU£U.

•• Uncle I " Iris exclaimed again, severely ; and the old gent,!. '
man at onoe assumed a penitent attitude.

•* Well, lie's dead, anyhow," Uncle Tom went on, with profes
sional glee ; " and it's pretty sure now he's made no will but th
one we know about. iSo, Iris, the position amounts to this —
you're the mistress of six thousand a year — a great fortune, m;
dear I A very great fortune 1 "

I hope I may be able to spend it wisely for the good of tin
world," Iris answered, with a sigh.

She was a trilie pale, but otherwise seemed about as calm a •
usual. Her caliniuss irritated Mrs. Knyvett inexpressibly.

" For goodness sake, Iris," she exclaimed, getting up a.
though she'd like to shake her, •* do laugh, or cry, or scream, oi
do something just to show you understand the importance o
your position. I never hi my life knew such a girl as you ari *
When the Cambridge local or something else was going to b>
announced the other day, you were as white as death and a-
agitated as — as a jelly ; and now that you've come in to siN
thousand a-year you're as calm over that good fortune as if si .
thousand a-year were a kind of an accident that dropped in upo.
one daily I " . • • .

" But the examination was so much more important to me,''
Iris answered gently, stroking her mother's hair, to prevent
another sudden outburst of sobbing and laughing. ♦' I did thai
myself, you see, by my own exertions ; whereas this is a sort oi
adventitious external circumstance^ It's not what one has, s >
much as what one is, that matters.^ . . . Besides, the ques
tion's really this : oughtn't Harold to have at least as much as 1
have ? "

•* God bless my soul, why ? " Uncle Tom exclaimed, in extreme
astonishment.

'• Because, you know, we were both equally related tc Sir
Arthur by birth ; and I should have felt it an injustice to mysell
if Sir Arthur Lad left everything to Harold and nothing to me.
It would be a manifest inequality ; and as Aristotle says, in the
' Nicomachean Ethics,' equality is justice." ' ,

'• But the law, my child," Uncle Tom exclaimed, aghast —
" the law of the land — the law allows it. * Perfect freedoicn of
testamentary disposition,' Blackstone remarks, ' is the key-bcone
of the English law of bequest and inheritance.' "

••It may be law," Iris made answer unabashed} •' but is it
right, is it justice ? "

Uncle Tom's hair stood on end with alarm at the heretical

»■*:

THB TINTS OP SHXM.

[Uiistion. A lawyer wlio had spent the best part of hii lift in
)leadiiig probate cases to be set sucli a problem !

•• They're the same thing, my dear," he made answer, gasping,
•' the self-same thing uiidor two different aspects. The law
lefmes and expresses clearly what is right and proper for a man
Lo do in each particular instance ; it lays down the strict prin-
ciples of individual justice."

" Herbert Spencer thinks," the Third Classic went on, undis-
mayed by his evident outburst of horror, " that law is merely
the brute expression of the will of a real or practical jnajority —
generally a dead majority : often an ignorant and prejudiced
medijBval majority. He holds, in fact, that law in its essence — "

♦• Heaven bless the girl I " Uncle Tom exclaimed, stopping
both his ears with his hands vigorously. *' If she isn't going to
lecture me on Political Economy I Why, haven't I already
explained to you, miss, fliat you may do anything on earth with
me, except two things — bandage my legs, and give me lectures on
Political Economy. I desire to live and die a humble Christian,
in complete ignorance of that hard-hearted science. Let's return
to our muttons. Let me see, where were we ? "

" I was saying," Iris went on, in her quiet firm way, " that 1
thought I ought to share this' fortune with Harold, who seems
to me to have quite equal claims to it with myself, uncle."

Uncle Tom's wrath seethed up rapidly to boiling point.
♦ With Harold I " ho cried out in an agony of disgust. •' With
that sneak I with that cur 1 with that incarnation of selfishness !
Upon my soul, my dear, if you were to do such a quixotic thing
as that, as long as I lived I should never speak another word to
you."

*♦ I should be very sorry for that," Iris answered, with a smile
— " at least if I believed it ; more sorry than for anything else I
vjould think of on earth ; for I love you dearly ; but if I thought
t right, whether you meant it or not, I should have to do it."

'• iris ! " her mother exclaimed, with a severe curve of the
principal feature, '* how on earth can you talk in such a way
:o your uncle 1 And after his unremitting kindness to you
always I "

" We must first of all obey our consciences, mother," Iris
replied gravely. " Fitft jmtitio, you know, nuit ccelum."

What end this discussion of first principles might have reached
l)etween disputants so utterly without common premises it
NOiild be hard to say, had not a diversion been suddenly effected

jHfmmt^^

^^m^

THK TENTS OF BHBIC.

by the entrance of the maid with a note for Miss Knyvett
" And the messenger's waiting in an 'ansom for the answer.

miss."

Iris read it through with some slight misgiving. •• From
Harold," she said shortly, and handed it to her uncle.

The barrister drew a long breath as he glanced at it angrily.

•• Too affectionate by half I " he cried. '* • The best and
sweek'St of cousins I ' 'In breathless haste ! ' He's hedging,
now. lie's got whid of this, too, and he's going to propose to
you. The scamp I the skunk I the disgusting vermin ! "

Iris was too charita'ole to believe it true without maturer evi
dence. ** We must wait and see," she said ; •* I don't want t(
prejudge him."

♦' It's true," Uncle Tom went on, with ri.sing indignation ; " i
see through the cur. There's been double-deaUng here. Thai
scoundrel of a valet has taken pay from l)Oth of us alike, and sent
us both an identical telegram. Harold knows he's cut off with
out apneal, and he wants to propose to you before you get thv
news and know what he's driving at."

•* I hope not," Ins cried, Hushing up with shame at the mere
suggestion.

Uncle Tom was turning over the letter curiously. •• Why,
God bless my soul," he exclaimed with a start, "what's this
upon the fly-leaf? What extraordinary marks I They look for
all the world like the reverse of a letter." And he sat down to
examine them with the close and patient scruLmj of aoi old haad
in the Fruuaie auu Divuiue JDivi^^iiOii.

'm-

^^WB

tn% TENTS

CHAPTER XII.

CHECKMATE.

A. l.-.n o'clock, M Iria fingered the panio in the (h-awinrr-room
alone (by special arrangement), a rat-tat at the door, loud but
decorous, announced her cousin Harold's arrival. Iris's heart
beat quickly for a minute ; it was an ordeal to have to see him
on such an errand alone, but she liad made her mind up to learn
the whole truth, cost what it might, and she would go through
wit! it now to the bitter end at all hazards. A frail little thing
en Lue bodily side, she was by no means wanting in moral cour-
age ; and here was an opportunity, a hateful opportunity, all
ready to hand for testing her self-confidence.

As for Harold, he came up in evening dress, and in excellent
spirits ; after all, it was only a temporary check ; he would
marry the fortune if he couldn't inherit it. Any man nowadays
can select his girl, and make tolerably sure of her, with a little
attention ! It's only a matter of casting your fly well. lie wore
a cream-coloured rose, with maidenhair, in his button -hole ; his
shirt front was faultless, and his white tie of the most immacu-
late neatness. Women attach some importance to these tritios,
you know, even though they happen to be Third Classics ; and
Harold Knyvett was well aware that his teeth were pearly, and
his eyes cold blue, and his moustache the envy of the entire
Civil Service. He entered with a look intended to be aiinoit
rapturous.

•' How gor J of you, Ins," he cried, as he kissed, her, though
his cousin shrank away somewhat timidly from that doubtful kiss.
'• I see you understood me ! That was ever so nice of you. And
alone, too 1 This is more than I could have asked 1 What rare
good fortune 1 I hardly expected to find you alone here."

" Mamnja had a headache," iris answered, with truth, for the
si lock and the hysteria had proved too much for the possessor oi
the aristocratic feature; " so she went to bed early. What did
you want to see me about, Harold ? Has anything unusuai
turned up since I saw you ? " .

THE TENTS OP SHEM.

•• Nothing uniisiml, doarcst," Harold went on, loaning forward,
and looking profouiidl)' m the direction of her averted eyes ; '* hut
a feeling I have long felt growing within me has come to a head
at last ; and this afternoon it hroke over me suddenly, Hke a flash
of inspiration, that I could no longer put o£f opening my whole
heart to you."

Iris's hand tremhled violently. She hated herself, she was so
horrihly guilty ; it was such wicked duplicity to let him go on —
she, who knew all the facts already. Yet she would play out the
comedy to its natvral close, come what might of it, for the sake.
of certainty. Harold noted her agitation, and misread its mean-
ing. " I've nobbled her," he thought to himself, with a
triumphant smile. " See how her hand trembles I But I'll
play her gracefully a little longer. It's unsportsmanlike to gaff
your fish too hastily."

So he went on once more, in a soft, low tone, taking her hnnd,
half unresisted, in his own, and playing with it tenderly, while
Iris still kept her face studiously averttid.

" Iris, one thing that made me think more particularly of this
to-day is my strong desire there should be no shadow of mer-
cenary feeling on either side between you and me, whose interests
should be so identfcal in all things. Uncle Arthur's still alive.
While he lives neither of us knows to which of the two, or in
what proportion, the dear old gentleman will leave his money.
Now I felt it borne in upon me with a sudden impulse this after-
noon that it would be better if, before either of us was thus put
in a position of superiority, so to speak, in worldly goods over
the other, we wore to let our hearts' secret out mutually. And

for that I've come to see you to-night Iris, 1 love you —

I've always loved you, of course ; but of late I've learnt what
my love meant. Dare I hope, darling — ? " and he raised her
hand tentatively, but with ardour, towards his thin lips, and was
about to print upon it what seemed to him the appropriate warm
kiss of a devoted lover.

Iris, however, could stand the strain of this false position no
longer. Withdrawing her hand suddenly from his with a violent
start, she took slowly from her pocket i note in her hand, and
began to road some pencilled words, interspersed with ink, on
the fly-leaf of the letter. She spokr- them out with a trembling
voice, but with great clearness, to this unexpecLud purport : —

•• Dear Hardy, —

" The old nuin has popped olT tlie hooks tliis afternoon at
Ail, and, aa far aa I can make u..i, "

THS TSNT8 OV BHSM.

She had got no further, when Harolrl, red as fire, with a
8U(l(leii dart forward, triod to seize the compromising document
from her hand ; but Iris was too quick for him, and too relent-
less as well. She dashed the letter with one hand behind her
back, then advancing to the gas, and facing him full, she hold
it up before him, and read to the very last line his note to his
solicitor. She would let him see she understood to the full the
whole depth and bieadth of his unmanly baseness.

Harold Knyvett, well-bred sneak as he was, stood and listened
shamefaced, now white as a ourd What could all this mean ?
What error had he committed ? He knew he hadn't blundered
the elementary blunder of putting the wronj? letter by mistake
into iris's envelope. His good business habits, and his clock-
work accuracy sufficed to save him from such a puerile scholar's
mate from a woman as that ; for he always subscribed each
letter to its recipient at the bottom of the page with anticjue
punctiliousness, and always took care to look, as he folded them,
that subscription and superscription tallied exactly. All the
more, therefore, was he nonplussed to understand how Iris had
got hold of his note to Hardy. Could the fellow li.ive betrayed
him ? Impossible I Impossible I But he stood there, with hia
face all livid to behold, and his eyes fixed hard upon the pattern
of the carpet, till Iris had completed to the very last word her
righteous torture.

•• What does this mean. Iris ? " he asked, angrily, as she
folded it up with a smile and replaced it in the envelope.

♦' It means," Iris answered, handing him over the not. , now

she had quite finished it, with ironical courtesy, " that

you use too thick and too black a copying ink. I advise you in
future, Harold, to employ some thinner kind if you wish to pre-
vent a recurrence of this unfortunate exposure."

She was white as a sheet herself, but righteous indignation
bore her through. The man should know he was detected and
unmasked ; he should writhe for his meanness whatever it cost
her.

Harold took the note from her hand and gazed at it mechani-
cally. He saw now at a glance the source of all these woes.
The flyleaf of Iris's letter, laid downward in tlie copying-book,
had taken a faint and half-illegible impression of his note to
Hardy from the wet page opposite. In any other hands than
Thomas Kynnersley Wliitmarsh's, those loose, sjjrawling daubs
on the blank sheet would no doubt have meant ratlier less than
nothing. But the distinguished Q.G. and great authority on

■■PP"

THS TENTS OF BHE1I«

probate cases had seen too many strange documents and forgeries
in his time not to have become an ade[)t in handwriting and all
that appertained to it. No export was sharper on a stroke or a
dot than he ; the crossing of a " t " was enough to convict a
man of sin before his scrutinising spectacles. By holding up
the page to the light of the gas he had been able to supply with
dexterous pencil-strokes the missing portions of each word or
letter, and to reconstruct, entire, the compromising epistle to
Mr. Harold's solicitor. So skilfully had he built it all up, indeed,
that even Iris herself could no longer doubt her cousin's me^n-
Ui-'ss, nor could Harold, when confronted with his own handiwork,
thus unexpectedly reproduced, venture to deny or explain away
to her face his authorsliip of the letter.

The ballk'd schemer looked at Iris with cynical coldness. He
had played his cards altogether too well. *• Then it's all up,"
he said ; for he knew when he was beaten ; ♦* it's all up, I
suppose, between us ? "

" Yes, It's all up," Iris answered coldly ; ** and so far as I am',
concerned, Harold Knyvett, I do not further desire the honour of
your acquaintance. I tried to believe in you as long as I could,
though I never liked you, and I never cared for you ; I can
believe in you no longer, and I wish to see no more of you."

Harold looked across at her with a cuxl on his lip.

•' Your new-tome fortune has made you proud in a hurry," he
-iiieered out, aui^rily. " Hut don't be too sure about it y. b, my
lady, remember, Sir Arthur's title had a flaw in it from the
lirst. What he be(jueathed to you was, perhaps, from the very
beginning, not his to bequeath you."

** I'm not concerned at present about Sir Arthur's title," Iris
answered, cold as ice, and trembling violently, but still self-
possessed ; '* I'm concerned only about your own shameful and
cynical duplicity."

'• All, that's all very well for you to say just now," Harold
went on, taunting her, " while you're angry at a slight to your
personal pretensions ; but you won't think so by and by, you
know, when you come to look into it. There is a flaw, and,
whether you like it or not, you've got to face it. Sir Arthur
knew it, and you'd better know it, too, if you're really and truly
Sir Arthur's inheritor. The old gentleman came into the
property himself on the strength of aflidavits to the effect that
his second brother Clarence had pre-deceased his eldest brother
Alexander, having been killed in action in crushing a native insur-
rection in Algeria, in or about the year 1808, if I remember

TBB TSNTl or BBBM.

rightly. The Courts would have accepted the aflidavits, perhaps,
if the claim had been opposed, and, perhaps, thuy wouldn L.
I3ut u3 no opposition was raised, adniiTiistration was granted,
and Sir Arthur was allowed to succeed quietly. However, there
was a flaw in the evidence for all that. And I'll tell you the
Haw, to let you see how little I'm afraid of you. Clarence Kn} -
vett's body was never recovered, or never identified. He was only
missing, not certainly killed. And as he had run away from
England to avoid serious unpleiisantness in the matter of a
criminal charge preferred against him by his own fatlier, and as
he was serving in the French army, under an assumed name, to
avoid detection, the question of identification was by no means
iin easy one. Sir Arthur went over to Algiers to settle it, to be
sure, and satisfied himself (as indeed he had every reason to be
easily satisfied) that Clarence Knyvett had died in fact at the date
assigned. But many soldiers of his old regiment did not believe
it. They thought he'd sneaked off, and hidden among the natives.
And if Clarence Knyvett's now alive, he's the owner of the pro-
perty ; and if he's dead, dying at a later date than Alexander, his
children,, if any, and not you, are the inheritors of his estate 1 "
As he spoke, Iris faced him with cold contempt in every lino of
her face.

•' Is that all you have to tell me ? " she . asked, severely, as
soon as he'd finished.

" No ; " Harold answered, loosing his head with rage, '• that's
not all. I've something more to tell you. You won't like to hear
it, but I'll tell you for all that. One bad turn deserves another.
Unless a later will of Sir Arthur's turns up leaving the property
in a more equitable manner — as it may do any day — I shall
never rest satisfied till I've hunted up Clarence Knyvett, his
heirs and representatives, and turned you out of the doubtful
inheritance to which you've probably no real title. So now you
know what you've got to reckon with."

*• And if another will does turn up," Iris rejoined, quietly,
though with ashy lips, " leaving the property entirely to you,
you'll accept Sir Arthur's claims without hesitation, and let
Uncle Clarence's heirs, ifhe ever had any, go without the inheri-
tance to which they have probably the best title I . . . . Is that
what you mean ? ... Harold, you may go I" And, rising
her full height, she pointed to the door. •* You had only one
friend in your own family," she said, "ana jou vu uucueeded
to-night in turning her against you."

'■vjj.ij<sijij>i,»'i',»i'v- :"..;

THE TRNTS OF SHEll.

Harold took up his hat, and went. On the landing', he
paused.

" Remember," be called back, with a parkng shot, ^' I'll rot
test tih I've brought the rightful heirs to light against you."

'Jlien he walked down the stairs, and emerged, all on fire, int(
the gaslit streets of fog-bound Kensington.

As soon as he felt the fresh air on his brow, however, he recog-
nised witJi a rush how serious a mistake he had committed in
his anger. Another will mhjht turn up any day — a sensible will,
in his own favour — and then they would have this handle of the
flaw in the title to use against him. Or if another will did nul
turn up — well, it was absurd to think that a man of edncnt'on
and technical skill like himself — a man of resource and entu•,^^
and wit — a man, above all, possessed of the precious an* I
invaluable quality of unscrupulousness — should let himself hi
diddled out of a splendid estate by a pack of women, tor no
better reason than just because a piece of dirty paper with a few
names scratched upon" it was not duly forthcoming from Sii
Arthur's davenport. It's easy enough, of course, to coi)y a
signature, any fool can do that. Sir Arthur oiujht to have
altered that will ; he mcnnt to alter it ; he all but did alter it.
How perfectly simple to — well, to alter it posthumously for the
dilatory old man, in accordance with his own obvious and
expressed intentions.

Forgery, they call it, in the jcoarse, blunt dialect of the Pro
bate and Divorce Division.

But in that ease, as things stood, he had put a weapon into
Iris's hands which she might possibly be inclined to use against
hira. Well, now that the matter had gone so far wrong, the
best way in the end would perhaps be to let them prove thi'
existing will, which would commit them to acceptance of Su-
Arthur's claim ; arul aftiT tliat, whenever the — the new hypo-
thetical will turn up (and it should turned up ; on that he was
decided) they would find it less easy to tight the matter against
him. Meanwhile, to annoy them, he'd hunt up his Uncle
Clarence's business, too. The man very likely was still alive.
Any weapon's good enough to use against an enemy.

An enemy I And yet, what a splendid creature that girl was,
after all I He had never admired her so much in his life before
as when she confronted him like a wild cat, in her anger,
to-night. That righteous indignation became her magnificently.
By Jove, she was grand t What a fool he'd bcun not to marr^

IBM TKNTS OF SHUC.

hor long ago ! Wliy, let alone the fortune, she was a girl any
man might be pro\id to marry for her own sake any day — if he
meant marrying. She was so pretty, so clever, and had such
funds of character I And he'd noticed the other afternoon, as
they drove back from Staines in a friend's open carriage, she
was the only woman that ever lived who held her parasol of
deliberate purpose at such an angle as not entirely to shut out
the view of all surrounding objects from her male companion.

A splendid creature, and a most undoubted heiress. But as a
woman alone, well worth the sacrifice.

Ho wished to goodness, now, indeed, he'd married her off hand
a couple of years since. Nay, more, in his own cold, selfish way,
lie awoke with a start to the pj'emn fact that he wanted that
woman. As far as was possill*' to such a nature as his, he was
in love with Iris — and he had only just that very evening dia-
covered it. ■ , < * ' "

'.<M II-." nil J

^wmimnwv^

^PUFWi^Pi^

THX T£NTB OW 8HEM.

CHAPTER Xm.

mis STRIKES.

" Uncle," Iris said, when she talked it over with l.lie old
barrister in the dining-room next morning, " after all that hap-
pened last night, do you know, I'm not perhaps quite so anxious
as I was to share Undo Arthur's fortune with Harold."

♦' God bless the girl I " Uncle Tom cried, in mock horror.
" What on earth does she mean now ? You were both cquall)'
related to Sir Arthur by birth, wern't you, and, as Aristotle says,
equality is justice."

Iris blushed slightly. It was too cruel for him thus to bring
up her own words in judgment against her. " But he behaved
so disgracefully, so abominably, last night," she said, apologeti-
cally. " He doesn't deserve it."

" It's a great comfort to me to see," Uncle Tom responded, with
a cheerful blink, " that going to Girton and coming out a Third
Classic still leaves a girl essentially a woman at heart for all
that. No woman that ever lived, whether she'd read Aristotle
or not, cares or ever cared one farthing yetal)Out abstract justice.
What women care about is the satisfaction of their own personal
emotions and feelings. I'm glad to see, my dear, that in this
respect you're no better than the rest. • He ought by rights to
have half this property, of course,* you say in enect, ' but as I
see he's a sneak and a mean-spirited cur, I don't think I'll
bother about giving him his fair share of it.' Very womanly
and very right. That, I take it, my child, is about the lon[» and
the short of your argument."

Iris laughed. •' Perhaps so," she replied. " But anyhow,
Uncle Tom, after what he did and said last night, I find my
desire to do him strict justice has considerably abated."

So, Aristotle to the contrary not withstanding,. Uncle Tom wap
permitted vicariously to prove Sir Arthur's will in due course —
Iiis herself being named sole executrix — and to take all neces-
sary steps for her succession to the landed property. As soon as
aU the legal arrangements were finally completed, Iris once more
had a great consultation to make with her guardian, guide, phil-

THK TENTS OF SUGM.

ofjorbnr nnd fn>Tif1. Slip linH given up the liospita! nnrse fad, of
course, ior tlie jiresent, us mcoiisisteiit witli lier existing position
as a great heiress ; but she had another mine to explode upon
poor Uncle Tom now, and OTice more a mine due to an acute
attack of that most undesirable and inconvenient mental disease,
conscience.

" Now I want to know, Uncle Tom," the heiress and Third
Classic said, persuasively, cornering him at bay in an easy chair
•n Mrs. Knyvett's little drawing-room at Kensington (for they
had not yet taken possession of the projecLed mansion in Lowndes
Bquare), " is there any truth, or is there not, in that story of
Harold's about Uncle Clarence's supposed disappeanince."

The distinguished Q.C. shufiled awkwardly in his seat. For
the first time in his life he began faintly to roniizt? the feelings
of an unwilling witness under his own searching cioss-examina-
i;ion. "A cock-and-bull story!" he said at last evasively.
"Just said to frighten you. If I were you, Iris, I'd think no
icDore about it."

" But is there any truth in it, unule ? " Iris persistod, with
quiet emphasis, as the distinguished Q.C. himself would have
done in the same case, if only he had got his own double safely
lodged in front of him in that amateur witness-box.

"Bless my soul!" Uncle rom replied, stioicing her hair
gent\y to create a div(u\sion, " what a persistent cro;s-oxiininer
the jjirl is, to be sure. If I tell you no. you'll not believe me ;
lUid if I tell you yes, you'll want to go running over Europe,
Asia, Africa, and America, not to speak of the islands of the
Parahc Ocean, in search of Clarence Knyvett, his heirs, or
executors."

*• 'rii;Mi there is some truth in it," Iris went on. with one hand
aid I rsuasivcly on her uncle's arm.

•• As much trutli as a man like yon." cousin Ilaroid cnn sppak,
i suppose." the old man answered, with a gasp, as who should
it last resolve to have an aching tooth drawn, for he felt sure
due must get it all out of him now. " The fict is, my dear,
your Uncle Clarence's deitli. like Jeames De la Plir.:he's birth,
is • wrop in mystery.' He left England under a cloud. He was
* gay vonng soldier, always getting into scrapes, and always
spending more than he'd got, and sulKing in disgrace, and com-
pouncUiig with his creditors. It's supposed, though I don't
know an t'ling abo'it it for certain, that he forged, or triel to
^'^'•jje, your ^TandfatliiT s name to siunlry accept.uices. It'a
furtutir Buppoaed that this uaiuu ut last lu your griiudiathur't

&•

piBBJ^i|P^fWP^»^»Wi^>^W

TBS TRMT8 OF SHEM.

knowle(!g6, and tliat your grandfather, being, lil^e Mogos, ari
austere man, threatened to expose the whole buaiiiuHS. B()
Clarence, it is believed, like the great Orion, went Klopuig hIowI}
to the West. Anyhow, one fine morning the news got wind thiii
your uncle was missing; and from that day to this he haa bouii
consistently missed, and never turned up again."

'•But what was that about his enlisting in the French array ? "
Iris asked, with a caress, as the old man paused.

*• Well, nothing was known about that, my dear, during your
Uncle Alexander's hfe," Uncle Tom went on, like a man from
whom evidence is extorted by rack and thumb-screw ; •♦ w<
thought, indeed, he'd gone to America. But as soon m Hii
Arthur inherited the property it became necessary to find [jroo
of Clarence's death, whether Clarence was dead or living ; Hi
Sir Arthur, tracking him gradually from France, went over to
Algiers in the end to find it. It was through that, in fact, that
he settled down, first at Sidi Aia. Well, this was the result
of Sir Arthur's investigation." And here Uncle Tom refreshed
his memory with a look at his note-book. *♦ He found that
Clarence, on leaving England, had enlisted in the Third Chas-
seurs a.t Toulon, under the assumed name of — what was it ?
let me see. Ah, yes ! Joseph Leboutillier ; that he had been
sent over to Algeria to join his regiment ; that he took piirL for
some time in operations in the interior ; and that during the
partial insurrection of 1868 he was employed in a column mm
to reduce the mountaineers of some outlandish place they csill
Grande Kabylie. A certain battle took place in this remote
quarter against the insurgents on the 20th of June in that year,
and after it, Mr. Joseph Leboutiller was reported missing. His
name was struck off the roll of the regiment, and though his
body happened to be never identified, the French authorities were
perfectly convinced that he died in the skirmish, and was lost on
the field — an accident which, as Beau Brummel said almut a
rent, may happen to any gentleman any day. Our own Courts
admitted the papers Sir Arthur produced as proof of deatli, and
were satisfied of the identity of Joseph Leboutillier with Clarence
Knyvett. In short, the question's really as good as settled ; a
judge in camera has decided pro forma that Clarence Knyvott died
on the 20th of June, 1868 ; so die he didp then, legally and
officially, and there's nothing more to be said about it."

Iris smiled, " I wish, uncle dear," she said., good-humour-
edly, " I could share your supreme faith in the absolute wisdom
ftnd abstract justice of the law of England. But John Stuart

Mill iays-

Oh, dear me f I forgot '* — for Uncle Tom wap

topping up his ears already, least tlipy should be profaned by

resb assaults of that dangerous and detestable political econ

1 )tay : — " To return to the question now before the Hocse, what

id Harold mean? or did he mean anything, by saying that

nany soldiers in Uncle Clarence's regiment didn't believe he was

.eally dead, biit thought he'd sneaked oflf and hidden himself

somewhere among the natives ? "

Uncle Tom started. •♦ God bless my soul ! " he exclaimed,
with a gesture cf horror. " So this is what comes then of send-
incr girlf to Cambridge. Who says women have no legal
instincts ? Why, the girl ought to have gone to tha Old Bailev
Bar I With the acumen of a judge — if judges have any, which
1 very ii.u ii doubt — she puts her finger plump down at once on
the one weak point of the entire contention. Remarkable ; re-
markable ! Well the fact's this ; an ancient French mihtary in
retreat— t'.iat's just how he signed himself — anonymous, practi-
cally — once wrote a letter to Sir Arthur at Sidi Aia (shortly
after your Uncle Alexander's decease), telling him he didn't
believe th s man Leboutillier was dead at all ; but that he'd run
away, and gone off absurdly on his own account to join the
natives, ihe ancient French mihtary in retreat didn't give
his name, of course, and so we couldn't cross-examine him ,
but your uncle sent me a copy of the letter from Aix-les-Bains,
and also another to your cousin Harold. The ancient French
soldier, in his precious communication, dticlared he had been a
chasseur with Mr. Joseph Leboutiller, and known him well;
that J c SB ill Leboutillier was an eccentric person, holding exag-
gerated notions about justice to the indujenes ; that he specially
objected to this particular war, waged against some people called
Kabyles, if I recollect aright, who inhabit the trackless
mountains of the interior ; that he often expressed the deepest
regret at being employed to crush out the liberty and inde-
pendence of ' these unfortunate people ; ' and that he almost
refused on one occasion to obey his superior officer, when that
gentleman ordered him to join in burning down the huts and
villages of the insurgent tribesmen."

•• Very Uke a Knyvett." Iris murmured, parenthetically.

♦• Very. The Knyvetts were always Quixotic." Uncle Tom
continued, with a faintly compassionate inflexion in his forensic
voice. ** But, at any rate, tl'C ancient French militiiry in retreat
was firmly convinced that Joseph Loboubillidr had deserted \\-

THE TENTS OF 8BEII.

the battle, to avoid bearing arms against the Kabyles any longer ,
and he said that many otlier ancient mihtaries of the same regi-
ment entirely agreed with him in this supposition."

" And then V "

*• Why, then, Sir Arthur sent up a French detective, who under-
stood Arabic, into the mountains to make full inquiries, just to
satisfy his conscience ; for though he was a selfish, pig-headed
old man. Sir Arthur, and as cross as two sticks, he, too, had a
conscience, like all the Knyvetts — bar that singular exception .■;
your Uncle Charles, with his son Harold. Your father and you,
to be sure, inherited the family conscience in its most virulent
form ; but it was strongly-enoni^li developed even in poor oli'
Sir Arthur. That's why he lelt liis tbrtime to you, my dear,
instead of to Harold ; he tliouglit it was his duty, and duty to a
Knyvett is a perfect will-o'-the-wisp, leading you all into every
Utopian quagmire you happen to come across — tliougli, in thi?
case, of course, he was porfL( tly right in obeying its dictates."

"And what did Sir Arthur find out at last?" Ins asked,
gently, stroking her uncle's hand with her own, as if to depre-
ate his wrath at her possession of anything so inconvenient Af>
a sense of right towards others.

•' lUosL iuiLunately, my child, he found out exactly notlnng
The natives fought shy of his detective to a man, and energeti
cally disclaimed knowledge of any sort about Joseph Leboutillier,
They'd never even heard the Jianie, they swore. So Sir Arthui
came back empty-lianded from his (juest, and enjoyed his pro
perty in peace and quietness. Quite right, too. People ough»
nearer to pay any attention at all to anonymous letters. Par
ticularly not in matters aflecting the Probate and Divorce
Division."

Iris was silent for a minute or two more. Then she said,
slowly, much terrified lest she should rouse the dormant lion 0/
Uncle Tom's wrath, " Sir Arthur might iiavebeen satisfied with
that. Uncle Tom, but I'm not. I suppose, as you say, I've got
the family conscience in an aggravated form ; but, whatever it
says, I must obey it. I must find out exactly what became of
L'ncle Clarence."

The distinguished Q.C. flared up like petroleum. " You're s
fool if you do, my dear," he answored, losing his temper.

•• • lUit, children, youshould never let yourangry passions rise,'"
Ins quoted, gently. "That shows you think there's still some
chance Uncle Clarence is really alive, or has children living. In
Jevon'a * Inductive Logic ' I remember, — " but Uncle Tom's

THB TKNTg OP 8HSU.

9!)

,r.iT9 wero stopped tight with either thumb, turned once more as
(leaf as the adder's. He Ustened not to Iris's Girtoman charms,
cliarnied she nuvor so learnedly, that stony-heartod barrister.

" I niigbt be using somebody else's money, you see," his
niece wftiit on quietly, as soon as Uncle Tom gave signs of having
it'coverrd the free use of his auditory nerve, " and that, you
nmst admit, would be sheer robbery."

Uncle Tom had too much respect for the law of England not
to allow, wiUi obvious regret, the justice of that last patent
truism.

" Well, what do you propose to do ?" he responded sulkily.

" For the presetit, advertise in the English, French, and
Algoriiui papurs," Iris answered, with calm j)er.sistenci3, "for any
inluruiation as to the whereabouts or death of CJiarles Knyvett
or Joseph ]iOl)outillier."

" And raise up for yourself a score or so of imitation Tichborne
claimants," Uncle Tom cried, with concentrated scorn in his
voice.

♦• What is a Tichborne Claimant ?" Iris asked, in all innocence,
imagining the animal to be some peculiar species of legal techni-
cality — a nolle prom'/jm, for example, or an oi/er and terminer.
I'hc shadowy f'^rms of John Doe and Ricliard Hoe floated lambent
on the air before her vague mental vision.

•'Bless the child," Uncle Tom exclaimed, fervently raising his
hands to Infaven. " What happy innocence ! What golden igno-
rance I You may thank your stars you don't even know the
creature by name. Why, when I was young, my dear, some
twenty years ago or so, we all of us wasted threee good twelve
months of our lives with feverish anxiety in followuig the for-
tunes and iina! exposu.'e of a wretched impostor, a claimant to
the Tichborne estates in Hampshire, who was inflicted upon a
long-suii'cring world solely as a result of injudicious advertising
in Co.onial piipers by an ill-advised woman. And you're young
enough and lucky enough never even to have heard of him I If
you weren't, he'd have tau^rlit you a severe lesson. Well, so
much for the present, you say — so far, bad ; and how about the
future?"

" In the second place," Iris went on, firmly, "as soon as ever
the weather's cool enough to allow it, I'll go over to Aigf^-ia, and
hunt up all I can find out about Uncle Clarence on the spot, in
person."

"Well, that's not so bad," the eminent Q.C. responded,
mollified, " for it'll enable you, at any rate, to take possession
yourself of the house and belongings at Sidi Aia."

TUB IKNTB <Ur 8HKJU

CHAPTER XIV.

F LLOVVING UP THE CLUB.

It was evening, and Le Marchant lay outside the'tent, in the
shade of the old gnarled olive-tree that overhung the tomb, taking
his lesson in Kabyle on an outstretched rug from his pretty
teacher, Mericm. He had made considerable progress in the
language by this time, having a natural taste for picking up
strange tongues, as often happens with people of bilingual origin,
and Le Marchant, as a Jersey man, had been born bilingual, if
the expression may pass muster in this age of heredities. The
painter, like Pliable, had turned back disheartened at that first
Slough of Despond, the irregular verbs, and given up the vain
attempt in despair ; he sat idly by now, drawing lazy sketches in
his pocket-book of Meriem in her didactic attitude, with her
forpfijiger uplifted, and her pupil before her. Hard by, two
young Kabyles, just returned from their fields, stood gossiping,
opposite them, with hoes in their hands. One was Ahmed
Meriem's future purchaser; the other was a taller and better-
robed young man of more un pleasing aspect, whom they had
often seen before hanging about the village.

Suddenly, as Meriem was in the very act of saying, •* Now,
Eustace, remember as/i/i—A dress," and Le Marchant was
obediently repeating the woj-d after her in due form, one of the
young men, for no apparent reason, raised his voice loudly, and
rushing forward with a yell, flew like a dog in blind rage and
wrath at the throat of the other. Before they could clearly see
what was happening, the second flung him off, but with some
little difficulty. In a moment, the i ^sle had assumed a savage
form ; they were fighting tooth and nail in one confused mass,
and Ahmed's knife, drawn like lightning from its scabbard,
glemed bright in the air, just ready to descend on the bare
breas* of his taller antagonist. With a sliarp cry Meriem and
Le Manliant sprang forward together with one accord, and
separated the two combatants by mam force, after a short, sharp
strui^gle. The whole thnig was over in a second or two at most,
and the two ftngry men stood glaring at one another across five

•\v

BBH

THE TBNTB OF BHEM. '

yards of distance, like bull-dogs whose masters hold them apart
forcibly by the collar. A few angry words, a few hasty explana-
tions, a deprecating speech from poor trembling Meriem, whose
ia,ce was scarlet with shame or excitement, and forthwith,
Ahmed's knife was quietly sheathed once more, and the men,
smiling now with all their even white teeth in perfect good
humour, embraced like brothers, as if nothing at all had liap-
[xmed between them. That is the way with these simple
cliildren of Nature. One moment they'll stick a knife into you
witliout the slightest compunction , the next, for no reason a
European can fathom, they'll give up thoir very hearts to please
you.

" What was it all about ? " Blake asked, with interest, as
Meriem returned, flushed and panting, to the rug.

•* It was about w«, Vernon," Meriem answered, unabashed,
with perfect simplicity. " This is how ii. happened. Ahmed
wanted to marry me, you know, and had bargained with my
uncle, and got a price named for me ; but now, the other man,
Hussein, has offered my uncle a little more, and so the Amine has
made a new arrangement, and I'm to be sold to Hussein, who's
offered the best price, and is so much the richer."

She said it as she wouhl have said the day was fine. It was
matter of course to her that she should be thus passively and
unresistingly disposed of.

'* Do you like him ? " Blake asked. •• Or, at least, do you
ilislike him any less than Ahmed !"

Meriem raised her stately head with proud unconcern. '* "What
does it matter to me? " she answered, haughtily. *' I like none
of them either better or worse than another. They're only
Kabyles."

" You don't care for Kabyles, then ? " Blake went on, with
culpable carelessness.

" Not since I've seen Englishmen," Meriem replied, with the
same perfectly pellucid sincerity as ever. It was to her a simple
statement of mental experience. She had no idea of flirting, in
tlie English sense. Her feelings were so. She must marry,
naturally, whoever purchased her.

When she was gone away that evening, and they sat alone in
the tent, Le Marcluiiit turned round after a long pause, and said
earnestly to Blake, " It comes home to me more and more every
day I stop here that we oiiL^ht to hunt up something about this
poor girl's English relations."

ii;

THS TENT8 OF SHSM.

•• Why 80 ? " the paintnr answered. " You think sheoucjhtuM
to be allowed to marry Aiimod or Hussein ? "

" Certainly not. It's terrible to me oven to contemplate such
a thing as possible. She must never marry anybody but a
European, her natural equal."

"Then why don't you marry her, yourself, my dear fellow ?
You seem to be awfully gone on her, always."

'• Le Marchant hesitated. " Because," he said, at last, in a
very serious tone, " she wouldn't take me."

" Not take vou ! Just you ask her I What an ahsurd idea !
Why, my dear follow, she'd take Ahmed or Hussein, or any other
man hor unelo chose for her. Not take you, indeed I Not take
an Englishman ! Why, she'd just jump at you."

"1 tiiiiik n(it," Le Marchant answerctl, much more earnestly.
" She might take Ahmed or Hussein, as you say, no doubt,
l)ocause she couldn't help herself; but not me, of that I'm
OL-rtain."

" And why not, Le Marchant ? " - "

"Because, my dear fellow, if you ask me the plain truth, her \
heart's already otherwise engaged — and to a man who doesn't
really care twopence about her."

There was a long i)iiuse ; then Blake remarked again, with-
drawing his cigan^tte in a pensive way, " Do you roally mean to
tell me, Le Marchant, you'd marry that girl — that barbarian —
that savage, if you thought she'd take you 7 "

" It's a terrible thing to think of her being made over, bound
hand and foot, to Ahmed or Hussein," the naturalist answered,
evasively. '• They'd treat her no better than they treat their
doidieys." ■ .

" And to prevent that, you'd throw yourself away upon her, a
mere Kabyle girl ! You, with all your cleverness and laiowledge :
and etlucation I A man like you, the heir of all the ages, in the
foremost files of time — why, the thing's ridiculous I Le Mar- .
chant, I haven't half your brains or your learning, 1 know ; I'm •
nothing but a landscape painter, the least among the wielders of ;
camel's hair, but sooner than tie myself for life to such a creature ,'
as that, I'd blow my brains out, such as they are, and be done
with it for ever. To toy with, to flirt with, to amuse one for a
day — very well, if you will ; but to marry — impossible. Never,
uever, never."

" Tastes differ," Le Marchant answered, drily ; " especially in
these matters. Some people insist upon accomplishments and
high-heeled boots ; other care rather for marked character ajid

'i>:ni^\W!:

tai Tsiftf •» inni.

QfttWe %r\BTgy. Ton mfty judge men largely by what they admire.
Strong natures like strong natures ; and, given strength, they
despise externals. Other minds think more of mere culture,
perhaps ; it's not the diamond tliey admir), but its cutting.
Diamonds in the rough are to them mere pebbles. For my part,
it's the stone itself that takes my fancy. You don't care for
her ; but don't break her heart any more than's absolutely
necessary. For I see she can't help falling in love with you."

Next morning, when Meriem came round to the tent, aa was
her daily wont, with the milk from the cows she tended herself
for the two young Englishmen, Le Marchant met her with a
sadder and more anxious face than usual. " Meriem," he said,
'• I want to speak to you seriously about your own future.
Whatever comes, you must never marry either Ahmed or
Hussein."

•• Does Vernon say not ? " Meriem asked, all fluttering.

'• No," Le Marchant answered, crushing down her poor heart
at once of deliberate purpose, for he knew no possible good would
come to her of that painful illusion. '• I say so m}self, because
T takfi a friendly interest — a very friondly intprest—in your life
and happiness, Meriem, I want to look up your En.-i^lish friends.
If I found them out, would you care to go and hve in England ? "

" Not alone," Meriem answered, with a promptitude which
clearly shewed she had already asked herself that leading
question. "When Yusuf used to take me on his knee, and tell
me about England long ago, 1 always thou,':jht I should like to
go there, if only he could go with me. And since I have seen
you and Vernon, Eustace, and heard all about it, I've often
fancied I should hke to go there if only — if only I had any one
to take care of me and take me there. But it's so far across the
sea, and the people over yonder are all infidels — not that I'm
quite so afraid of infidels now, either, since I've seen so much
more of you and Vernon."

•• Why wouldn't your father take you there, Meriem ? "

Meriem opened her large, brown eyes very wide with astonish-
ment.

" They would have put him in prison, of course," she said,
with decision. " It was for fear of that that he ran awa), and
became a Kabyle. None of- the infidels seemed to like him.
The French would have shot him, and the English would have
imprisoned him. I think there must have been feuds between

1 1;;

('r.

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

'lip MD

(/.

1.0 !!:»* «

I.I

i.25

2.5

Iil4

2.2

12,0

IIIII^H

1.4 IIIIII.6

'c^l

"m c%:

^^.\'>^

Ss.

/Si

PhotogiBphic

Sciences

Corpordtion

23 WIST MAIN iTRIIT

WIBSTIII,NV I45SO

(716) •72-4i03

^'b^

i^^p

XHM Z£NXtt Oif UUKM.

the tribes in England, iuad that his tribe moit baye been angry
with him, and cast him off, for he told me his family wonld have
nothing to say to him. But I like the English very much for
those three things ; that Yusuf was English, and that the
English were kinder to my father than the French, and that —
that you and Vernon are Englishmen, Eustace."

Le Marchant looked at her with profbund pity. He couldn't
bear to think this strong and guileless nature should be cast
away as a beast of burden for some wretched Eabyla like Ahmed
or Hussein.

'• Is there nobody, Meriem," he said, at last, " who can tell
me anything more about your father ? "

Meriem reflected for a moment in silence. Then she answered
somewhat doubtfully, *• If anybody could tell you, it's the Pere
Baba."

•• And who's the Pere Baba ?" Le Marchant went on eagerly.

." He's a priest, a Christian, a missionary, they call him, down
at St. Cloud, in the valley there. St. Cloud, you know, is where
the colonists are. It's a wicked place, all full of Frenchmen,
■^usuf would never go down to the village, for fear the people
who lived there should learn his French name, and then they'd
have shot him. But the Pere Baba and the Pere Paternoster
used sometimes to come up to see Yusuf, and my father was fond
of the Pere Paternoster, and told him many things. Our people
were angry at this often, and used to say to him, * Yusuf, you're
a Christian still at heart, and you confess to the priest and say
prayers with him ; " but Yusuf always answered, * No, not so bad
as that; I only see the Pere Paternoster as a friend, and on
matteij of business.' And once, before the Pere Paternoster
was dead, my father fastened this charm round my neck, and
told me the Pere Paternoster had given it to him, and to be very
careful that I never it."

•• What's in it ? i>-.ty I see? " Le Marchant went on, lay-
ing hold of it, eagerly. But Meriem drew back arid started
almost as if she'd been shot.

•• Oh, no," she cried, •• not that, not that I Anything but
that ? Why, I wouldn't let even Vernon open it."

" And what makes you like Vernon so much better than me ? "
Le Marchant asked, half hurt by her innocent frankness.

Meriem m»<h no attempt to parry the charge. " Who knows ? "
ghe answered, with both graet^ful anns an(i hands spread open
before her. "Who can tell whai uiaiiea one's heart go so ?

W!^gmm^!t!j.,,. :.i;' -■"«:;."' '<i^?,€:5S^f!!S^i^'*^

tax TXNT8 07 BHXU.

but

Who can give any reason for all these things ? , , ', , He

paints, and he talks, and he's beautiful, and I hke him I

hke you, too, Eu^'tace ; oh, ever so mnch ; I never liked any-
body else so much before, except lutsuf; but I hke Vernon
differently ; quite, quite, differently. .... You know how I
meab. You must have felt it yourself. .... But I can't stop
now. I muflt go on with my milk. The other people in the
village will be waiting for tlieir eous-mits. Don't be angry, like
the Kabyles, because I like Vernon besL This evening again,
we shall leu^'n Kabj'le tu^ulLef,"

>*i

TTT

100

XUK 'SilM'lii UV

CHAPTER XV,

AN OASIS OF OIVa,ISATTO!f.

•'^^EKNON.'" Le Marchant called out, with a sudden resolve
'•I'm otf to 8t. Clou.l. I've a reason for going to-day. Wii
you come along on with me ? "

•• All right, Euotace, if you'll juf^t wait till I've finisliod was!'
ing out m\ sky," the painter answered, brisklv. They liar' pick
up the trick of calli^'g one another by their Gnristian names fron
Merieni's example, and it bad now grown with them almost
habitual.

Hitherto, the two new-comers had intentionally avoided tlu'
dissipations of St. Cloud, not being anxious to study life in its \
peculiar outlying Algerian development, among the remote
corners where a few ardent pioneers of civilisation diffuse the
blessings of European culture over a benighted land by congrc
gating together to drink bad absinthe under the eye of the suii
l)efore the bare mud platform of a fourth-rate esUunbu't. ■ But
low that the chance of finding out something definite about
VIeriem's parentage drew Le Marchant on, he was ready to face
oven the wooden houses and malodorous streets of tlje dirty new
village in search of trustworthy news as to their strange &c
quaintance.

It was a long and weary tramp, over hill and dale, amoii;
wooded ravines, and across rocky ledges ; but before twelvi
o'clock the two young men had reached the mih'tary track froi
Fort NutioiiHl to Si. C/lou(l. and ibund themselves at once, tt
,li(Mr gii'ai >in|>nsH, m a fine and s])h'ndidly engnieered F^roncl
uuiiwfiy. 11.1 \ h;i(l scarcely Struck upon it. moreover, when, ti
iiiMr still u;i<';!L('i astonishment, ainl no little amusement, the ,
aiiic, full m lace, ii; on a mincing little Frenciiwomau, attired
,ifter the very latest P;ins fashion, in a frivolous frock, a jaunty
jacket, and a vohitile hat of woixlrous arch/itecture. She was
thirt_\ :fivH and skittish, with high-heeled hoots and an attenuate''
wai-' ntteiiy iin;iil!i]>te(l to the pnictical necessities of a bare an
U\..i \ n.iii iii^n r(»;i(l. On either side of her, with clankin,
•*purs. |)iu;tii u mihtiiry gentleman of youthful years but porth
dimensions ; while Madame in the midst, with her graceful

:■*■"(». fB|;.«WL",,"F

mw^-

mmm

i^m

Tin TSMTi or fncM.

101

resolve
f, Wii

'(\ was]'
f' pick,
les froii
almost

ided tlic
fe in its

remote
use thf
congrc
tlie SUl;
«. Bui
e about

to face
■ty ne\\
uye ar

amoii;

t\V«lV(

k froi
rjce, t(
'Vonc)
K^n, t(

ittirod
aiiiit\

luatf."
e aji
nk'iii,
»ortl\
ujeful

parasol held eoqnettishly, now on this side, now on thal^ chatted
a£fably to both in iutermittent gurgles with aUernattf Bowi of
most Parisian loveliness.

" C'est Madame V Administratiee" the dirty-robed Kabylo. who
liad come with them to show them the way, murmured softly in
their ears, with a low bend of his body, as the lady approached
them. He had Hved at St. Cloud, and knew some words of
French. L-e Marchant and Blake raised their liats as the lady
passed, after the French fashion in country places, and would
have gone on without stopping, half abashed at tlieir dusty and
way worn condition, had not Madame brought them to with a
lively broadside across their bows, so to speuk, of ** Bonjour,
Messieurs."

" Bonjour, madame," Le Marchint answered, saluting again,
and still anxious to pass on ; but still the lady stooped him.
^ " You are the English artists, messieurs, of whom our
indigenes told us, who have pitched a camp on tlie hills of the
Beni-Merzoug, n'est-ce pasf " she asked, condescendingly.

" My friend is a painter," Le Marchant answered, with a wave
of his hand towards his blushing companion ; "1, myself, am a
naturalist ; and we are certainly camping out — but with one tent
only, madame — at the Beni-Merzoug village."

The lady pouted, or rather, which is quite another tiling, elU
faisait la moue, an accomplishment as indescribable as unknown
in English. •• Can you be unaware, messieurs," she said, with
a smile of mingled reproach and gentle forgiveness, " that it is
the custom in the colony for all new comers in the arrondissement
of St. Cloud to pay their respects the first to M. I'Administrateur
and to m} self at the Fort ? We have long been expecting you
to do us the honour of making us a formal visit. D'ailleurs, we
are not sO well off for agrements in these trackl(>sS wilds " — she
gazed straight ahead along the bare and well-mmle French road
before her, with a vacant air — ♦* that we can atford to lose the
agreeable society of an English painter and an English savant."
She looked up and smiled. " I adore art, and I reverence science
— at a distance."

** Not trackless, quite, madame, however wild," one of her
escort murmured with gentle reproof, looking in front, in his
turn, at the magnificent gradients of the sloping road, with
paternal pride. He was an officer of the Oenie, and he felt his*
department unduly depreciated by madame's reflection.

" Forgive us, madame," Le Marchant answered, somewhat
abashed by this open attack upon his character for pohteuew.

101

ffBa TEMT8 Oy IRBU.

" We are strangers in the land, and to say the truth, we scarcely
expected at Bt. Cloud the charm of female society. Besides, you
do us far too much honour. We are simple students, each in his
own art, and we have scarcely brought with us in our rough-and-
ready camp the necessary costume for appearing in fitting dress
at European functions. We could hardly venture to present
ourselves thus before you."

As for Blake, all awe-struck at the high*heoled boots and the
Parisian hat, he left the conversation entirely in the competent
hands of the naturahst. His French, such as it was, forsook
him forthwith. Indeed, the commonplaces of the Ollendorffian
dialect would here have stood him in very poor stead. He felt
he could not insult so grand a lady at) Madame I'Administratrice
by addressing to her casual and fortuitous remarks about la
femme du jardinier or lejila du menumer,

Madame bowed a condescending little bow.

♦• In consideration of your contrition," she said, " and your
implied promise of future amendment, monsieur, absolution is
granted you. You see my generosity. You were coming to visit
as, of course? Well, then, M. le Lioutonant," to the elder of
her companions, "we will turn round and accompany these
gentlemen back to the Fort."

Le Marchant hesitated. He didn't wish to be rude, but it
went against the grain of his honest nature to pretend a call was
meant when none had been intended. A happy thought struck
him, by way of a compromise.

"Not in this tenue, madame," he said. " Even in Algeria, we
must respect lea convenances ; we couldn't think of calling upon
any lady in such a costume. En ejf'et, we were going to visit the
Pere Baba."

The lady sighed.

** Helas," she answered, " this is not Paris. We are glad to
get callers in any tenue. But you will at least permit us to accom-
pany you on your way as far as the village ? "

" Thank you, madame. You are very good. This is a charm-
ing situation. So, wild, so picturesque-^— I "

*♦ And BO wholly unenrlurable 1 "

** But surely, madame, the scenery is lovely, li's a beautiful
country."

'♦ Beautiful I Je vous V accords ; maii vu de loin. For a painter,
possibly ; but for a woman, rrwn Dieu, it's too far from Paris."

•• Still," Blake ventured to remark, inspired to a sudden Ollen-
dorfiEiaji outburst in defence of the scenery, ** there are mai^
worse places than this in the world."

■»ww

■"■nil"

-w

i.uji!i IJiuSia Uy bUi:.^!.

105

** Perhaps bo," ttte little woman replied, with a omshing amil.
" hvitfauts de pire, I'm quite sati.'^fied in that way with this one.'

Blake retired in disorder from the unequal contest. Evenhai
he possessed the rudiments of her language, the little French
woman was clearly too much for him at the game of repartee.
But Le Marchant, a bolder spirit, tried once more.

" You have lived here long, madame ? " he asked, with his
perfect accent.

" Long enough almost to have forgotten the bouleTards.
Fifteen years, monsieur ; jQgure that to yourself ; et j» regrette
encore la cuisine Parisienne." She spoke with pathos.

" That is indeed constancy I " Le Marchant replied, with ap-
propriate emotion.

♦• Monsieur," thelady retorted, with a little mock curtsey and
, an ironical smile, ** it is your sex, remember, that has the
monopoly of fickleness."

They walked on tovv^ards the village, along the dusty road, all
five abreast, Madame I'Administratrice chatting away gaily all
the time in the same flighty strain about the discomforts of her
situation, the distance from a really good milliner, the difficulty
of getting endurable coffee, and, above all, the vices and short-
comings of ces cochons d' indigenes. Upon this last pet subject —
a colonial substitute for the -great servant question — madame,
after the wont of Algerian ladies, waxed very warm, and nodded
the volatile little hat most impressively, till the stability of its
feathers was almost compromised.

♦* Believe me, monsieur,'' she said at last, with much energy,
stamping her neat small foot on the dusty trottoir, " we shall
never have peace and security in Algeria tiU the French soldiers
join hands across the country in a long line, and walking over
hill and dale together, sweep the indigenes before them into the
Mediterranean."

♦• C'est vrai" the officer of the Oenie assented with a profoundly
convinced nod.

" Strong measures, indeed," Le Marchant answered, laughing.

" It is thus, monsieur, that France must fulfil her civihsing
mission," the lady repeated, stoutly. •* Join hands in line, and
march across the country, and sweep every Arab into the Medi
terranean. Le ban Dieu never made the world, you may be sure,
for those pigs of Arabs."

" But the Kabyles ? " Blake asked, with another gasping effort.

"Do I distinguish between them, monsieur?" madame an-
swered, scornfolly, tuniiug upon him with a anddeuneai that

104

TBS TBNTS Of UkSM.

airly friphtetied the painter. •* Eron' mrhon dHn(fiffsne is an
Vrab for me. I make no fine discriminations between Arab and
\rab. U71 hidu/etie e'cst un ituliyene. Que vonlez-vomi, monsieur T
At thft entrance of the Httle colony, madame paused and
■)inted.

" Down that road, mosslonrs," she said, with her bland, sraal
uiile, " in the large house to tlie left, you will find the Pere Babu.
hi rcste, I am charmed to have made your acquaintance so
appily. It is pleasant to hear our beautiful language so well
pokon. We shall meet again. Ju revoir, messieurs. 1 receive..
I'ecollect, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. You can no longer
plead ignorance. We shall expect to see you at my next re
ception."

And with a coqr.ettish inclination of the volatile hat, and a
curious side wriggle of the frivolous frock, the spoiled child oi
the boulevards, accompanied by her military bowing escort, dis-
ippeared down the one long white street of the timber-built
vdllage.

Le Marchant and Blake, left alone by themselves, looked ai
me another in silence, and smiled a broad smile at this uc-
iixpected apparition amo.ng the wilds of Africa.

wi^fi^mm'.

TEM8 OF

CHAPTER XVI.

TBI WHITE FATHERS.

'•You are the Pere Baba, monsieur?" Le Marchant asked,
with some misgiving in his tone, of the white -frocked old gentle-
man in a plain Arabjburnous, who opened the door of the mission
to receive them.

" My name in religion is Brother Geronimo, my son*," the old
priest answered, with a courteous bow ; but the indiijme.» among
whom I labour — to little avail, 1 fear, for the Propagation of the
Faith is slow in Africa — know me better as the Pere Baba. Will
you step inside and refresh yourselves awhile ? V^'e are glad to
receive you."

In the bare white union, vt'iih its little bright-coloured religious
chromo- lithographs, into whjch he ushered tljeni, Le Marchant
briefly explained to the good fatlier the object of tlieir visit, and
asked with many apologies lor such information as the priest
.;ould give him with regard to a person who seemed to be equally
.veil known either as Yusuf, a Kabyle, or as Joseph Leboutillier.

The grey-bearded father sighed and tapped his forelioad.
• Ah, Le mniime Yumf\" he said, with a conipassioimte face. V Yes,
yes, I knew him; I knew him, of course, ce /Kiurrc nuMrahlf d'
Ymuh l)Ut yoii come too late ; by brother Antoine was the man
;.:) liave iisKed liiin whom the nnhijiiirs called t.hc I\jre PaUT
lOster. lJiili;iii;>ii\, bixaiier Aiitnijje hud t.;si )tar, arxl much of
.vhat Vusuf haci lold hiin uied with liiin. being giv..-ii, of lunirse,
under the sea) (.»f religion, l^'or Vusuf, tlu;in;]i \\v lived among
the Kabyles aa a Kabyle, and bowed the kiu e, jnnu- ttiti.si dire, in
the temple of Rimmon, to save his life, remained ist heart a

i'4s to my ^,oor

Olifistian to tlie > nd. and uohii !• d w. \\\ thii
»rotlier, the Pere i\\ riiosier. lie li,ii .i mo'
Aiitonie, and he \va;< kind to Vusiil', and went tu vSee hiui u
lonely hut on the mouutaius of tiie iieiii-Merzoug."

106

THK TBNTS Of 8BKM.

•* But tell us at least as much as you know, tron pere^" Le Mar-
chant insisted, " wliatever was not said to you or your brother
under the seal of relij^'ion."

'• You come as friends ?" the father asked suspiciously, "or for
some ulterior object ?"

Le March ant explained in a very few words, with transparent
frankness, that they came in the interest of Yusufs daughter.
They knew she had English blood in her veins, and they wished,
if possible, to restore her to her relations, and to tne bosom of
Christendom.

That last touch told with Pere Baba visibly. •• It's a sad story,
wow fiU," he went on, closing his eyes, and turning his face
towards the bare white ceiling, as he stroked the beard which all
missionary priests are permitted to wear in virtue of tlieir calling ;
" a sad story, and I'm afraid I hardly know enough about it to
tell you accurately anything that will be of serious use to this
girl Meriem. She calls herself Meriem, I beheve ; ah, yes, I
thought so. I recollect the circumstances. Well, Yusufs story,
so far as I can recall what Pere Antoine told me, was something
like this. He was an Englishman by birth, though I forget his
name — let us agree that your guttural English names are
impossible to remember, lie came of a family, a very good
family ; but he was spendthrift and foolish, though never, I
believe, wicked — jamais, jamais coupable. He told me so, and I
always believed him. P.h him, according to his own account,
which you must remember is the only one I have heard, his
younger brother, sharing his embarrassments, forged their
father's name to certain acceptances, which re pauvre Yusuf, in
a weak moment, not knowing their nature, agreed to get cashed
for him. Yusuf declared to his dying day he had never tlu'
slightest idea they were forged, and that his brother deceived him
For that, I Imow nothing ; but, monsieur " — and the old priest's
voice had a womanly note of compassion as he spoke — " 1
verily believe he was truthful, this unhappy exile." •

" To judge by his daughter, I believe he must have been," Le
Marchant interposed, with perfect sincerity.

The i'ather nodded. " Well, the fraud came to light," he con-
tinued, "and the brother shuffled out of it ; he was niauvais sujet,
this brotlier, Yusuf always assured us. The evidence all pointed
to Yusuf alone ; the law was in search of him ; Yusuf lost
00. ragCj and fled the country. He took passage to America as a
more blind, but, as a matter of fact, he fled to France, under an
assumed name, and never again darwd to c«mmuwicate with hit
relatione."

THX TENT8 O^ ■HBll.

107

for

" He fnight have done so at least before he died," Le Marcbai!!
cried, warmly, " The danger would then have been all past. h\>i
his dnnghter's sake, he ought surely, on his dying bed, to hav(
written."

" Monsieur," the Father answered, with his eyes still olosofl.
recatting slowly the half-for<,'otten facts, ''he never lay upon hi.^
(lying bed at all. Had he died thus, these things ini<;ht all have
turned out differently. But U bon Dieii willed it otherwise. You
shall hear in due time ; for this was what happened. Ce paurii
Yusuf enlisted in the Third Chasseurs at Toulon, and was sent
iicross here, under the assumed name of Joseph Leboutillier, ti
put down the insurrection among the M'zabites and the Kabyles
But as soon as he saw the sort of warfare in which he was ti
be engaged, his heart smote him ; for he was a just man, Yusuf,
though he had many failings ; and let us ndmit, monsieur, that
we other French have not always made war very honourably, oi
very justifiably, against these poor iniiiicnes."

*' I fear as much from their disposition towards you," L(
Marchant said, shortly.

•' Well, wluni Yusuf came up to Grande Kabylie, m effete hi
found his work was to be nothing less than exterminating tlu
natives and expropriating their territory. That was what Yusuf,
with his high ideas, could never endure. He hated to be mad<
an instrument of what seemed to him tyranny. So, in n
skirmish one day with the liene-Yenni people, he found himself,
by chance, alone behind a cju'tus hedge, with the body of a dead
Kabyle in the ditch besici-B hi^n. This he told brother Antoine,'
the old man said, lookin^: round with a dubious air, " and 1
don't know whether I onght to repeat it, for 1 am not sure thii!
he didn't tell it under th' set;! of religion."

••Continue," Le Marct a-'i said, with evident earneatnes.^
"It is tor no bad purpose 'oat we a^k you to contide iu u>
What you say only interests ra« more profoundly tlian evur in
this poor girl, Meriem."

" So he took the dead Kabyle's burnous," the priest went oti
seizing his hearer's arm for further emphasis, " and stole awa_}
slowly, all un perceived, into the Kabyle camp as an honest
deserter. lie made signs to the ind'ujnu'H that he had come aa u
friend. One of them, a former Spahis, who had served i)>
France, and understood our language, interpreted for him ; an»i
the Kabyles, glad to avail themselves of his superior skill and
military knowledge, received him with open aims and made hitu
as one of theiu. It was thus he came to find himdtiU prcjcril/co

tBB tiNTi Of tmmu.

Uy two nntinns nt nnce, the English as u luiger, and iht Frenol^i
.18 a deserter."

•• It's a toucliing story I " Le Marohant cried, with emotion.

" Touching, indeed, for the poor man himself," the Father

.\ent on, •* for, hunted down and terrified for his hfe as he w»«,

I usuf dared not return to civilisation on any side; he had no

money even to go to Italy or America, whore perhaps, he mig)»t

liave been free ; and, a gentleman bom and bred as he was, ht-

')ecame as a Knbyle, earning his bread by gathering ohves or

utting corn with his own hands, and seeing no Christian fao»'

iiy where save uiy own and the Pere Paternoster's, who alon'

ad the keeping of his terrible secrets. The Amine of the Ben'

.lerzouj,' gave hmi his sister HaUma, this Meriem's mother, ds a

Niibyle wife ; and that one girl was thoir only child."

" Tliey wore niuiried ? " Le Marchant asked."

'* After the Kabyle fashion, yes. So far as I know, there w»^
() other rite. But Yusuf lived with her fiutlii'ully as a husband,
and loved her truly — in this, as in all other tliiui^s, accepting to the
uli ins altered situation. He was a loveable soul, and, in spi^e
jf everything, one couldn't help lovhig him ; there was a silej't
heroism about the man's endurance that extorted at last ono's
highest odnuration."

" And what became of him at last? " Le Marchant asked, -^s
the Father paused,

" lie died suddenly," Pere Baba answered, "without beirg
able to give Pere Paternoster his dying directions, or perhaps I
might be able to tell you something more about his family r i
England. His death was brought about by most unhappy cii-
cumstanccs. A lew years since, a French detective came up into
the mountains, and began to make enquiries about Joseph Lebou-
tillier. The Kabylos heard of it, and warned Yusuf ; they felt
sure the authorities had someho"^ 'aarned a deserter in open war
on active service was skulking among their mountains, and had
determined to make a stern example of him. So poor Yusuf
fled to a cave on the Djurjura,"

*• Just below the summit of Lalla Khadidja ? " Le Marchant
aslced, eagerly.

The Fatlier nodded. •• You know it, then ? " he said. " Yes,
the place was tiiere. He remained in that cave in hiding for
more than a week, while the French detective, an inquisitive fel-
low, went every where about, peering and prying, and asking for
news of him, under the pretense that he wanted it for a friendly
purpose. But the Kabyles where too cunning to be taken in

TUX TKNTI (MT «UJCM.

109

likfr that ; they denied ever bavi.ig heard of any such deserter.
So in the end the detective went back again to Algiers empty-
handed, and poor Yusuf, who had been supplied with food
meanwhile by the Eabyles, ventured to coma down again one
dark night to visit his dead wife's village.'*

'• And then f " Le Marchant inquired.

'• Why, then, the weather being very stormy, and the rocks
wet, the poor fellow, weak with exposure, slipped a?id fell on a
precipice of the Djurjura, and was taken up stone dead by his
friends, and buried in the cemetery on the side of the mountain.
So that was how ho never came to give final directions about his
daughter to anybody ; and as Pere Paternoster knew all these
particulars under the seal of religion, he could not divul<i[e ti.em
or claim the girl for a Christian, as he would have wished to do ;
so she has been brought up ever since by the Amine, her uncle."

The simple story touo.hed Le iVi , 'Uiant profoundly. There was
something so pathetic in this r jghly-drawn picture of that
double outcast flying from tl'f> oflended laws of two great coun-
tries, one after the other, ar ' baking refi;^e at last in a miserable
rock-shelter on the summit of a wild and snow-clad mountain,
that his imaginu,tion was deer^y slirred by the plaintive inci-
dents. He tried to find out mora from the old priest by ques-
tioning ; but he soon discovered that the substance of his tale
had all been told, and that the Father had little more than com-
ment and conjecture to add to this, his first iiaaty summary.
Pere Paternoster could have told more, he was sure; but Pere
Paternoster was dead and buried, and nobody else knew much, if
anything, about the whole matter.

They would have risen to leave when the interview was finished,
but the Father, with old-fashioned religious hospitality, begged
them to stop and share his dejeuner. "It is not much,"
he said, with an apologetic shrug and a deprecatory gesture
of his open palms — " an omelette — for it's Friday — and a
morsel of dried fish, washed down with a little blue wit 3 of the
country ; but such as it is, messieurs, I trust you will do me the
honour to partake of it."

♦* We shall be only too charmed, mon pere,' Le Marchant re-
phed, truthfully. •* We haven't sat down at a civilised table, or
eaten bread, or tasted wine, since we came to Kabylie. It will
be a welcome relief to us from that eternal cons-cons"

In five minutes, ^.he breakfast duly appeared on the table — ^an
omelette which might have made even Madame TAdministratriv j
herself less poignantly regi-el ^jhe Parisian cuisine, some crofuetts*

TBI TBNT8 Of IBBM

Mr- -

of dry cod most daintily flavoured, and a bottle of good red wine
from White Fathers' own rich vineyards at the Maison Carree—
to all which the two young I'^nglishmen, long strangers to sucli
luxury, znd inured to Diego's rough-and-ready methods of out
dotr cookery, did ample justice. The bread, in particular, was
highly commended — nice white little pHita pains that would have
done honour to the Viennese bakeries in Paris. Vernon Blake
praised it so loudly, to the disparagement of com-cmis, tliat when
tliey left the mission house the good father must needs presn
upon them the entire remainder of that day's batch to talce hack
with them to the village. •• I'll roll the loaves up in paper," he
said, " and your Kabyle can carry them. Let me see ; what
have 1 got in the way of a newspaper ? Ah, here's yesterday's
iJepeven Ahicnennes."

" Better still," Le Mnrohant said, •• for to tell you the truth,
though we get lottors occasionally when the villagers are going
down to market at Tizi-Ouzou, we haven't seen a newspaper of
any sort for the last six weoks."

So they returned to Boni-^f(»r/,ong with their bread and their
paper, Le Marchant at least not a little saddened by the painful
history of Meriem's father.

Meriem herself was waiting at the tent to meet them as they
returned. '• I want you to see what I can do, Eustace," she
cried to Le Marcliant, with almost childish delight. " Vernon
has lent me one of his books to try on, and I think now I can
read English."

Le Marchant took the hook from her hand incredulously ; it
was a pai)er covered edition of a popular novel. The girl glanced
over his shoulder, and, to his great surprise, spelt out several
lines, one after the other, with tolerable correctness. She made
a hash of the proper names, to be sure, and of the long words
that did not as yet enter into her now daily-widening English
vocabulary ; but as to words that she knew, she read them at
sight with an ease and rapidity that fairly took Le Marchant's
breath away.

•♦How on earth did you loarn to do this, Meriem?" he cried,
astonished. *• It's wouderl'iil ! wonderful I "

Merioiii looked up at him with not unbecoming conscious
pride. " I was so asliiuned of myself," she said, " that day
when 1 couldn't read my father's English name in Vernon's pic-
ture, that 1 made up my iniiid 1 wouldn't wait another day or
another minute without beginning to learn the letters of my
father's language. So I borrowed one of Vernon's books, with-

TUK TKNTM OP 8HSM.

.lU telling yott about it. and found a girl of our people who
lould leach me the Hiiiues of all the letters, because, you see,
she'd been taught by the priests at the school of St. Cloud, and
they're the same as the French ones, though they sound a Uttle
• Urferent. I couhi read Kabyle already, of course, in Arabic
letters, that I learned for the Koran, and I think when you know
how to read one language it must always be easy to read any
other one. Besides, I thought I should be ashamed not to
know if ever — well, if ever I should happen to go to England."

Le Marchant smiled a pitying smile, and answered nothing.

" Besides, the book itself is so interesting," Meriem went on,
in an ecstasy. " It tells you about how people Uve in England.
And now that I've read it, do you know, Eustace, I think I
should like to live in England ; the people seem all so peaceable
and good there."

•♦ Why didn't you tell Vernon first ? " Le Marchant asked, with
a sidelong glance at the beautiful girl.

Meriem hesitated. " Because .... I don't know why . . .
I can't explain it ... . but somehow I was shy of telling
Vernon."

There was a long pause during which neither of them said
anything to one another. Then Le Marchant, raising his eyes
unsteadily from the ground with a stifled sigh, said, suddenly,
" Was your father a good man, Meriem ? "

Meriem started. " He was the very best man that ever lived,"
she answered, earnestly, with the full fervour of confirmed
conviction.

" And yet," Le Marchant mused, half to himself, ♦* the Eng-
lish wanted to imprison him for forgery, and the French would
have liked to shoot him for desertion."

" Perhaps that was because he was so very good," Meriem
answered, simply. " Don't you think, Eustace, good people are
always the least understood and the most persecuted ? V/hy,
even the blessed Prophet himself had to fly from Mecca to avoid
iieing killed by the wickedness of the people."

Le Marchant could not resist an amused smile. The incon-
'^'raity of the words on such English hps seemed so grotesque as
'uo be almost ridiculous.

^^mgm^mm^p^^^^^

' .-; . P'i'-,:?- -rv-'Wi. ■■ • 'T-

;.r?^ ' -t'^

111

CHK TONTtt OF HiUUi.

No:

CHAPTER XVn.

tHS BTR^^QB CONVEBOM,

ON the platform outside the village, where the P)i!n)-\Ii;r/.oiig
held their weekly market, Vernon Blake stood skytching thp
buzzing group of white-robed natives who clustered beneath th«
shade of a great oak opposite, deep in eager conclave, as it
appeared, on some important question of tribal business. A
finer subject he had seldom found. Every gesture and attitude
of the men was indeed eloquent ; and the pose of the Amine, in
particular, as he listened to and weighed each conflictmg argu-
ment, presented to the eye a perfect model of natural an<l
unstudied deliberative dignity. Le Marchant, stretched cal'e-
lessly at the painter's feet, had brought out with him tlu' copy
oi the I >)'iHrhes Algeneniifs which the Pere Baba had yesterday
lent them. He was reading it aloud, translating as he went,
with but a languid interest in the diplomatic rumours and Court
news which its telegrams detailed with their usual tedious con-
ciseness, wlien, turning a page to the advertisement cohnnns, hi?
eye was attracted suddenly by the appearance, in large Roman
type, of that unknown name which had imprinted itself so deeply
on their minds of late, the English name of Meriem's father !
'• On d^tmind^ (les remntpifinentt," the advertisement ran, " sur le
//o;»w//' Clarence Knyvett, /iw///rtfw."

Le Marcliant could hardly believe his eyes.

" Look here, Blake," he exclaimed, with a little cry of surprise
"just see what on earth this means, will you ? "

Blake took the paper from his hand, and stared at it hard.

"What d( es it mean ? " he said, with a whew. •* I can't quit('
make it out. Two of them at once, too I It's really ver}
singular."

Le Marchant snatched back the little sheet from his friend in
fresh astonishment.

*' Two of them ?" he cried. *• Why, so there are, actually,
And both wanted to know the very same tlungs — about Muriem'*
father."

^^^P^PVP^P"iP^"PPP<PPPWPpif"<PI^^

mmm

nn nurea ov

*• TruiBlato Ihem,*' Blake eaid.

And Le Marchant translated : —

" Information wanted aboat one, Clarence Enyvett, an English-
man, who is believed to have enlisted in the Third Chasseurs
ander the assumed name of Joseph Leboutillier, and to have
hidden for some time as a deserter among the Eabyles of the
Djurjura. If he or his representatives wiU address themselves
to Iris Kn3rvett, 16 North Grove, Kensington, London, or to T.
K. Whitmarsh, Esq., Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, equally in
London, they may hear of something to their advantage."

" A whole romance," Blake exclaimed, with surprise, still
going on with his sketching, but much interested.

" And here's the second," Le Marchant continued, translating
crce more. " ' Any person who can supply certain information
ap to the death, with or without heirs, of Clarence Knyvett,
otiierwise Joseph Leboutillier, formerly a soldier of the Third
Chasseurs, and supposed to have died in a akinnish in Kabylie,
shall receive a reward of five hundred francs on addressing him-
self to the undersigned, Harold Knyvett, Cheyne How Club,
Piccadilly, London, W., England."'

" What the dickens does it mean ? *' Blake asked, laying down
his pencil for a moment, with a puzzled air.

" It means," the naturahst answered, slowly, " that Meriem
is the missing heir to a great fortune, and that she and Iris
Knyvett, the Third Classic, must be somehow related to one
another. When we left Algiers, Sir Arthur Knyvett was still
alive, for I saw his name m Oalignani, at the English Club,
among the list of visitors then lately arrived at Aix-les- Bains.
It happened to attract me in connection with Miss Knyvett's
success at Cambridge. Since that time Sir Arthur must have
died, and Meriem must he wanted as his heiress and representa-
tive."

" Lucky for you t " the artist cried, with a short, little laugh,
" You didn't know you'd fallen in love with a young woman of
property I "

•* Lucky for you, rather," Le Marchant retorted, by no means
so gaily. " You didn't know it was a young woman of property
who'd fallen in love with you."

•* What shall you do about it ? " Blake asked, after a brief
pause, when the first shock of surprise had begun to pass away.

" Write to England at once," the naturahst answered, with
great promptitude.

** To which ? To the fellow who offers twenty pounds rsward*

E'iri

114

VHB TENTS 0¥ 8HXM.

I sappos*? If there's money going begging, you may m well
eome in for your share of it as any other feUow."

" No," Le Marchant rephed, shaking hia head with decision.
•* To the lady by all means."
"Why so?"

" For many reasons. In the first place, because she's a
woman, and will therefore be more kindly disposed to Meriem.
In the second place, because she offers no reward, and I shall
therefore not sol probably be suspected of mercenary motives.
And in the third place, because, I don't know why, I feel
instinctively the one advertisement means friendliness to Meriem,
and the other advertisement means an enemy."

" Qui tient a son interet, the Third Classic says," Blake
remarked, musingly, turning the paper over again, and spelling
it out for himself ; *• while the other man .says only des remeigne-
menu indubitables sur la mort, avec au sans heriturs, du nomrm
Clarence Knyvett ? It somehow sounds as if the girl wanted to
find somebody somewhere to represent this man Clarence, do-
ceased, and as if the other fellow, on the contrary, was anxious, U
if possible, to cut him off root and branch, without further to du
about it."

"That's exactly how I read it," Le Marchant answered, witli
'a satisfied nod. •' So we'll throw ourselves without reserve on
Miss Knyvett's mercy." *

'* Which Miss Knyvett ? " ^lake asked, provokingly. " Meriom
or the other one ? "

♦* The other one, you know quite well, Vernon. Not a moment
shall be lost. I'll write this very day direct to London."
'• You think she'll come in for Sir Arthur's money, tlien ? "
"No, I don't." It's impossible. She has no legal title. 'riinCs
why I propose to write to the lady rather than to the man. Mr.
Harold Knyvett, whoever he may be, is certain to take a niun's
point of view about it. If the fortune's his, he'll do nothing for
Meriem. We won't be able to work upon his feelings. But if
it's the girl's — the Third Classic's, I mean — she's pretty sure to
recognise the tie of blood, in spite of everything, and to make
some handsome recognition of Meriem's moral claims Mpon her
gene'^osity."

" Why moral claims only ? " the painter asked, puzzled.
•• Why shouldn't Meriem succeed to the property in due course
if it's really hers ? You see, they say they want to find the
heirs of Clarence Knyvett or Joseph Leboutillier, who will hear
of/Mmethiug that goes to thini advantage. Surely a m&u's owu

vv
K

im^

THE TENTS OV BHSM.

116

daughter's his heir — or rather his heiress. And that's just what
the other fellow seems most afraid of ; for the thing he clearly
wants to pay twenty pounds for is proof that this man, Clarence
Knyvett, died without heirs, leaving him, Mr. Harold, to succeed
to the property."

" Exactly so," Le Marchant answered, taking in the situation
at a glance, with his clear logical mind. •' A man's daughter's
his heiress, of course, at least for personalty, provided she's his
(laughter by the law of England. But the law of England, with
its usual mediaeval absurdity, takes no account of anytliing so
unimportant as mere paternity or hereditary relationship ; accord-
ing to its theory, Meriera here is in no way related to her own
father. It's grotesque, of course, but I'm afraid it's the fact.
From the point of view of the law of England, she's a mere waii
and stray, no more connected with her own family and her own
friend? than anybody else in England or in Kabylie.

•'How so?" the painter asked, in wondering surprise.

" Because," Le Marchant answered, " as Pere Baba toM us,
her father and mother were only married by the Kabyle rite —
that is to say, as Maliommedans marry. Now, Mahomniedanism
peniiits the institution of polygamy ; and though the Kabyles
tlieiiisolves are not practical polygamists, having retained in that,
as ni so many other respects, in spite of Islam, their old Roman
and European habits, yet theoretically at least, and by Rlahom-
inedan law, a Kabyle has the rigiit to marry four wives if he
pleases. Ileiico, according to the law of England, a marriage
with a Kabyle wonum by the Mahoramedan rite is a polygamous
marriage. Such a marriage isn't recognised by our Courts — I've
seen the case tried, and 1 know it t(j be ?o ; and in the eye of
our law, accordingly, Mcriein hersti^lf is illugitiniate, and has no
stjrt of relationship with her own fatiuir."

" But ii's absurd ; it's unjust ! " Blake cried, in astonishment.

•* What else do you expuct," his couipanion asked, bitterly,
" from the law of Emilatid '? "

" Why, look here," Bhike exclaimed again, with the ordinary
impotent youthful indi-iiat ion against the manifest wrongfulness
of established custom, " that's such rot, you know. There's no
'-ort of question of poljyaniy in it at all. Doesn't Shakespeare
-<ay, ' Eet me not to the marriage of true minds admit impedi-
uicnts?'"

'* But Shakespeare would hardly be admitted as an authority
of collateral value with Blackstone in an En^jlish Court," Le
Marchaiit answered, with a bitter smile.

116

TBI TINT! Of IBBM.

. '-t:

" Well, take it by common sense, then," Vernon Blake went
on, excitedly. "This man Knyvett, Meriem's lather, took for
his wedded wife a Kabyle woman, Ilaliuia, or whatever else they
choose to call her, by the law of thocouut/^' iu which they lived,
and was faithful to her only all the days of his lifetime, if that's
not marriage, I don't know what is. Ho never married any
other wife that I can hear of ; and by tlie Kabyle custom he
couldn't, or wouldn't, ever have done so. If he had, Mrs. Hahma
would have brought the house down about his ears, I'll bet you
any money. These Kabyle women are unaccustomed to such
proceedings. It was a monogamous marriage, if that's the proper
word — and a jolly good word, too, supposing only it's in the right
place — as much as any marriage any day in England. Hang it
all, if that's Enghsh law, you know, 1 don't think very much of
the wisdom of our ancestors."

•' Nevertheless," Le Marchant repHed, with a serious face,
♦•I'm quite sure I represent it correctly. The marriage being
contracted under Mahommedan law is, ipaojavto, a polygamous
marriage, whether a second wife be taken or not, and, as such,,
it's not recognized for a marriage at all, in the Christian sense,
by the law of England. Meriem iu therefore not legitimate, and
not Clarence Knyvett's heiress at all. bo what we've got to do
on her behalf is merely to interest Miss Iris Knyvett in her as
far as practicable, and to make the bust ti.rins we can possibly
make for her. For my part, I shall be satjslied if tne result ol
the incident is merely to establish comnjunicatioiis betvveeii
Meriem and her English relatives, and so, [jerhaps, m the end.
to save the poor girl from the hateful fate of being haruled over,
bound hand and toot, to either Ahmed or Hu.ssem; to prevent
that, 1 would do almost anytlinig."

*' Even to marrying ner I " cried IJlake, lightly.

•♦ Even to niairynig her I " Le Marchant repiuted with a si<:li
As it It were so tiusy a tlniig to uiiirry Aleiiein.

"And will )oii t^'U Miss Knyviittiill this'/ " Hlake asked, a.l.i
a moment. 1 lueaii auoul the umrnage being polygainuus, <tiiu
so forth ? "

" (Jtii;unly not I " Le Marclinnt said, wiLli umch firmness.
"Let them find out all that lor tiuuasulvey, if they will. Air. I.
K. Whilniarsh, of Old Square, Lmt'oln-'s inn, whoever Ue ma)
be, may be salel} trusted to arrive at that conclusion fast encjugl.
for himself. 1, for my part, holil a brief tor Menem, uinl whav
1 wtuii iti merely to enlist jour i'hird ClatisiC a sj Uij^^alhy ati much

iiess.

ir. r.

ma)

VvliUi

mmf^

nnmi or iBiii.

aa I can on her behalf. I shall dwell only upon the blood -rela-
lionship, and on her goodness and beauty, and on the hunted-
down hfe of that poor man, her father. I shall try to make
Miss Enyvett feel that the girl (as I suppose) is, after aU, at least,
her cousin."

•* Work upon her feeUnga, in short," the painter suggested,
smiling.

•♦ Work upon her feelings, if she's got any," Le Marchant re-
sponded, with a hurried glance towards the Amine's cottage ;
*• let her know that, though she may be a Third Classic at Cam-
bridge, there's one of her own blood and kith and kin over here
in Grande Kabylie who's as fine and as grand and fis noble-
minded a woman as she can be any day. That's why I mean to
write to the girl herself and not to the lawyer, who, of course, as
a man of business, would have no bowels of compassion to
speak of."

" My dear Le Marchant, your infatuation about that girl's be-
coming really ridiculous," Vernon Blake said, laughing. •• It's
a good thing for her that it's you, not me," — yes, dear Mr. Critic,
he said ms instead of /, and I won't take it upon me to correct
his grammar — •* who have to write to Miss Knyvett about her.
/ couldn't say so much in her favour."

•• Perhaps not," Le Marchant answered, a little contemptuously.
And he remembered those pregnant words of a great thinker,
« Ea.ch man sees in the universe around him what each mim
brings the faculty of seeing."

-.r:>5re"y?5r

THE fSMTS or gHUC

CHAPTER XVin.

FRIENDS IN OOUNOIL.

YsRMON Blake's sketch of the white-robed natives under the
tree opposite was a lively and vigorous one ; as well it might be,
indeed ; for could the two young Englishmen only have heard
and understood the conversation that was passing in low Kabyle
whispers between those idyllic-looking men under the shady oak-
boughs, their hearts might have stood still within them for
horror. The South plays with death and blood. The Kabyle
village council, in open air moot under the sacred oak assembled,
was debating in full form no less high and important a question
of policy than the total extinction of French rule in Eastern
Algeria.

** Then all we have to do ourselves," the Amine was remarking,
in soft earnest tones, as Blake jotted him down with upstretched
arm so vividly in his sketch-book, " is to kill every man, woman,
and child of the infidels down yonder at St. Cloud, with Allah's
blessing. The rest we may leave to the tribes to accomphsh."

" That is all we have to do, son of the Faithful," the eldest
marabout answered, with a wave of his hand towards the high
mountains. " The Beni-Yenni and the Aith-Menguellath will
take care for their part to crush out the garrison up above at
Fort National."

** You are fools to try," a strong and stalwart middle-aged
Kabyle in a red hood, standing a little apart from the group by
himself, remarked quietly, with a sneer on his face. ♦' The
French can crush you as a camel's foot crushes ants in the
desert. They crushed you so in the disgrace of 1251 " — for by
that name the great but abortive insurrection of 1870 is univer-
sally known to the Moslems of Algeria. -t

•* Hark at Amzian ! " the Amine cried, contemptuously.
" He's half an unbeliever himself, I know, because he was a
Spahi^, and served in France. The women of the infidels made
great eyes at him. They have shaken his faith. He puts no
trust in Allah. He is always discouraging the true believers &om
uxj attempt to recover their freedom.*'

tmm

^mmf

TSNTS or 6HKM.

\IV

•• I am no infidel," Arabian answered, angrily, with a toss of
his head, folding his burnous around hiin with pride, as he spoke.
"I am no infidel; I am a true Moslem; the Prophet has no
more faithful follower tliati me ; but. I have been to France, and
I know the French, how many they are. Tlieir swarms are as
locusts, when plague-time comes. They would crush you as the
camel crushes ants in the sand. Why, the people in Paris alone,
I tell you. Amine, are like flies on the carcase, more numerous
than all the tribes in Kabylie."

" Allah is g. eat," the Amine retorted, piously. " The least
among His people are stronger, if it be His will, than thousands
of infidels."

"He didn't help us in 1251," Amzian suggested, with somt
reserve.

•' Ay, but the time has now come, so the marabouts say,** the
Amine responded, with a rapid glance towards one of them,
" when Islam is to rise all together in its might against the hordes
of the infidel. Has it not come to your ears, unbeliever, how
the Christians have been driven by the Mahdi out of the Soudan ?
How the enemies of the Faith hardly hold Suakira ? How Khar-
toum has been taken by the hosts of Allah ? The day of the
great deliverance is at hand. Islam shall no longer obey the
dogs of Christians."

" We shall never drive the dogs of Christians out of Kabylie,"
the sceptical Amzian murmured once more, with secular hard-
headedness, " as long as the French are drilled and armed, and
officered as they are, while we are but a horde, and as long as
they hold the keys of Fort National."

*' Let us ask Hadji Daood," the Amine ejaculated, much
shocked at such rationalistic latitudinarianism. " He has been
to Klecca, and has seen the world. He knows bettor than anv
of us, who stay at home in Kabylie, whether these things are so
or not."

The meeting applauded with a silent clicking of some fifty
tongues. The intimate knowledge of French internal affairs to
be acquired during a coasting voyage from Bougie down the
Tunis seaboard to Alexandria and Jcddah, naturally gave the
Hadji's opinion no little weight upon this abstruse question.

" Hadji Daood ben Marabet," the Amine said, solemnly, inter-
rogating the old man as a new Parliamentary hand might inter-
rogate a veteran of many Sessions, " do you think, or do you not
think, the French are so very strong that they could crush us as
a camel crushes a desert ant-hill ? "

120

tBM TfiNTS OJr BUttU,

Hadji Daood ben Marabet wagged his grey old head, solemnly,
in the sight of the meeting, till the caftan nearly fell off his
bald shaved pate. *• 1 have been to Mecca, Amine," he atiswered,
with infinite dignity, " and seen the kingdoms of the world and
all their glory ; and this is the word I have to tell you : the might
of the inRdel is as dust in the balance to the might of the faitli-
ful and the servants of Allah."

The Amine glanced triumphant at the annihilated Amzian,
who retired, abashed, into the shade of his burnous. " But the
French are so strong," he murmured, still, with the native irre-*
pressibihty of the born heretic, ♦* that they will crush us all out
as they crushed out Mokrani, who fought against them in the
great insurrection."

The Amine took no more notice of the discomfited and dis-
credited ex- European soldier. Why should he give himself such
airs, indeed, and pose as an authority, merely because he had been
beaten at Sarrebrouck and at Gravelotte ? " It is clear, then,"
the Amine said, continuing hia discourse, " that Allah is going
to dehver the infidels into the hands of His people. Our part
in the work is to attack St. Cloud, and slay every man, woman,
and child — but, above all, to kill Madame TAdministratrice."

" Why her in particulai ? " Ahmed asked, with a smile. •* Is
she so much worse than all other Christians ? "

•' She is a Christian," the Amine answered, " and that alone
should suffice. When the marabouts proclaim a Jehad, a holy
war, every Christian in Islam is alike our enemy. But the
woman o. the high heels is the worst of them all. Was it not
she who called us * pigs of Kabyles ? ' Was it not she who des-
troyed the shrine of the great saint. Si Mohammed Said with the
Two Tombs, to erect in its place a dancing pavilion in her own
garden ? Was it not she who forbade our women to come and
weep on Fridays at the spot where the blessed Sheikh El-Haddad,
the blacksmith, poured out his great Ufe for Kabylie and Islam,
because their wailing interrupted her peace when she read the
vile books, full of orgies and wickedness, she brings over from
Paris ? "

" And when our people would have taken the stones of the
shrine to erect them again here at Beni-Merzoug," Hadji Daood
cried, doddering, •♦ it was the woman of the high heels who
refused to give ub them, because she wanted the tiles from the
holy place to adorn her bed-chamber, and the carved marbld
frcmi the pillars and the coping-stone to make the bafle ol her
wanton summor-boasa.**

tEM TZIITI OY SHXM.

121

"Therefore for this," the Amine went on, piously, with a
fiolemu rmg, '* we will dash out the brains of the woman with
the high hoels against the marbje parapet of her own lummer-
house, and give her bones to the jackals to eat on the site of tlio
shrine of Si Mohammed Said."

*• And every soul that lives in her house," the llfldji droned
out, waxing stronger with the excitement, •' we will kill and des-
troy in honour of Allah and of Mohammed His Prophet."
•' So be it," the Amine assented, with a grave nod.
The Kabyles around bent their heads to the ground in token
of approval.

*' Hush I " the Amine cried, in an authoritative voice, looking
round him suddenly, and perceiving a diversion. " The spirit
of prophecy has come over the marabout."

As he spoke a marabout stood out for one monunit from the
busy throng, his eyes wild and fierce, and his mouth foaming.
He turned himself round once or twice slowly, on one foot as a
pivot ; then waxing faster and faster as the exciti'iiient iiioruaKcil,
he whirled round and round violently for sevcnii minutes, witli
a rapid and angry swaying movement. At lust lie paused, looked
round him in ecstasy, and drove a pin throngli his outstretched
tongue with a face free from all signs of pain or emotion. As
they looked he began to recite, deep liown in his throat, a sort of
dioning song in a long, irregular, native metre.

•• The Frenchmen came ; they said, Bunjuur ; in an evil day

they said Good day to us.
•'The Frencliinen came; they said, lionsoir ; 'twas a sleepless

night when they said (iood nii/lit to us.
••The Frenchmen came; they said, Mcrn ; we have little to

thank tliem for tt'acliinjj us 'ilntnh yon.
*' The Frenr-lnniin came ; they said to us, Frcre ; with brotherly

love they have kicked and bullied us.
'•The Fre.jtelnuen came; they cu!l('.(l iis, CorJion ; dogs and
mules liad more ho.jour tli:vn we h;i\e.
The word of Allah came to His marahout.i ; Stir up my
people against the d(M;s of iiiiiiliils.
•• Whom shall we stir up, oh. All Wise, oh. All Powerful ?
The sons of the Kabyles against the sons of the French-
men.
" The P>Gni-Yenni to the g;ites of Fort Natioiial ; the lieni-

Merzou'' to Saint Cloud in the \allev.
•• Slay every soul in Saint Cloud, ye L>uuiMer/.uug ; slay, and
obtain the blessing of Allah.

.CJjf-^air

PJTT-

122

THE TENTS OP IHEM.

" Slay, above all, her cf the lii.L,'h heels ; bring down her

proud head in Lliu dust of luir iiighvvay.
"Slay every soul tlmt couios under her roof; the desecrated

roof of Si Mohiimnied Said.
•• Let those who rohbed my dead saint be requited ; let those

who dishonoured his holy bones be punished.
•• Slay, saith Allah, by the voice of his marabouts, slay — slay

with the sword ; kill all, and spare not."

The marabout sat down, collapsing, suddenly, as if the fire of

inspiration had all at once been withdrawn from him. The pin

till held his tongue between his teeth. The foam at his mouth

WIS reddened with blood. The Kabyles around looked on adiiin-

iiigly.

There was a short pause, during which no one spoke aloud.
■liougb many whispered; then Amzian the unbelieving asked,
omewhat incredulously, " And when will you b(!giu this Jehad
Lrainst the infidel ? "

" That is as Allah wills, the Amine responded, bowing his
lead. *' We will wait and be governed by the event tliat arises,
l!] vents crowd thickly in these latter days. The house of the
infidels is divided against itself. Have you not ia'ard that there
.vill soon be new wars again between the people ul' Oai-Oui and
'he people of J a- J a .' "

*• It is true," Amzian assented, ** that the French and the
iermans are likely to have war when he who is now Sultan of
rermany bites the dust in the ground before Allah."

" When that time comes," the Anime said, solemnly, *• let
•very behever draw sword for Islam.''

" So be it," tlie assembly assented, once more, with faces all
Mirned of one accord towards Mecca.

At that point the meeting was about to break up inroniially.
when Amzian, with a backward jerk of his tiiui'.i), called atten-
tion to the presence of strangers ii. the gallery.

** How about them 1 " he asked, with a si'itT, indicating by the
contemptuous movement of his hand the spot where Le Marchant
and Blake were sitting.

'* They are EngUsh," the Amine replied ; " they are not
French. The English are good. I know their mind. My
brother Yusuf was himself mi Englishman."

•• In a Jehad," Ahmed, ^ff>^ipra'l rejected suitor, remarked,
with the air of a man ' inds an inditTorent abstract

principle, " all infidels . inanded tu bu lilaux, without

MM or favour, wiUioat Iw^ w« w^v,. (jLiou."

' i

mmfm

^■PMpi

.izi^-i^;^i.:3£v

mm TEMTs or bhbm.

128

" True," the Amine retorted ; •• but the English are good ; 1
have henrd that they are just to the Moslerag in Egypt."

" When I waa at Mecca," i\\o lladji interposed, leaning upon
his staff with his trembling haiuLs, " I met many Moslems from
Bind and Ind. who Bwore by the Prophet's beard they would as
soon Hve under the Sultans of the English as under the Caliph
of the Faithful himself at Stamboul."

" But if these infidels find out, they will spoil all," Hussein
grumbled, from a corner. " They see far too much as it is of
our women." ,

" Meriem is their intorpreter, and speaks their tongue," the
Amine interposed, in deprecating voice. *• They pay mo well
for the milk they buy, arul for the grain, and for the cous-cous,
and for the rent due for the site of their encampment. I have
given a fresh coverlet to the slirine of our Saint out of part of
the rent they have paid us for encamping,"

" If this thing gets about among the women," Ahmed
observed, with a sinister scowl, •• there will be no keeping a word
of it from the girl Mereim."

" And if Meriem hears," Hussein continued, taking up the
parable, " she will tell it all to her friend, the painter of pictures."

" We are Moslems," the Amine observed, drawing his burnous
symbolically close around him in a manner expressive of pro-
found secrecy. •' We do not blab to our women like the
Christians. We can keep our own counsel. We are men, not
children ; of Islam, not infidels."

"Let no man speak a word of all this to his wedded wife,"
the Hadji cried, raising one skinny palsied forefinger. " If it
reaches the French, we shall know it was the English ; if it
reaches the English, we shall know it was Meriem ; if it reaches
Meriem, we shall find out what traitor's wife has told her. And
whoever it is, French, EngUah, or Moslem, they all shall die.
by the beard of the Prophet."

" What an impressive attitude I " Blake cried, looking up.
" He's finer even than tht dervish fellow we saw at Algiers. I
think I'll just stop and sketch m i he old boy while you gu and
write the letter, Le Marchani. '

124

ffU VKNTi Of iUBM.

CHAPTER XIX.

SOUTH WARD BO t

It was with conscious pri<lo, by no means appropriate to ai
political economist of the advanced school, fhi>.t hiS KnyvettI
ibund. herself one hri^'ht November morning driving up the slopes'
of Mii'Btiipha Suporieur in her own carriage to her own villa of,
Sidi Aia; on the El Biar road, just above Algiers.

Iris had had a hard fi|,'ht for it, of course, with Uncle Tom. I
When Eustace Le Marchant'fl letter first arrived, Uncle Tom,;
wary by long practice in the Probate and Divorce division,
scented mischief on the breeze in the very tone of its cautiouR;
wording. '• You're going to raise up a Tichborne claimant
against ^'oiir own estate, mv child, exactly as I told you," Uncle
Tom, said with reproachful earnestness. " The man's an im-
postor, or else a fortune hunter; that's what's the matter,
Either he's running this alleged daughter of yout Unole Clarence,
as a claimant to the estate in order to blackmail you — the Tich-:
borne game; or else he's running her for his own purposes,
meaning, in the end, to hand her over vour property and then
marry her. The proof of it's clear, for I've taKen the trouble to
ascertain the fact that he didn't answer your cousiri Harold's
iuivertisenient at all which appeared on the very same date with
your own, side by side, in the Algerian newspapers, and why
should the fellow refuse the offer of twenty pounds reward, pay-
able on demand, unloss ho had some ulterior object in view, I
should like to know, Iris ? "

•• Perhaps ho thou^'ht mo the likoliost person to do justice to
the girl," Iris su,<^'{j;i!stod, timidly.

••Tut, tut, tut," Uncle Tom respondnd, growing reddei than
ever. *' Justice to the girl, indeed I What's Hecuba to him, or|
he to Hecuba ? lie's casting a sprat to uatch a whale ; that's!
the lon.L,' and the short of it. A cock-and-bull story as ever I
heard in uiy born days. If I were you, my child, I'd take no
more notice of it. If the young woman of dusky complexion
and doubtful antecedents choHes,to prosecute her shadowy claim,
let her come to England — the Courts are open and there ara

■^t.*^..". '■-

THE TENTS OP 81IEM.

I2n

{Deputies — nnd let liRr prosecute it reasonably by her attorney
'at-law, witii all the torraahties, in the ordniary r aimer. Then
jwe shall know exactly how to deal with her. Deny everything,
and insist upon proof. That's the way to meet it. Make her
explain her father's survival, his change of name, his marriage,
his decease, his unaccountable intestacy. Make her produce her
inother's marriage lines, her certificate of birth, her vaccination
marks, her papers generally. Till then we don't need to trouble
our heads one jot or tittle about the matter. We don't want to
get up a case against ourselves for the benefit of a su[)posititious
young woman in Africa."

But, unfortunately for Uncle Tom, he had a clit-nt to deal
with in this case who was not to be put off with foiviKsic general-
isations or legal quibbles of the most respectable antKiuity. " If
the girl really exists, and if she's really Uncle Clarence's daugh-
ter," Iris stuck to it firmly, " llien she, not I, is heuvss to the
'State ; and I won't rob her, not even for you, uncle dear, much
as 1 love you."

♦' Daiuihter," Uncle Tom remarked, sententiously, " is in Eng-
lish law a word of a precisely deiiniie and circumscribed meaning.
It means, connotes, implies, or designates lawful female issue of
jTiis body begotten. And when we say lawful, we mean born in
j^vedlock, in Christian wedlock, of a kind recognised by Act of
Parliament, or (within certani limits) by the lej- tori of the coun-
try where the marriage was actually solemnised. Now, suppos-
!ing your Uncle Clarence did really desert, run away from his
I'olours, and marry a young woman of dusky complexion and
\i6ubtful faith, in some out-of-the-way corner of the North
[African mountains, that's nothing to us. The offspring and
li'epresentative of ^the dusky young woman thus irregularly
annexed has got to prove, in the first place, that her putative
father, deceased, lived long enough to survive your late Uncle
Alexander. If he didn't do that, be she ten times over his lawful
jdaughter, not a penny dpes she get by the singular terms of your
'grandfather's will — and a pretty mess your grandfather made of
it. But if he did survive his elder brother, then in that case
'there still arises the further question — Did your Uncle Clarence
ever marry the dusky young woman aforesaid, of North African
origin, in any sense recognised by the Christian religion and the
common and statute law of this country ? That he did so marry
her is in the highest degree, 1 think, improbable — to put it
mildly, in the highest degree improbable — and if he didn't, why
then and in that case the dusky young woman, number two. his

126

THK TENTS OF SHEll.

natural offspring, haa nothing more to do with yon, bj the law
of England, than any other dusky young woman, assorted, of the
same race, place, and rehgion."

But Iris, oddly enough, with true Knyvett obstinacy, held out
to the last for her own view of this ethical question. She boldly
maintained, against so great an authority as Uncle Tom himself,
that if Meriem was Uncle Clarence's daughter, then, the law of
England to the contrary notwithstanding, Meriem must be her
own first cousin. She further maintained that, as a biological
fact, a father and his children were indubitably connected one
with the other by physical origin. She refused to believe that
the law of England itself could possibly annul that primitive
underlying law of nature. And she insisted with incredible
and most annoying persistence that as soon as the weather grew
cool enough in Africa she would herself proceed in person to
Algeria to see the girl whom she believed to be her cousin, and
to investigate the passive claim set forth on her behalf to Uncle
Arthur's property. " For if it's justly hers," Iris said, most
i-esolutely, •* nothing on earth would induce me to keep her out
of it."

So the end of it was that early in November, Iris herself, with
her mother and uncle, crossed over to Algiers as the eminent
Q.C. preferred to phrase it, "on their fool's errand." It was
h;ir(l to leave England at such a moment, indeed; but Uncle
i om felt that if any tomfoolery, as he called it, was likely to go
on, it was best for him to be on the spot to prevent it from tak-
ing the wildest flights of Quixotic extravagance. So, with a
very bad grace, he consented to come over, consoling himself at
any rate with the thought that Iris would thus take personal
possession of Sidi Aia, and that if the thing was to be investi-
gated at all it was best it should be investigated by a competent
person familiar, by long experience, with the practice of the
Probate and Divorce Division.

The fickle Mediterranean used them kindly ; and it was at three
in the morning of a clear starlight night that the good ship Ville
de Naples of the Coinpcuinie Transatlantique brought them fairly
in sight of the shores of Africa. Mrs. Knyvett had retired early
to her cabin for the voyage, and would not have risen from that
safe retreat had Mont Blanc, Niagara, and the Golden Horn
pressed themselves simultaneously at a single burst upon her
maturer vision. But Iris was young, and youth is impetuous,
even when duly chastened and restrained by three years' diligent
pruning at Girton. So the Third Classic rose np in haste at

THE TENTS OF SHEM.

127

Uncle Tom's muffled report of " Land in sight 1 " and went u)
on deck in a thick ulster for her first glimpse of Africa and goldeii

And what a glimpse it was, that night arrival, as the steamer
ploun^hed her way slowly round the corner of the mole into
the great dim harbour ! In front a vast rising mass of streets
and gas-lamps, clambering in endless steps and stages up the
steep face of a mysterious mountain. On either hand, a small
fleet of dancing boats, crowded with strange Arabs in the Orien-
tal dress, all shouting and calling in loud guttural voices. To
right and left, dark ranges of hills, silhouetted vaguely against the
deep African sky, and crowded with faint white specks of villas.
Everywiiere lights that danced and quivered on the rippling
water ; everywhere bustle and noise and confusion ; everywhere
the strange sense of a foreign land — not foreign like P'rance, or
Germany, or Italy, but southern and African and vivid and
Moslem.

Iris waited on deck till the day dawned, and saw that wonder-
ful town of Algiers — the *' pearl set in emeralds," as the Arab
poets loved to call it — swim slowly into ken in the grey light of
morning. It was a beautiful sight — a sight to be remembered
and treasured through a long life-time. First of all, a white
solid mass of marble detached itself by degrees in clear reliei
from the background of the dark mountain behind it. Tier aftei
tier, it rose to the sky as if hewn in one block from the quarries
of Carrara. Streets or allies there were none to behold ; tlit
flat-topped houses, each square as a die, clustered close in on(
tangled continuous block, as though not even a needle could bi
thrust in between them. Dark alleys threaded that labyrinth,
no doubt, but so tortuous as to be hidden by the overhanging
houses and projecting doorways. For twenty minutes these
solid white steps alone were distinctly visible ; then bit by bit
as the light grew clearer, the picture began to resolve itself piece
meal into its component elements. In the foregound, a publit
square, stately with tall date-palms ; a snow-'^hite mosque, witj.
big round dome, and tile-faced minaret; a splendid Frenci
boulevard, arcaded like Paris ; a range of vast and cosily quays,
thronged with the connuerce of Marseilles and of Liverpool. In
the background, the congested Arab town, rising up like a stair
case to the huge dismantled citadel of the Deys thai crowned the
summit of a spur of the Sahel. To the right, the sea; to the
left, the smiling slopes of Mustapha, frequent \^ .ili villas, Moorisli
French, or Lnj^lish, each losl ni the brilliant green of luxuriuui

W'--

' y>'.'-^-y^

128

THE TENT8 OV BHEM.

garfiens. Toulon below, Beyrout above, Torquay arxl fnnnp*
an4 Staraboul beyond — that was the straii^'o coismopolilau pic-
ture that Iris Knyvett beheld before her.

Ujicle Tom had telegraphed from Marseilles to the people at
Sidi Aia, so everything was in waiting at the quay to n-ceive
them. The invaluable Maltese who acts as Conimisniouaire
arranged to see their luggage through tlie Customa, and follow
them up with it in due course ; so the Knyvettn and Uncle Tom
had nothing to do but to get into thoir carriage and drive up
quietly to tlieir own villa.

Iris was, in principle at least, a Sof^iiilist ; " We are all
Socialists now," a big man has said, so I suppose tlun-u's no
great harm in confessing the fact openly. Bui the female heart
is fickle on principles ; and when the Tliini Classic beheld the
gorgeous Arab coachman, who sat on the box, with his braided
blue jacket, his maize-coloured girdle, his full white trousers,
and his crimson fez, she felt in her heart it would In) hard,
indeed, to give up all these for the service of humanity. They
rolled along smoothly through the crowded streets, past Arabs on
donkeys, and Arabs on foot, in every varitity of dirt and grimi-
iiess ; past Moorish women, niufiled to the eyes, and gliding
silently by the wondering infidels ; past the Kabyle market in
the open square, alive with oriental bustle and commotion ;
through the Porte d'Isly, with its curious colle(!tion of maimed
and halt beggars; and up the long ramping gradients of tin; n)a(l
that leads by slow degrees to the suburb of Miistai)ka. It
seemed an endless drive, in the cool morning air, with an inter^v
minable succession of countrv Arabs comiirj: in to niiirket on
their mules and their donkeys. Villas innunierahle lined the
road, embowered in thickets of bamboo or date-palm, and draped
with great clustering masses of Banksia roses or crimson Bou-
gainvillea. Some of them showed Moorish architecture at its
best, with their beautiful arcades and their stately doorways.
Iris hoped in her heart iSidi Aia would turn out like one of
these, and not a great staring square French chatejiu like the
house on the hill top, with no sense or tinge of local colouring,
so utterly out of place with all its natural and artiiicial Kur-
lOindingg.

At the little Colonne Voirol they renrlnvl the summit, and
swept sharply round into the road to El-Bi;i,r. In two niniuteR
more. Iris's heart beat high with delicious hope, as the (laiiiago
turned into the courtyard of the loveliest ami most native-
looking Moorish house they had yet beheld upon that deliy:htfu]
hillside.

wmmm

tmimm

mmmmmmmi

mmm

TUB THNTS Of BUSH.

18P

What a court it was, that shady vestibulo 1 A marble fouu
tain spurted in the midst, set about with tall annus and gracet'ui
waterweeds. Orange-trees and palma grew msiiie m clumps;
an open arcade of horseshoe arches, with twisted marblfl eolamni
of antique workmanship, ran entirely round it in aa Oriental
quadrangle. The floor was covered with dainty old tilee ; a
string course of the same, in still lovelier patterns, set oflf the
pediment of the arcade above with their exquisite beauty. It
was a dream of delight, come true by accident ; a glorious
dream, too good for solid earth ; the sort of home one sees in
one's fancy in the Arabian Nights, but never hopes or expects
to come across as a fact in this work a day world of prosaic
realities.

Iris mounted, awestruck, and too full for speech, from the
uncovered court into the inner entrance hall. It was a second
courtyard, somewhat smaller than the first, but covered over above
with a glass roof, so as to form an ante-room or central focus to
the villa. A double arcade ran round it, above and below, both of
delicate Saracenic arches, but the lower one open through all its
length, while a balustrade of richly-oalved woodwork formed a
fitting parapet for the upper gallery, stretching in a line from
pillar to pillar, and just high enough for a person to lean upon
comfortably. The floor was of marble, covered with rich old
Oriental rugs ; tiles still more priceless than those of the outer
court accentuated the structural lines of the building. Froto
the etaijors on the walls gleamed curious old trays of wrought
brass, inlaid with Arabic inscriptions in graven iilver ; the
niches in the wall, formed by marble slabs ben(3ath the graceful
flat arch peculiar to Algiers, were decorated with exquisite pieces
of native pottery, Kabyle and Tangierine, or from the Aures
mouutains.

Iris's heart swelled high at the sight, with the pride of posses-
sion. At that moment, if the truth must be told, her waning
Socialism had dwindled away by rapid stages w what her Cam-
bridge friends would, no doubt, have described as a negative
quantity. It had reached \anishing point. The deceitfulnesb
of riches was too much for her principles.

On the short ilisrht of steps that led from the outer to the
inner court, two old women stood, with smiling faces, to welcome
Iris to her wew home.

" You are Zolie, I think," she said to one of them, timidly, in
her boarding-school Fren(di, a broken dialect that sat not unbe-
comingly on those pretty lips. _

''?'\,r ■:-;:' v'¥w»>v'*'^^JV' 5.-

ISO

THl TBNTl or BBXM.

And Zelie, proud that her name sliould be rRinemberetl by the
grand young lady, answered fervuiitly, •' 1 am Zelie, made-
moiselle, and glad to welcome un dame si ainiahle to the walls of
Sidi Aia."

" And you're Sarah, I suppose," Irii went on in English to
the other old woman, taking her )iand in hers, and grasping it
cordially.

•' Yes, my lady, I'm Sarah," the English woman answered,
returning the grasp with sudden warmth. "God bless your
pretty face anr* your sweet young eyes, inv dear. They told us
you'd wear a pair of blue apeotaclos and be able to talk nothing
but Greek and Latin."

** Iris," Mrs. Knyvett remarked, severely, shocked at such
familiarity at the very threshold of their Algerian experiences,
•• don't ^ou think, my child, we'd bettor go on and see the draw-
ing-ro< , 1 ? "

" If you like, darling mother," Iris answered with a bright
smile, " though I've seen enougli airoady to drive me frantic."
And in three minutes more, she was Btret(;lied at full length upon
the big window seat with the Tlemcen .ug, looking-out through
the beautiful little Moorish arches, past the waving date-palms
and tall yuccas of the garden, to the blue bay that shimmered
with silver in the morning sun, and the snow clad peaks of the
Djurjura in the distance. Nay, more ; to crown all, for an Eng-
hshwoman'e heart, old Sarali had brought them up a cup of
good strong English tea. with cream complete, on an antique
tray with blue porcelain cups, net out on an inlaid ebony and
ivory Damascus table. Bagdad and Cairo swam before her eyes.
Iris's heart was too full to speak. " Xil non landahib vide" she
murmured to herself. Socialism for the moment was at a dis-
tinct disf'ount. A house like this was too beautiful, surely, for
IMyes lu siiai-e with that ignorant and taiteless fellow, Lazarus I

'f. 'V '■'

4*
)

'; »

■ .'^"•■■f.K'V'^Wffffrr." ■■• • '■ '■•

»' ' ■. " ""■ '■ JW"J

THB TENTS OW BESU*

131

red by the
le, made-
le walls of

English to
grasping it

answered,
)less your
!y told us
ik nothing

at such
:periences,
the draw-

1 a bright
I frantic."
ngth upon
it through
late-palms
himmered
iks of the
f an Eng-
a cup of
Q antique
bony and
her eyes.
vide,'' she
I at a dis-
urely, for
Lazarus i

CHAPTER XX.

AWAY TO KABYLIE,

At Sidi Aia the Tvnyvetts and Uncle Tom spent four o; " .
days most enjoyabl} for themselves — as indeed well they niigat,
for a more charming home exists not even on ilie sunht slopes of
Mustaplia Superior. Iris, for her part, was lu'vor tiiad of wan-
dering through the beautiful garden — her own :^'arden — oh,
most unsocialistic but most natural thou.^^lit ! — admiring the
Ulies, and the orchids, and the scarlet amar^liisos, and the rich
profusion of her own namesake irises. Though it was mid
November, the beds still blossomed gay with endless flowers ;
the rich bloom of the locjuat trees perfumed the heavy air, and
the dehcate bolls of the great white African clematis hung in
long festoons from every straggling bough on the hill-side oppo-
site. Iris had never seen such wild luxuriance of sub-tropical
foliage before ; the walks in the -grounds of Sidi Aia itself,
relieved by glimpses of the other neighbouring white Moorish
villas, with their flat roofs and their horseshoe arcades, scattered
over the green slopes on every side, transported her mentally, on
some enchanted carpet, to the dreams of her childhood and the
terraces of the good Harouii-al-Rasliid.

But, seductive as Sidia Aia proved to the economic ideas ol the
Third Classic, and subversive of all the good socialistic opinions
she had carried away with her from the Cambridge lecture-rooms,
it nevertheless did not prevent her from realizing the fact — the
sad fact — that her first business, now she had got to Africa, was
to find out the truth about this girl Meriem. The moment, to be
sure, was unpropitious for such thon-nts. In the 'garden at Sidi
Aia, Iris confessed to herself, not withoni sundrv i,, I'ual blushes,
that it would be hard to give up all these !()'• ly things to tiiy
rightful heir, if the rightful heir shfuld j)i\>\c to be indeed this
vague, shadowy, half-African cousin tiu' recesses of Kabylie.
Till she came to Algiers, she had i,;'^- i fully felt what wealth
implit'i! ; now that she saw how nuicl, .>f beautiful and f^rracrful
it eo;;'.a bu^ or kuup, she was loiii at JuucU'l &u ahuilio it oil U)o
easily, v • . *

?7^t F^ '^ -p^v^"

fill TSNTB or SHEll.

Nevertheless, that uncomfortable Knyvett conscionce of herH
drove her on, in spite of her own unwillingness, to in(|uire into
the whole case as presented for Meriem. They must stop at
Mustapha for a few days only, to rest after their long and hurried
journey, and must then go off on their expedition to Kabylie.

So, on the third morning of their stay at Sidi Aia, idie
imperious young heiress bundled Uncle Tom unceremoniously
into town by main force to make full inquiries of Sir Arthur's
agent as to the best way of proceeding to the mountains, aud
the nature of the accommodation a Christian party might expect
when it got there.

" Try to find out a nice hotel, there's a dear," she said, caress-
ingly, " and arrange to go as fast as we can to this place on the
hills to hunt up Miss Meriem."

Thus exhorted. Uncle Tom set off with sore misgivings, but
as in duty bound ; for he felt he was but clay in the bauds of the
potter before that clever, self-willed, coaxing' little Iris. While
he was gone, his niece went out with old Sarah for a stroll in
the garden — once more — she could have passed a lifetime in that
lovely garden — and being still a woman, though a Oirton gradu
ate, she there pursued her sociological investigations at full
leisure into the manners and customs of the adjacent proprietors.

" And who lives in that great'white house on the left, Sarah ?"
she asked, with unaffected feminine curiosity ; ** the house where
the three ladies in white mornin<j:-(lresse8 stand at the windoxA
so much with their hair let down, and make myKterious signs to
the Arabs in the vineyard ? "

Good old Sarah laughed a quiet little langh. " Why, that's
Dr. Yate-Westlmry's," she said, with some reluctance, " and
those ladies you see at tjie window's his piiiienls,"

" WliatI Not the great- nia.l doctor?" Ins cried with a start.

"Mad doctor! Well, j^eB, tint's just ahout the truth of it.
Mad he is, if you give me the word. They're all of 'em as mad
as their patients, the mad doctors. Dr. Ynte-Westbury, hu-
particular form of madness is Algiers. He thinks Algiers is
good for everything, from paralvsis or apo[)lexy to pain in the
little finger. Have you got consumption ? Then go to Algiers.
No place on earth like A'uiers for the lungs. Air's a tonic,
bracing, and highly exhilarating. Can't you sleep at niglils ?
Then go to Algiers. No place on earth like Algiers for sleep
Air's sedative, soothing, and extremely unexciting. Are yo!
sound in your mind? Then go to Algii rs. Tlie very pl.'i.-r f
givtt you rest and amuiiemeui wiliiout luiduu ovtil-stiumlaiiun.

wmmm

mm.

TBI TINTS Of IBKH.

las

Are yon going off your head ? Then go to Algierfl. The viiry
place to give you change and variety, with a new type of life
and Oriental scenery. That a how he goea on. He's a specialist,
he is — a specialist with a vengeance. He's got but one treatment
for all diseases. His diagnosis, poor dear Sir Arthur used to say,
is, • You're wrong in you're chumps,' and his therapeutics ate
' and Algiers'll cure you? '"

" A mild form of mania," Iris answered, smiling at the Old
woman's unexpected command of the recondite resources of the
E'.nglish language.

" Yes, my dear, but there's method in his madness, too," old
Sarah answered, with a wise look in her eyes. •' He toakeS hifi

living out of it, mad or sane He takes in patients at

three guineas a day, and lie has land to sell for eligible building
bites on the road to El-Biar."

" You know too much, Sarah," Iris answered, with a Irtilgh.
" You're quite a cynic. Cynicism's a thing I always dread. II
you talk like that I shall be afraid to say another word to you."

By second breakfast time. Uncle Tom returned, much fatigUiBd,
from town, very red-faced, and montally flustered.

" Well, Iris," he said, mopping his forehead with Lis fattioUa
red silk handkerchief — that handkerchief dreaded by riiany a
nervous witness — " this a pretty wild-goose chase, indeed, you've
brought us upon I ♦ TaUt about a hotel,' says the gitl, ' a nice
hotel, uncle! ' Why, Watson assures me there's not a "^Utopean
house, good, bad, or indifferent, within five miles ol the plafce
where Clarence Knyvett's alleged daughter is said to live ; and
these two young vagabonds who hunted the Claimant out for
your edification camp out tlieniselves, a la belle etoile, h*e tells me,
in a canvas tent, on the top of a mountain. There's a style of
life, indeed, for an elderly barrister I Pretty sort of niess this
you've gone and got us in I "

•• Now don't flare up, there's a dear I " Iris answered, sooth-
ingly, stroking his arm. *• I suppose we shall just have to camp
out, too ; that's all there is to be said about it. In a climate'
Uke this, and in fine weather, camping out must be simply deli-
cious ; and so romantic to tell the girls about, you kno\^, when
one goes back again home to England."

" Romantic 1 — rheumatic you mean I " Uncle Tom cried,
angrily — for he hated romance with all his heart ; he had seen
too much of that sort of thing in the annals of the Probate find
Divorce Division. •• Your mother's bronchitis would nevet alldtv
it. Besides, there are panthers and jackals and heaven knows

' ■flpi.j.^rv.'.i'ijB.i' ■ I'KJ."''*-, ■

•' jmmmp^-

184

THB TENTS Of UUMM,

'.f'

i^r

what, Watson tells me ; centipedus ami scorpiona crawl over
yoii as you sleep, and tarantulas drop on to your bald head as
you recline at your ease in your own quarters. Added to all
which, the Kabyles are in a very discontented state — smoulder-
ing, smouldering — and he thinks an insurrection might break out
any day."

" I don't mind panthers," Iris murmured, with a face some-
what damped by incipient disappointment ; " and I rather prefer
scorpions than otherwise, but I must confess I should draw a
line myself at a native insurrection."

" Most insubordinate people, according to Watson," Uncle Tom
continued, rubbing his hands, and improving his opportunity as
soon as found. *• Might cut your throat and your mamma's any
evening. Perfect savages, it seems, in their frightful ways —
perfect savages."

" But couldn't we go and stop with Meriem ? " Iris asked,
innocently.

Uncle Tom held up his hands m unutterable dismay. " Im-
possible I my child," he cried. •' Impossible I impossible 1
You'd have to pig it with the goats and the cattle. There's not
a house in Kabylie fit for a Christian to live inj everybody says,
except at two places called St. Cloud and Fort National. St.
Cloud's the nearest post to the village where the dusky young
lady of African origin has pitched her tent, and Watson assures
me, if we must go to Kabylie, which he strongly deprecates, the
only practicable thing to do is to stop with the wife of the
Administrator of the settlement."

" But we can't invite ourselves," Iris cried, aghast.

" Well, Watson thinks," Uncle Tom continued, much against
the grain, but urged by an inward sense of duty to disclose the
facts, " that the lady in question would be only too glad to get
the chance of having us, she's so badly off, in those remote parts,
for European society. She's a gay little body, it seems, of
Parisian proclivities and much intelligence, who's been buried
alive in a hole among the mountains for heaven knows how long;
and she's only too glad to get anybody to stay with her who'll
bring her up the last Algerian gossip, and the newest patterns of
Paris fashions."

•• I'm afraid," Iris said, glancing down at her own neat and
simple tailor-made costume, "I shall hardly satisfy her require-
ments in that respect ; but how can we manage to get an intro'
duction to her ? "

'* Oh, that's done already," Uncle Tom replied, with lome eon

Vt^m

THE I'KNTI OF 8UKM.

IBS

soious pride in the suuccsslul carrying out of his uiiwilliii<^
mission. *• Watson's given me a letter in due form to the lady's
husband. He Itnows him well. Ihire it is, you see: 'A M.
VAdministrateurdelu Counnnnr Mi.iU' tie St, Cloiul-cn-Kdbj/Ue."*

'• What's a Commune Mixto '? " Iris asked, examining it.

••A mixed community, 1 suppose," llnclu Tom answered, with
a certain tartness. "At any laie, we won't get our throats cut
there; for Watson says, even if tiiere's a rising, St. Cloud can
hold its own against a thousand Kahyles. It was entirely cut
off in the last insurrection, to be sure, by a night surprise :
almost every man, woman, and child in the place exterminated.
(>ur proposed hostess herself only escaped with her life by walking
across the snow for miles in her ni^ht dress and peiyyioir. The
insurgents killed all the inhabitants first, to make quite sure of
them, and afterwards hacked them into very small pieces for
their own amusement. But that's a mere trifle; since then,
I'm told, the. fort has been stren<;thened, and it's now partially
brick-built, and capable of standing some days' siege. So that
at St. Cloud we shall doubtless be comparatively safe. I'iVen if
there's a rising, as there's very likely to be," Uncle Tom re-
peated, playing his trump card once more for emphasis, '* it could
hold its own against a thousand Kahyles."

This telling little speech Uncle Tom delivered with consider-
able nonchalance, directing it straight, with no small cleverness,
at his pretty niece's timid head ; and for a moment, indeed. Iris
wavered visibly. Her face blanched and her lips quivered faintly
at the casual detail of the hacknjg in pi(!ces. Then that strong
and obstinate Knyvett idiosyncracy of hers came to her aid once
more.

*• Very well, miole dear," she said, ipiietly, without pretending
in any way to notice his frecpiont Innts ()\ serious danger. "I'll
write to this lady this very al'temoon, •'•"' ask her if she can tell
us where to put up if we go to St. Clouu . for that I suppose, is
the only way I can broach the <iihi"-' '*ut. Uncle Tom, there's
a dear, whatever you do, do i . ,a the question of the

iising to mother."

ry y, ■ ■m^'ntyr^^t^w^f"'^

TUK i'iilMM OJr tfU£M.

CJAPTER X\'T.

A BTRANGB MKE i I ).

IJ-T'

A FKw (lays later, by the tent door at •••"<• "*' • -^^
Meriem sal conversing' eagerly on tlie groan . ; . .,i

Marcliant.

"Well, I've read all the novels now, EustMce,' sJie saiii. vv.t;^
a smile oi profound satisfaction, " and I've learnt from them, on
ever such a lot about England. I do like novels. I don't know
how I ever got on without them. They're so full of queer facts ;
they tell one about a life so different from our own ; by talking
so much with Vernon and you, 1 tliink I'm beginning, at last, a
little to realise it. But I want more l)ooks to rea(l now — our
Kabyle proverb says ' the kid only gives you an appetite for the
goat' — and Vernon's got no more to give me."

" Why not try this ? " Eustace sugg(!sted, with a smile, laying
his hand on the painter's " Golden Treasury of iSongs and
Lyrics."

'• No ; not that," Meriem answered, without the faintest
embarrassment. " I like those better when Vernon reads them
to me. He makes them sound so much nicer than I can."

*' How about mine, then ? " Eustace went on, crest-fallen.

•♦ I was looking over yours ifii the tent, ye.sterday, but I don't
think I could understand them much. I took down this: • The
Prodromus to the Entomology of North Africa ' " — she'd got the
long words quite pat no — •' but it's so full of queer names I
don't understand, and it's not very easy, and it isn't so interest-
ing as ' A Princess of Tlmle.' I like ' A Princess of Thule '
best of all, I think, aad r.ftor that • The Rise of Silas Lapham.'
But there's one of your books I believe I could understand — one
all about the ' Conversation of Energy.' "

" Conservation, Meriem," Le Marcliant corrected, laughing.
" My dear child, your education's really going on a great deal
too fast if you think of tackling Balfour Stewart already."

" But I want to learn all I can," Meriem answered, earnestly,
•'in case — in case I should ever — be taken — to England."

"Meriem," Le Marchant said, with a very grave voice, '♦ Vei*-
nou .will never. jpever take vou."

'mm

'mmm^'W^

TUB TXNT8 OF SUJEM.

287

• Tliori w!iy <^oes he ta!k to me so bcnntifully, anci read me
such versos, and paint me so often 9 " Meriosm answered, with
tears rising quick to her hig brown eyes. •' I think, Eustace, he
really likes me. And, perhaps, if onljr I could make myself fit
for him "

•• Moriem I " the painter cried, at that critical moment, putting
in his head at the flap of the tent. " I want you out here again,
at once. I've just got an idea for a most charming picture."

Meriom brushed away a tear with the corner of her haik,
unperceived, as he thought (though Eustace marked it), and went
out, smiling, to the too-soductive Vernon.

•* Look here," the painter said, over- trustful now of his own
powers, " I've been sketching those girls laying out their clothes
on the bank to dry, and I want you to stand in the foreground
here and let me fill you in, wringing out a haik, as my central
figure."

Meriem knew no law but Vernon Blake's will. •• Very well,
Vernon," she answered, meekly, and poised herself as he wished
uar, in a simple and natural attitude, like a Greek statute.

•* Why do you always paint me so much, and not the other
girls ? " she asked, after a pause, as he went on with his
sketching.

"Why, your cousin Iris will be coming soon," Blake answered
m explanation, altering shghtly, with irreverent hands, the pose
of one shapely arm and shoulder. " You're by faif the prettiest
girl in the place, and I want to make hay whila the sun shines
— to make the best of my opportunities before the great lady
comes and takes my beautiful model away for ever."

" I'd rather stop here," Meriem murmured, slowly. She took
his a(hniration, without surprise and without false shame, as a
natural tribute.

•' But she won't let you, Blake answered, with a laugh ;
'• she'll carry you off bodily, and send you to college, like her-
self, at Caiijbri!l,<2:e."

" I*8hould like that," Meriem said, brightening up ; •• for then
I should be — wise — like any Enghsh woman."

•' 1 wondtr if you'll like her," Blake observed, carelessly.
" She'll be an awfuJ swell, I expect ; six or seven thousand a
year, at least, so Le March ant tells me."

*' Will she be dressed like Mrae. I'Administratice, 5o you
think?" Meriem asked, with a sigh, "High-heeled boots and
a tall hat ? For, if the is, I don't fancy I shall care for her."

She will be; no doubt," Blake answered, going on with bis

188

IBB TKNT8 Of IHKll.

ikfitch ; "the mirror of fashion and the cream of aocietv. And
she won't my n soiit ii f iblioiii iinvthiiig on earth that either yoD
.)i' I can iindri'staii'l a vovi] (jI'," '' ,- •

As lie spoke, tlic siliiiic of t,!io inonntain-side was suddenly

listii'Di'd by a loml IJnlisli voicc oxclimninj^' in mingled French

and English, " Well, nmix mild at last, Madame ; c'eatici Beni-

Mer/oug ; and a jolly l)r(!iilMi('cl\ ride up these beastly hills

we've had for it, too. liavcui't we, iris?"

Meriem looked U[). and beheld before her eyes a strange and,
till that niotnent, uiiheurd of apparition. Two European ladies,
in riding-habits an 1 hats, sat patting the smooth necks of their
weary horses , while bcdiind tliern, on a short, stout mountain
pony, a short, stout gentleman, with a very red face, mopped his
hot, moist l)row with u large luid still redder silk pocket-hand-
kerchief. One of tlie ladies Meriem recognised at once as
Madame rAdminisLnitrice ; the other she had never seen before,
but she knew, of courae, from the old gentleman's words, it was
her cousin ins.

•' Now, my child," the stotU g<!ntleman remarked, disembark-
ing with some diHiculty from his precarious saddle — for he was
no cavalier " don't yo'i come into the tent at all. Madame and
I will see this man Le Marcliant by ourselves at first, and find
out how much he wants to get out of us."

Meriem could Inive answered, proudly and angrily, at once, so
much did the unexpected impul'tion sting uer ; but Vernon
lilake, anxious to see this little conunly played out in full to its
natural close, and, foreseeing spoi't, held one warning finger up
to his lip, and Meriem forthwith stood mute as a statue.

So Uncle Tom and Ma,dam(3 disappeared into the tent, and
Iris, leaj'iiig lightly from her graceful Arab, which half a dozen
Kabyle boys frouj the village, expectant of .so w.s, volunteered with
many salaams to hold for her, walked frankly up, with her hahit
in one hand and her wliip in the other, to the embarrassed
painter.

" We must introduce ourscdves, I suppose," she said, with a
sunny and delicious smile. " My na,»ue, as 1 suppose you will
already have guessed, is IriH Knyv(tt; and \ou, no doubt, are
one of Mr. Le Manduuit's camping couipanions ? "'

" Your na,me," the painttsr answered, witii a half- frightened
bow, " all the worid knows, even here in Kabylie. 7'he very
last thing I read in print, before leaving Algiers, was the leader
in the Tinifs on your achievement at Girton."

Muriera posed opposite them in her attitude as model. oouiJ

''I

THJB TENTS OF SHXU.

189

Dot fail to notice, with quick, womanly instinct, how far mort"
leferuiitial ami courteous was his manner to the grand Englisii
'miIn llian it had ever been to her poor Kabyle cousin.

•' I'm afraid you have still the a.dvantai,'e of me," Iris said,
vvith a glance at his beautiful sketch ; " for you haven't yet
iiven rue your half of the introduction."

" My name, I fear, won't convey so much meaning to you,"
I'.lake replied, modestly ; " as yours to me. It's Vernon Blake —
by trade a pr» inter."

'• You mistake," Iris cried, with pleased surprise. ** I know
your work well. I've seen it at the galleries. You painted that
beautiful little study of an Italian child in last year's Grosvenor.''

To Meriem, who knew nothing of all these things, this talk
was indeed gall and wormwood. It was cruel of Vernon to put
her to such pain ; but he had held up his finger to her, and,
)l)edient to that sign, she still kept silence.

The painter's cheek flushed with pleasure. " I'm glad you
liked it," he said, " and flattered that you remember it. This,
too, will make a pretty little sketch. It's natural, isn't it ? "

•' It is. And your model's beautiful," Iris cried, enthusias-
tically. •* What a charming figure I Bho reminds one of
Nausicaa."

" Eh, .... quite so, the painter responded, dropping his
voice suddenly, with a dubious tone.

There was a moment's pause, during whicfh curiosity and the
natural desire to conceal his ignorance fought hard for mastery
in Vernon Blake's mind : then he ventured, at last to inquire
with caution, " Er . . , . who did you say my model reminded
you of?"

" Nausicaa," Iris repeated in an " of course so " sort of tone.
• You must know Nausicaa, I'm sure ; in the Odyssey, you
remcuiber."

" I've never read the Odyssey," the painter said, shortly.

" Ah, you took up the Iliad instt^ad, I suppose," Iris went on,
Willi gentle persistence. Blake allowed the rash conjectuie to
,ia^3 in silence unquestioned. That any one should have read no
llomGr at ail seemed to her inconceivable. She knew more than
her companion ; so much was el .j.r-ran'd Meriem hated her for
It.

" Ho V extremely fair she is." Ins continued, observing the
ireii.bli ;U Kabvle "irl with criticil eves. ** I'd no idea there
«v(£ib people in Alnca kjuj i. ii;;j like aa Luropeuii loukmg and

!?j:' *

liO

THX TKNTS OW SIUM.

Greek as she is. Ganserio and his Vandals mast hare left 4
great deal of their blood, no doubt, stamped deep on the soil in
Mauritania generally."

" No doubt," Vernon Blake assented, with caution above hia
years ; though who the dick . is GenFC] ic might be, or what the
Vandals were doing in Mauritania, whorever that \yas, he had no
more notion than Meriem herself had.

" Her eyes are exquisite. You're lucky to get such a model
as that," Iris went on, unconcerned. " But her feet are perhaps
just a trifle "

Meriem's honest nature could stand it no longer. ** Vernon,"
she cried aloud, in an agony of blushes, disregarding the beck
of his commanding finger, •' it isn't right, you know ; it isn't
true to her ; you shouldn't let her go on supposing in this way
I don't understand English. . . . She might say something she
didn't intend me to hear, you know, Vernon."

Iris drew back, thunderstruck, in a vague tumult of i.u' ,i 'na.
She recognized in a moment, of course, who the Kabyic gir' was
that could thus easily and idiomatically address the paintc r in his
native English. But the shock was none the less instantaneous
and electric. Never till that morning had it for one instant
occurred to her that Uncle Clarence's daui^hter would not be
dressed like an ordinary Christian — simply and even coarsely or
poorly indeed, but still in the common and recognised garb of
female Christendom. That this barefooted Kabyle girl, in haik
and girdle, with her flowing hair and her Phrygian cap, was the
cousin she \m(\ come so far to find, fairly took her breath away
on the first blush of it.

For a minute they stood and gazed on one another from a safe
distance. Iris with the curiosity of a stray visitor to the Zoo ;
Meriem with the terrified and startled look of a beautiful wild
animal brought suddenly to bay. Then Iris slowly moved for
ward to greet her.

•• You are my cousin Meriem I " she cried, with a flushed, hot
face; and, even as she spoke, she took the beautiful girl's two
hands in her own. Next instant, yielding to a sudden gracious
impulse — for blood, after all, is thicker than water — she folded
poor trembling Meriem to her bosom, and kissed her on both
cheeks with impulsive affection.

In a second, Meriem's heart had burst with delight at tA' '
grand English lady's goodness and condescension. Those si) vcV-
chosen words ♦* my cousin Meriem," — that one touch of natur*?
that makes the whole world kin, as she folded her to her bosom

?!!P

na TENTS or shsii.

— hftd conquered at once the proud Kabyle reserve In Meriem's
nature. With a flood of tears, the graceful wild thing cast her-
self passi lately at Iris's feet, and, raising the hem of her riding-
habit in her hand, kissed it fervently with her lips a dozen times
over.

•• Iris, Iris," she cried, •• I love you 1 I love you I Ybu mighi
kill me now. I should love you for ever."

Iri? raised her from the ground, with a startled face, half*
terrified at this unexpected outburst of feminine emotion.

>• Meriem !" she exclaimed, " my dear child, dear Meriem ;
yon mustn't throw yourself at my feet like that, for worlds I
We're cousins you know. I've come all the way from England
to meet you and know you." And she clasped the poor girl once
more — witli more genuine and unaffected tenderness this time
— to her own soft bosom.

•• You may go back again then, if you'll take me with you,"
Meriem cried, impulsively; "for now that I've seen you, and
know what you're like, 1 could never take from you one penny of
our money. I never wanted it at all myself. All I want is to
e near you, and love you."

At that moment, as they stood there with arms clasped tight
round one another sile.ntly, before the open heaven, Madame
rAdministra trice appeared unexpectedly at the tent door. The
incredible sight made her start with alarm.

" Mon Dieu I " she screamed out volubly, in hei shrill little'
voice, to Uncle Tom within. " M. Vitmarsh. M. Vitmarsh, come
quick and see. CVsf incroi/nhte, mnu r't'st vrai, Viola iitadenuii-
telle V(itt« niece qui emhrasse uru indiyejut 1 '*

IVa

TUh TSMIb OV MUhJu.

CHAPTER XXn.

A THUNDERBOLT.

\ '.

Things had gone badly for poor Uncle Torn. He had stopped
inawares into the lion's mouth. When the astute old huvyc^r
.aw that disconcerting sight from the door of Eustace Le Mar-
chant's tant, he felt that chance had indeed dealt roughly with
lim. ^ ' ''" '.' .'. \, "' *

He tooi-. 1 in at a glance, of course : so this was the young

woman! jl Claimant I The Impostor I While he luid been

ualking with the enemy, Le Marchant, in the gate, the young

woman herself, losing no time in prosecuting her vigorous

Lssault, had surprii^ed the citadel, and carried it by storm. Nay,

what was worse, she had even enlisted that ill-regulatod and

usceptible Knyvett heart of Iris's on her own side. There he

ound them, hugging like a pair of fools — plaintiif and defen-

ant in the self-same cause, as thick as thieves one with tbe

tlier. The foe had suborned a traitor in the camp. This v/ily

^!ibyle girl, — pretty, no doubt, undeniably pretty; as a man of

;t->te, Uncle Tom could not pretend, in his own mind, to burke

-;iat patent fact ; but a savage for aii that — a mere Atricau

s.tvago — trusting to her pure cheek and her physical charms, had

wane an easy prey of his poor trustful Iris. Those Knyvctts,

ou see, were always so unpractical. No Whitmarsh on earth

vduld ever have acted like that, Uncle Tom felt cuiuiin. No,

iHlned! Quite the contrary. A Whitmarsh would have held

lu alleged dnughter of the late Uncle Clarence at arm's iun;.^L!;

iMirehy, and refused to acknowledge olf-hand this shadowy clann

I cin uiicoitain consanguinity. A Whiunarsh would have fought,

le matter out, inch by inch, to the hitler end, insisting upon

lof at every step, and refusing to accf|/. a snigle weak fact, a

-i^fe shaky or illogical inference. While these Knyvetts, you

ow — bah I it made the eminent Q.C. sick to tliink of it ; so

iiixotic; so sentimental; so ignorant of the wiles that were

iiiiple matters of everyday experience to an old hand in the

L*robate and Divorce Division.

ipnp

TUK TKN'ib UH' bxiii^M.

I»

If only she had been black, or even dusky, now, ns TTreU Tom
had always anticipated I But a pucka white woiiian — as white
as himself — and handsome into the bargain! Was ever Q.C.
more disastrously fitted with a susceptible client and a dangerous
opponent ?

It was with difficulty that the disheartened old lawyer finished
that evil day's work ; but since chance had so brought things
about that the first investigation meeting, so to speak, must
needs be held before a committee of the whole house, he decided
to make a virtue of necessity, and invite Iris and the C! ;imant
herself — to Uncle Tom Meriem was, henceforth, simply the
Claimant to take part openly in their deliberations.

" Iris, my dear," he called out, in a somewhat testy tone, " come
into the tent here, and bring that — that young person with you."

•• Come along, Meriem," Iris said, as one speaks to an old
friend, leading the timid Kabyle girl by the hand, like a child, to
the tent door. •• Uncle dear," she whispered gently into his ear
"she speaks English, and she's a sensitive creature. Now, for
my sake, there's a darling, don't be hard on her, or harsh to
her."

Pretty ; and sensitive! Oh, Lord, what luckl He must hold
his tongue, it seemed in the presence of the impostor, for fear
the truth should hurt her delicate feelings 1

'• You've got an uncle, young woman," Uncle Tom observed,
with a severe look, fixing a jury-box eye sternly on Meriom.
*' I think it would be better that this uncle should be represented,
personally or by counsel, if I may be allowed the expression, at
this preliminary investigation."

" What does he say. Iris ? " Meriem whispered, awestruck.

" Don't be afraid of him, dear," Iris whispered in return, clasp-
ing Meriem's hand tight in her own, •' He's a little rough, you
know, but he's awfully kind and good for all that. He only
wants you to send for your uncle."

" I didn't know Englishmen ever talked like that," Meriem
answered, simply. " Vernon and Eustace never speak to me in
that way."

Meanwhile Uncle Tom had murmured something in French
to Madame I'Adniinistratrice, which Meriem didn't understand.
The iiippant little FrencliM^oman nodded acquiescence. *♦ Va
'Jiercher V Aiidne ! " she cried in an authoritative voice to Meriem.

The girl caught the meaning, though not the words, and dis-
engaging her hand gently from her cousin's, rose up and glided
at once from the tent, '* like a Greek goddess," Iris thought to
lit^rsHlf. as she followed her with attentive eves, admirinalv.

iilK i'iiiM'H Olt iHJCM.

i . ^ly fi'^ ' niilk," the painter put in, Interpreting hex

liiougiua ; lor he, l^o, had joined the party in the tent. "You
see, those girla are so free in their movements, and accustomed
to earn such heavy weights on tJmir liead from early childhood,
that they grow at last to step evenly poised, like Queen Mab or
Titania."

The English allusions sounded strange to Iris; she herself
would have said, in a similar case, •• Like Athene or an Oread."

In two or three minutes, Merlem returned onoe more, pre-
ceded by the Amine, quite en dimnnrhe, in a better burnous than
Le Marchant or Blake had yet seen him in.

*• Assieda-toi ta," Madame TAdministratrioe exolaimed in an
imperious voice, pointing with her sharp forefinger to a low box
seat in the furthest corner.

Iris was surprised at the haughty tuUmmcnt, especially as the
Amine, in his best Friday clothes, seemed altogether so much
more dignified and important a personage, with his tall, supple
body ai:d his oriental gravity, than the skimpy and volatile httle
high-heeled Frenchwoman.

The Aminft's eyes flashed fire angrily, but he restrained his
indignation, after the Oriental wont ; and with a polite bow and
a '*bonJour, mesdames ; bonjour mcMimrH," took his seat in the
corner where superior authority had so cavalierly relegated him.
The melancholy and pathetic Kabyle expression in his large
sunken eyes made Iris feel an instinctive respect and sympathy
towards the grave old man.

" Ask him first, Madame," Uncle Tom said, oificially, in such
French as he could command — it was perfectly fluent and pro-
foundly insular — " if he can tell us the precise date of death of
this man Yusuf, alias Leboutillier,"

The tears rose quick into Meriem's eyes, at hearing those
sacredest of all names to her so roughly pronounced, but she,
too, bit her lips to still her emotion, and, fur Iris's sake, held her
peace painfully.

The Frenchwoman repeated the question to the Amine in
French, with an inquisitorial air of legal accuracy. But the
Kabyle only shook his head in the utmost dismay. *• No com-
prend limjua Francn," he answered, helplessly, in the one phrase
of that old barbarous jargon which still survived in his native
mountains.

*' Ask him in Kabyle, then, Madame/' Uncle Tom persisted.

Madame TAdministratice started as if she were stung. " Do

\^.

llilipp

TUK TKiNTS UK bUtCW.

140

I understand Kabyle, monsieur? " she t'\ hiiined indignantly, at!
.vlio should repel a slight upon her personal gentility.

Uncle Tom beamed out at her from his respectable spectacles
iu mild surprise. " Am I to gather, then," he said, with wide
lopen eyes, '• that you've lived for fifteen years on end in Kabylie,
and can't yet speak one word of the Kabyle language."

*' Not a syllable 1 not a letter I not a jot ! not a tittle 1 "
Madame disclaimed, energetically, with a profuse gesture. '• If
these pigs of indujenes desire the pleasure of my spirited conversa-
Ition, let them go and learn French themselves at school, and
jth€m they can talk to me."

[• "The loss is certainly theirs," Uucle Tom responded, with
junwonted gallantry.

" Meriem can interpret for you Uncle, dear," Iris suggested,
[coaxingly. •* Only," she whispered somewhat lower in his ear,
" try to put questions so as not unnecessarily to hurt the poor
'.diild's feelings."

This was really too much for Uncle Tom'g equanimity. •* My
idear," he whispered back, with legal firmness, " such a proceed-
ing would be highly irregular, highly irregular. To make the
Claimant herself our interpreter in the case would be to turn
jourselves over, bound hand and foot, to any nonsense she may
'choose to palm off upon us."

•• I think," Le Marchant interposed, with a quiet smile, " if
you will allow me to try, my slight knowledge of Kabyle will
probably suffice to put such a very elementary question as the
one you suggest to my friend the Amine here."

Uncle Tom glared at him with angry eyes, but could not very
well say him nay. A conspiracy, of course ; a most patent con
jspiracy 1 but after all, they were not on their oaths. In a pure
|ly private and informal investigation, irregularities of this sort
might perhaps be condoned in his client's interest. They'd bt
^ure to let out some damning fact or admission between them.
' Le Marchant put the question to the Amine in a few simple
words. The Kabyle shook his head in utter perplexity. A date
to an Oriental, an exact date within a stray year or two, is an
undreamt-of pitch of historical accuracy.

" It was about three years since," Meriem said, in English,
with tears still standing in her big brown eyes, "for I remember
it was just about the time when we gather the olives."

Uncle Tom gave a comical look of despair. Was this the kind
of evidence as to date, forsooth, to tender to a leader in the
Probate and Divorce Division of Her Majesty's High Court of
/astio« }

14A

THfl TENTS or SUEM.

li was Blake's turn now to interpose with a sup[p;estion. "I
liiiiik," he said, turning over the paj,'e8 of his sketch-bDok,
hastily, '* I have something here that may oast hght on the
matter." And hitting on the particular sketch he required as
he spoke, he passed the open page over to Uncle Tom with polite
carelessness. , .

Uncle Tom accepted the strange item of proffered evidence
under mute protest, and without prejudice. As a matter of
principle, he didn't believe in the docftmentary value of an artist's
sketches. They're never sworn to before a Justice of the Peace,
as the Act directs. Still, he cast a hurried glance, for form's
sake, at the particular drawing thus eonlidently pointed out to
him. It was a rough sketch of tlic mouth of a cave, overgrown
with hchens and maidenhair ferns , and it bore on its front a
bold inscription in plam Roman capitals —

OLARENCB KNYVETJ

■UA IPSIU8 MANU FKOIT ',

ANNO HEOIR^

UOOLXIV. ; ■

Uncle Tom started, but restrained his surprise. •• It's not
without merit, viewed as a work of art ; but what does it prove?"
he asked, half angrily.

•' I don't know," Blake answered, retiring abashed. " I've
really no idea. The same question's been asked about ' Paradise
Lost,' I believe, and I could never answer it. I suggest it merely
on general grounds, as tending to show Cliiieiice Knyvett may
have been alivb as late as the year 1264 of the Mahominedan era.
It's an inscription that Le Alarchant and 1 found on the face of
a rock high up on the slopes of Lalla Khadidia, in the Djurjura
Mountains. It gave us our first clue, in fact, to the curious
problem of Merieni's parentage."

" Those words were the last thing Yusuf ever wrote," Meriem
murmured, half aloud. " He must have written them just before
he fell from the rocks, when he was hiding from the French, who
wanted to shoot him."

" And when was the year 12(J4, I should like to know?" Uncle
Tom sneered contani[)tiiously. The date had auch a remote
miMlineval sound about it.

h was an unfortunate observatiou, from Uncle Tom's point of
view, at least: for even as he spoke, iris, pulling out her purse,
consulted a small pocket alniauau. " it bt^gan." <ilif said, after

THS TZNTB OF tHSM.

147

a short but abstruse mental calculation, "on Aprfl the 20th,
1883."

Uncle Tom gave a short, sharp whistle to himself; a whistle
that he checked a minute later with a distinct air of being (as a
Bencnerof Lincoln's Inn) very much ashamed of himself. *• This
ia what comes of sending girls to Cambridge," he thought to
himself inwardly, in a very bad humour. •• They're so proud of
being able to calculate a date that they supply arms and ammu-
nition gratis to the camp of the enemy. — Let me see that book,
Iris," he went on aloud, in no happy tone. '• Year of the Hegira,
1268, commencing April 20th, 1887. H'm, that'll do. Now,
don't be precipitate."

But his warning look and uplifted finger were thrown away
upon poor, eager Iris, who, profoundly interested in the facts of
the case, and anxious only to arrive at the truth, forgot to con-
sider her own role in Uncle Tom's little extempore drama.

" Why, uncle," she cried, with a flash of intuition, •• Uncle
Alexander died at Bath — I've got it down here among the memo-
randa you gave me that day at your office — on April the 4th,
1883 ; and Clarence Knyvett wrote this inscription not earlier than
April the 20th in the same year. Therefore, he must have sur-
vived Uncle Alexander, and he, not Sir Arthur, was the real
inheritor of the Knyvett property." ;

A thunderbolt could not have fallen more heavily on poor
Uncle Tom. No turkey-cock that ever strutted a farmyard was
half po red in the face as he at that moment. He would have
given the world just then if only he could have flung down his
brief on the table before him, and remarked 3arcastically, •* After
what my client has just admitted, my lord, there's nothing now
left for me to do but to retire at once from the case, and leave
him entirely in the hands of the jury." But here, unhappily,
was a client whose cause he could not throw up, come what
might — a client with an impossible and incredible fancy for play-
ing into the hands of her own opponents.

*• My dear," he whispered in her ear, in an agony of shame,
disgust, and terror, " leave it to them to say all tliat; and don't
concern yourself at all with Clarence Knyvett. What we have
to do first is to solve the question, When did the man Yusuf die?
After that, we have to ask ourselves next. Was Yusuf identical
with Joseph Leboutillier ? Only in the third place can we come
10 the question, Were Yusuf and Joseph Leboutillier in turn
aliases of your uncle, Clarence Knyvett ? "

" Yusuf died aooidentally, by a fall from a cliff," L« Marchant

143

7.'HX TENTS OF BHEM.

^■:

put in, carrying on the problem of the date at issue. " Surelj
there would be something like an inquest or proces verbal held on
his bod}^ — some statement of the ct^uso of death in the actcs de
Vetitt civil at St. Cloud" — and he turned round with a question
in French to Madame I'Adininistratrice.

" Est'ce que je mis, mot? " the little lady answered, with a
Hcivwed-up face and a shrug of her shoulders. " Do I take note
of the death of this, that, or the other imiiijene, think you ?
Qu'ent'ce que ca me fait, a moi^ monsirur ? My husband can tell
you perhaps. He keeps a register of these events, possibly."

" My father fell over the cliff," Meriern put in, suddenly, after
a long and abstruse efifort of reason in the endeavour, by the aid
of Iris's almanac, to correlate the Christian and Mahommedan
calendars, "some time in November, 18B8; I know it now by
the date of the Moharram. A man oame up from Algiers to
search for him '*

♦♦ A French detective," Le Marchant interposed. " So one of
the fathers at St.. Cloud told me."

•* And Yusuf thought that if he remained at Beni Merzoug,
the man would find out his French name, and get them to shoot'
him," Meriem went on, with an evident and painful struggle.
" So he went and lived in the caves in the Djurjura ; and there
he fell over a cli£f and died ; and that's all I can tell ycu
about it."

" Wliy," Iris exclaimed, with a flushed face, *• that muse have
been the detective — you remember, Uncle Tom — that Sir Arthur
sent up to make inquiries about him. And Uncle Clarence must
have mistaken who it was that sent the man, and why they
wanted him. And so he must have fled from his own property
and his own people at the very time they were trying hardest to
discover him."

Uncle Tom's face was a study to behold. It would have made
the fortune of some rising yenre painter. Such a client as this
hi3 had never had to deal with. She would spoil the best case
that ever was briefed. She gave up everything at the mere nod
of her dangerous opponent.

•♦ My dear," he said slowly, aloud this time, "you're making a
great many most unwarrantable assumptions. If this inscription
is really genuine, which we don't know — I give no opinion ; it
may or it may not be ; — and if Yusuf was the man i^oboutillier;
and if Leboutillier was your Uncle Clarence ; and if we can trait
these people 'i evidence '* . ^

tBB TENT8 OV SHKII.

149

He got no further, for, us he said those words, Meriem rose up
like a statue before him.

" Iris," she cried earnestly, taking her cousin's hand once
more in hers, " I love you, I love you I I'll speak to you ; I
won't speak to him ; because he distrusts me and doesn't believe
me. Nobody ever distrusted me before, not even tlie Kabyles.
Don't let hird come here any more to inquire. I can't bear to
hear him speak like that about my dear dead father. 1 loved
Yusuf, and I love him still. I'm glad you've come. I'm glad
you're my cousin. But whether the money you've come about
is yours or mine, let's say no more about it. I hope you'll keep
it. I want none of it. What guod is it to me ? All 1 want is
to know my father's friends. And if you'll let me love you, I
need no money."

•* Uncle Tom," Iris said, flushing red in return, •* let her off,
there's a dear. She means what she says. You're hurting her
affections. If we want to set this matter right at all, we must
set it right without bothering Meriem. '

They rose to go, but Meriem clung to her.'

" Iris," she whispered, •• come again soon, and see me alone.
I want to talk to you. I want to be friends with j»ou."

" m come again soon, dear," Iris answered, with a kiss. " I
loY« you, too, Meriem. I think I understand you."

■'*^.;

r^/ ' ""fWW^f.n

150

TBJC X£NrS OF SUiCK.

CHAPTER XXIIL

- A DIFFICULT CLIENT.

They mounted their liorses and rodo hack toward St. Cloud in
moody silence. Madame rAdniinist,ratrice indeed, to do lu^r jus-
tice, chatted volubly and fiippanlly all the way. Hut Uncle Tom
Eind Iris, in no mood tor gossip, contented themselves with an
occasional nod or a smile of acquiescence. Their minds, to sav
the truth, were otherwise en<<aged than with madame's n'l^rcts
for her Parisian luxuries. Uncle Tom was in a d^'cidcdly had
humour; and with Uncle Tom that always meant that the case
was turning out very ill for his client. He couldn l concn-al from
himself two obvious facts : first, that it looked very niiich ind«!ei|
as though the man Yusuf and Clarence Knyvett were really one
and tiie same person ; secondly, that .'t looked very miu-h indeed
as if C'larence Knyvett had really outlived his brother Al nder.
If these tilings were so, two points alone could save h Mil's

case. In tiie first place, it was pretty certain that L-uii-ence
Knyvett could never have married ^Ieriem's mother, m any sense
recognised by the Probate and Divorce Division. In the sec-
ond place, it was also pretty certain that no good legal proof was
forthcoming of the identity of Yusuf with Joseph Leboutiliier.
Comfortmg his soul with which two specious legal (piihbles.
Uncle Tom directed liis mountain pony cautiously homeward in
no little internal [)ertui'hation.

As for Iris, she rode on with ecjual regret at many results of this
strange interview. At the v 'i-y first blush of it, her heart had
gone forth to her unknown coesin, Theie was something about
Meriem's simple nature that she fell civilisation could nev(;r
rival. She was vexed in soul that Uncle Tom, with his Lm
coin's Inn suspiciousness and his Old Bailey wit. should have
gone against the grain of that fine natural character. But,
furthermore, the practical outcome of that morning's work had
strangely discomposed her own plans for the future. Let Uncle
Tom and the legal aspect of the case quibble as they might, in
•imple equity Iris felt sure that Sir Arthur's property belonged

TBB TSNTg OF lUXU.

161

My right, to Meriem only. She didn't doubt now that Meriem
was Clarence Knyvett's only daughter, and that Clarence had
survived his brother Alexander. Thinking so, her soul, like lier
Homeric hero's, was divided this way and that within her. For,
on the one hand, her strong sense of justice and her clamorous,
imperative Knyvett conscience made hor anxious to see abstract
right done to Meriem, let what might follow. She could not
tight over legal quibbles, where the trutli was clear, or pretend
10 hesitate about questions of identity when Uncle Clarence's
daughter stood, visible in the flesh, a true Knyvett before hor.
If Meriem was the heiress, provable or not, let Meriem take the
goods that belong to her.

But, on the other hand, Iris felt with a pang it would be hard
indeed to give up Sidi Aia. Six thousand a year had moved her
httle ; mere money stated in pounds sterling means not much to
a very young woman. But when she had once seen Sidi Aia,
•md felt the pride of possession in that exquisite home, it would
1)6 hard, indeed, to give it up to the rightful owner. She wished
she had never seen it at all, so as never to know the pain of
parting with it.

♦• I beheve in Meriem, Uncle Tom," she ventured to observe,
timidly, at last. " I don't tlxink she want's to get Uncle Arthur's
property." - •

Uncle Tom's ill-humour grew deeper as he went, the case
looking blacker and blacker on reflection. " The girl's a mere
tool," be answered, sullenly. " She's dupe, not knave. She
won't do much harm to us. It's that man Le Marchant who's
egging her on. It was he who invented this cock-and-bull story,
lie means to marry her, and prosecute her claim. Exaciiy what
[ told you has really happened. He read your advertisement,
and saw his chance of setting up a new sort of Tichborne Claim-
ant. Of course it was he who carved that inscription."

**I never thought of that," Iris cried, with surprise, half •
clutching at the straw, if only it could save her that S.di Aia.
" But the painter said he saw it too, and I somehow fancy the
painter's a good young fellow. With a face like that, he could
hardly be otherwise. I never saw anybody handsomer or more
transparent." " . > .;

Uncle Tom grunted. *• You'd learn to distrust your own
brother," he said, shortly — " supposing you had one — if you'd
practised half as long as I have at the Bar of the Probate and
Divorce Division."

Iris was silent for a few minutes more. Then she said again,

163

TUK TENTS Of 8HEM.

•* Tlicre'i something inexprefisibly v/eird to my mind in the
coincidence that one brothor should be Uving in luxury in
Algiers "

••No coincidence in the world at all aboat it I " her um-le
answered, testily, with a burHt of ill-humour. "Your logic's
bad. That's always tlie ciiso with you Cambridge graduatys.
If you'd been at Oxford, now, like mc, you'd see at a glance ttia«
the tiling's a matter of m(!re ordiiuiry sequence. Your Unci*.
Clarence came to Algiers as .lo.sepii Leboutillier — so niuch'.^
admitted on aill sides ; and it was his coming over here first thai
entailed in the end all tiie nsst of our coining, Sir Arthur's, aiul
your's and mine, and your tnotlicr's. Sir Arthur came, like us,
to assure himself that his brother was comfortably dead and
buried; and, not being burdened with a young woman of Cam-
bridge education and ranciful i)r()clivitie8, he was lucky enough
to satisfy himself off- hand of the fact, which is more than ive
seem likely to do, confound it I He found the climate and the
country suited him, so ho bought Sidi Aia out of the money of tlie
trustin accordance with thetcrmsof the Admiral's will ; andsuiail
blame to him either ; for a prt-ttier or swcicter place I never saw,
though you do want to fling it at the head of this claimant.
Where's the coincidence in all that, I'd like to know? Now,
whore's your coincidence ? A simple ordinary matter of mitural
cause and eiloct — that's just what a logical Oxford mind calls
it."

•♦ But how painful to think," Iris went on, reflectively, without
heeling his interruptiou.^" that one brother was living in luxury
and splendour at bidi Aiar while the other brother, the real pos-
sessor of the property, was skulking for his life in fear and
trembling among these snowy mountains, and dependent for hii-
bread upon the charitv of the Kabyles I "

" That's just it," Uncle Tom went on with dogged cahnness,
crushing down his own doubts the better to crush down and
annihilate his niece's. •• That's just what I say. Is it likely V
Is it credible? la it in accordance with all we know of human
nature? If ho was the heir to this fine estate — for it is a fine
• ■state, Iris, though you want to shuflle it off on the bare-legged
young woman of doubtful antocedents — would he go hiding and
starving in a cave on the mountains, instead of coming down,
and saying openly, • Here am I, Clarence Knyvett, the rightfuJ
owner, come to claim my own ; get out of m^' iiuuse, and give
me up my money ? ' "

I.-

ffHa TBMTI OF BH2M.

168

•• You forget," Iris said, "• that the Frenoh would have ihot
him, and the English sent him to penal servilu le."

" I don't forget it," Uncle Tom repeated, with some asperitj.
•• I don't forget it. I never forget anything. It's a habit I've
acquired in the course of my practice. But do you think any-
body in hi 1 senses would shoot or iuipricoii the heir to a splendid
property li)<:e that ? No, no, my girl ; I know the law in its practi-
cal working in all countries. Shoot a poor devil of a deserter, if
you like, with three sous in his pocket, and nobody '11 bother
about it ; but not a man who can ask the General of Division to
dinner at Sidi Aia, with pate de foie gras and a mugiiuui of Veuve
Chequot."

Iris was silent. Young as she was, she know the world wel!
enough already to guess there was probably a good deal of truth
in Uncle Tom's cynical contention.

" Well, now, Iris," Uncle Tom went on, drawing rpin for a
geoond as they reached the village, " I've hac' enough of youv
co-operation in this matter, I can tell you. i'uiean to hunt up
the rest of the question myself, with the aid of an interpreter —
I suppose there's somebody here at St. Cloud who understands
this beastly Kabyle lingo — and sorrow another word shall you
have to say to it. You may fraternise with the bare-legged young
woman of doubtful antecedents as much as you like m private —
['ve nothing to say against her as far as she goes : she's a well-
meaning tool of that man Le Marchant's ; but never again shall
I let so incompetent a junior as yourself be with lue in a case of
such prime importance. I've talcen away the brief from you, so
remember in future I manage this business aioxie in my own
fashion."

As they passed out of the street at Beni-MerTioug, HnsRem and
the marabout had watched them depart from the sacred grove
by the little domed tomb of the village saint. '* There goes she
of the high-heels," Hussein cried out. mockingly, in his own
tongue, at the same time that he bowed his head deferentially
almost to the ground before her.

"In Allah's good time," the holy man answered, "her proud
head shall roll in the dust before the face of Allah."

•* And these others who have come to her from over the sea ;
shall we slay them too ? " Hussein asked with languid interest.

♦' Is it not written, ' The Lord knows His own ? ' " the mar-
ikbwub raphed, looking vacAut.ly before hiui. ** When li«e FiuUi*

154

THB VaXTC or IHSlt,

ful onftirl the flag of a Tehad — a holy wax — they fespect not
persons ; taey destroy lUterly the enemy of Ailaii himself, mad
his house, and his slaves, and his servants, and his friend, and
the stranger that is within his gates, leaving not one Uving soul
behind them."

•• The biggest one — her with the fair hair," Hussein went on
regretfully, with a side glance at Iris ; •' it's a pity to kill her.
It seems such a waste of good material. 81. e might serve well
to draw water and to cook eous-cous and to prepare the house for
the sone of the Faithful. Her face is pretty. I like her looks
better even than Meriem's."

" Slay the men ; take the women alive ; says the word of Allah.
All but the woman with the high heels. Lay her low in the
dust, says the servant of the All-Powerfu'

Hussein smiled a horrible, wistful smilt;. " That's well," he
saiJ, chuckling. ** I prefer her to Meriem." And he followed
her with a gloating look in his fierce black eyes till she faded out
of 6i^ht down the long and narrow zigzag muie-yatJi*

/ :'

.\ -«.

mmmmmmmm

^iPfP

lUk iikMM Oir' Ba:;:^*

iftf>

on
sr.

el]
for
ks

he
ed
ut

. "■■■ CHAPTER XXIV. >

, ■ "^ • ' . . ■'

HELLKNIOA. ' '

" Do you know, Eustace," Blake said at breakfast, in the tent
iiext morning, *• I've been dfivoting myself too exclusively of late
to the mere figure. I must really go back to a little more land-
scape. These studies of mine of girls and young men — Meriem
in particular — will be awfully useful to me when 1 get back to Eng-
land. I mean to work 'em up, and make really good things of
'em for the Academy, some day. But they require the local
landscape for the background ; they require the landscape.
Such essentially idyllic types of life are nothing at all without
their natural setting of olive and pine, of cactus and fan-palm.
The long brook falling through the cloven ravine, and all that
sort of thing's a necessary adjunct. I must go further afield,
and keep up my details."

Le Marchant smiled, for he knew in his own soul, already, what
was coming. " And where will you go ? " he asked, as inno-
cently as he could.

♦* Why, over near St. Cloud, I think," Vernon Blake replied,
perusing the canvas ceiling; " there are some jolly bits there.
One dear little shrine in particular, on a tall hillside, all hung about
with rags and pilgrims' offerings, took my fancy immensely the
last time we were over there. And that skittish small Frencl -
woman told me the other day, when we went to call upon her" —
for they had made their peace, in the interval, with Madame
I'Administratrice — •* that if ever I happened to be painting over
their way, it would give her and Monsieur all the pleasure in the
world if I'd drop in at the Fort to have a mouthful of luncheon.
It's convenient having a place where one can get a feed, you
know." And he fiddled with his jack-knife, trying to look uncon-
cerned and unconscious.

•* Poor Meriem 1 " Le Marcliant murmured, with genuinp
regret, spreading some more tinned lobster on a large romid sea
biscuit.

•• WeU, I never pretended I really oar«d for her." BUk»

101

THB XBNTI or 8HE1I.

answered in the oblique or;ition. And this other fl^'rl, if it
cornea to that, is a re.bl i^jii^'lish laJy, and worth ten thousand of
her.'"

" That's a matter of opinion," Le Marchant said, stoutly.

" She's too learned for me, though," Blake went on, with
some latent chagrin in his tone. * Do you know what she said
about Meriem, yesterday ? She obsorved, quite casual-like, tlnil
Genseric and his Vandals — I think the gentleman's name wa«

enserio — ^must have left their mark deep on the soil and thM
people throughout all Mauritania. By Jove I I didn't know
which way to look. I never heard of Mr. Genserio in my life
before, and I ocmldn't tell you where Mauritania was, or is, if my
neck depended^upon it. That's the sort of girl I admire, now,
if you like. Genseric and his Vandals, she said, as pat as A B Ci
—Genseric and bii Vandals."

" But, my dear fellow, it'i in Gibbon, you know, Thora's
nothing very wonderful in her having read tho old familiar
' Decline and Fall of the Rooshian Empire.' "

♦• i never read Gibbon," Blake responded, with a stolid face.

*• Well, it's in • Murray's Guide,' then, if it comes to that,"
Lb Marohant retorted, without venturing to observe that a wo; nan
might have read far more than Biake, and yet by no means Hot
up as a prodigy of learning. " It seems to mo far more surpris-
ing, as an iiitjllectual feat, that .\loriem, bi'ou-,'l)fc up in this out-
)f-the-way village, should have taught hersolf to road I'liiglisb,
ill of her own accord, than that Miss Kiiyvoitt, aided and abnt'tod
:uid egged on from behind by a /lo.s.sr coiiiitattia of Girton tuiors,
should have crammed herself up to be Third Classic."

•• Diiierent men have diiferont opinions." Blake quoted, gaily ;
" and, for my art, pinions is not my tnste. I willingly resign
vou inv share in Meriem. She's all very well for a sunuuer
flirtali in, I grant you — a man inust annise hiinsi^If — Init to com-
pare her for one second to that heavenly apparition sent to be a
moment's ornament, in the riding-habit and hat I Why, it
makes me positively angry to hear you. She's a phantom of
deliglit, that's what I call her. I'm oil', Eustace. I sha'n't be
back till six hi the evening."

He trudged across to St. Cloud on foot ; and, being a prudent
man, so he flattered himself inw;inlly, he call'^d before begiiniing
his work at the Fort just to let ?>liulaine TAdmiiiistratrice know
beforehand that he meant to specialise her general iiivitatiou and
drop in to luncheon this particular nooiutay.

Madame l'Admmiutratric« looked pettishly coquettisht

.' l-.y

w^fmmmm*

THB TSMT8 OV 8H£U.

157

*• While we were all by ourselves, monsieur," she said, with a
fetching little glance towards Ins, " you laevtir did us the honour
of accepting our hospitality."

Vernon Blake smiled a sheepish smile. lie could be bold as^
brass before poor bare-footed Meriem ; but the Third Classic,
that awesome English heiress, brought out at once all the
instinctive shyness of his underlying nature.

•' W liv, I'm gonig to paint over liere to-day," he stammered
out tiniilly, in his best Ollendurlf ; "and you said, you know,
whenever 1 came over you'd do me the honour ox allowing mi
to Juiich here."

" Oh, mayn't Madame and I come out and watch you ? " Irii-
asked with genuine interest and pleasure. •* But perhaps you
don't iilve being watched. I've never seen a real painter iit worl
in my life, do you know ; and after that sweet thing of yours in
the (j losvenor last year, I should love to find out exactly how
you do It."

*' I shall be only too flattered," Blake answered, smiling, tha;
being, in fact, the precise object with which he had come ovei
.there. Love at first sight w'as the name of his nmiaily.

" And may I go too? " Mrs. Knyvett inquired, ;m iis-^ing tin
prominent feature full upon the painter with a benn'ii snule.

" Oh, not for the world, dear," Iris interposed, ear.ii sily. "It';:
so chilly this morning, and the wind's from the rnounttins, and
I should be afraid of my life it'd bring on your bronclntis."

r>lake heard this veto with lively satisfaction. lie fancied from
the tone it was not perhaps entirely dictated by filial solicitude
Besides, Madame didn't know a single word of English, and w'as
therefore admirably adapted (from the point of view of giddy
youth) for enacting with effect the part of the common or garden
gooseberry.

They strolled out together to the point on the hill-side where
Blake had decided to select his background ;i ;ty little dell
by a Kabyle road; and there the young art vith those big
grey eyes, set up his canvas on the easel, wnere Meriem, ol
course, as central figure stood already painted-in with striking
vigour. It was a graceful form, and iris admired it with genuine
admiration.

" How beautifully you paint these people," she said, looking
up at him. " You seem to have caught their spirit to the very
life. Such yiaivete and simplicity ; the Kabyles all over."

"I'm glad you like it," Blake answered, blushing. •• Praise
from your lips is indeed commendation."

lUK TENTH on HiHtM,

'tib glance*! timidly asiile at Miuliune. Ilalf-a-dozen Kabyle

'u^!s iiad gtiihereil, u.s was their wunt, already round the canvas

) see the intiilel stranger paint ; and the little Frenchwoman,

aving drawn a senii-cirtiiliir line with her parasol in the dust

f the path round the base of the eanul, was congenially engaged

•1 rappnig with the knohby top of the same weapon of offence

le bare toes of any luckless urchin who ventured to transgress

er prescribed limit. " ihif orcnimtitin cntnme une autre," she

>iid, looking up with a good-huniourud and iniacliievoua smile at

.ris. " Il/uiit liien t'aumscr. Kl juiiH vu leiw ajiiicnd le respect de

fiittorite."

" Would you like to look at my skotch-book ? '* Blake said in
'.nglish, handing it to the amiable 'c/mjn'ron as he spoke,
tadame took it, and glanced over it curcdessly. It was not in
he least Parisian ; nothing pi(juant it all in it ; so she passed it
m with a yawn and a sigh to Iris. Tun minutes later she was
leginning to s'ennitijfr, to prevent which misfortune she buried
:er face in close conmuniion with a paper-covered copy oi
")audet's '* Sapho," 11.4 -rted by post from Algiers yesterday.

So Iris and Blake, left to themsulvus, talked on for an hour
iiiinterrupted. By that time Madaniu, propped against a tree,
uid fallen asleep quietly over her Parisian story.

" How do you like it now ? " Blake anked at last, standing ofi
I foot or two, and surveying his own handicraft with not ungrace
il complacancy.

" It's just like a little idyll from Theocritus, Mr. Blake," Iris
ried, admiringly. •' Doesn't your work often remind you while
/ou're painting of Theocritus ? It seems to me absolutely
inspired in every detail by the true old naive Dorian feeling."

•♦ 1 haven't read Theocritus," Blako answered, modestly, feei-
ng bound to disclaim the honour thus thrust upon him. " To
jell the truth, I don't read Latin at all, Miss Knyvett."

•* Oh, don't you ? " Iris cried, with a faint little blush of sym-

tathetic shame at his simple blunder, " I'm sorry for that, for

,hen you've never had the pleasure of reading the Georgics ; and

he Georgics to you would be like flowers to the bees — your

lative field, your predestined pabulum. Y( u d revel in the

Tcorgics, I'm quite sure, Mr. Blake, if you leul Latin. And

vou don 'tread Greek, then, either, of courno; tor whoever reads

Homer has lirst read Virgil. That's a pity, too, for you'd delight

n Theocritus. The scent of these thyuiy southern hillsides

dIows through every line of his Imw/.y idylls, as whiirs of the

tieather blow through Wordsworth 'a ' ICxcursion,' and the per

? ,

T'WP

lllti TKNTS t», ni..,.>l.

io'j

fume of tho may tLrough lome of Tennyson's English ooxmtry

pieces."

" So Theocritus wrote in ^reek, did he ? " Blake answered, ill
at ease, ruthlessly exposing his own hasty mistake, which Iris
had endeavoured so gracefully to gloss over and yet prevent for
the future. *• Then I made a stupid ignorant blunder when I
thought he was a Latin, Miss Knyvett," and he paused with his
brush upturned, " you're a sight too clever for me to talk to."

*• Not clever," Iris corrected. " Only well-read. I've mugged
it up out of books, that's all. Anybody can mug it all up if he'll
only take tlie pains. I had to at Cambridge."

"But what was that you said yesterday about Nausicaa ?"
Blake went on, still blushing. " I wanted to ask you who
Nausicaa was; and just then I was really afraid and ashamed
to."

•* Oh, Nausicaa ?" Iris answered, with a little laugh. " She's
in the Odyssey, you know ; the daughter of Alcinous, King of
Phieacia, and she goes with her maidens to -wash linen by the
.seashore ; and there she finds Odysseus thrown upon the coast ;
and then" — gliding gently over the dangerous ground with a
faint blush, for even a Girton girl is still a woman — ♦• she gives
him dry things and takes him home in her father's chariot to the
Court of Pha'acia."

'• It sounds like good ballad poetry," Blake answered, interested.
•'Worked up in the tyle of the • Earthly Paradise,* I should
thiuk it ought to make very graceful verse."

*' I wish I were gonig to stop here longer," Iris said, quite
seriously, amused at his inverted way of looking at Homer,
" and I'd teach you Greek. It's a grand language . .
and I can't bear to think you've never heard the bees hum in
Theocritus."

♦• You'd find me a precious bad pupil, I'm afraid," Blake went
on, with a sigh, as he added a still deeper tinge of orange to the
throat of the great Cretan mullein he was daintily painting. •' I
was always bad at anything like a language."

Iris paused, admiring the exquisite depth of the colour in the
gorge of the bell, and the masterly painting of the whole im-
perial blossom. Remembering the scraps of OUendorffian French
she had already heard him stumble through v/ith Madame
TAdministratice, she began to fear vaguely in her own soul that
her new hero iiarl by no means under-estimated his own very
slender linguist c i^iqiabihties. She gazed ftk the oauvas, and
tried another tack. . .

S1I"PIB?^"^'^'W' .''.".', I'f '*""^>W"'A.\|P»"i-'^«i;i- "'■^^'T!''-!! .i«)^ 'I ','''"! i™«['"51^i'y7fW',':«>_»;uwiiii,(j|jiiH,iiiiFpiipiip^!^^|j|p

.00

Tl-.s'lS '•.• ^,l,

*' AiUr aJl," she said, with [)(jnsive head on one aide appre-
oiative, "why should I wish you to rottd Theocrittis at all, when
I see you are in all essentials a Thencntns already '? What the
Greek tried to say with words and rhythm, that you say for us
here in visible injages with i'orin and pif,nueiit. The same grace,
the same stu(lied ease, tlie same southi-jrii rusticity, the same
simple naturalness. Not)iin<,' about your art is anywhere
affected." Her own thoughts hurried lier on too far. '• You
have no need to go to school to the Greeks," she went on. '* You,
a poet-painter, have in yourself to start with those very ideas
which we ordinary mortals strive to haniiner into our heads by
hard practice throu^'h daily itc(|uaiiitance with the masterpieces of
hterature."

Blake look ! ' rl< nt her with lus bij^ eyes full of childish
wonder, lie lim-dly knew how to contain himself with surprise.
Delicate flattery is dear to the soul of every one of us; sympathy,
appreciation, encouragement in our art — though we don't often
get them ; but that she, the oiu; woman whom lie most dreaded
and admired on earth, whom he had lain awake to dream of all
last night, should thus com|escend to put him, as it were, upon
her own level, and to balance his gifts with hers, not wholly to
his disadvantage — this, indeed, was more than he could have
hoped or prayed for. And the best of it was, in a shamefaced way,
in that back-corner of self-esteem which even the most modest of
us keeos somewhere penln at the far-end of his brain, he recog-
nised himself with an inward blush that all she said had a great
leal of truth in it. He wan a poetic painter by nature, and be
felt instnictively tiie underlying kinship between work hke his
own and the best pastoral poetry. But Le Marchant had never
told liiin that. Le Marchant had never casually remarked upon
his brotherhood with the great idyllic poets. No one but she,
that incomparable she, in her noble condescension, had ever yet
beheld the whole genius that was in him.

** You're very kind," he said, one blush pervading him to the
roots of his hair. '* You somehow make me feel quite at home,
at once, with you. Shall I confess, now, why I thought The-
ocritus wrote in Latin ? I think I will. Because I know him
only through Andrew Lang's ballad, * Where breaks the blue
Sicilian sea.' you remember. And Sicilians, I fancied, must
surely have spoken Latin, because now-a-days, I suppose, they
speak Italian."

'• 1 never read that piece," Iris answered, unabashed.

** Ob, let me repeat it then," Blake cried, enchanted to find be

'"• * ft' -^

■^f T"! f!V^''i-'^ . >' ;■"!.; ■■f.: ■ .•-'■jt--' '''■:■',•*

Idl

knew something she didn't. Toang love delighti to drop into
poetry ; and he recited it all through with a sonorous voice to
ills listening companion.

Iris followed the flow of these dainty lines with deep attention.
'^It'i beautiful," she said, as he finished, "simple and beautiful,
like your own p<?,inting."

They paused awhile ; then Iris said, once more, to change tne
subject, ** How hot it is here. I'm quite thirsty. I should love
some lemonade. My kingdom for a lemon."

niake dropped into poetry at onoe again. The mood was on
Uiiu.

Oh, for a draft of vintAst that hti been
Oooled a long age in the deep-del vid earth f

TftBtlng of Flor» and the country areen.
Dance, and Frovotisal ionR, andiun burnt mirth t

Oh, for a beaker full of the warm South,
Vttll of the true, the bluihful Uippooreatl

"(That's pretty, too," Iris said, admiring, "And in thut
Andrew Lang also? Please td\ it all to me."

Blake started in surprise. •' What, not know that 1 " he cried.
•• Why, it's Keats, of course; the 'Ode to a Nightingale.' I
thought, of course, you'd have read that. It's a lovely thing.
You must let me repeat it to you."

Iris blushed again. •' You'll think me dreadfully ignorant,
I'm afraid," she said, apologetically. •* I've had to work so
h.iid at Greek and Latin the last few years, that I'm afraid I've
rather neglect<'i tho Engli^^h poets ; while your mind seems to
be just sa.turated with them I wish I'd read them as nxuch as
you have."

Young love is always frankly self-conscious. " How quickly a
woman finds out all that's in one," he cried, delighted. " So
much faster tha.n a man. I've livod with Le Marchantsi>: ^nonths
in a tent, and except for a certain manual doftnoas in painting
pictures, I don't believe he's ever found out thwi«'s anything in
me."

Iris dropped her pretty eyelashes with a demure droop, —
for all the world like any ordinary girl, who has not been to
Cambridge. " Mr. Le Marchant's a mere man of science,'" she

■aid, slowly. " Perhaps
more in common.'

you and I

have

U ^. -! iiiifAip<<!^^np^npHiHipn«l^ii^

W»PI«^S^I»» 11.11, J. Ill li^.

l^»"«' ""^

^-^

162

Vernon Blak* tramped back to the tent that night, np the
steep path, with that painfol malady strong apon him. It made
his heart go thmnp, thump, thomp. And as he tramped, he
said to himself a hundred times over in an eostaoy of delight,
" Here by God's grace is the one maid fox me," as Geramt said
when he &iAi saw £2ud»

/ .

( /

-. /.

^- V-

/ /■

e
e

",W7" T

l«»

CHAPTER XXV.

THK OLAIMANT'B 0AS8 OOLLAPSCt.

For the next fortnight, Vernon Blake's single-hearted devotion
to landscape waa rtally notliing short of exemplary. The ti^nire,
at least as a subject for artistic study, seemed suddonly to have
lost for him all interest or attriiction. He tramped it over to
Ht. Cloud every morning re<i;ularly, across the weary pass, and
painted away at the background of his big [Jiclure with a steadi-
ness of aim and forgetfulness of fatigue that would have deserved
the highest commendation — in an older man. Almost every
morning, too, by some strange coincidence, Iris somehow hap-
pened to be passing casually, and to look, for a few minutes at
least as she passed, at the progress of the handsome young
painter's work.

One would almost have fancied they both did it on purpose,
were such suspicions possible about a Third Classic, liut Girton
girls, of course, like Caesar's wife, are above suspicion.

"Don't you think, perhaps, he's a trifle dangerous, Tom?"
Mrs. Knyvett asked more than once of her astute brother.

And the eminent Q.C., who flattered himself he had a keen
nose for the trail of a fortune-hunter, answered off-hand, "No,
no, Amelia, not he. He's an innocent, ignorant young man, the
painter. Not at all the sort of person ever likely to fall in love
with a girl like Iris ; and certainly not at all the sort of person a
girl like Iris is ever the least likely to fall in love with. lie doesn't
knov? a quarter enough for her, bless you. It's that clever Le
Marchant fellow that we've got to steer clear of."

In which confident prediction Uncle Tom waa so fully justified
by the facts of the case tliat before the first fortnight was well
over Iris caught herself looking out with a beating heart every
morning from her windows in the Fort, to see if the painter,
with his easel on his back, was trudging down the hill ; and
Vernon Blake on his side caught himself, with a similar flutter
under his waistcoat watch-pocket, waiting for the slightest rustle
of a certain dainty morning-dress against the lentisk bushes of
the hedge, as he stood and painted with trembling fingtrs at that
intorounabl^ back-ground.

T«r

164

IS T£NT8 Ok' bHEll.

Irig saw a great deal all these days of Menem also : f(ir T^nr'e
Tom hiul now procured the philological services o> a uiio-eyet'
Maltese — official interprotor to the Commune of St. Cloud — u
whose aid in speaking the Kabyle tongue he availed himself freels
in his legal inquiries ; and though Iris htrsulf was liencefortli
strictly excluded from these severe interviews as a daiigerous
personage to her own cause, she generally rode across with her
uncle to the Beni-Mcrzoug mountain, and sat among the bare
focks outside, chatting with JNIeriem, while the great Q.C., the
Amine, and the Kabyles generally were endeavouring to arrive,
by question an answer, through the medium of the one-eyed
Maltose's /English, at some possible mode of understanding one
another's respective ideas. Oriental or Western.

On one such occasion Uncle Tom came over in high glee,
primed for the final enquiry of all, to which his careful researcl'
among the archives of St. Cloud had now ultimately narroweu
itself. He had no doubt by this time in his own mind that a
good deal of the Claimant's story was true — that Clarence
'(ni^-vett, afti r enlisting at Toulon as Joseph Leboutillier, had ■
i-eal'y run away from the Third Chasseurs, out of pique or
Qui otism, ana taken refuge among the Kabyles under the name
)1 i'usuf. He hud discovered further, from the Actes de V Ktut
Cicil at St. Cloud, that the fugitive had survived liis brother
Alexander by several months, and therefore, in accoi'dance with
the blundering terms of the old Admiral's will, possessed the,
power of bequeathing the family pr i)erty to whomsoever he
chose, provided only he died in the position af a father to lawful
issue, by ICnglish usage recognised as such, and then only.
Hence, the one point Uncle Tom had still to investigate was the^ .
very simple one whether Clarence Knyvett's marriage with Halima^
Meriem's mother, was in the eyes of the Probate and Divorce,
:")i vision a true wedlock or a purely polygamous and non- Christian
inion. And that he could prove this sole rerrain^ng point to his,
wn satisfaction he had very little doubt indeed. The proof, to,
'i sure, would not satisfy Iris's extreme views as to Ar' / '^'ian
juity ; but it would amply satisfy the scrupl-s o^ in English
udge ; and that was quite enough for Unci The great

Blackstone had pronounced the union a meret is one. U le

Pom didn't for a moment doubt that Iris h. if coi J be per-
suaded in the end to agree with the great Blacks jne on the
'egal issue, to compromise Meriem's shadowy claims for somQ
-^mail anuoity, and to enjoy her own good and undoubted titl^

mi^imm

mmm

■ AiU-WpJI

TBI TSMTl 0» IHSll.

165

lo the estate without further dreams of a Quixotic and nnpractica.1

natural justice.

On this particular morning, therefore, UnoU Tom sat onder
the open corridor of th« Amine's cottage, endeavouring for the
tenth time at least to cross-examine, in his familiar Chancery
Lane style, these very unpromising and incomprehensible wit-
nsssGs.

It was hard, indeed, to drag anything out of them ; their
Oriental imagery clouded from the eminent Q.C'.'s Occidental
mind their underlyinj? meaning. But at last I'ncleTom had
begun to discover a right mode of approach, and to pin the Amine
down, step by step, to something like a consistent statement of
plain history.

I "Ask him," Uncle Tom remarked to the inttvpreter, with
severe emphasis, •• whether he was present himself on the parti-
pular occasion, when his sister Halima, or whatever else her
outlandish name may be, was married to the man they call
Yu?uf.*' .

i •♦ He says, of courf'.3 he was," the one-eyed Maltese responded
clieerfully, as the Amine, with innumerable nods and gestures,
expressed his assent volubly in many guttural notes to the ques-
t.on proposed to him.

•• Ask him once more," Uncle Tom continued, with an austere
countenance, "if there was any written contract of marriage."

'•He says, Allah is greiit, and it is not the custom with the
sons of the Kabyles," the interpreter replied, again translating,
with his one eye fixed firmly on the barrister's face.
! •• Then what was the ceremony performed at the wedding ? "
TJncle Tom went on, with malicious joy.

'• He says, the All-Merciful was pleased to prosper him ; he
got twenty francs and a Fn.nch Government nl!e for her," the
interpreter replied, with his gravest expression.

Uncle Tom was delighted, though he feigned surprise, and with
difficulty repressed a triumT^hant smile. Nothing could be more
beautifully barbaric than this. Twenty francs and a Government
rifle I If ever the case should come into an English Court, which
wasn't likely, the leair.:>d iudge. Uncle Tom felt certain, would
dismiss Miss Meriem at once v,~it^ '•osts on the mere strength of
that one feeble and fatuous admissior.

" But the ceremony I " Uncle Tom objected, with a severe face,
trying to look shocked. •• The religious sanction? The obliga-
tion or bond ? The nexus vuitiimoniif They must surely have

iOU

TUtf I'AftMl'tt OJr UkiKU.

sometlii 'i; p-^--

•ft rude tribeu in the nature of a wcddiny

Thsy don't i .„v it.a matter as the fowls of the air would, d«

they, surely ? "

"He says, a rniin wIk) knows how to read Arabic, recites tht-
first and fourth <;).., i -. ■. ■)( tho Koran," the interpreter replied,
"and then the ! ii.->iiiirid pays the contract price, and they eat a
dish of rons-tuLUi tw.,i u.v;i', und the parties thenceforth are con-
sidered marriod."

Uju '" Tom rubbed his hands togetli^r ^nily. •• Confarreatio ! "
'ip nil! • Hired to hiniKclf. ♦• Heathen cunjorreatiot not Christian
i.aiii.i^'e. — And that waH all t))at took place in this case ?" he
asked '■' \ with coi:fii<' ' 'c utwtion.

'•0 I, ' thu iiiterpreu )• lupUod, after consulting his principal ;
" there was moro than tiiul. the Amine remarks ; much feasting
.:nd dancing tcyok pliutn in the house, and quantities of £gs and
of c-.m.s-foMs were t'utcn."

•' But there was no my\ f)f wedding or marriage ceremony bo-
fore the French auLlnuii., > > " Uncle Tom insisted; "no going
before the Priest or tJui Ahiire for example, or anybody of that
sort?"

*' The Amine says, do you take him for a dog? " the interpreter
inswered, with an unmoved face. " \> as his sister a Christian,
that she should do tJieso things ? Have not all his people bueii
•eckoned among the staunoliOHt of the Faitliful since the beginninL-
)f time, and is not he himself lineally descended from the Glory
of Islam, the Star of the Atlas, the holy saint Sidi Mohammed
of the Ujurjura? "

Uncle Tom was almost satisfied now, but he thought it well
Lo ask just one more question before he considered the point as
rmally settled. ♦• Ask tho man," he said once more, witli his
sauvest voice, to make security doubly sure, •' whether polygamy
is lawful among his countrymen, the Kabyles ? "

" The Amine replies, unhappily his people are too poor to be
able to afford more than one wife apiece," the interpreter an-
swered. *' The Arabs, who are richer, have often more. Herds
)f camels and many wives are theirs. But the law of the Pro-
phet is alike for all. There is but one Koran for Arab or Kabyle.
Let not the Faithful set themselves up against the customs of
Islam. In common with all other true Moslems, the Kabyles
.may have four wives apiece, if they choose, after the example of
the ever-blessed Prophet Mohammed, and the glorious and vio-
torious Caliph Omar."

:'V

turn TSNTB OF SUJUf.

167

Unole Tom chuckled audibly to himself at the naive reply
The learned judge would know very well how to deal with a so
called marriage of that sort. A polygamous union of no lega
value I The case was practically closed now. The Claimani
.vas not Clarence Knyvett's lawful heir, according to the require
ments of English law. Uncle Tom had vindicated the sanctit;
of Christian wedlock. He had confounded the wiles of tliat art
ful Le Marchant. He fait his bosom swell with an honest pride
Twenty francs and a Government rifle, indeed 1 The Claimant'f
cause had collapsed utterly*

■f 1 .

! i

\- ^

J ;-5

fmt im'i^ oji i^HKii.

CHAPTER XXVL

■a-:

TWO MAIDENS.

Outside, meanwliile, upon the rocks under the p^narled olri
olives on the slope, Mcriem and Iris sat and talked hard by, liki
two listers who had lived with one another for a whole lifetime.
Bare-footed, one, and a Girton girl the other, that fortnight had
brought them very close togetlicr. It seemed to Meriera as if
for. the first time in all her life she had found a girl friend to
whom she could confide what was innermost and most profound-
ly sacred within her.

" I suppose. Iris," she said, in her simple, childlike way,
peeping out from her robe with half coquettish shyness, " the
English part of me has only just begun quite lately to awaken.
Before Vernon and Eustace came here to camp, I had never seen
any English people at all, you see, except only Yusuf."

'• Uncle Clarence, you mean," Iris suggested, half starting.

•' He was Yusuf to me while he lived," Meriem answered,
with a grave and serious look, taking her new friend's hand in
her own, as was her wont ; •• and he shall be Yusuf to me always
as long as I live, whatever his English people may have called
him. Well, you see, dear, till Vernon and Eustace came to
camp here, I hardly remembered or understood anything much
of what Yusuf had told me. My English even was just a little
girl's, I suppose ; at least .it was a great deal simpler and scantier
than what I speak now ; for when Yusuf died I was only a child,
and all I knew was so vague and childish."

" But how old are you now, Meriem ? " her cousin asked,
looking hard at her strong fair face, with no little wonderment.
*• It isn't so long since Uncle Clarence's death. You can't have
been so very childish thon, you know."

'* I'm sixteen now," Meriem answered, after a short attempt
to recollect exactly. *• Bo I must have been a Uttle over twelve
wh«B Yusuf died, you see."

'H;

TH£ TENTS OF SHKM.

169

Irii started. *• No more than sixteen I " she cried. •* Why,
Meriem, you look as old as I, and I'm twenty -three my next
birthday."

•' But in the south," Meriem said, '* I've always heard we girls
grow to be women a great deal earlier than in colder countries.
I suppose that's the Kabyle half of my nature : though I seem
to feel, since Vernon and you came, I'm a great deal more Eng-
lish than Kabyle at bottom. I seem to get so much nearer to
you than I ever could to Ahmed or Ayeslia."

•' Then you've learnt to speak Enghsh much better of late,"
Iris asked, musingly.

♦♦ Oh, yes," Meriem answered ; *' ever so much better. I've
learnt to express myself so much more easily. Since Vernon
came, he and I have been talking together almost all the time.
And I've learned to read English too, you see ; that's taught me
a great many words and ideas I hadn't got in my head before.
It seems as if I learnt more quickly than was possible. Not at
•ill like learning to read the Koran. More like remembering,
a nost, than learning."

Love is a most successful teacher of languages.

♦* I expect," Iris suggested, after a moment's thought, " your
English nature had been growing up slowly, though never de-
veloping, for want of opportunity ; and when these two young
men came, and you had English companionship, it burst out at
once, like a dormant faculty, into full activity."

" I think so," Modem answered, catching at once at the ker-
nel of her meaning, though some of the wonls that enveloped it
were still unfamiliar to her. " I think 1 must have grown like
a flower does, you know, before it opens, and the moment the
right time for unfolding arrived, I must have opened naturally
when the sunshine fell upon me."

*• What sun,shiijf ? " Iris asked with a quiet smile.

Meriem had it in her heart to answer simply and truthfully,
" Vernon's ; " but a certain strange shvness she had never felt
before in her life restrained her somehow, and she answered in-
stead, quite prettily, " Yours, Iris."

The Third Classic leant forward, pleased at the compliment,
and laid her white hand on Meriem's neck, caressingly. As she
did so, she touched the little box locket that Merien wore round
her throat always. The girl drew back with a half-startled look.
*• Don't touch it," she cried. •' You musn't take tliat off. It
was Yusuf himself who hung that charm there, and he told me
[ must Qdvep, never let any one except myself handle it."

170

ffXS TKNTS Of tHlM

Iris withdrew her caressing fingera, half hurt at the rebuff.
" I see all jrou Rabyle girla wear them," she said, less cordially.
" What is there in them ? "

" Some of them have a little red hand for laok," Men'r"-
answered, half-blushing with ingenuous shame, "and "^omf^
the bone of a great saint, or a white rag of his blessed clot
and some have charms against the evil eye, and soma havo ..
verse from the holy Koran."

" But what's in yours ? " Iris persisted, once more.

" I don't know," Meriem answered. I've never looked. It
was Yusuf who hung it there. He told me to keep it very care-
fully."

" But you ought to look, I think," Iris went on, with insistence.
" Do let me take it off just once to see I Perhaps it may be
something very important."

Meriem drew back with the same startled and terrified look as
before.

•* Oh, don't touch it, Iris ; don't touch it," she cried. •• Why,
I wouldn't let even Vernon himself touch it."

It was Iris's turn to start back now. Vernon, Vernon always
Vernon ! A shade of displeasure passed for a moment over her
bright face.

♦' You seem very fond of Mr. Blake," she said, chillily. •• And
why do you always call him Vernon ? "

•' He told me too," Meriem answered, looking up into her
pretty English cousin's eyes with vague wonder and hesitancy.
"He said it was the right way to call him in Enghsh."

" Not for a girl,'' Iris objocted, decidedly. "Girls don't call
men by their names like that. I called him * Mr. Blake,' don't
vou notice, Meriem '? "

" Wei), I called him Blake, too, at first," Meriem went on,
much puzzled at this strange discrepancy it<f v^en her two
teachers ; '• and Eustace and he laughed at
They told me only men did so in England. A
call him by the name he's got for being a Chris

" By his Christian name I " Iris cried, disapj^i
no, Meriem ; not unless — unless they're awfully
home together. Only, you know, when the\ \i
another ever so long, and like one another oh — just imniensGly I"

" Well, I liJke Vernon just immensely," Munem answered,
smiling.

Why? " Iri« asked, with sharp decisioiu

n' doing it.

I ought to

v^ernon."

y. •• Oh,

te and at

.vuown one

««

THK TBNT8 OF 8HBM

171

Who can tell? BecauBe he paints and talki bo beantifully,
I suppose," Meriem replied, evasively.

A strange doubt rose, vague and undefined' in Iris's mind.
Till that moment, the terrible thought had never even occurred
to her. She knew that Vernon Blake had constantly painted the
beautiful Kabyle girl, and had reproduced her faultless form in
every attitude of that simple idyllic mountain life -with brush and
with pencil ; but it had never struck her as possible, any more than
it had struck Yernon Blake himself, than anything more serious
than mere artistic admiration could enter into his feelings towards
the fair barbarian. Iris was immensely taken with Meriem in
her own way "he novelty and freshness of the situation interested
and amused v. She had greeted her half-wild Mohammedan
cousin sympaLiietically, with a cousinly frankness, and had for-
gotten, as far as a woman can forget, the great gulf fixed for ever
between them. But the gulf was vaguely there in the back-
ground all the time for all that. Meriem was to Iris a charming
and interesting and attractive savage, but a savage still at bottom
in spite of everything. She could never believe that Vernon
Blake, that poetic soul, that exquisite artist, as she herself had
found him in their brief intercourse, could dream of throwing
himself away for life upon a mere graceful and beautiful wild
creature like Meriem.

And more than that, far, Iris felt at that moment. The
human heart (at twenty-three) is a most plastic object. She
had known Vernon Biake for a fortnight only, but she woke up
all at once at those stray words of Meriem's to a vivid conscious-
ness that henceforth he was indeed a part of her life, a factor in
her history she could never again get rid of, for good or for evil.
From the very first time she ever saw him, it had been Vernon
Blake all day and all night with her. Vernon Blake had echoed in
her brain and reverberated through her being. If not love at
first sight on her side, as on his, it was at any rate, interest — a
profound interest, an indefinable charm, an irresistible attraction.
** Do you love him, Meriem ? " she asked, suddenly.
Meriem looked back at her with perfect frankness. To the
Kabyle girls of her village she would never have said a single
word on that sacred subject. She could never have confided to
them her love for a siranger, and that stranger an infidel. But
Iris, as she said, hke Vernon himself, had roused the half-awak-
ened English side of her nature. To Iris she felt she could
confide everything, as an Kn.ylish girl confides in her bosom
friend, freely and unrescirvual)'. She glanced, with a certain

4'*: I'-

172

THX TXNTl Of tRni.

amount of shynos3. but with no pretence at oonooalment, at her
dainty little cousin, as she answered, sinipW,

" I love him, Iris, as I never could have loved one of our own

people.

*• An does he love yon ? " Iris asked, with a spasm.

Meriem's brow puckered up a little. ♦• I don't know," she
sttid, in a hesitating voiue, pulling,' graHSOfl from the crannies of
the rock as she si)oke. " I can't make quite sure. You see, Irig,
I don't undtrcitand your Knj,^liHh wayH ; and thoup;h I've been
readini^ English novels and trying to uiidorstand them, I'm not
so certain that I've really quite uudorHtood it all yet. Sometimes
I think he does love me, beoauso he talks 80 beautifully to me,
and takes my face between his hands —like this, you know; and
sometimes, when he gets so flippant and strange, and talks such
nonsense, I think he doesn't really care one bit for me, but only
just wants to amuse himself a little — like what they call flirting in
the' English novuls. Kabyles don't flirt ; we don't understand it.
The last fortnight, especially, he's been often so. He's hardly
taken any notice at all these days of me. .... But then,
you see, he says he's done (juite enough figures, now, and he
wants to go on painting at what he calls the background."

Ins looked hard at her with a vay;iie misgiving. " Meriem,"
she said, gasping, "has he . . • • has he ever said very
itiuch — you know how — to you ? "

Meriem thought deeply for a moment how to express her ideas
before she spoke. Then she answered slowly, with great difficulty,
'• I think he's talked to me ... . well, it's so awfully hard
for me to say, of course, because our Kahyle men don't make lovei
you know, as you do in England.; they buy U8 and pay for us;
it's a matter of bargaining, like one does at market . . . bu«
I think, Iris, he's often talked to me « « * » the way they
make love in the English novels."

" And taken your face in his hands, flo," Trfs went on, trem-
bling, and holding Meriem's beauLilul' shapely head between her
palms, ns she spoke.

" Yes, just 80, Iris," Meriem answered, half whispering. Her
face wa.H like a red rose now. "Do you think . .. • do
you thni!<, dear, that means anything?"

Tlie 1-^ngJish girl's heart beat hard hut slow, with long leaps
and throbs, as she asked again, faintly, " And kissed you,
Meriem ? "

••^Yos," Meriem answered, in the aamn soft voice, getting
frightened now, " Was it wrong of mo. Iris ? • . . . I was

i. -'■"j, ',■■••,: -■ ■'

^^m

THE TENTS UF 8UEM.

173

afraid it wna wrong. I told him I thought so — that he oughtn't
to do it. l>ut he qnly laughed at me and said, oli no, people
always kissed like that in England. Out here, in Kabylie, you
Know, men never kiss a girl, of course — not a nice girl, I mean —
till they've bought her and paid for her, and the Taleb has read
a chapter of the Koran over them. But in England, Vernon
:3aid it; wasn't like that ; that you didn't think it at all wrong ;
and in the English novels — for I looked on purpose - 1 saw that
all the young men and girls kissed one another quite freely
when .... when they were really and truly fond of one
another. So I thought Vernon must he really and truly fond of
me, as he kissed me so often. Was it awfully wrong of me,
Iris ? I could'nt ask Fatma or Ayesha, you see, because they
wouldn't know ; and if it was wrong, I didn't really mean it."

'• No, not wrong, dear," Iris answered, with a spasmodic gulp,
"but — but — Oh, Meriem I" And she broke down suddenly, and
burst at once into a flood of tears.

Her heart was full almost to bursting. If for one short mo-
ment die thought harshly of Meriem, who could blame her ? It
was surely natural. Was this barefooted Kabyle girl, a mere
waif of the mountains, to take away from her at one fell swoop —
and of just right, too — everything on earth she most pri/.od and
cherished ? A month ago, she had never seen Sidi Aia. To-
day, slie was willing to give up Sidi Aia to Meriem — it was
Mefiem's own. Had she not indeed come over to Algeria fqr
that very purpose ? A fortnight ago she had never seen Vernon
Blake. To-day, she could not give up her painter to j\leriem
without tearing at the very roots and fibres of her heart. Till
then she had never known how deep he had struck. She felt at
that moment how profoundly she loved him.

Meriem gazing at her in blank sui-prise, read at once the secret
the Englishwoman had never yet spoken. " Oh, Iris," the
mountain-bred girl exclaimeil, flinging herself on her uncon-
scious rival's neck, and bursting in her turn into a Hood of hot
iears, •♦ I didn't know it ; I didn't suspect it. If I had, I would
never have spoken to you so. I thought he admired you very
much indeed— who could help admiring you? But I didn't
think — I didn't think — I didn't think you loved him I '*

*' Hush," Iris cried, looking round her in alarm. *' 1 never
said so, Meriem. I never, never, never said so. Even to myself,
I mver once said so."

'* Ilds he told you he loves you ? " Meriem cried, in suspense.

" No ; he has never told me," Iris answered, through her tears.

174

THE TENTS OF 8HKM.

" But — you know how it is ; he's let me feel, 1 suppose — you
understand how — not by what he said, or even looked or did, but
by what he didn't say, or look, or do, Meriem."

The Kabyle girl rose, and gazed down upon the graceful
and delicate English lady very compassionately. Her own soul
was all seething within her.

•• Iris," she said, slowly, with <^ determination, " you have
nothing to cry for. Don't br(\ mr heart as he's broken

mine. lie never cared in the least lor me. It was all empt\ .
I know it now. I see it at last. He was only amusing him-
self I "

" Then he had no right to break your heart, dear," the Eng-
lishwoman answered, clinging hard to her hand. •' lie had no
right to flirt with you. He had no right to kiss you. I can see
how deep the wound has gone. He must marry you, Meri'^m.
You're rich, and he must marry you."

In her passion of self-abnegation, she would give up all. Sidi
AH, and the property, and Vernon Blake, were Meriem's.

" I don't want the money," Meriem answered low, ber eyes
dry, and her bosom panting ; " but I did want — I did want
Vernon."

•' You shall have him," Iris repeated. " He must marry you.
I'll make him."

Meriem flung herself at her cousin's feet once more, and raising
the hem of her dress to her lips, as she had done on the very
first morning they had met, she cried out earnestly. " Oh, Iris,
you must take him. When I look at you, and think that such a
girl as you are is willing to marry him, I wonder 1 was bold enough
ever to dream he could look for a moment at a poor creature like
me, Ins — Iris, I see it all now as clear as day. 1 tried for
a while to persuade myself he might, perhaps, really love me.
But I know the trutli now ; and the truth has crushed me. He
never, never, never * I at all, in his heart, for me."

•♦ Then why did he luss you ? " Iris cried out, fiercely. *• Why
did he hold your face so in his hands ? Why did he make love
to you, and talk to you beautifully? If he didn't mean it, he
was using you cruelly, and he sliall never marry me, tljon,.(li he
asked me on his knees, after acting like that. I shall never take
him away from any other woman, who has so much a better
claim on him tlian ever I could have."

Meriem lookeildown at her own bare feet — that pntent symbol
of her low estate— in shame and mortification. " 1 was mad,"
she said, glancing from her own coarse haik to Iris's exquisitely-

TUK TENTS OV SHIM.

171

made London drpps, •• to dream that Vernon could ever think ol
me, such a girl as I ara I I've broken the dream for ever now.
I .^hall crush it down deep in my heart, Iris. For his own sake,
even, I'd never cl(jg him with myself. He shall marry you ; he
^hall marry you ; 1 shall make him marry you."

'• It's a trial of strength between us, then," Iris cried, in her
wassion of self-denial. " He was yours first. H« ihall be yours
for ever."

"He was never mine," Meriem answered, sadlv. "He shall
be yours for ever as he has been, I know now, in my heart of
hearts, from the very first moment he ever saw you."

When Uncle Tom emerged from the Amine's cottage, two
minutes later, he saw those two girls, as he expressed it himself
to Mrs. Knyvett the same afternoon, kissing and crying under a
big olive tree, and declaring they loved each other dearer than
ever, and behaving for all the world before the eye of the sun like
a couple of babies.

But as Uncle Tom and Iris rode away towards St. Cloud once
more, in varying moods (for Uncle Tom was elated by the prick-
ing of this bubble^ Hussein and Ahmed leaned up against a wall
and puffing slowly at their native cigarettes, watched the hated
mfidels well out of the village.

" She's pretty, the Christian girl,'* Ahmed said, with a smile
tio his former foe and rival, Hussein, still toying with his daggfer,
" and very like, Meriem, though a great deal more beautiful.
It's a pity she should be thrown away upon a mere infidel."

" Ay," Hussein answered, with a generous wave of the hajld

towards the bidder he had displaced. *' Pretty she is, and fit lor

' Moslem. You may take Meriem yourself if you like, now,

■led. When Allah wills, I shall have the Christian woman."

And that night, alone in her own room, Meriem, sitting by the
(iim light of a very Roman-looking earthenware lamp, filled with
olive oil and a floating wick, laid her hand dubiously on the charm
round her neck, and then, with a sudden uncontrollable impulse,
unfastening its clasp for the first time in her life . . . opened
the spring lid, and looked gravely inside it.

^Vbat she saw there sli3 told to no one ; but it altered the
wliole tenour of her life thenceforward.

► i.T- • r-TirT^^- TW:^7V?-;

176

TRB TBVTf OF SHKM.

CHAPTER XX VII.

A HAKD WRKNCU.

Td Uricle Tora'a Lincoln's Inn intellingence, the sf ttlemwnt of
the point that Clarence KnyveLt'a so-caiied nmrnago wiiii tJie
late lamented Halima, deceased, was no nu'.rriage at all by .
English law, had closed the episode of their visit to Algieria.
So far as he was concerned, that loyal son of the British l>ar, i
true lawyer to the core, was prepared forthwith to rt'.tiirn to the \
classic shades j^ Old Square, leavnig hare-le^'ged Miss Meriem
and her Paynim friends to their own devices tiiciKtHiorth and
for ever. To be sure, he would have favounlbiy chum tained any
proposal from Iris to pension-off her Uncle Clarence's aliened
daughter with a modest pensio'ii of the most unassuming charac-
ter. That small moral claim he fully admitted. A man's llesh
and blood may be said, in a certain sort of nieiely human way,
to be related to him. But that the girl had the slightest legal
right to a single stiver of Sir Arthur's pro))erty — pooh, pooh, the '■
notion was too utterly ridiculous to be seriously considered by a
judicial mind for half a mimite. So he straightway proposed an
immediate return to his native land before iris could involve her '
self any further in this foolish intimacy with a half-savuge, left
handed Mohammedan cousin.

The Third Classic, however, to Uncle Tom's supreme disgusr
refused to see matters in the same simple and legally-polarisei
light. The law, she said, in her irreverent fashion, as they
conversed with animation that evening at the Fort, might declare
Uncle Clarence was no relation at all to his own daughter till ail
was blue. She, for her part, defied the judges, and insisted upon
taking a more natural biological view of the question. Coleridge,
C.J., might talk himself black in the face to prove the contrary,
and she wouldn't believe him. She maintained with obstinacy,
in spite of Blackstone, the perverse opinion that father and child
ara more or less remotely connected by nature with one another,

^■^"^"^^^"^■•^"(^"■•^IIWH^

wmf^"'

VUK TKNTH 0» lUlfiU.

177

wi^ tliat all tlio law and all tlif> lawyors in England could nevor
make them into stmngors in bluoJ, wliatuver tliey did to tln-in.
Besides, she wanted to stop and see more of Meriem. She
wanted to decide in her own mind what must be done about the
mutter of the inheritance.

She did not add to Uncle Tom — perhaps she i^id not add even
to hirsf'lf — that she wanted also to consider what must be done
about Vernon Dlake, and liow she was to tuar away her own poor
little heart from that too attractive and cohesive painter.

• Miuhune will be tired of us," Uncle Tom suj^gested, as a last
resort. " She can hardly mean to take us all in as lodgers at
nothini» a week for an indefinite peric 1."

But Madame, who just caught at the meaning of his sentence
ns he let it drop, interposed with something more than mere
French politeness to assure her dear friends she would be de-
lighted for her part to put them up on those terms for ever and
ever. And so in truth she would, no doubt, have been ; for the
little woman loved society ; and in this dull place, jw« i?ow/««-voim
mormirur / Must one die of ennui ?

So Uncle Tom in the end retired, worsted, as he always did
from an encounter with Iris. Those persistent Knyvetts, with
their sentiments and emotions, were invariably too much for his
common-sense legalism. They could twist him round their
Uttle fingers, as ie himself could tw st and turn an unwill-
ing witness. His very side-issues broke down hopelessly. If
Mrs. Kjiyvett's bronchitis, as Iris averred, really made it impos-
sible to return at thia time of year from a warm climate to the
fogs of England, why couldn't they, at least, retire upon their
own snug and comfortable villa at Algiers, till Amelia was well
again ?

But Iris said no, with her pretty little foot and the family
emphasis, and Unole Tom, squashed flat under the weight of her
crushing negative, was forced to submit to that imperative gest-
ure. Iris would tiever leave Grande Kabylie, i?he declared, till
she'd settled the two subjects that now lived most of all in her
mind — Meriem's fortiUie, and Meriera's love-affairs. Meriem
must take it all — all — all from her. Meriem must have Uncle

Arthur's fortune, and Meriem must marry that

handfonui painter.

In tho-^e two firm resolves, Iris sobbed herself wearily to sleep
with self-righteous pride that night in her own bedroom at the
Fort at St. Cloud. The fortune, indeed, she could give up read-
ily ; but not the painter — no, not the painter.

/>.

L7t

TMK TSN'Xd 0¥ BtLEM

Yet hor pretty eyes were none the redder for lier tears, wl^eu
she salhed forth from the Fort next morning, with Madame and
the faithful ofBcer of the Oenie, and turned her stops in va^^^ue
expectation towards the spot where Blake was still so ardently
displaying his practical devotion to landscape backgrounds.

The painter waa there, as Madame had expected ; for Madame,
all French that she was in her ideas of the proprieties, yet
entered with zeit into this romantic little episode of English
love-making, the first she had ever seen outside the yellow covers
of a translated novel.

" I find that charming," she said in an undertone, tc lierfriend
the officer ; " we have nothing like it, pour le bon mntif, du moins,
on our side of the Channel. There is in it the element of free
choice, of romance, of individual preference, and yet it's all so
innocent, oh, mon Dieu, de Vinnocence I Tandis que chez nous
autres^" and she broke o£f, sighing.

For she herself had been married at eighteen to an eligible
person of the same fortune, by mutual arrangement between her
own family and M. I'Administraieur's.

Her poor little faded ragis of romance had all come afterwards ;
and innocence was not precisely the exact attribute that delighted
the soul of the officer of the Genie.

They sat down and criticised Blake's picture for awhile ; then
Madame and her slave wandered off discursively into gossip of
the Fort and the surrounding colony. Had monsieu'- seen the
new Commandant's wife, at the next post ? What was her pro-
bable age, allowing for paint? And was she really so very
pretty ?

** Pretty I yes, jg voua Vaccorda, pretty. But that was all. A
most sad affair. She hadn't the sou. Her husband had married
her par purs depravation ; je vous assure^ madame, par pius depra-
vation."

Madame laughed and raised her pencilled eyebrows. That
was wrong, she said ; extremely wrong ; and aisuch a crisis. A
French official should be married in these days, married, of
course, because it was necessary he should be doubly rich ; he
must sustain the dignity of France among strangers ; but to
marry sana U sou, that, for example, in Madame'a opinion, was
sheer wickedness.

Vernon Blake lifted his eyes timidly from his canvas as Bk«
spoke, and caught Iris's. He couldn't forbear a meaning srailft.
Th« whole point of view was so thoroughly un- English. Iris
drojppe^ her own modest eyelidi in retiirn. The. luute little
pantomimo was not thrown awav nn Madmnp'fl Itiien f^ianc*.

}

Il I'l » J)

tkUL TKNItt 0^ 8U1lM.

17b

;

" »ra< passe par la,'* she thought to herself, gooJhuraouredly ;
t'or she, too, had been in Arcadia. And, besides, she was not
averse, in her present humour, to a quiet tetea-teU herself, with
iTie ofTicer of the Genie.

'♦ Come on, mun ami," she cried of a sudden to her companion,
in a very low tone, seizing his arm spasmodically. " These two
have affairs of their own to settle. Let us not derange them.
r^et us admire the landscape." And they admired the landscape
on their own account, a hundred yards off, round tlie corner of a
rock, with that other element of individual preference thrown in,
which, though not so guileless, is more peculiarly charming to
the French idiosyncrasy.

" What a funny way of looking at it," Iris said, with a smile,
as thoy found themselves alone, with her heart beating hard ;
" so very different from our English ideas, you know I With us,
of course, it seems quite natural a man should marry a penniless
girl, and work hard for her, and try to make her happy. We
think it wrong to marry for money. But they both seemed to
think, on the contrary, ii was almost wicked for a man to marry
a girl who had nothing."

Vernon Blake's bieath came and went m gasps. " Yes," he
said slowly, pretending to fiddle with his brush at a painted leaf
in the foreground as he spoke. •• I think, myself, [should much
prefer the girl I wished to marry should have nothing of her own.
I should like to spend my life, as you say, in working hard for
her, and if ever I attained to wealth and fame and honour and
dignity, to lay everything I'd earned as an offering at her feet, if

only she'd accept it I think it's mor^ manly and more

natural so. The man should labour and sli.ve for the woman.
.... But suppose. Miss Knyvctt, a man were by chance to
light some day upon a woman whom he could love, whom he
could admire, whom he could adore, whom he could die for — a
woman towards whom he could look up with profound reverence
— a woman whom he felt at once immeasurably his superior and
yet, in other ways, his helpmeet and his counterpart — a woman
to whom he could give, as Shelley says, the worship the soul
lifts above, and the heavens reject not — suppose a man were to
meet such a woman as that, wliosn on all other grounds he would
wish, if he dared, to make his wife, and, as fate would have it,
he happened to be poor, and she happened to be rich," he looked

at her appealingly, " do you think do you think ....

in such a case .... it would be quite wrong of him, taking
into QQiQ3idgra.tian how mwsli they might happen to haro ^n

180

fn TBMTt OV SBXll.

common (as you yoursfllf guff,'?Rsted the other day) " — and lie
broke off suldenly. Irifl's face was orimsou now. She looked
down, and answurod nothing. He lon;;ed in his heart to stoop
forward and kiss hor.

But Iris full a suddon «torui corlvulse her hosotn. As the
painter sjwlve, his woi'Jh thnlUMj her. She knew lie loved her —
she knew slie lovod hiii). l>uL lu^ was Mcrivjin's lirst. IShe must
give liiiu up, aj^'aiiiHt lior \Vill, to Mttnein.

Blalit' pausi'd for a minute, and watched her silently. Then
lie spoke once more. " Don't you think, too," he said, longing
lor some little word of enf!oiif;i,i:('irHMit before he dared to go on,
"that, in such a case, a man woniij oUen shrink S(!nsitivHly from
asking the giH ho luvod (or tuar his niotivus mi^ht be cruelly
misconstrued." ' -

With a terrible flTort, Iris did what she thought right. "I
don't think my cousin MtiruMii would misconstrue your motives,"
she answered, slowly, [irclMndin^' to misunderstand bis plain
meanmg. •' Of courso she'll bt' neb whon she comes in to Uncle
Arthur's money, as I moan slie shall do ; but she was not rich

when when you first paid attentions to her ; and she

could hardly think, under such ciiH'umstunces, you meant to ask
her for an v thing except her own sake. "

Th6 painter drew back witli a shock of surprise. " Mist
Knyvett," he cried, in a pained voice, " you're phiying with me!
You're teasing mo I You're intontionally sliulting you're eyes o
what 1 mean. At silch a moment, it isn't right or kind of ;ou.
You can't seriously think I'm in h)ve with Menem." Aihl he
seized her hand in his own, and held it violently.

Iris struggled h;ird to release it, but in vain. " Let go iii.-
liarid," she said at last in an angry, autliontntive tone ; h . i
Bliike, surprised, let it go itistnntly, in answer to tluit imperious
Knyv(:tl voice. Iler li[)S trembled, but she nerved hers;elf up aiui
said her say, striUglil out, fr)r all that. " I dont know whs
not," she answered >v)i,siu!ly. '• Meriem's beautiful ; Merieni's
rich; Meriem'o un heiress in her own right; Meriem's my Undo
Cliireiiee's daughler ; I don't know why any man shouldn't be
proud and pleased to mai-ry Mermm."

•' And after I've seen i/nii. Iris?"

He said it boldly, lie said it softly. Fie culled her by her
name. He was not afraid to do it. In spite of herself, in spite
of her conacionce, in spite of her stern sense of duty to Meriem,
Ijria felt a «uddt^u turill of uuwuntttd joj cguistt dow^i Uer ajprne sa

VBM TSMTS OV IHXlf.

181

lie

■he beard him call her so. It was iwe«t to have won the heart
of that beautiful creator of beautiful images, come what might of
it. Bweet to have won it, if only for a day. Though she raust^
give him up to Meriem — for he was Meriem's first — she didn't
attempt to conceal from herself the delicious fact that she loved
to know she had gained his love. As he stood there, appealing,
with his two hands clasped, their fingers intertwining close in
one another, he looked as grand and as fair as a young Greek god.
She was glad in her soul to know he loved her.

But she crushed it down with uncon(]uerable force. She was
a Knyvett born ; no weakness for her, even where a woman's
heart was concerned. She looked back at him coldly, though
those quivering lips br]i> d her words. " Menem told me all last

pang.

*• You made love to her

night," she answered v ith a

long before ever I came here. You n^ade love to her when she
was still poor and a nobody. You must marry her now she's
A rich lady, and Uncle Arthur's heiress ; for it's I, after all, who
am poor and a nobody, you see, nowadays."

Venion Blake's heart gave a great bound, " I'm glad of that,
Iris," he cried, still more boldly, with a burst of delight, " for
then you'll know it's you I ask and want ; like Lord Bonald and
Lady Clare, you, and you only,"

It was hard on poor Iris, undeniably hard. She saw he meant
it ; she saw how the blood came quick into his cheek as he said
those words. It was for herself he loved her, not for lands or
money. Had she followed the promptings of her own soft heart,
she would have flung herself at once, m sweet abandonment, ^pon
the painter's bosom. But a sterner tyrant ruled her actions. The
Knyvett conscience, aglow with indignation, rose in full revolt.
"Mr Blake," she cried, starting back, and assuming a virtuous
dngei' she only felt with half her nature, ♦• how dare you call me
hy my Christian name, when you've made love for months to
Meriem ? How dare you be so untrue, and unkind, and unfaith-
ful to her ? Don't try to conceal the facts from me, please, or to
gloss them over, or to make light of them easily. You won't
succeed, for Meriem told me all last niglit, and I see what it
m«ans ; you must marry Meriem 1 "

** Never," Blake answei^d, hot in the face, but disregarding
her orders. " I'll marry ynn, or nobody, Iris."

He needed no wizard nc.v to tell him she loved hira. Hf
eould see so much plainly for himself. Only this wretched
phantom of an imagined Meriem stood between them* And, foi

!n1 ';

IS-

TUB. TENT8 OV SHEM.

lieriem'B sake, she would wreck all — wreck their joint livea that
might be made so beautiful 1

Iris gazed back at him like a marble Nemesis.

•' Meriem told me," she answered, with stern self-restraint,
" you've made love to her in the way they make love in Eng-
lish novels. She told me you'd taken her face in your hands
and kissed her often. She told me everything that passed
between you. Do you think after that, in your own conscience,
you've any right to marry any one else but Meriem ? "

Blake looked down at the ground with awkward shyness.

*• It was the merest flirtation," he answered, on the defensive.
•* I never meant anything but just "

" To amuse yourself ! Yes, yes, that's it, I know. You meant
to amuse yourself. It was only that to you, perhaps, I dare say ;

but to Meriem Mr. Blake, how dare you tell me so ? Don't

you lee she loves you I You'll break the girl's heart unless you
marry her."

•' And your heart," cried Blake, with a sudden burst of auda-
city. Love gives the most modest man a wonderful boldness.
•• How about your heart — your own heart. Iris ?"

The English girl winced. It was a home thrust.

" My heart must break, too, if need be," she answered aU^
taken aback, with a flush of passion.

" Then you d9 love me 1 " Blake cried, springing forward
eagerly.

Iris bent her head, and blushed crimson. She thought she
was only abandoning the merest outwork when she was really
giving up the entire citadel.

**I do love you," she answered, slowly. ♦' But I can never
marry you. If I can give it up, so can you. I will never rest
till you marry Meriem."

The painter's heart leapt up once more with a wild delight.

" If you admit so much," he said, *• I needn't despair. When
a woman says she loves you, all has been said. I kisned her, I
grant you. I've kissed before. If a kiss is to count for a con-
tract of marriage — why, then " And he stepped forward

boldly, and with an unexpected assault, printed his hps on Iris's
forehead.

The startled girl sprang back as if she had been stung. That
Idss thrilled her through in every nerve. But she knew it was
wrong ; her conscience chilled her.

** Mr. Blake she cried, one flush of scarlet* '* astm dare agaift

TBNTS OF SHKM.

inn

to touch me as long as you live 1 You had no right to take such
an advantage of my trust. I'll never lors^ive you till you've
married Meriem. And now, if you pleaiQ, I'll go back to
Madame."

But in her owji room at the Fort that night she lay on her
bed for hours, in her evening dress, with the candle burning, and
ttobbdd her throat &or« with love and miser/.

184

tBi TENtS Of SHilt.

CHAPTER XXVIiL -

COUNTERPLOT.

In London, meanwhile, in the privacy of his chambers, Harold
Knyvett, Esquire, of the Board of Trade, and of the Cheyne Uow
Club, Piccadilly, had been sile^itly working out his own plans to
confound that muddhng old fool, Whitmarsh, and to secure the
hand of his cousin Iris. For, oddly enough, it was not so nnicli
now revenge as desire tliat goaded on Harold Knyvett's soul to a
policy of reprisals. He had suddenly awakened tha> evening at
West Kensnigton to the previously obscure fact that he was in
love with Iris — positively in love with her — and tlie knowledge
of that fact, brought home to him in a flash at the moment when
Iris had rejected his suit with scorn and contumely, had ini|)elled
him forward, ever since, in a characteristic sclieme for wimiing
back, at one stroke, both )iis cousin and the property. So long
as he believed, in his own cynical words, that " at the pnssent
day any man may have any girl he likes for the asking," it had
never occurred to him that he was in love with Iris. The fruit
was ripe to his hand when he chose to pick it. Imagining, in
his own heart, he might " marry the girl whenever he liked,"
money or no money, " by approaching her in a proper spirit from
the side of the emotions," he cared but little more for tliat par-
ticular girl than for any other of the five hundred well-favounid
young women, who, as he still firmly and fondly held, would
jump down his throat any day if he opened his mouth al
them. But as soon as he had learned, by actual experiment,
that this one particular maiden did not ardently desire the
honour of his alliance, it suddenly struck him, with a burst ol
surprise, that in his heart of hearts he wanted Iris, and no girl
but Iris could possibly satisfy him.

It was not a very noble form of love, to be sure. Harold
Knyvett's very affections were all purely selfish. What he
thought to himself every day more and more, now that Iris was
gone over sea to Algeria, was simply this — that nobody could
ever please him like Iris. With Iris, he could be hajipy, com-
fortable, contented, at his ease; a pleasant companion secured

CHS TBWTS OF SU£M.

ibu

hirp for 8T«r ; no idle gossip or silly chatter to distarb bis tran-
quil enjoyment of liis after-dinner claret ; a sensible girl, with a
head oq her shoulders, ever ready to soothe him with her finer
fancies, to touch hira with her ligliter thought. A mm of cul-
ture should have a woman of culture as a help meet for him.
Harold Knyvett recognised in his lofty soul that the Third
Classic was his pre-established harmony, the very wonjan in-
tended by Heaven to keep such a man as himself company.

And the longer he stopped away from Iris, the more profoundly
each day did he feel himself in love with her. How he could
ever have been such a fool as not to recognise the fact earlier, he
couldn't imagine; and that he, Harold Knyvett, of all men in
the world, should have been such a fool was almost ^s remt^rk-
able a phenomenon in its way as even that he should admit him-
self for once to have been so. A fine girl, if ever there was one ;
and with character, intellect, conversation, wit — everything he
prized to back up the mere external charms of a pretty face and
ii well-turned figure. Her hand was the daintiest httle hand in
London ; and the tiny feet that played under the skirts of her
evening dress — well, Harold Knyvett was fam to confess in
jrefiective moments that those tiny feet were simply ravishing.

The more he thought of them, then, the mere abundantly clear
did it become to his lot^icnl intelligence that since he loved them
he must bring their owner down on her knees in tlie dust before
him. She had sent him off. to be sure, that evniing at West
Kensington, with a most undi<;nified and unquahlied dismissal.
But what of tliat ? Girls never know their own minds for ten
niinutes together. Amantinm ir<x amoria inWgyatio est (as a man
of taste, Harold Knyvett could even make metre out of a T atin
senarim) and when she found he had come in after all to Sir
Arthur's property, she would descend gracefully, no doubt, from
her high horse, and, with some preliminary pretence at coyness,
con<;eiit to marr} the heir of Sidi Aia. What's worth winning's
worth playing for. And Harold Knyvett, being a born gambler,
was quite prepared to play a high stake for his cousin Ins.

£ir Arthur had never altered hia wiU. Harold Knyvett deter-
mined to alter it for him.

it was a big piece of work, to be sure — a risky job — and it
required caution. One must put judj^nient into this sort of thing.
of coarse. No precpitancy. Go to work slowly, judiriouslv.
carefully, warily. That old fool Wh nnarsh. ass as he was. havl
acquired an undoubted technical Knack in detectinir an'ex-^nsin;.'
•»w#U, colourable imitations of dead men's 8ii;:nai;uie:aii lor. ip

■

«Vi'^4'W "■■"'™'

iimimyf''^ {W^^^

186

THV TENTS 07 laEll.

polite society, we no>ver call them to ourselves even •• forgeries.'*
But what Harold Knyvett meant to do was to find somewhere a
will of Sir Arthur's, leaving everything to himself personally,
and duly attested by two good witnesses, both of whom must be
conveniently dead, both of whom must possess at least a fair
show of probability, and both of whose signatures must survive
the ordeal of that old fool Whitmarsh's professional scrutiny.

Now nobody has any idea how difficult a matter it is to forge
a really plausible will {erperto crede) until ho comes to try it him-
self experimentally. First of all — hut that is the smallest problem
of any — you have to imitate the testator's signature by gradual
steps till you can write it off- hand with freedom and ease like
your own name ; for the smallest appearance of stiffness or for-
mality, the faintest indication of doubt or deliberation, the
remotest hint of unfamiharity or weakness, bficomes before the
prying gaze of the expert in handwriting absolutely fatal. The
Chabots and the Pallisers will force your hand. Every letter
must be turned out boldly at a dash ; every stroke and line must
be natural, and seemingly quite unpremeditated. Men write
their signatures so often, indeed, that the finj^ers acquire an
instinctive twist ; it's far harder to copy succossfully those few
flowing curves of a native twirl tlian to imitate a page of ordinary
manuscript.

When Harold Knyvett had managpd by aspiduous practice,
however (on scraps of paper, all religiously burnt as soon as
written), to turn out an imitation of 8ir Arthur's hand that even
Netherclift himself would have heaitatod to declare an undoubted
forgery, the hardest part of his task still remained to him. He
liai letters enough of Sir Arthur's from which to work, in the
first instance, and he studied them all m ca)'f'fully and minutely
that he could at last produce an almost peri'yct facsimile of the
cramped aud crabbed twists of the old '^'iMeral'M ^'outy si<;Tiature.
But the will itself, with its mnnifold pilfaJls, was a far harder
and more ticklish matter. In tha firnt place, you liave to draw
up something, in a legal hand and with Ic.'al phraseology, which
will bear the suspicious gaze of eminent Q.C.'s, and outlive the
sniffing and flaw-hunting criticisiri of 9|icc.tac!"(l juniors. Then
there are the outsiders, tjj )se two iVjai'^onie ()iit:-?i(lers, who, as the
attestat'.on clause charoiinui y nhrasen iL. v\ ,lli more legal precision
than literary beauty, •' beiii > ,' •■ - ntal li" >.iinetirne in testator's
presence, at his request, an.i in t u' p;- ^-nrt' of each other, have
lierHto subscribed tljeir na'ii. - ^. w u^-* -s." 1' i,v nnu-h need
bM (rouble th«j (j^ave poor il .v>.J I U').\ uc*i-.; lu^y drove b'U)

rHK TSNT8 or SHXM.

187

to the verge of despair, in the vain attempt to make qnite sure
of their historical existence, their date of death, and their freedom
from the disastrous taint of an alibi.

For Sir Arthur's will, from the very nature of the case, must
necessarily have been executed either at Algiers or Aix. At no
data subsequent to the execution of the first will in Iris's favour
had Sir Arthur ever returned to England. Now, that awkward
circumstance made the witness question a peculiarly delicate one
for the amateur to handle. Harold's problem, neatly put,
amounted, in fact, to just this : how to find two likely persons at
Aix or Algiers, but now defunct, both well known of late years
to Sir Arthur, and both of whom he could be quite sure might
possibly have been at a certain place on a certain date, without
fear of any meddlesome lawyer's proving that one of them on
that day was actually elsswhere. For on ona point Harold had
made up his mind ; he would run no risk ; il> he forged a will
nobody on earth would ever be able to say it was a probable
forgery. They might think so, of course, as much as they liked ;
thought is free in a free country — so long as you don't express it
in speaking or writing. But to say so — no; Harold Knyvett
would so manage the thing that whatever suspicions old Whit-
marsh might harbour they should be suspicions only, incapable
of proof before judge and jury. As a man of culture he objected
to the crude contrasts of prison dress ; he would not waste his
valuable time in doing fourteen years of enforced seclusion
among the uninteresting scenery of Portland or of Prince's
Town.

•* Labor omnia vincit," said the Knyvett motto that surrounded
the crest of Harold's neat and dainty hand-made note-paper ;
and assiduous care did, indeed, at last conquer all difficulties in
the discovery of two defunct possible witnesses, whose presence
together in Sir Arthur's rooms at Aix, on a given day in the
"ummer before last, was, to say the least of it, not plainly dis-
provable. With infinite pains Harold hunted them up. He had
first to take into his t vrvice, indeed, in the guise of a kinsman
s^rateful for attention oestowed, that double-faced gcoundrel. Sir
.\rtimr's valet, Gilbert Montgomery, whose deep-dyed treachery
'le abhorred and despised with all the strength of his own manly
ind simple nature. He had then, by his dexterous side-hinta
111(1 careful leading questions, to find out from this dangerous
tool all a')nut Sir Arthur's habits and Sir Arthur's crouies, with-
•lit t;vo ol.A'iously exciting Mont,c:oraerT'i iuspicions. He had
.J lix avon two persons both dead, both at Aix at the eam* ILom

rua TSNTi or irsm.

and both likelj to be asked to act as witnesses. He had to hunt
up among Sir Arthur's papers (which Montporaery sold him)
letters from both these persons, to iniitatia their hand-writing,
and to make sure of a day on which both migiit reasonably have
called upon Sir Arthur wiiliout danger of anybody urging the
awkward fact that on that particular aft(Tnoon one or both were
ill in bed, or absent at r.encva, or engaged in some other incom-
patible pursuit, plnce, or ocoupatioti. In the end, however,
Flarold's ceaseless paiiis provi.led against every possible contin«

T>p^'. and triumphed ovpr every prospective assault of the leader
of tha Probate and Divoi ce Division. The will, in fact, was a
perio I gem of forgery, calculated to deceive the very elect ; so
deva a fraud had never been perpetrated sinre Tliomas Kynnei*'
sley >Vhitmarsh first ate his dinners at Lincuh)'8 inn in the
cai'lo v' days of the^ewly- fledged half-century.

,yo Harold Knyrott said to hirnself with no small sat s''action
as he surveyed the document one autumn eveiiihg in the safe
solitude of his own bed-room. No detail had been nt^-lertod that
loads on tn success. The very paper was Frcncli, from Sir
Arth ir's dosk at Aix-les- Bains ; tlie iiik was sarid-p()W(lered with
F'ren li precision ; the tape to tie it was b6uo:ht in Paris; the
watcrmuik was true to year and month ; eveHtliihg ^as en regie
with consii'.n'ndte foretlioaght. As a matter of fact, Harcld
Kynvett \i.u\ forgotten nothing. He Was determinod riot to be
caught out in a scholar's mate; and he surveyed his own work,
when comjilete, with parental pride, as a specimen of whilt a
man of intelligence can do when he seriously devotes his Uiiiid
to forgery. -

And now, but one thing was left — to discbvfer it.

Discovering a forged will is in itself an art. Foolish precipi-
tancy in this res]iect may spoil everything. You may make your
forgery yourself as safe as houses, and yet, if yoU produce it
without a history, so to speak, or let it drdp from a clear sky,
unaccounted for, you lay yourself open to the most absurd sus-
picions by not being able to show cause for its due preservation.
Harold Knyvett had thought of that difficulty too, but as yet he
hardly saw his way well oitt of it. Oil one point only he was
quite clear ; he must find the will in Sir Arthur's rooms at Aix
or at Must.iplia. How to account for his presence at either place
at this critical jilncture was the soJe remaining problem before
hiih. And to the plausible solution of that one problem Harold
now addressed himself.

H.8 aiusl get to Algeria, &s it Were, hf accidenl.

Wlfff^m^mm

• j"'>.tj" .'t^--'-"^T ;

fMH T«MTs oy fiaKU.

CHAPTER XXI3L

LX KARCHANT BUEAU8 SM.ENaS. . / .

On the very same morning when Iris and Vfrnnn Blake were
having their little love p:iss;i|;e together by the hillside at St.
Cloud, Meriera had come oul to the tent at Beni Merzoug to ask
assistance from her friend Le*iMarchant. A new-born desire had
arisen in her soul, the desire to read Englisl^handwriting.

*• I want you to show me, Kustace," she said, in her 8im})le
straightforward way, '• how they make the letters in JEngland
wbeo they write to one another."

*• You want to learn to wnte English, in fact," Eustace an-
swered, smiling.

»' Partly that," the girl replied, with half a blush. ' But
partly more, I want to learn how to read a letter."

•' In case Vernon should ever send you one, I suppose," Le
Marchant said, with a subdued sadness in his eye and hps.

"Nor'Meriem answered, very decisively. "Vernon shall
never, never write to me. Vernon shall marry my cousin Iris.
I've made up my mind firmly to that. I wanted to learn for
another reason."

She spoke decidedly, with concentrated determination, though
it was clear the words cost her much ; and Le Marchant, looking
keenly through and tiirough her, read her too far to harrow liei
just then with any further questioning. It would cost her a
wrench to give up the painter. But the wrench must come, Le
Marchant knew well. He saw tlmt l^lake was in love with Iris,
and he was sure he would never dream of marrying Meriera.

• He brought out some paper and pen and ink, and set Meriem
a copy of a, 6, c, in the usual formal writing-master style.
Meriem sat down to it, by a fiat rock, with ciiaiMcteristic deter-
mination. She had a reason for learning English manuscript-
liand now ; and, till she had learnt it, no spare mouient should
be spent or wasted on any other subject. ■

For the next few days, 8,ccordingly, Meriem toiled hard at her
new writing, but especially at deciphering the stranga characters

TTy^

lyo

THE T£NTB OF SHXll.

■

sht herself had written. What she wanted most to do, howeyer.
was to read what was written in other people's hands ; and to
this end she made Le Marchaut write down many simple words
Tor her, and then read them herself at si^ht as well as she was
ible. By the end of a week, her pro^jress was remarkable ;
previous knowledge of the cursive Arabic had stood her in good
stead ; aiul she found to her surprise she could spell cut a page
of English manuscript with decent certainty though by slow
stages. And when once she had reached that point, she spent
many h /urs shut up by herself in her own bedroom in the
Amine's cottage, poring hard over something held close to her
face, of which she told naught to any one anywhere.

*• Eustace," she said, suddenly, a morning or two later,
ippearing with a flushed face at the tent door, " you can speak
Krench. I want to know if you'll come with me some time over
to St. Cloud, and find out something from the people down there
for me."

Le Marcliant rose with a pleased face. Of late Meriem had
been very friendly with him. She wasn't the least little bit in
the world in love with him, of course ; that he knew well. He
made himself no vain illusions on that foolish score. Meriera
loved Vernon Blake, and her love for Vernon Blake was far too
profound to allow of room in her heart for any possible rival.
Still, she was friendly, uncommonly friendly. She had learned
to trust him and rely on him as a friend, with a frank trustful-
uess wliich no English girl in our conventional world could easi-
ly have imitated. For that measure of intimacy, Le Marchant
was grateiul ; he liked to see that Meriem trusted him ; he was
sorry her love was so hopeless and so desperate.

" What do you want to find out ?" he asked, coming out to
the door, and taking her hand in his, with friendly sincerity.

•• Can I trust you ? " Meriem asked, lookmg him hard m the
face.

'* You can trust me, Meriem ; implicitly ; for anytliing." ■ -

♦' So I think," she answered, with her keen glance fixed upon ,
his truthful eyes. " You are always kind to me. 1 believe you.
I'll trust you. Well then, I want to know .... whether
they have any register books kept at St. Cloud of people's marri-
ages earlier than the Christian year 1870."

Le Marchant started. " Why so ? " he asked, in no little
surprise.

•♦ Eustace," the girl said, very seriously, laying her hand upon
hii arm, with a sudden pressure, •' if I tell you this, you promise
->T» vour honour never to breathe a word of it to anybodv. '

.-^

*'^*«

iirrrr-Tftiiii«wr«

THS TENTS OK IIHBU.

** I will never breathe a word of it to anybody, Meriem, if you

ask me not."

"Then this is why. I know you won't betray me. I think the
books must all have been destroyed in the great insurrection of
1251 — what the Christians call 1870. I hope they were. I'm
sure they must have been. For the KabyUes attacked and
burned down the Fort, and killed almost every livin;,' soul in the
place, and even Madame I'Administratice herself only escaped by
walking across the snow in her Vv^ht dressing-gown."

" And why do you wish the books to have been burnt ? " Le
Marcliant asked once more» with some dim anticipation of
Meriem 's probable meaning.

*• Because," Meriem answered, clutching his arm hard, " my
father and mother were married at St. Cloud, — secretly married
in the Christian way, before a priest, and also at the ^Mairie —
early in the beginning of 1870."

•• How do you know that ? " Le Marchant asked, astonished.

Meriem shook her head with a decisive negation. " Don't
ask me how I know it," she cried, her tuigers playing nervously
meanwhile with her amulet. ♦♦ I'm not going to tell you. No-
body shall know. But, if the books at .St. Cloud are really de-
stroyed, nobody on earth will ever be ablo to prove it."

•' And you don't want it proved ? ' Le Marchant exclaimed,
with rising admiration.

" 1 don't want it proved," the girl answered, eagerly. •* Why
should I, indeed? It could onlv distress me. 1 don't want to
take all this money from Iris. Iris shall keep it, for Vernon
loves her. She shall marry Vernon, and break my heart. But
Vernon will have it, for lie loves h\.s."

•* And you ? " Ea.stixtc asked, lojiuiig back at her with pity.

*• And me? " 1 11 stop and marry liussuiu or Ahmed, or any
other man my uncle mi;, sell me to."

Le Marchant lookeii once more at her with infinite tenderness.
But he said notliing. it must not be — it could not be; some-
thing must be done somehow to prevent it. But the time to
speak out was not come. 'They started in silence, with huavy
hearts, to walk over to St. Cloud, alone — toguthiir.

On the way they spoke to each other but little. Fach was
fuD of hie own though i,s. It was only after they lii^,;! reached
St. Cloud, and Eustace had satisfied himself, hy I'u.l inquiries,
that the r^»giSter of the Etat Civil, previous to 1H70, had indeed
been destroyed in the great, rebellion, that they began to talk al
all freely. Meriem's mind was reheved by the discovery.

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

:/.

1.0

I.I

1.25

— 6"

M
1.8

1.4 ill 1.6

'c^l

/},

°7!i

■%'

'nf

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WfiST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, NY 14580

(716) 872-4503

^<b

'<->

K <''."•

'^^

/.,

iifU.f

.-.•f^'\ i Jii,-/ Ai^ .

r.+i^-.-Sa

^^'^''

192

THB TSMTf or fifiXM.

«• Tbat'i well/* ih* fftid, with a sigh ; " that's well, Eaitao*.
Now Iris and Vernon can keep their money."

Eustace made sure in his own mind, she had learnt the real
or supposed fact from some Eabyle woman in the village — some
confidante, perhaps, of her dead mother ; and he agreed with
her that even if true it would now be impossible to prove it.
Sq he turned back once more, half-relieved like herself, nince she
would have it so, to find that her vague claim to the Knyvett
estates grew even mora shadowy. If Meriem was satisfied, what
right on earth had he to wish it otherwise ?

Half way home, they sat down on a projecting ledge of rock
that overhung the valley ; a ledge under the shade of a gnarled old
olive tree ; and while they rested, Eustace murmured to himself,
as if by accident almost, Meriera's own words, •• I will stop and
marry Hussein or Ahmed, or any other man my uncle may sel.
me to!"

Meriem gazed up in bis face with a half defiant air. Those
fearless nostrils of hers quivered as she spoke ; but slie said with
no faltering note in her voice, '• Yea, I mea,n it, Eustace ; let Iris
take Vernon, and I'll marry Hussein."

Le Marchant's face was very earnest. He took the girl's white
hand in his own unresisted. Meriem liked him, and let him take
it. •' Meriem," he said, with his eyes fixed full on hers, " listen
to me a moment. I want to speak to you seriously. You must
never, never marry a Kabyle." •

'• I mu.«t," Meriem answered, " if my uncle sells me to him."

Le Marchant knew his hope was infinitesimal ; but for Meriem 's
sake he ventured to speak out. '• Meriem," he went on again,
with a lingering cadence on each syllable of her name, "the tane
is short, and I want to save you. I know your uncle means to
marry you off shortly. I know you love Vernon and not me. I
know Vernon will never marry you. But I can't endure to think
you should pass your life — you, whom I've learnt to know and
love and admire — a slave to one of your countrymen in tiie
villagehere. To me, this summer has been a very happy one. I've
watched you and talked with you till I know you and feel to-
wards you as towards an English lady. I know how deep aiid
profound is your nature. Menem, you must never marry Hussein
or Ahmed. I don't ask you to love me, I don't expeci you at
first to love me ; but for your own salce I ask you at least to wait
and marry me — to save you from Ahmed or Husseia, or tbeiir
liki ; do, Meriem, marry me."

\^^^

Ttti TENtS Of ittXit.

i8d

Meriem gazed back at him with her friiiik, (biltl^^s ^Azi. ** I
3an never marry any man but Vernoh," ih6 ani^iiriBr^d quietly.

" But you're going to marry Ahmed or HuBdeih 1 " Le Mer-
chant cried in a pleading voice. ♦' Why iibt me His wfeU as eithisr
of them ? Surely, Meriem, you like me more than you like
Hussein I"

«* But that's quite different," Meriem answered, slowly, eii-
deavouring to disentangle her own mind to herself to her o^
Ratisfaction. " I could marry a Kabyle, because thilt's not
carrying at all, you know, in the way people thfiiri7 in the Eng-
lish books — in the way I might marry you or Verhori. That*i
merely being Hussein or Ahmed's slave ; pickihg tip sticks aiid
making cous-cous for them. I've expected that all my life long.
It's nothing new to me. I ought to be prepared for it. ....
But to marry you, Eustace, woliild be quite different. I coiild
never marry any Englishman at all, except Vernon."

•' Meriem," Le Marohant urged once more, holding: her hand
tight in his eager grip, ti,nd pleading earnisstly. " 1 don't ask
you to miirry me for my own sake in the least, tliough I l6ve you
dearly, and have always loved you. I ask you to rtiarry me to
get you away from this place altogether : I want you tb put your-
self into freer and more natural and congenial surrbundiiigs; to
save your own life from Hussein or Ahmed. Oh, Meriein, don't
throw your life away I For your own sake, pause a moment and
think. I want to take you, and save you from dirudgisry. Marry
me first ; you may learn to love me by degrees afterward."

Meriem stroked the fingers that held h6r own with hfer left
hand, tenderly. •• Eustace," she said, in a veiry soft voice, hbt
untinged with a certain profound regret, " I like yoii dearly. I
know you and trust you. I'm very fond of you. Except Vernoh,
there's nobody else I like as I like you. In a way, I love you.
I love you almost as I loved Yusuf. You've always been kind to
nie. You've been more than thoughtful, t'rom the very first
(lay when you came to the Beni-M6rzoug, I've always seen and
noticed how kind you were. Kinder than Vernon. I've seefa
that, too, all along, of course. You thought of m#, while he
thought of himself and his own pleasure. You never spoke one
word of love ; you loved me silently, and tried to help me. I
know all that ; I recognise all that ; dont think me ungrateful ;
I like you dearly ; I love you as a sister might love a brother.
But see how strangely our hearts are built 1 I know all that ;
vet 1 love Vernon, and I could marry Vernon. I could never

,ii} you ; and partly just because I like you so dearly. I

i^'"

194

THE TENTS OF SHEM.

could marry Vernon because I love him ; 1 could marry Huss« In
because I hate him ; but you, never ! because I like you, and iovt
you as a brother I " And with a simple, graceful, womanly im
pulse she raised his trembling hand to her lips, and kissed ii
affectionately. " Dear Eustace," she said, looking up at him
still with brimming eyes, " 1 wish I could say yrs, if it won'
give you pleasure. But I mmt say no. I'm very, very, mm
sorry."

Eustace clasped her hand yet harder in liis own.

" Meriem," he cried, with the calm but deep emotion of midd
life, " if you won't marry me, you shan't get rid of me. I'll sto
here still to watch over you and protect you. I know what soc:
of life you'll have to lead. But they shall never harm you. Tr
at least to remain single for me. It's intolerable to think suci
a woman as you should be Hussein's slave. A woman like you
so grand and sweet I And, perhaps, in time you may forge:
Vernon and learn to love me."

•' I've learnt to love you long ago, Eustace," Meriem answere(
with a smile through her tearful eyes ; " but I shall never, nevt-
forget Vernon. Iris may take him : I want her to take him ; '
love Iris and I love Vernon, and I want them both to be happ
together ; but as long as I live I shall never forget him. I sli:'
never forget your goodness, either ; but my heart — my heart
my heart is Vernon's."

And she held it tight to keep it from bursting.

Le Marchant rose and kissed her forehead chivalrously.

•• My child," he said, leaning over her with infinite regretfi:
tenderness, '* I'm no boy who mistakes his first calf-love for <
grand passion. I've seen many women ; I've loved some; but 1
never loved any woman before as I love you, Meriem. I loveii
you from the first; what you've said to-day has made me lovs
you better than ever. I admire you becnuse you have a strong
nature. I know I have a strong nature, too. Strong natures g(
forth naturally to one another. Some day, Meriem, I believ(
)'0U will love me. But, love me or not, I will never forsake you
For your own sake, I'll stand by you, and protect you, and watcl
over you. You are to me a new interest in life. I can never li
you fall into Hussein's clutches. Come on, my child; it'sgro\
ing late now, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for u
you have uuid to-day in uiy favour."

E-.i?'

-tTTTTTSTTsgj'r

'r^

WMM TUIXI M tHUb

OHAPTER XXX.

■TMPT0M8.

I» was a ^Jstinot surprise to Harold Knyrett to Moeire, a fevf
days later, % note from hia Aani Amelia, couched in corapara*
Cively affectionate terms, and dated from ** The Fort, St. Cloud,
Algeria."

Communications with the rival branch of the Knyvett family
had of course been interrupted for Harold of lata ; he had heard
nothing from that high-stepping girl, Iris, herself, since the
memorable evening when he had proposed, to his shame, and
been promptly rejected. But he was glad to find Aunt Amelia,
at least — good, easy soul — didn't share her daughter's alienated
feelings. It was something to have the maternal authority more
or less on his side ; and, thinking thus, II iruld accepted the note
as a rapproachwffnt, an indirect reopening of relations between
the two high contracting parties. If Aunt Amelia held out the
right hand of friendship to-day, it might fairly be expected that
that recalcitrant daughter of hers, for all her fads and fancies,
would follow suit moas amicably to-morrow.

" My Dear HxROLDr" Mrs. Knyvett WTote, without the faintest
show of resentment, or even, for that matter, of Christian for-
giveness either, " please excuse pencil. Here we are, up in a
heathenish place, among the snowy mountams which they call
Grande Kabylie, stopping at a fort, where an outbreak of the na-
tives it seems, may beat any moment expected, and indebted foroui
daily (sour) bread to the hospitality of a frivolous and ill-regulated
young Frenchwoman, whose uiannera, I fear, are hardly a good
example for such a highspirityd girl aa our dear Ins. We left
Algiers for this dreadful place almust immediately after out
arrival m the country ; and hera Ins has kept as ever sm^se,
much against my will, away from her comfortable horaa at Suii
A.ia (which is really a didioious house), huntmg up so.na mvthical
olaim to her estate, set forward on behalf of a poor barefooted pa

twit 79»?l t? IIIV3>*

gan girl of the namo oi M eriem, or something of tliat lort. I
won't write to you about this, however, at any length, as I under-
stand dear Tom doesn't want the matter discussed in London. My
real object in troubhngyou to-day, is merely to ask you if you will
be kind enough to do me a little favour. To add to my mis-
fortune, as ill-luck will have it, I've managed in the last fpw days
to get a bad attack of my old enemy, bronchitis, which has come
on severely since the snpw began to fall thick on the upper
mountains. I haven't had such » bad turn of it for years and
yoars, and I'm writing this lyith a very blunt pencil (as you see)
in bed, for the houses here are most ill -constructed, and it's quite
iiapoQsillls, with all one'^ pains, to keep the draught out through
iheie bomble windows. What I want tp know, therefore, is,
whetheK ypu'H be so gqp^i like a 4ear boy, an to call at ear
house and ask Martha for my bronchitis kettle, and the inhaler,
»Rd ipray^mftphine, and all the prescriptions and medical things
In the lower right-hand drawer of the spare bedroom dressing
t9<ble. Please put them up in a neat parcel, and take them all
(addreised to me) to Dr. Yate-Westbury's (l forget where he
lives in 6t« Johp's Wood, but you can look nis place up in the
• Post Office Direptory'). He's coming over to Algiers for the
seasqn nett we^k. as Iris learns from the Sidi Aia people ; and if
you «.8k him, I've no doubt in the world he'll be glad to bring
the things pv^r for m$, as he own^ the next house to onrs on the
bill tt Mustaphfl" Thanking you, by anticipation, for your kind-
nwM in this matter, and with best love, in which Iris (who's out
»t present) would no doubt join, beheve me, my dear Harold.

•* Evey your affectionate Aunt,

" Amklt4 Mary Knyvett."

The perusal of this fpnd and foolish letter, as he loitered over
the anchovy toast at breakfast, afforded Harold Enyvett in his
own soul th« keenest enjoyment. *' The Whitmarshes are all
donkeys," hi thought internally, with the self-congratulatory
smile of the very superior person, ** but Aunt Amelia's really the
biggest donkey of the whole lot of them. The idea, now, of her
blurting out like that the secret of what it is that's taken them all _:,
oyer to AlgeHa I And to me, too, of all people in the wor)d t
How mad that old ass her brother'd be if only he knew whai ^
precious mess his affectionate sister's gone and made of it^
'Doesn't want the matter discussed in London,' indeed ! Thai
transparent idiot 1 I suspected as much when I heard he'd gone
MVOM viib Iiif W %wij tht war into Afrio*. 80 they've fomi

aaHHMi

•I Jf".W

/ •" "I?!

ffMl tBMtt •# IhKII.

1ft

•at iomt yotng woman wbo claims to \>% Olareno* Sji7T«tt*i heir
and rspresentative t Well, well, we may try thai tack in theen^,
if all other plans fail, and my own little will miscarries anyhow.
But it won't miscarry ; it's as safe as houses — and a great deal
safer, too, in these earthquaky ages. For houses nowaday «re
no better than Three per Cents. I'd no idea my dear relations
were away Irom Algiers t What a stroke of luck 1 The house
vacant I LoriL' may the draughts blow up Aunt Amelia's
chronic bronoliitis I It's a splenid chance for me to get io
/aidi Aia while they're all away from it, and discover my will
iHtowed neaily away in the back drawer of that convenient
liavenport I "

For lliirold Knyvett, who left nothing to chance, had arranged
beforehand tlie matter of the davenport.

He finished his coifeo and lighted a cigarette; then he poised
the letter contumplatively in one hand before him. t)t. Yate-
Westbury I Ha i ha I An idea I In luck again I Aunt
Amelia had unconsciously suggested, by a single phrase, the
misuing link in Im grand scheme. One point alone was doubtful,
i«(tid Aunt Amulia had cleared it up. He would brmg that proud
Iris to her knees at last 1 He would make her marry him or
give up her property.

He stroked his chin, and smiled to himself. Dr. Yate- West-
bury I The great authority upon nervous disease I He saw his
way clear now to a voyage to Algiers. The man was an enthusiast
for the Algerian climate. It was notorious that, having land to
sell there, he regarded the place as an absolute panacea for all
the ills that llutih was heir to, and especially for all forms of
nervous disorder. A nervous disorder, then, was the one thing
aeedful to secure a good plea for visiting Sidi Aia.

Hjiiold Knyvett, to he sure, was in boisterous health. He had
^tarto(] in llfu with those two famous allies in the struggle for
^xisteuco, «' a l)fi(l heart and a good digestion," and he had never
done anything,' to impair either of them. Leave from the Board
of Trade, thtrDfore, would be difficult to get on any other pre-
text ; but a tutrvons disorder 1 there, the strongest- built and
neeraingly hoalthioHt man may succumb any day to on unex-
pected malady, i'^irod with the idea, he rang the bell and ordered
a hansom at once. " To the London Library," he cried aloud to
\he cabby " 12, St. James's Square; and look sharp, for I'm in
t\ preciuus hurry."

There wan time before office-hours to lookup the question. He
reached the library, rushed upstairs, and took down from ike

TBS TKNTI Of 8BSM.

dielf '* Tate-Westbnry on Diseases of the N^rroas Sjitem." H«
woald hoous the doctor out of his own treatiseg.

In ten minutes, be had choson, digested, and assimilated hii
disease ; he knew the symptoms of his peculiar malady as pat as
Yate-Westbury himself could have told him them. A twitching
of the fingers — yes, yes, just so ; a nervous trembling about th«
eomers of the mouth ; loss of memory, decrease of appetite, fre-
quent sleeplessness, accompanied by a growing tendency to dwell
minutely upon long-past events in the night watches ; inca-
pacity to write down the exact word or phrase he wanted;
forgetfulness of names even with the nearest and dearest friends
or acquaintances. He had swallowed the whole diagnosis entire
before he rushed off in hot haste to the office ; he waa the victim
of a slow and insidious decay ; he needed rest, change of air, .
relaxation, variety.

At the door of his room at the Board of Trade, he met his chief,
with a vacuous smile on his carefuUy composed countenance.

" Good morning, Mr. er — ," he said, and paused irresolute.

Then, with a sudden air of frankness he drew his hand across
his forehead, and added qaickly, •' My dear sir, you'll hardly
credit it, but I've actually managed to forget your name. I can't
think what's coming over ray poor head lately."

"I've noticed that before," his chief answered, with a good-
natured laugh. " For a long time past, in fact, I've observed,
Knjrvett, that your memory hasn't been by any means so brisk
and keen as it used to be. You've seemed preoccupied and
absorbed and mooney, and distracted. If I were you, do you
know, my dear fellow, I'd not lose a day ; I'd consult Yate-
Westbury."

Harold had hard work to repress a smile. Could anything on
earth have happened more opportunely ? It came in the very
nick of time, as if he himself had carefully angled for it. No
doubt, indeed, he had been preoccupied of late. When a man's
er gaged m all his leisure moments with — ahem — drawing up
a will for a deceased person, he may well have but little
attention left to spare for the dull and dry details of exports and
imports !

" You think so ? *' he murmured, with well assumed alarm.
*' I'm sorry for that. But I've felt it coming on, myself, for the
last two months or so. My mind seems to have lost its freshness
and elasticity. It doesn't hook on to things as it used to do.
I'll take your advice. I'll consult Yate-Westbury this very
tvening.*'

-wr

XUM T£NT8 OM BHXM,

lUU

*' Do," th« chief went on, with kindly cousiderateness. ** The

1 vice '11 gain by it, in tlie end, no doubt. A fortnight'! holi-

ly '11 be sure to set you right again. But I've noticed all along

; ou were getting awfully tagged. Since the middle of the sum-

uier, indeed, to tell you the truth, you've never been half the sort

of man you used to be."

Harold bowed his head in affected regret.

'• It's extremely kind of you to suggest it," he said, with
^aateful warmth. •♦ I do want a change. I won't deny it.
['hose differential duties have run me too hard. But IT. see
Vate-Westbury at once, Mr. — er — quite so — ah, Hamilton,
hank you ; and if he gives me a certificate to that effect,
['11 run down South for a week or two's rest and change
mmediately."

" Sensible fellow, Knyvett," the chief reflected as he turned to
lis desk, " Some fellows are too deuced proud to take your
idvice, and resist the sUghtest attempt to give them a hint for
he good of their health. But Knyvett's always so sound and
easonable. I'm glad I persuaded him to go to Yate-West-
•ury."

As soon as the day's work was fairly over, therefore, Harold,
hus fortified by extraneous advice, went round without delay to
;he famous specialist's, lie introchioed himself as iiis uncle's
lephew, and detailed his symptoms (straight out of the book)
^vith the greatest minuteness. The famous specialist listened
>vith deep attention, not unmixed with paternal pride and
pleasure. A plainer case he had never come across. Typical,
typical ! And well might it be so, for Harold's symptoms were
.he picked result of years of experience and generalisation, fired
)ff point-blank in one long list at the innocent head of their
jbserver uv inventor.

'•And so you don't sleep at nights, eh ?" Dr. Yate-Westbury

-;aid, gazing through and through him, with an inquiring air.

'Well, well, that's bad. But usual, very. And, tell me now,

»vhat do you mostly think about when you're lying awake in

these fits of sleeplessness ? "

" Why," Harold answered, playing nervously and ostenta-
tiously with his fingers on a button of his coat while he endea-
voured at the same time to make the corners of his mouth twitch
and jerk as conspicuously as possible, '• nothing much, thank
heaven. I'm not troubled that way. I don't think of anything
of the slightest importance. Merely minute old childish remin-
iscksncei, ajid all that sort of thing." ,

■ i.

too

tH» tiMTi ny

I ^''

The specialist smiled a grim smile of recofnition — ai, to be
sure, he mighi, for the symptom confirmed bis own diagnosis.

'♦ And wby do you pull about your button like that ? " he asked,
darting down upon him with sudden emphasis.

Harold glanced down, and prctjndcd for the first moment to
notice the niovemunt.

"I — I don't know, why," he answered, meekly. " I wasn't
aware I was pulling it about till you called my attention to it.

Indeed, Dr. — er — er ," and he forgot the name with the

most skilful innocence, " I don't think I pull things about so
usually. "

" Do you haggle over names much ? " the specialist asked,
with a knowing look. *-* I notice you forgot what mine was this
moment."

Harold hugged himself imwardly on the perfect way in which
he was diddling his man with such a transparent fiction.

'* A good deal of late," he answered, his fingers rising up onoe
more to the button, as if unconsciously. " But it'll soon pass
oyer," he added with pretended nervousness. •* It won't go on
long. A mere passing ailment. I'll be all right again in a week
or two, I fancy;"

" Look here, Mr. Knyvett," the doctor said seriously, •• I
won't conceal from you the painful fact that your case is a dan-
gerous one — a distinctly dangerous one. We must be very
careful. We must face these facts. You know what this sort of
thing generally leads to ? " He lowered his voice and almost
whispered in his ear, •• Insanity, my dear sir — simple insanity."

Harold assumed a profoundly horrified air. He was a good
actor, and had the muscles of his face well under control.

♦•You don't mean to say so ! " he cried, in apparent alarm.
" Oh, don't say that. Dr. — er — er — Yate-Westbury."

Dr. Yate-Westbury closed his lips tiglitly.

*' There's only one thing for you to do," he said, with em-
phatic severity. " You must take a holiday — a complete holiday.
No half measures — a thorough change. I see by your eyes
you've been over exciting yourself too much about some business
or other lately. You have the air of a man who has been pro-
foundly absorbed by private affairs. A batchelor, you say ; self-
centred I self-centred 1 The root of all evil, if people would but
see it. You need change of air, distraction, diversion, amuse-
ment. You should go abroad ; Nice shall we say ? or Mentone?
or Monte Carlo ? " He paused for a second, and stroked his chin.
** Or, say," he went on, as if struck by an inspiration, " why not

THE TKNT8 OP HUEll.

201

vlgiers ? It's the very place for people who suffer from your spec-
lal 8}inptuius. Air'u .sedative, soothing, and extremely bland. As
it happens, in fact, I'm going there myself for the winter on
Monday. You'd better come with me. In your present state of
health, you need constant medical advice and attention. I've a
villa on Mustapha, just next uoor to your uncle. Sir Arthur's.
Miss Knyvett's there now already, I believe, so you'll find your-
self at once in the bosom of your family. A charming young
lady ; I met her out last season. We needn't say anything to
her or others about our fears or suspicions for the future, of
course — " here Dr. Yate-Westbury nodded and smiled with an
air of profound professional mystery. •' Mum's the word there.
I'll give you a certificate of some non-committing sort for the
Board of Trade people ; you know the line of country— over-
work ; nervous exhaustion ; need of rest and change of scene ;
and you'll be ready to start with me from Charing Cross on
Monday."

Harold thanked his disinterested adviser with gloomy grati-
tude, and completed his arrangements with an internal chuckle.
As he left the room, he didn't himself observe that his fingers
were toying once more in a nervous way with that unfortunate
button. If he had, indeed, he would only have reflected with a
mental smile that he was simulating the s^inptoms even better
than he intended. But Dr. Yate-Westbury noticed it with his
keen glance, and remarked to his assistant, as Harold disap-
peared towards the front door, " Remarkable case, Prendergast.
sVe must keep our eye upon him. Premonitory signs of acute
iementia ; and what's more odd, the worst among them are not
ti all the ones he himself seems to think the most important I "

^i-4

iiUk tkiAii uir •Aiikji.

CHAPTER XXXI.

BTRIOTLT PROFESSIONAL.

To Harold Knyvett the voyage to Algiers came as a welcome
amusement. He really wanted rest ; he was glad to escape from
London fog and London mud, after the intense strain of the last
few inonths, to the olives, and mulberry trees, and evergreens of
the South. As the tmin ili' luxe from Paris rolled along in the
early morning li^'ht down the wide Rhone Valley, past gardens
still gay with roses and anemones, pass cypress walla that
guanU'.ti the tender vineyards from the cold blast of the icy
mistral, past distant v stis of the snow-clad Alps, past fields
where bronzed Provencal peasants toiled in the broad sunshine
anio.ig luscious flowers, he was gratified at the success of his
»-use, and delighted at the fx'eshness and perennial beauty of the
"ver-glorious i\le(literranean bcn'der-land. A certain indefinite
Mxaltation of success lilled all bis heart. Things were going well
with liim. Fortune favoured. For be whs on his way to Mus-
tapha, to the very next bouse to Sir Arthur's villa, with the
ibi'ged will buttoned safely up in his mner breast-pocket, and all
in the most natural possible fashion, l^ven the suggestion to
" Try Algiers " had not come from witlun. His chief had recom-
mended him to consult Vate- u estlmry ; and Yate- Westbury
would be able to relate hereafter to bis acquaintances the curious
coincidence how this lucky young man in t' Board of Trade
had come to him for advice, quite by accident. Hbout a nervous
roinplaint — ovei'work and loss of memory ; bow he had urged
/iim to visit tiie soothing climate of North Aljica; and how the
U|>>b()t of It all was the incitleiital discovery of the long-lost will,
inearthed m some remote corner of Sir Arthur's villa — that will
which restored the property to the right/uJ heir, and brought
about at last the happy re-union of the Knyvett family.

For he meant to marry Iris in the long run. The estate itself
waa uuw to some extent a minor matter. He regarded it merely

^f5'"'

.11' I II n 'tmrn^mm^^f^m

TUS TKNTS OF 8HUM.

liO.i

\n h mnani to an end. And the end was to brin'^ that proud
^\t\ lu hcsr knuoa ; to compel her to marry him, willy-nilly.

Ilu loveil Iris. He wnidd have Iria. No power in the world
nluMild keep him from Iris. The only girl on earth he had ever
nimd twopence about. The only girl on earth who was really
VMitliy of hitn.

Su he rolled along in liigh good humour down to Marseilles,
•..liiig success now well in view, and went with joy on board the
yUU lie XdfdeSf which was to carry Harold Knyvett and all hia
fortunes — forged will included — to the golden shores of sunny
Africa.

The sole drawback to hia pleasure, indeed, was that intolerable
ijld bore of a nervous specialist, who insisted upon treating him
iifl a critical patient — half cracked, in short — and reading him
rtermons on the absolute need for distracting hia mind from his
Dwn absorbing personality. Harold Knyvett dl<"!ii't want his
irund distracted just then. He was more than disti ted enon,.;h
•ilready. It was a nuisance, when you preferred to admire the
l)hu) l)ay and the white Provencal hills recedi? < in tlo dist-i.ce,
U) be (compelled to listen to that frantic old lUiot's iJioftssional
ilrivel, and wv .jar in raind spasmodically from time tn time the
ueceP"^'ty for keeping up somehow the mostpromiueni symptoms.
Not that the twitching of the fingers gave him much trouble by
bhis time. Practice makes perfect. He was able to manage that
part of the farce, thank goodness, without the slightest apparent
jffort. The state of nervous tension into whioh he had been
Bhrown by the consciousness of holding the forged will concealed
ibout his person, and by the momentous issues depending upon
die Buccess of his well-laid scheme, made a certain amount of
aneasy fingering, indeed, perfectly natural to him. Yon can
•jimuiate nervousness readily enough — when you really feel it ;
the difficulty would have been, in Harold's condition, to simulate
the calm of uneventful existence.

•• What you have most to guard against, ' Dr. Yate- Westbury
remarked once in a confidential undertone, as they paced the
'lock together, cigar in mouth •* is too exclusive a concentration
af mind and thought upon your own personality and your own
interests. You live too much in yourself, my dear sir : that's
what's the matter with you. Your brain's wrapped up in private
ichomes and designs and ideas ; I can see them whirling and
('ir<;lifig in your head. You ought to be married, and enlarge
your si)here ; a wife and children would drive ail that sort of
lliiug promptly out of you."

^^^m^WW':'

^ym

^a'f^^mm^i

itilfi TttM'S Olf uasM*

Harold laughed in 'lig sleeve to think how curiously the mad*
doctor had put his huger by accident upon the very point. Hern
acu tetiyiu His mind was indeed wrapped up in private schemes
and designs and ideac. He stroked his breast pocket stealthily
with his hand outside. It was .saf(\ quite safe, that precious
document I He could feel it rustle under the coat as he pressed,
His private schemes and designs and ideas, indeed I Ah, yes,
but they all led on by a direct route to that very marriage which
the doctor counselled. A wife and children! Ho, ho; the
humour of it I Well — a wife, if you like ; a wife's all righi;
enough; bub as for the children, why Harold was strongly inclined
to say about them, ♦' Le Roy's avisera." He didn't want a par-
cel of noisy brats runnin,^^ about the place — the mansion of his
fancy. All he wanted was a peaceful intorclian;j[e of ideas in
spacious grounds witli such a girl as Iris — a phuiaant companion
la. I on, as it were, like the gas, and the wator, and the electric
bells, and ready at any moment to amuse and divert him with
her chatty conversation, i.. .1 her tender playfulness.

•' The great error of the nervous constitution." the specialist
went on, puffing away retlectively at one of Harold's very best
Fortuna di Cubas, " is, not to put too fine a point upon it^
selfishness. My system of cure consists entirely in such a course
of rational treatment as will succeed in taking tlie patient fairly
out of himself. The narrow circle of one's own interests leada
at last to nervous disintegration. People should avoid being too
self-centred. That way, as Shakespeare says, madness hes.
One's got strenuously to fight against it, or else to succumb to it.
Have you read my book on Mental Disease ? You know the
theory I there lay down on the origin of insanity ? "

The subject was intensely distasteful just then tc Harold,
" No, I haven't," he answered, with some asperity. *' I avoid all
books on the brain on principle."

♦* Well, my theory is," Yate-Westbury went on with profes-
sional zeal, disregarding his tone, ** that insanity's not a malady
of the intellect at all, as most people imagine ; it's a malady of
the social and moral nature. A man who lives a healthly, varied,
natural life — who mixes freely with his fellow men — who troubles
himself much about their welfare and their happiness — who
reads and thinks and works and plays — who vividly represents
to himself the feelings and wishes and ideas of others — such a
man as that, now, never goes mad. He haa no temptation.
His surroundings are too sane and his interests too numerous.
h. family, friends, public duties, society — all those are safetfuardfi

iWP

mmm

THS fSMT8 OW SiLKM.

206

igftiBfl the iniane tendency. Literature, science, art. poliiios —
the wider your world, the less your chance of nervous derange
ment. But the fellow who lives a purely selfish, concentrated
life— the bachelor who takes his ease all day long at his club—
the man of means who finds society and family ties a bore-,
whose social instincts are inefficiently awakened, whose public-
spirit is dormant or non-existent — those are the people, if you
look around, who go mad easily. They take to hobbies, or else
to monomanias, borne pc.'t desipfn or some favourite scheme,
most often purely personal, absorbs their energies. If it suc-
i-eeds, they go mod with delight ; if it fails, they go mad, per
lontra, with disapi)ointnient.

Harold's fingers toyed unconsciously with the top button ol
his tweed tourist suit. The precious paper rustled melodiously
mderueath. The sound was like muffled music in his ears.

•* You think so ? " he said, half-stiiiing a yawn. " You think
fiisanity depends upon seli-concentration ?"

"Think so ! " Yate-Westbury echoed, with a touch of con
lempt in the hitonation of his voice. " Think so I My deai
\(ir, 1 don't think so; I know it. I've studied the question. Tht
j^roof s just this. You must have met madmen over and ovei

agam in asylums "

•• I don't visit asyhnns." Harold interposed, dryly.
" Still you must have met madnjen, aiiyhow," the doctoi
vvent on, warming up to his subject, " who thought t.iiey wer.
rich, who thought they were poor, who thought they v»ere Napo
loon, who thought they were the rightful heir to tlie Crown, whe
thought they were the authors of ' Paradise Lost,' who thought
they were persecuted by wicked rela-.ions, who thought they were
the Czar or the Prophet Mahomet. But you never met a mad-
man anywhere who thought naniehody else had come into a for-
lune, houicImvIi/ ehe was the Khan of Taitary, sanifhudy else was
followed and annoyed, .sumJiodi/ c/.sr was the ill-used iidieritor oi
llie Throne of England. Sulf, self, self, self. All insare people
have but one cry : / am this, / am that, / am the other. Its /,
/, y, whatever they say. They forget their children, their wives,
their friends, their enemies ; but they never for a single nu'
meni forget their own delusion or their own pet grievance."

Harold moved away restlessly, with a moody air, towards ilic
side of the ship. This talk annoyed him. lie didn't want to
lie bored by abstract discussions about the habits and manners
I'.'id natural history of the in.sane, when he v.as going to Algiers
to pruvti his title to a splendid estate, and to compel his cousin

206

THX TENTS OF ■HXll.

Iris to marry him I He was fall of himself, and resented bore
dom. A man can't be worriccl with rubbish like that while his
soul brims over, seetliing with one great design, on whose success
or failure he has staked his whole futvire fate and happiness.
One picture alone now usurped his brain and monopolised con-
sciousness ; the picture of iiimself, rummaging drawers at the
villa at Sidi Aia, and engai^ed in discovering Sir Arthur's will —
the forged one, of course ; but that was a detail — in some hidden
corner of his uncle's escritoire.

And then to bb obliged to listen respectfully to that old image
droning, droninjjf, droning on — •• the great thing to avoid is
intense preoccupation with one's own affairs ; too profound an
entanglement in any private or personal piece of business. To
people of the selfish or self-centred type, such preoccupation is
frequently next door to fatal. It drives them at last by slow
degrees into acute dementia."

Good heavens ! Would the man never cease his chatter ?
Gabble, gabble, gabble the whole day long 1 And Sir Arthur's
will nestling all the time in his safe breast-pocket ! Preoccupa-
tion, indeed 1 Who could help being preoccupied ? Sir Arthur'n
fortune, and Iris Knjvett I

■jr-

TSNTB OV BBXIC

107

OHAPTEB XXXn.

•* AUX ABMBS, OITOYKNS I *• \ '.; /

Up in the mountains, meanwhile, strange things were taking
place among those idyllic Kabyles. But neither Le Marchant
nor Blake nor Meriem knew as yet anything about them.

It was a chilly evening of the Algerian winter.

The naturalist was sitting at home, somewhat shivering in the
tent, trying on a complete new suit of woollen Kabyle costume
which he had bought as a curiosity at a neighbouring market to
take home to England. Vernon Blake was dining out by special
invitation at the Fort at St. Cloud, where Iris and he were con-
versing unreproved with much animation under Uncle Tom's very
nose — so unsuspicious is age when once its views are firmly
hardened. And Meriem was seated on the hard mud floor in
her own room at the Amine's cottage, thinking in her poor
lonely soul how much better it would have been for her if those
two flaring meteors of Englishmen had never darted with their
disturbing influence across her peaceful, old-fashioned Kabyle
horizon.

But on the hillside without a very dijfferent scene might have
presented itself to her eyes, had she happened to look forth
towards the village platform from her narrow mud window.
For there, under the open sky, and in the broad moonlight,
the men of the Beni-Merzoug were assembled together in
the ancient fashion under all arms, and in their midst the eldest
of the marabouts stood erect, with flashing eyes, and stretched
his bare arms heavenwards in awful prayer before the eager eyes
of the whole assembly.

'♦ Hush I " the Amine cried, with a commanding voice, as the
marabout beckoned with one hand for silence. *' The servant of
Allah wiU speak over the chosen youths — the youths who go
forth, like tlioir father's of old, for the defence of their fatherland
against the infidel and the oppressor."

208

THB TINT! OF IHIM.

A great stillness fell at his words apon the entire meeting. The
buzz and hum uf voices ceased at once to thrill, and the meri
(liopped down at the signal on their hended knees before i\n-
flowing faces of the inspired marabout. Incense rose in fumi'-
Irom a brazier in the midst — the poisonous, intoxicating incense
of haschisch*

The marabout spread out both arms slowly over their hea<l.-.
"The blessing of Allah," he cried aloud, "of Allah, the All
wise, the All-merciful, be with you."

"So be it," the young men responded, solemnly.

"Friends," the ma'iabout began, once more, as they knelt ami
bent their heads, in a serried body, "you know well the crisis
and the customs of the Kabyles. It was the way of oui fathers
when hordes like locuats invaded their land, to call upon the
chosen young men of the tribes to band themselves together by
solemn oath into a sacred legion. The more forlorn the hope,
the greater their courage ; for the sons of the Kabyles shrink
not from self-sacrifice. It is your duty, too, in like manner to
nacrifice your lives to-day for your country. To that end we
have proclaimed a Sacred War, when Islam shall rire in all its
nJght against the power of the Infidel. In such a war, there is
no going back. It is when the lion rushes upon the spears
You will take the oath before the face of Allah. The prayers
for the dead shall be read over you all, for 5011 go to yt)ur
death, and you come not back, except upon trestles, or else witli
victory. Those who die in the conflict shall be buried apart, in
the cemetery of the saints, in the field of glory ; and each man
among them, dying for the Faith, shall be reckoned as a saint
and counted a Sidi. Prayers shall be offered for ever at his tomb,
and the blessing of Allah shall rest upon it always. But if any
of you escape with loss of honour from the field, his corpse shall
rot like a camel's in the desert. He, and alibis kindred, shall
bf^ held for ever in utter contempt by all the Faithful as digs
ijkd. outcasts." *=

The young men bowed their foreheads to the ground with en«'
accord, and with military precision. We acce])t," they
answered, " we go, for Allah 1' and with their faces turned one
way toward Mecca, tuey prayed silently for a few minutes.

You

swear.

the

marabout said again-

-as they rose from th^

tit

ground — holding out in his hand a roll of the Koran, "you
swear by this sacred book, which came from Mecca, and by the
holy tomb of our Lord of Kerouan, the companion of thti Pro-
phet, to wnge a Jehad to the death against all the infidels, aftd

^Wr

f, I m j»^ i,.„w}».,n'""R.'«" , .}'Mm ^f^f^f^^^n^

T'w^P^!'.

■P?iff*""*"i">>MI"iPiPiPPM!il

■MHP

TBI TBirri •» ikvii.

cot

ika

never to return from the field of battle eave dead or Tie-
torious.**

" We swear," the young men answered lolemnlj, with uplifted
bands.

" Lp^ a Taleb come forward," tho maraboat said, stretching
his baid arms once more heavenward.

Hadji Daood ben Marabet staj^gered slowly forward, and took
the roll from the marabout's hands in his trembling fingers.
Unfolding it spasmodically, and with due deliberation, the tooth-
less old man came at last in his search to the fourteenth chapter
which enjoins on the Faithful the duty of exterminating the
infidels everywhere. Bending over the book, he read these
terrible lines aloud in tlieir sonorous Arali;^ with that peculiar
droning, sing-song voice which lends so much mystery anu
solemnity of tone to Mahommedan ceremonial. His words thrilled
them. Every curse told home separately. The men, it wap
clear, were deeply stirred. They clasped their short Kabyle
knives with desperate resolution in their trembling fingers, and*,
waited impatiently for the signal to march upon their deadly
errand.

The voice of the reader wavered at last upon the awful closing
sentence, "Neither man nor woman, lord nor servant, old age nor
infancy : spare none, but slay ; spill their blood on the ground ;
let the infidels perish utterly from the earth, saith Allah."

A deep murmur of Amens ran like a shudder through that
heaving crowd. Hadji Daood sank back, exhausted, into the ring.
Then the marabout stepped forth once more, with his wild locks
tossed shaggily over his bronzed forehead, and in a loud voice,
with foaming mouth, began to recite in solemn tones the prayers
for the dead over the chosen youths, pointing with his finger to
their bodies while he spoke, as though each of them lay already
on his bier in an open grave spread out before him.

The effect was electric, overwhelming, irresistible. The old
men, standing round, sobbed aloud over the heads oi their
doomed sons. The young men, kneeling in front, felt the tears
trickle slowly down their hot cheeks. The marabout himself
faltered once or twice with a choking voice, and then went on
again, sustained, as it seemed, in his holy task by some direct
inspiration of his blood-thirsty deity. His features were deadly
pale and convulsed, and his hmbs were working as though drawn
by wires. At the close of the prayers, all rose once more in their
long white robes, and the marabout cried aloud, in a more martial
tone, "You have heard your duty! Go now and perform it 1

""M^'-' '

210

THS TSNTS or BHEM.

be Beni-Yenni and the Aith Menguellath are marcliing on St.
Jloud, March you, too, direct, and surprise the infidels in tlieir
beds as they sleep. Slay, slay, slay — men, women and cbilJren.
Let not one single Christian escape with his life. French, Eng-
lish, or Spaniard, slay all alike ; but above all, slay her, tlie
enemy of your race, the high-heeled woman I Avenge on her,
and all beneath her roof, the bones of the blessed Sheikh el-
Haddad the Blacksmith I Avenge on her the bones of 8i Mo-
hammad Said with the Two Tombs, whose Loly remains slio
cast out on the field to be defiled by dogs and vultures and
■ackals ! "

With a loud unearthly shout, the whole vast body, seizing rifleis
and swords, put itself tumultuously and fiercely under way.
Ueligious frenzy and the fumes from the brazier had driven tlif
men mad. Their lips were blue ; their eyes started lioni their
sockets ; great drops of sweat poured down their pale and hagLcar(!
faces. •• Jehad 1 Jehad I " they cried, in a mad shriek for ven-
geance. " Death to the infidel 1 To St. Cloud I To St. Cloud !
Slay, slay, every man, every woman, every child of them ! "

The musicians in front beat upon their drums, and twangor!
aloud their tortoise-shell lyres. The wild discordant music of
the tom-toms and castanets seemed to intensify and hillame thei'-
fury. " To St. Cloud I " the marabout shouted, at the top oi
his voice, in fierce tones, his hair now flying loose on the breeze
behind, his eyes bloodshot, and his mouth foaming. He wave(
his bare arms wildly around him. " Slay the high -heeled
woman," he shouted, *• and all her house, in honour of Allah and
Mahomet His Prophet ; and cast forth her body for dogs to eat.
as Jehu of Israel cast forth the body of Jezebel, the idolatress,
before the gates of Jezreel, and as Omar the Caliph, cast forth
the body of the accursed Roumi before the gates of Sidon."

At the word, he dragged a goat from behind into their midst.
'* Taste blood," he shrieked, and flung it towards them. With
hideous shouts, the fanatics rushed, with hooked fingers, upon
that symbolical victim, tore it limb from limb alive and bleeding,
and fought with one another like wild beasts for the quivering
morsels, more after the fashion of ravenous wolves than of human
beings. Their faces and hands reeked with blood. " Now, on
to St. Cloud," the marabout yelled out, tearing a live snake and
devouring it before their e\ es.

•* Jehad t Jehad I " the crowd shouted aloud, in response, with
savage tumult. '' Slay, slay, the vuiue of Allah pruclaims it i

, I

Taa TXNTi or bhxm.

211

A Holy War I Df^ath, death to the infidels. * And, dnink witli
blood and hascliisch, they dashed madly onward.

Meriem in her own room, sitting still on the floor, heard with
•surprise the tramp of feet and the mingled noise of many voices,
tiid rushed to her window, breathless, to learn the meaning of it.
Vs she did bo, she caught the last echoes of those shrill cries,
lehad I Joliad I Slay the high-heeled woman and all her house !
A Holy War I Death, death to the infidels 1 " ,

In a moment her reeling brain took it all in. She guessed

>vhat \i meant. She understood instinctively. Her quick wit

ealized the truth at once in all its hideous implications. They

vere going to St. Cloud to murder tJie Europeans I And amongst

hem they would murder Iris and Vernon 1

At the pound, Islam died out within her.

For to Murium, a Jehad was no idle word. She had heard
iwful tales on the village platform, many a summer evening, of
the groat uprising of 1870. She had heard from the mouths of
the actors themselves how the religious fanatics of that troublous
time had massacred, in hot blood, the entire population of
Palaestro ; had carried off into slavery the women and children of
ilie European villages scattered throughout Kabylie ; had burnt
r.o the ground every farmhouse, church, and oil-mill in the
iiountains ; had besieged Bougie and invested Djidjelly ; ha(^
spread fire and alaugliter far and wide through the land.
Vora the valley at Tizi-Ouzou to the eagle's nest of French
soldiers perched on the precipitous heights of the Fort National
She knew that when the fierce and fiory Kabyle olood is up
neither childing mother nor speechless babe will be spared from
Llie slaughter by their indiscriminate fury. She knew that her
•ountrynieu would fall upon St. Cloud like wolves upon a slieep-
Ibld, and rend Iris and Vernon to pieces like vultures in theii
fanatic madness."

A Holy War I A campaign against the infidels ! Vernon and
Lris — her dearest on earth I In that decisive moment the fait!
of her childhood went down like water before her instinctivi
feelings. At all hazards, she must save the lives of the Chris
cians I

There was but one thing to do; to make fit once, with ii
speed, for the valley at Tizi-Ouzou. It was too i.ite now to war
die garrison at St. Cloud. She saw her countrymen were we
on the road to the I'ort already, and she oould never hope to pas^

lit

VHB TENTS OF SHXlf.

'ci-

thern by undptpctod, even if her feet were fleet enortTh and
strong enough to overtake and outrun them. But tlie ^.in'iaon,
though surprised, mij^ht lioUl out till moniintj;. Slie had heard
of the iron wires that carry news with liglitning speed for the
iniidel — of the iron horse that drags his carriages like clouds
before the sirocco. If she could but reach Tizi-Ouzou and wUrn
the French there to telegraph to Algiers, help might yet arrive
in time to save them. I'o save Iris : to save Vernon I The
Kabyle within her was forgotten altogether in her burning desire
to protect from death those two she had learned to love so dearly.
Traitress as she might be to her own people, she had but one
thought — to save Iris and Vernon I

Bhe lifted the latch of the rude door, and stole out unperceived
to the entrance of the tent, where Eustace stood within, in the
Kabyle dress he had just been tryhig on, and wliich transformed
him at once into a perfect native. Meriera started to see him,
but had no time for comments. ** Eustace," she cried in haste,
snatching up a flask that lay upon the box, " they've made a
Jehad — a sacred war. My people have risen. It's death to the
infidels. They're inarphing on St. Cloud to kill the Christians.
The whole village together has turned out in arms. I saw them
myself — the marabout at their head I They mean to kill every
soul in the Fort I What can we do — to save Iris and Vernon ? "

In her startled %ce Eustace read the whole truth instinctively
at once. Jle knew the impetuous Moslem nature too well to
doubt that Meriem was right in her strange story. '* We must
go on and warn them I " he cried in answer, hurriedly.

** Too late I " Meriera sobbed out. " No chance for that I
They're on the road already. Our people have started. I saw
them go. There's no other way down. We could never get
past them."

'* Can they telegraph to Tizi-Ouzou ? " Eustace asked in haste.
" If reinforcements could come, they might hold out for a day
or so."

Merien shook her head despondently. " My people would be
sure to cut the wire," she answered, in agony, " They know all
that. It crosses the path. Even I, who am only a girl, had
beard of it."

" Then there's nothing for it but to tramp to Tizi-Ouzou,"
Eustace answered at once, with prompt decision. " Our only
hope lies in rousing the authorities there ; they might telegraph
OB for help to Algiers and Fort National. Como on, Meriena.

FWimim't^^V

^•^

:f!!pWfWP»f^

••,11. )

There's not a moment to lose. Oomu with me, and tell them
when you get there what you've seen. We might ride, perhaps.
There are mules outside. Let's seize them, and run down at
once to Tizi Ouzou."

So, quick as thought, going forth from the tent, in his Kabyle
dress unchanged as he stood (it was safer so), he caught the first
two mules he could find in the field, and slipping on a bridle in
breathless haste mounted one of them himself to descend the
mountain. Meriem, without one word, held and mounted the
other. And in such strange guise did those two set off through
the moonlight, alone, to arouse the unconscious settlers of Tizi-
Oaaott to a sense of the danger that threatened ths oolonj.

■Cr-

■>-^ - ..

■ff^

" w

TlliC TKNib III- SI.

CIIAITER XXXlir.

AMONO THB BNOWS.

They had gone but a fe\7 hundred yards down tho yviss, ridinjf
single file on the narrow Kabyle roaii, whicli cactus and aloe i
obstructed on eithnr side, wlien suddenly Moriem, who went tirst,
was brought to a 'nit by tlie sharp and sliort report of a pistol, :
fired full in the face of lier borrowed mount. C'r'r'r, it whizzed
past the mule's very nose. The aniniii! reansd upriu^ht with
terror on its haunclies ft>r a moment, and ^hM■iem, lookini,' aliead
towards the darkhng bushes in front, called out in Kabyle,
tremulously, but in very clear tones, •* Who's tluire I Why fire '.
at us ? "

As she spoke, two men crept cautiously out from the shadow
of the lentisk >icrub, and one of them answered in a sulky voice,
and in the same tongue, which Eustace could now just vaguely
follow, •* Wlio are you, and where are you off to-night, the wrong
way down, when the sons of the Kabyles are marching in amass
against the hnmes of the intidel ? "

The men wire not of her own tribe, Meriera knew at once, ;
by their peculiar di;i.lect. They were Beni-Yenni, from the ^'
village beyond the fort, posted there, no doubt by arrangement,
to guard the pass down to Tizi-Ouzou against retreating
Christians. There must he dozens more of th(un picketed lower
down the road. To proceed that way would he clearly useless.
Retreat was impossible, so Meriem tenqtorised. " I am a
woman," she said, — " a true believer — and I was going to the ."
chief of the Pieni-Yenni, with letters and messages from the
Amhie of the Beni-Merzoug."

The stranger, advancing, seized the bridle of her mule with a
suspicious glance.

** And your husband ?" he cried, with a scowl at I^e Marchant.
" Why is he, a man of military age, skulking from the Holy War
at such a moment 7 "

" My husband," Meriera answered, with trembling lips, hoping
in her heart Eustace would have the sense not to break into

wmmB

but. 'ii<..M.s or

210

un-da and betray himMlf for a Chriitiaa, ** if A deaf and damb
iiau. Ua'i uselesi as a loldier. So my nnole. the Amine, hn^
-itint him to take care of me."

"It's a lie I " the Kabyle answered, wrenching the mule asid
suddenly, and gazing strainflit into Eustace's eyes. " Fire, Mo
hammad, fire 1 These are traitors — infidels I I know tli<
man's face. They're going down to Tizi-Ouzou to warn th>
garrison."

Meriem's heart leapt up into her mouth at this unexpected
emergency.

" Leave your mule and run, Meriem," Eustace cried, in Eng
lish, jumping as he spoke from his own beast, and seizing hei
tremulous hand hard in his. Next moment, a bullet whizzed
iiissnig past his ears, and a short Kabyle knife gleamed bright in
rhe clear moonlight.

The Englishman seized his assailant in his stout arms, and.
^'rasping him round the waist, with one violent effort, flung hin
from him heavily upon the path behind. Then, unarmed as the}
were — for Eustace hadn't even waited to hunt up his revolver in
die hurry of the moment — they turned and fled headlong into
die thick lentisk scrub, and down the steep gulley of broken hili-
dde towards the brook at the bottom. Delay was dangerous with
^0 many unseen enemies about. The stones under foot slipped
IS they went, for the slope was rubbly, and Eustace tore his
hands more than once in clutching at the bushes to save Meriem
from too hasty and abrupt a descent ; but Meriem, all barefooted
lis she was, leaped lightly down unhurt, like some mountah:
iintelope, and planted her sole firmly at last on the soft mould in
the centre of the gully.

'♦What can we do now?" she whispered low, as shots were
heard again wliissing over their heads from the rocks above, tht
Kabyles firing at random in the direction they had taken.
•* There's no getting down to Tizi-Ouzou at this rate, and n(
other road except back by the fort to St. Cloud, and so on to Fori
National."

Eustace made his mind up without a moment's hesitation.

** We've only one thing left to do," he answered boldly.
" The passes are held on either side. We must go over the
mountains, right across the Col, and descend upon the Con
stantine railway in the valley. At Bouira, or the first othc i
station we reach, they could telegraph for aid to Algieri aui
Philippeville."

Meriem shuddered. It seemed impossible.

s*'

.9 fi"3!#i' ' I »"*.'''"^^Wi'

'WJlSiiiJWW'^'.

iia

rUJC lii.MM Uil aUi:.^.

*• Upon thp Coustantine railway I " slie cried, in a low voice,
half tornlieil. " Uver the high mouiitaius / No otlier way left'
We must trudge through the biiow then I "

Ancl she ga/-ed down ruthfully at her poor bare feet, ill fitted
indeed, for such a walk as that was.

*' There's nothing else possible," Le Marchant answ(.'red, fol-
lowing her eyes with his own as they loolcod downward tuaully—
"for me at loast. I must go to Bouira. But, Murii^m, why uee<.'
you accompany me ? Couldn't you atoal hack unp'^rcuivod to tho
village ? The walk's too long and too hard by far for yuu, m>
chUd."

"Never," Meriem answered, with profound conviction
'* Never, while Iris and Vernon are in danger. I'll walk my feci
bare to the bone before I desert them, Eustace. We'll rouse all
Algeria rather than let them be murdered in cold blood at Bt.
Cloud, if we have to trudge through miles of snow to do it."

Le Marchant saw that she meant what she said, and ho niade
no attempt to turn her from her purpose. He admired it too
much to wish to interfere with it. '* Come on, then," he said,
looking her full in the face. *• We must start at once. Not a
moment to lose. Up these first heights here will lead us to a
point where we can see the Djurjura. Once we catch sight of
the snowy peaks in this bright moonlight, we can find our way
well. We must walk all night; but by early morning, with good
luck, we may reach Bouira."

Not another word was spoken. They turned at once to set out
toilfully on that difficult and dangerous mountain journey,
Between them and the main central valley of the Atlas, down
whose midst the Grand Trunk lipeof Algeria, from Oran to Con-
stantine, winds by long gradients its tortuous way, lay the huge
white snow-covered mass of the Djurjura. Only two passes
threaded the lateral ranges on either side from Beni-Merzoug :
one of them led back to Tizi-Ouzou, and was held in force by the
Beni-Yermi mountaineers : the other led forwa?-d to the Fort at
St. Cloud, and was the one down which the Beni-Merzoug ihem-
selves had marched to massacre the isolated little garrison. How
far the insurrection might spread on either side Le Marchant had
not the faintest conception ; but he hoped by reaching civilis^,tion
once more on the line of the railway route he might still be in
time to avert the menaced massacre at that doomed outpost. To
do so, however, no plan was possible save the desperate on« of
rrosiing the snowy ridge between the sister peaks of Tamgout
8Bi Lalla Khadidjft. They had to make their way alona §| laid

THX rnMTB or iheu.

217

of night, through trackless wilils and over nntroflden snow, in a
country the greater part ui which was ahsohitelv unknown to
either one of them. But it was the sole roniaininj,' chance for
BaviriK the Uvea of their friends at St. Cloud ; and they faced it
togothcr, hravely and silently.

The hill-side ahove the gorge was steep and roc.xy, hut they
mountiMl it, step by step, in dead silence, creeping' up under the
nhadowB of the wild olive-bushes and the low genista scrub, for
fear of attracting the attention of the Kabylea oi)posite, as long,
at least, as they remained within range of a rillo shot. As they
toiled on and up, under the moonlit sk , the air til each level
they attained grew colder and colder. Oiives slowly ,1,'iivo way to
pine and cedar ; cedars again ceased in turn, in favour of low
clunipa of wind-swept juniper. Meriem drew her thin white
tobe closer and closer around her. She was chilled by the
A^eezing wind, and her teeth chattered. *• Here," liC Marohant
cried, pulling o'"' his own upper cloak — the outer Kubyle garment
— " you must wrap this about your shoulders, my child ; it's
better than nothing."

"No, no," Meriem answered, holding her fuiik ti?ht in her
j-iumbed fingers, and shaking her head ; *• keep it yourself; you
i.ieed it more than I do. We Kahyles are aocustoinoil to winter-
cold. We go about barefoot, even when the snow lies deep and
chick on our own mountains."

Le Marc'.iant wrapped it round her, in spite of her remons-
trancefiu wi^.h an imperious gesture. " You must take it," he
■aid. " You're the less warmly-clad by far of the two. Thank
heaven, I've a thick English jersey, unchanged, under n»y burn-
ous. Besides, what we want is for both tj pull through. We
mustn't let either fail on the summit."

They walked on quickly over the intervening ground, mile
after mile, up, up — up ever, till they reached the snow line on
the high Col between the two rearing moonlit mountains. At
its edge, Le Marchant sat down on a great icu-worn boulder,
end began pulling oil his boots very quietly.

"What are yon doing? " Meriem asked, repressing a shiver.

" Taking ray boots oti"," Le Marchant answered, as if to observe
a gentleman so employed were the most natural proceeding in
the world.

" So I sen," Meriem replied. "But what for? "

She knew already ; but, until he told her, natural politeness
ing^TPRted it would he rude to anticipate.

" You must put them on," Le Marchant answered firmlj.

:18

THX TINTB OF AHEM.

landing them over to her. ** You can't go and tramp through
ihe snow bare-foot. They'll be a deal too big for you, but
they're better than nothing. I have my stockings. We shall
both be protected against the worst of the cold to some extent."

Meriem shook her head.

"No, no," she said, eagerly; "I can never wear them. I'm
accustomed to go bare-foot often in the snow. You're not. My
soles are hardened to it. Besides, they'd slip off my poor little feet
like anything."

Le Marchant made no verbal reply, but taking out the handker-
chief concealed in his bosom, he tore it in two, and bound each
half tight round Meriem's instep. Meriem, looking on in
wonder, allowed him to do it. Next, he gathered on the hillside
a few handfuls of the dry Algerian club-moss, as soft as tow, and
twining it close around the two rags of handkerchief, thrust hei
feet, thus bound, into his own boots, which he proceeded to lace
up in solemn silence, in spite of Meriem's protests and exclama-
tions. " I can fill my socks with moss," he went on, quietly,
" and that'll keep the warmth of my feet from melting the
snow. It's freezing to-night. The surface'!! all be hard and
firm. If you can hold out, I can hold out, Meriem."

Meriem's eyes were dim with tears. " If you make me takt
them, I can go on all night, Eustace," she said, simply. And
she took his hand in hers with a friendly pressure.

The Englishman's eyes moistened also, but he said nothing.
He stuffed his socks with the soft moss, and, lifting her by the
hand, raised her gently from the ground, in the unaccustomed
foot-gear. They walked on through the snow, thus equipped,
for a few hundred yards. Then Meriem sat down on the crisp,
hard snow. *• Take them off, Eustace," she said, faintly. ♦' I
can walk better without them. They seem to clog my feet so
much. I'm not accustomed to these great hard things. I'd a
thousand times rather you yourself wore them."

Le Marchant saw she really meant it ; the unusual weight
Impeded her free and graceful movements ; so he sat down by
her side and unlaced the clumsy things without a word. •' We
can exchange," he said, as soon as he had finished. *• I'll take
the boots, and you the stockings."

" Oh, no," Meriem cried. ♦• Never mind about me. I'm ust^l
:o cold. It doesn't matter. If we go on walking, it wonthuri
in«. But you EngUsh are more delicately brought up than w«
ire."

** Jp A <unsii," EustAo* anawered, with prompt dttoiiion, " out

^m^

fHX TKNTS or SUEM.

&!»

man muni b<> rlirtiitor and onler about the others. Don't answer
me l)ack. Do ms you are bid, Merieiu. The lives of the people
at JSt. Cloud depend upon it.

Meriem knew in her heart he spoke the truth.

They made the exchange in silence, and then marched on
.icross the deep soft snow. The socks kept Meriem's feet warm ;
a nest of club moss sufficed for Eustace. The snow lay flaky
and powdery, as it often lies on mountain heights ; and the
slight Col between the peaks that they were endeavouring to sur-
mount rose still many hundred feet above them. In places the
drifts covered with their deceptively even sheet great hollows and
bowls in the undclying surface ; in places their feet struck sharp
rocks or jagged ends of ledges an hich or so below the treacherous
and glistening level. As long as the moon shone, however, all still
went well ; but in the very jaws of the gap between the two
twin mountains, thio clouds began to drive up slowly from south-
westward — an ominous quarter — and flakes to fall here and
there in their faces as they went, at long intervals. Gradually
the flakes followed faster and faster ; and just as they reached
the summit level of the Col, a perfect storm of snow, in blinding
masses, beat fiercely against them. Meriem was weary now with
much tramping through the drifts, and ill-clad ctill in her light
iind simple Kabyle garmonts. blie drew her haik tighter and
tighter yet around her, and battled bravely against the cutting
blast that drove wildly in her face ; but her lips were blue and
iier teeth chattered ; and Eustace began to fear in his soul she
would never get through to descend upon the warmer side of
the valley towards Bouira.

At last, as tlie storm drove fiercer in their faces, she sat down
exhausted in tlie snow.

•• Leave me, Eustace," she said, in a weary voice, like a child
who can hardly»keep its eyes open. " 1 can go no further. For
Vernon's sake and Iri.s's, go on without me.

To sit down, wearied out, in the snow to rest, is to freeze to
huith. Le Marchant's heart almost failed him at the thought.
[f Meriem was sinking, Meriem was doomed. They couia do
uothmg but Sit down lUeru and die together.

m
Hi

m>i!'h-!

'ijUi

THX TENTg or BHEll.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CIVILISED SOCIETY. . "

In the Fort at St. Cloud, IMadame rAdmin'sfrntrice had
gathered around her hospitable board for the niomuui a party
which might almost have enabled her to forget Paris. The httle
woman, indeed, was in high spirits. And not without reason.
On her right hand sat an eminent dignitary of her Church, on a
pastoral tour through his extensive Diocese. On her left sat
that distinguished lii^ht of the British Bar, Mr. Thomas Kynners-
ley Whitmarsh, Q.L'., pouring forth French small -talk in his
usual glib fashion with perfect fluency and most imperfect gram-
mar. The officer of the Genie, ablaze with medals, had taken
in the wife of the neiglibouring commandant — the lady whose
husband had married her out of pure depravity ; and the neigh-
bouring commandant had returned the compliment by offering
his one remaining arm to the [)lain and somewhat faded sister
of the officer of the Genie. Iris and Vernon Blake, thus linked
by mahce prepense of Madame's, sat opposite the laft couple at
their good friend's board ; and Mrs. Knyvett herself, in the place
of honour, forgetful for the night of her bronchial troubles, con-
soled that amiable cypher, M. TAdministrateur, with congenial
conversation in scrappy fragments, jerked out at intervals with
the purest boarding-school Parisian accent.

The dinner itself was a monumental triumph of Franco*
African cumm. Nothing like it had ever been attempted in
Kabylie, The soup would have done honour to Vefour or Dig*
non ; the fish was fresh-caught grayling from the snow-fed
mountain streams of the great Djarjum ; no suspicion of garlio
disgraced the sweetbreads; no faint reminiscence of hiroine
flavour raised doubts (too familiar to the mind of the Algerian
bon-vivant) as to the possible substitution of kid for lamb in the
succulent rati. The P>urgundy hud blushed on the sunnv Cote
d'Or, no imitative colonial brand from the slopes of Atlas; the

TB£ TKNT8 OF 8HJ£M.

221

olives had npened on Provencal hills, and been bottled in oil and
stuffed with anchovy by the cunning hands of Maille of Paris.
Madame I'Administratrice herself beamed with joy, and w'th
Creme de Ninon. Monseigneur had deigned to compliment her
on her hi iitnetH a la reine ; and Monseigneur was well-known to
recoup himself for his Lenten fast in due season by making the
best of the good things of this world when the Church permitted
juch occasional relaxation.

♦•. A id who would say we were lost among the deepest recesses
of the African mountains ? " Monseigneur ouserved retlectivelv
with a faint sigh, plunging his fork as he spoke into his tenth
olive Jarcie, and stroking with his left hand that long, {lowing
beard, which the rules of the Church permit to add so much
dignity to the dress and appearance of the missionary clergy.
"• With Madame's commissariat, and Madame's liow'of wit, a man
of the world would iudge himself in Paris."

•' For ray own part," Uncle Torn remarked, rollInL^ a mouth-
ful of Burgundy on his palate with obvious approbation, " I re-
fuse to believe this is Africa at all. Our friends here have made
us so perfectly comfortable, and so perfectly at home, that I shall
be quite sorry, I declare, when the time comes for us to go back
to the shelter of my dingy club in dear dirty old London."

*• And yet, on y est tres bien, a Londrea am.si/'Monseigneiir went
on, with an abstracted eye, his mind reverting dreamily to certain
pleasant memories of English hothouse grapes, Highland grouse,
the giant asparagus, " it is only in England, aprea umt, that a
connoisseur can taste the wine of Oporto in its full perfection.
But, nevertheless, we are here in Africa — decidedly in Africa.
I am strong on that point. I refuse to admit the contrary, mon-
sieur. My Diocese is the most genuine Africa of all — the original
Africa of the original Afri. And my flock — the Kal)\ les — for are
not they too my flock ? — are the people of Masiniasa and Juba
and Jugurtha."

" Don't you think, Monseigneur, " Iris put in from the bottom
of the table, in her very best French, though not without timi-
dity, •* there's a great deal of Vandal blood left to this day among
the Kab} les as well '? I notice so many of them have blue eyes
and fair hair — some of the children have even light blonde com-
plexions. This must surely be quite Teutonic. Belisarius can hardly
have exterminated the nortliern invaders, even if he broke down
the power of Gilimer and his fellow-countrymen."

Vernon Blake opened his eyes wide in speechless admiration
At the intrepidity of tha young lady who could thus venture to

-22

CHB TENTS OF SUEM.

approach a beanlod French prelate with historical criticisms in
his oAii liujguagt! ; while even Monseiii^neur himself, who had
never before met an English learned lady of the new school,
raised his eyebrows by degrees in mild surprise at such an un-
expected interpellation on such a matter. But the old priest
was too po' slied a gentleman to show his astonishment overtly
in vi^ords ; he merely answered, with a deferential bow. " Made-
moiselle is doubtless quite right in principle ; such fair hair and
eyes may frequently betray a Teutonic origin. Genseric may,
perhaps, have borne his share in the total. But what I main-
tain, especially, is that my flock as a whole — for I consider them
mine, though most of them unfortunately still remain in error —
are the genuine old Romanised provincials of Africa, the his-
torical Christians of Airif^an antiquity, the descendants of the
race ■which gave to the Church Tertullian, and Cyprian, and
Augustine oi Hippo."

" They are certainly most European in face and feature," Iris
answered, with that eli'ort wiucii English people always feel in
speaking a loreign language, " If one dressed them differently,
in European dress, one could hardly distinguish them, I think,
from Itnlians or Spaniards."

" And even their costume itself, which seems to us so foreign,"
Vernon Blake ventured to remark, but in his own tongue (for he
had got here on ground that he really knew) ; "why, it's almost
precisely the old Greek dress, as one gets it in the torsos. You
can seo in the sculptures from the Parthenon at the British
Museum exactly the same arrangements of folds and dtapery as
those of the Kabyle women. The peculiar straight lines of the
robe as it falls to the ground are absolutely identical. You get
them again, you know, in Flaxman's drawings. The fact is,
it's just the Greek dress, the old universal dress of simple nations,
surviving in Africa."

Monseigneur bowed with an expression of the intensest in-
terest and appreciation. As a matter of fact, like so many of his
countrymen, he understood not a single word of any living
language, except his mother tongue.

•• But to revert to what Mademoiselle was just observing," he
interposed, placidly, with a dexterous shift of his eyes from the
painter to Iria ; •• I should be inclined to say my Kabyles here
are merely a remnant of the old common Mediterranean popula-
tion, essentially similar to that of Greece and Italy and Spain
and the Islands. They're Berbers still, and still unaltered.
Selon mni, Mademoiselle, invasions never very greatly alter the
underlying character of a population. Prance is still Gaul in

THX TKNTS OF IHS1I«

228

!*"'■

apite of everything. The esprit Galois is with as yet. It il the
same in Africa. The Carthaginians, the Romans, the Vandals,
the Byzantines, the Saracens, and the Arabs have all oonquered
the old Berber coast in turn ; but the Kabyles are to-day, in spite
of that, as Berber as ever. From their mountain eyries they have
looked down unhurt upon the dwellers in the plain under a dozen
dynasties. Islam itself has made no real structural change in
their social relations. In their savage Switzerland these free
tribes are monogamist still ; they are domestic still ; their women
wear no veils and are cooped in no harems ; tlie open old Greek
and Roman life exists among these peaceful and idyllic moun-
taineers as fully as ever. And therefore," Monseigneur went on,
warming up with eiitlmsiasm, and forgetting his olive; " I look
forward with confideiu-e, I look forward with hope, to the time
when the Kabyles shiiM once more be gathered as a body into the
fold of the Church ; when an African cathedral of worthy archi-
tecture shall rise anew above the ruins of Metropolitan Carthage ;
when a new Augustine shall adorn our Hippo, when a new
Monica shall grace our re-risen Rusguuia, when a new Synesius
will go forth from our Cyrene to evan;;elise the black races of
interior Africa. The Arab, believe me, will retire abashed to his
native deserts ; the Kabyle will return a willing convert to the
fold of Christendom."

Monseigneur paused for breath one second in that oft-repeated
l)eroration, dehvered, after his wont, with folded palms, ana with
something of his noted ecclesiastical unction. But the pause
was fatal to his chance of the house's attiintion. Madame
I'Administratice, leaning forward impatiently for an opportunity
to interrupt his even flow, cut in at the break with her flippant
criticism.

•' Qnuvt a nioi, Monsngneur,^' she said, with a slight toss of her
well-dressed coiffure^ " I perceive none of these differences you
so eloquently point out between indigene and indigene. After the
monkey, the animal that most nearly approaches man is no
doubt the Kabyle. But for me, a pig of a native is always still
a pig of a native. The Kabyles may be as vireek and as Christian
as you make out, but why, in the name of a saint, I ask you, d(
they come around at night to steal my spring chickens, and then
offer them calmly, plucked and drawn, next morning, for threi
francs a pair at uiy own door to my own cuisinieref"

•' Madame," the di:j:nitary of the Church responded, in hi
blandest accents, wuh tiiat crusliing politeness which mo-
b'renchmen know how to eniMJoy so effectively against an obtru
s.\e woman, " we wiil a.iinit that in the soiitarv matter of SDriiik

I^i

TilK TbM'a UF hHitJt.

liiokens the Eabyle morality has hardly emerged as yet above

'le ordinary Christian gipsy level. Even in France, our peasants,

•e know, still confuso at times the nwuin and tuum, as our great

idies occasionally confuse their Imsband and his neighbour.

Jitt the Kabyle, nevertheless, if madame will permit me to differ

rom lier on so abstruse a subject, to which she has no doubt

'evbted no small share of her distiii^niished consideration — the

Cabyle, mademoiselle, "and he turned once more to Iris, "has

tillliis virtues, distinctively European. He is no nomad, like

he Arab ; he is fixed, stationary , and open therefore to the first

• sjns of our higher civilisation, /wi un mot, il tienta la rnaison

le is industrious, sober, liabituated to labour. He is a weaver,

I potter, a jeweller, a metal-worker. Our Kabyle accepted, but

,i(l not embrace, Islam. He is clothed with it as with a cloak,

1 ider which he keeps intact, to this day, his own higher and

lobler social habits He has the idea of the family, the respect

or woman. Your sex, miidemoiselle, retains even now in his

lit its proper position. And he has, above all, that noble senti-

lent 01 the soiil, the love of his country ; he is a pr riot, a

v'arridr, a worthy son and defender of his fatherland. It was

hat elevated sentiment alone which induced him formerly, to

lake common cause with an Arab chief like Abd-el-Kader

I ;iiiiist the arms of our generals ; it was that sentiment which

I'ove him, with ill-judged zeal, into the rebellion of El-Mokrani,

1 the vain endeavour to shake off the yoke which our country-

len had all too lightly imposed upon him. Our task at present

i to attach this high and beautiful sentiment of the soul to

Vance, rather than to Algeria ; to give the Kabyle also a share

1 the glories of the French arms and the French civilisation ; to

■ach him how to merge his feelings as a mere provincial of

,frica in the wider consciousness "

" Great heavens," cried Iris, interrupting his discourse, and
appiiig both her hands suddenly to -her ears, ••what was tliat,
Ir. l31ake? Just close outside I It was ever so near I Did you
I ear it ? A pistol shot I "

Abd even as she spoke a wild cry from without burst all at
:ice upon the startled table. '* Jehad! Jeluui! Dehabia Kabijli !
hahaUil hlamt" And then once more in Fvenoh, ** A ba» les
'rumais ! " ' ■ ''-' ■

^ionseigneur bounded from his seat like one struck.

'' A revolt! " he exclaimed aloud, walking over with intrepid
ilmu '-;s to the window. '• I spoke too hastily. The Kabyles

ive nuen 1 They've proclaimed a Jehad I They'r<3 massacring
,iii3 garrison I"

■^:

'V'

tun liiAii-U Ok ttMAll.

82.^

CHAPTER XXXV.

7 1

, • THE HOLY WAB.

This itood dpoGoJiless with horror and terror. From the win-
Jcw of the dining-room, whence they looked upon the outer
eourt of the fort, hIjo could see a turbulent mass of angry Kabyles,
the first in tiie field, drunk by this time with fanaticism and
blood, 8ur),'iiig wildly against the bailey gate of the frail little
fortress. The vanguard had almost succeeded in surprising the
place ; and the postern, even now, was kept open from within,
strongly gtiardod, to give refuge to the panic-stricken and flying
Colonists from the outside homes. A few Zouaves, hastily sum-
moned from the guard-room, were holding at bay for awhile with
fixed bayonets the tumultuous wave of frantic insurgents. A
hum as of a beehivu pervaded the place. Men, women, and
children, pressing their way between escort through the savage
crowd under a hot fire, were running the gauntlet for the har-
bour of refuge. Hcreams, yells, and bellowings, like those of
wild beasts, pursued them to their lair. More and more Kabyles
surged up each minute. The Pere Baba, in his white burnous
and witli his long grey beard all spattered with mud, came rush-
ing for the gate with two children in his arms. Monseigneur,
calm and courageous in the midst of the din, recognised the
good old man, and, flinging the window open wide, cheered him
with his voice to the place of safety. As he neared the gate, a
few of the foromoHt Kabyles, recognised their friend, refrained
from striking him ; but others, shouting aloud "Jehad I Jehad I"
raised their daggers angrily in mid air ; and one shrieking wretch
/wrought down a rusty cutlass on the good priest's shoulder,
making the blood spurt out over the brave old man's white
Kabyle burnous.

At sight of the blood, Iris cried aloud in terror, and all nut
fainted, Vernon Blake supported her in his arms to a chair.
There she sat and cowered, with her face in her hands, white as
a sheet, and hicapable for a while of speech or motion.

But Madame rAdminiHtratrico, nothing daunted by the siglit,
leaning ihruuttiiiingly out of tUe oiqu. window, cried aluud,

■«

' l!"','^ .,■• ,Vi

■^-r-^

226

Tim IILUTB iiW Sil£M.

•• Cowarcia, cowards I woulJ you strike a defenceless olcl man and
a pair of poor children ? Come on and fi^'ht ua, caiuiUU d'indi-
yenes, and you'll get your deserts, as you did in 1870." And she
flung the dessert-knife she still held in her hand insultingly in
their faces, with a whoop of challenge.

The hated face of the woman with high heels seemed to rouse
the excited blood of the angry Kabyles to perfect pitch of un-
governable frenzy. With a rush they dashed at the open gate
once more ; and the Zouaves, just hurrying the wounded Pere
Baba within the walls, were compelled next moment to shut the
postern in the face of the last few flying villagers. As tboy did
so, the Kabyles hacked to pieces before their eyes a terrified
Frenchwoman, who had fled in frantic alarm for the gate, and
then tossed her head contemptuously from a pike in the direction
of the window. A bullet came whizzing past Madame's ears ;
Madame withdrew her face rapidly for half a second from their
sight, then put it out again like a saucy street child that she was,
with her tongue in her cheek and her eyes rolling wickedly.

" Cochons I " she cried again, imperturbable still, but white
with rage. ** Cochons ! CoQhons ! Sacres cochona dHndiijenes."
And she stuck out her tongue at them in savage exultation.

Monseigneur pulled her gently but firmly within.

*' Madame," he said, in a very stem voice, placing her at the
furthest end of the disordered room, "it is not thus wo shall
teach these misguided creatures *",o. respect our cause. Not insult
but reason. M. I'Administrateur, permit them to open the gate
for me one moment. I will go out as I am, taking my life in
my hand, and reason with these poor fanatical people."

M. I'Administrateur gazed back at him for a second in mild
surprise. He was too practical a man not to see clearly that tl)Q
moment for argument had gone past long since, and that an
eminent dignitary of the Church in a violet robe who should
venture forth to still their passions just then with Christian advice
and sweet reasonableness would assume the unbecoming form of
mincemeat in rather less than half-a-dozen seconds. " Mon-
seigneur," he answered, politely but firmly, " you cannot possilily
leave the Fort. Every man within it will be sorely needed soon
if we're to hold out till reinforcements can arrive from Algiers,
Oastellane, look after the guns and the mat^azine. Raridon,
hurry up the reserve from the barrack / Sabatone, see if they've
cut the telegraph wires, will you ? "

The next ten minutes were a crowded time of manifolr^. sensa-
tion and noi8« and motion, during which Iris was congcioos oulj

f 1

THX TENTS OV 8U£M.

227

?■'■

<fi

J f continuous firing and confused uproar, and loud occaBional
reports from the one big gun of the tiny battery. When she
next could recognise anything with distinct perception, she saM
that the window was now closed tight with an iron casemate, that
nil the men, Vernon BUike included, had left the room, that a
great glare pervaded the fort, and that her mother and their
hostess were holding her up between them in their arms, and
trying to comfort her with tears and kisses,
t^ *• I never knew I was such a coward before," Iris murmured,
with some pallid attempt at a smile. "I'm afraid I should never
make a good soldier,"

" My dear," Madame answered, with a sagacious little nod,
" we're all of us just equal cowards in our hearts ; only we're a
great deal too much ashamed to confess it. But this time the
indiycnes will do for us finally. We're all dead women. They've
cut the wires, and no lielp can come. Nothing on earth can
possibly save us. We must make up our minds to die where
we stand. For my part," and the little woman seized another
lessert knife viciously in her fist, " I'm not going to die without
;i^icking this, hilt-deep, into the breast of a dog of a Kabyle."

" We must make up our minds to die I " Iris repeated, all
liorror-struck.

. '* Yes, my dear," Madame answered, with infinite sang froid.
' Thev'U murder us ail ! Just the same as they did at Palaestro
n 1870."

Iris, unaccustomed to thus dwelling upon the fiery verge of an
active volcano, hid her face in her hands once more at the easy
answer ; but Madame I'Administratrice, inured to danger, went
on glibly in an unconcerned voice, " I've looked out through the
peephole in the casemate of the window, and I can see they're
firing the houses and the haystacks. Old Fourchault's hay-
stack's blazing away like a bonfire ! Ciel^ what a blaze I They're
putting torches now to the woodwork of the school. There are
voraen and children in there, all huddled together, who came
.)o late to escape into the Fort. They'll be roasted alive in the
lOuse pretty soon, unless Hippolyte can get up a sortie to recover
Miem."

♦* But who are the men who are doing these fearful things ?*'
ria cried in horror.

" Your friends, the Beni-M^rzougfor the most part." Madanje
iiiswered, coolly ; " they and the Bttm-Yeahi aad the Aith
..lenguellath."

TBS TBNT8 or 8HSII.

" The Beni-Merzoug I " Iris exclaimed, in blank dismay.
" Why, surely those are Meriem's people."

•• Parfaitementy ma chere" Madame responded, cheerfully.
" And I've very little doubt your good cousin herself's out there,
this moment, assisting them to sot fire to the little children and
old women in the school-house. It amuses them, that — to burn
alive little children and poor helpless old women ! "

A blank silence reigned for some minutes, while Iris cowered
and crouched half fainting once more in the corner. She, the
Third Classic, the indomitable reasoner, so resolute and deter-
mined in every moral crisis, was a physical coward of the feeblest
in an emergency like this. Even Mrs. Knyvett herself, she
observed to her surprise, was far more composed ; while Madame
I'Administratrice, that weak little creature, rising with true
Parisian buoyancy to the height of the occasion, kept her eye
fixed from time to time on the peephole in the crsst mate, unde-
terred by the rifle bullets that rattled continually against its
resounding surface, and went on with a running comment, un-
disturbed, on the history of the insurrection.

•• They're making a sortie I " she cried at last, witli volatile
animation, withdrawing her face for a moment from the well-
guarded look-out. •' My husband has organised a party of
Zouaves, Well done, Hippolyte I Well done, Rabaterie I

They've opened the gates and sallied out in good order

Monseigneur's with them, and ^Ir. Blake too Monseign-

eur's holding up two fingers to the rebels The staircase

ia burn't down, and the women and children are being fired at
in a mass by tlie cochom dHndipenes. , . . The fir© grows heavier
and heavier each moment. The rescue party's fought it's way
througli to the door now. Well done, agam, Hippoij te I I can

see it all plainly by the light of the haystacks They're

putting up a ladder to the window for the women to escape.
There's Julie Augier on the ladder now coming down like a

bundle She's safe I she's safe I They've caught her and

held her I Monseigneur's caught her; ce brave Monseigeur!
Pierre Forstemann the Alsatian's up there, too, with his rifle,
picking off the Kabyles cooly as they approach the ring ; he's a
splendid shot, Pierre ; he'll bowl them over. . . . Mr. Blake's
on the ladder now, handing down the children. , . . They're
firing at him I think ; I can see a Kabyle dog just pointing his
rifle. Ha I yes. Quel dommage I He's hit him on tho arm !
He's pinked his man. He's badly hurt. The arm's bleedrng 1 "

*' Hit whom ? " Iris cried, in an agony of suspenst.

■v-iArTii..

TUS TENTS or gBKM.

229

!'■

" Mr. Blake," Madnme answered, lier blood nil afire with the
excitement of the sctMie. *' Ikit n'linpnrte I Our iniri have cov-
ered hira well ; they're bringing hira back. Tliese savages
shan't have his body. The women and children are all Siife, too.
}31ake was handing down a little girl — the very last loft — when a
bullet struck him on the left fore-arm. Well thrust, nnm cuporal,
Well thrust, in(lee4 I Tliey'Jl ha,ve }uw under yovoj: in the gate-
way shortly."

"Let me go I " Iria cried, rising white and \vin, " let mo go
and take care of hira. Is he dan^^'erously wounded, do you
think ? Oh, IMadame is he dangerously woumhui I "

" The roof's falling in now," Madame wtuit on, unmoved.
•* The fire has caught it. Ciel I what a grand si,:,'ht I I can see
the flames bursting up like red tongues throng ii the broken cre-
vices. What a magnificent thing I lied jets ul (ire shuot from
the interior 1 I wish I was a man I I wish I was a sokUer I I
should like to go and have a shot at these savages I "

" Have they got Mr. Blake back yet ? " Iris asked in profound
anxiety.

" They're fighting their way back in a hollow square,"
Madame answered, all agog. " Hand-to-hand fight. CUorious
— magnificent. The Zouaves outside, the women and children
and wounded in the centre of the square. Man IHcn, it's splen-
did ; but oh, what hot work I " She gave a little scream.
"They've wounded the som- lieutenant ! But, inon Hieu, how
they fight 1 1 never saw anything finer in my life. The Kabyles
are pouring in upon them on every side like ants from an an||ir
hill. The Zouaves are pushing them back — thrust, thrust,
thrust — with fixed bayonets, and firing from the second rank
inside upon those frightful creatures. And the blood ! oh, the
blood 1 Ma chere, its flowing I Qiuil bruit, quel <'on-niije I Out?

can see the blood red by the glare of the haystacks They're

close by the gate now ; Sabaterie's leading them, llippolyte's

waving his sabre in the air. They've opened the gates to

these brave folk, and they're taking in the wounded. Lange is
firing among the savages with the great gun I Morhleu I What
blood I Fire flashes from every bush and rock. Que e'eat
affreux I Que c'est magnijitjue .'"

*' And Mr. Blake ? " Iris asked, too terrified now to make any
pretence at cloaking her special interest in that one non-com-
batant.

" Mr. Blake's inside the wall all safe, and Hippolytp's shaking
bis sabre hi their faces, insulting those wretches before he closes

■Jif,!WfW'

:i ;)

TliJt TJCNTH 0> HUKM.

•^'

.iic gnt' foreror upon tl'fTii. \Ttil done. P' "olyte! (^r,it bien
,<nt, muii enjunt. 1 never ;uluiired iii\ liu.i.iaiui . lu ; but
to-night voyez vtms — what a chance I what a chai^^o i I could
lay down my Ufe for him."

In two minutes more that disordered dininj,'-room was filled
ii fresh with pale women and children, too terrified even to cry,
cuid men with blooding arms to be stanched and bandaged.
Madame rAdministr;ilice, well used to such work, turned aside
instantly to tear up hnen rag into long strips, and to encour-
age and tend these brave defenders. Finger-glasses supplied
water to stanch open wounds, and dinner napkins were
hastily turned by deft hands into impromptu tourniquets. Iris,
now partially recovered from hor first wild scare, collected her
thoughts to put in practice on Vernon Blake'a cut and bleeding
arm the loasons she had learned at her Cambridge ambulance
classes, Ajid without, the noise grew ever louder and fiercer,
and the glare broK'e stronger with a more lurid light through the
i-reakiiig cracks of the iron casomnte.

In half-an-hour a Zouave, all grimy with smoke nnd blood and
powder, came up from below with an urgent messit o.

•* Monsieur desires me to tell Madame," he saiu, not forget-
ting his military salute even at that moment of danger, " that
we have ammunition enough to resist for three days, and that in
iiny case we can hold out till to-morrow morning. If a rescue
arrives, all will be well. He will send a messenger out to Tizi-
' )uzou."

Hl^*' The messenger will never get there," Madame answered,
vith a shrill little laugh of despair. •• Ile'U be cut into a thou-
>and very small pieces before he can break through the line of
iieni-Merzoug. But never mind. 11 we die, we'll have killed
three times ourselves in Kabyles 1 *\

of V.

■.\

TBB T£NT8 OF Hlll^Jd.

381

CHAPTER XXTVL

DB8PAIR.

But nlonc, on the summit of the Col, beneath the steep slopes
of Vjullft Khadidja, Eustace Le Marchaut, knelt in agony on the
crinp, smooth snow, beside half-lilel«;ss Meiiem, giving up all for
loHt, both there and at St. Cloud, in his utter helplessness. A
mile or two of snow still remained to be traversed before they
tould reach thu beginning of bare ground once more on the
downward slope; and Mi'nem, in her present state of collapse,
wuH wholly unlit to continue a hundred yards further.

Tlio cold was intense and the wind blew through him.

If <<nly he could carry her! But the idea was impracticable,
lie had walked too far. His strength was used up. They must both
uit down and die together.

And yet, how easy the slope looked I A smooth descent down
a long and even snow-clad valley. No glaciers here, as in the
Ilij^h Alps; no peaks or snow bridges; no probing with the axe
or cutting steps in ice, no moraines or precipices; no boulders;
or crorasses; nothing but one long level slope of snowbank. It
looked as easy as those great drifts he had often slid down on a
toboggan at Quebec the year he was working upon the Coleo^tera
of Canada,

And then, with a flush of inspiration, the idea seized him —
Why not slide down, with Meriem in his arms — if only he could
lltid something solid to slide upon?

Hut what? The very hope seemed to mock his despair. Not
a Htlck or a stone lay about anywhere. Nothing but snow, snow,
Htiow, all round. And the pitiless flakes still fell over them as
they sat, and covered Meriem's dress with their cold white
crvHtals.

lie was kneeling, but on what? Not on the fresh-fallen snow.
JIo sank into that for full an inch, and then supported himself
on u hard crust beneath. He knew well what the hard crust
meant. A thin layer of ice had frozen on top of the older snow.
A Ujer solid enough and firm enough to support him.

its tJC^tl UM tiHtik.

When snow falls and lies long in a cold climate or on h\gk
mountains, the heat of the sun often melts the surface on warm
rlays, and Lhti melted top then freezes hard at ni^ht, forming a
lort of crust or semi-solid layer, which caps the soft and powdery
under stratum. On such a crust Le Marchant was krieeling.
His heart gave a bound as he seemed to feel its value tj bim in
this last extremity.

" Lend me your knife, Meriem," he said suddenly.

" What for ?" Meriem cried, roused to horror at the demand.
'• You don't want to do youreelf any harm, do you, Eustace ?"

" No," Eustace answered, holding her tight for warmth
against his own breast. " I only want to cut some ice. I'll
show you why soon, Meriem."

Meriem took from her girdle the little ornamental dagger, Mk
with knobs of coral and lapis lazuli, that all unmarried KabyU
girls wear by their side, and handed it without a word, in her
numbed fingers, to her eager companion. A sudden thought
seemed to strike her as she lay.

" If I die here, Eustace," she cried with energy, '• and you
have strength to go on upon your way to Bouira, will you
promise me to take the charm from my neck and throw it in a
fire, without ever opening it ?"

" You will not die, Meriem," Eustace answered firmly. '• Or,
if you do, I will die here beside you."

** But promise me, at any rate," Meriem gasped out, shivering.

•' I'll promise you anything, Meriem," the Englishman
answered, pressing her hand hard. "And if I die with you
here, I shall die happy."

*• Thank you," Meriem said. " You are very good, Eustace.
I told you before, I love you as I love no one else on earth but
Vernon."

Eustace took the knife and proceeded to cut out with it a large
square or oblong cake of the under surface — the icy layer — some
seven or eight foot long, and broad in proportion. Then he
shovelled away the upper snow cautiously with his arms, and
drew it out with care on the freshly fallen surface. If it broke,
tliey were lost ; but if only he could manage to seat Meriem
accurately in the very middle, and push it before him with hands
or feet, it would go like a toboggan, he fondly fancied, down those
smooth sloptt""

It was a forlorn hope ; that last straw to which a drowning
man proverbially clings, but, alas for Eustace, it was insane,
impracticable. As he lifted Meriem and placed her on the frail

THK TENTS OF BHEM.

238

seat, the ice shattered at once into a thousand ft'agments. lie
wondered at his own insensate folly in hoping it would bear her.
That ice go down a whole mountain side I Why, it splintered
at a touch. Ridiculous 1 Impossible I

fie sat down on the snow once more in despair. •• If we only
had some wine 1" he said. " Some brandy I Anj^thing !"

Meriem opened her eyes at the sound, and answered feebly,
with a flash of remembrance, " Your flask is at my girdle. I
forgot it till now. I snatched it up as we were leaving the tent.
There's something in it. I thought you might want it."

With a wild cry of joy, Le Marchant seized the bottle eagerly
from her side, and unscrewed the top with numbed white fingers.
It was whiskey, neat, and happily more than half full. *• Thank
God," he cried, " we're saved, Meriem," and he poured out a
wineglassfal into the cup beneath, tempering the raw spirit with
a handful of snow that melted in it instantly. •' Here, drink
this ofif," he went on, holding it to her blue lips ; •' it'll give us
both strength to go on to Bouira."

••Is it wine ?" Meriem asked. "I never tasted any. You know
we're not aUowed to drink wine, we Moslems."

••No, it's not wine I" Le Marchant answered, firmly. •• And
you're not a Moslem I And whether you like or not, you must
drink it instantly I "

Meriem drank it off without further parley, " Why it warms
nne at once," she cried, in surprise. •' I never in my life fell
anything like it."

Le Marchant tossed down a draught himself. •• Now, we'U
wait five minutes for that to take effect," he said, with fresh
hope ; •• and then, as soon as it's begun to strengthen us, if I
have to carry you down the whole way in my arms, we'U go on,
Meriem."

But in a fev n^Jnntes, Meriem, summoning up all her courage,
and refreshed by the stimulant, was ready once more to start off
walking again with a spasmodic effort.

The downward slope was far easier than the upward one.
Sometimes by sliding, sometimes by a glissade, and sometimes by
trudging slowly to the point where the snow cea ed on the moun-
l>' n. Already the exercise and the higher temperature made
Meriem warmer. As they reached the last edge of the deep
(snow, she said, with a fresh access of feverish energy,

•* I can walk on now to the bottom, Eua'-iee."

On, and •ver on, they tramped accordingly, in the early morn-
ing, tha dawn just beginning to whi^^^n the east in the direction

IIIHiHHiiilMiini

ififfii

284

THB TKNTI Of IHXM.

of the iron line they could now see dimly below them in the
gorge of the river. Meriem had never set eyes on a railway
before, but she was the first to make it out, with its rigid curve,
and she guessed what it meant.

•♦ The iron road," she cried, for she had forgotten the Enghsh
name that Eustace called it." " We haven't so far to go now.
I can hold out still, if I drop when I get there."

It was five o'clock in the morning w4ien they reached the gorge
itself, and stood by the side of the single line of railway. East-
ward, the next station was not in sight ; but westward, beyond
the river, they had descried from the heights, houses and a
steeple. That must be Beni-Mansour Station, Eustace thought,
from the lie of the country. They turned their weary feet in
that direction, walking along the line, and treading on the ties ;
if only they could once reach a station, they could telegraph on
for aid in all directions.

A hundred yards further on they came to a bridge. It was an
iron girder bridge, thrown boldly across the river from bank to
bank of the wide gorge. But there was no footway. The rails
ran along skeleton- wise upon sleepers and ties; the work bc.ieath
was open trestle-work of the American type. Meriem looked
alonj: at it with doubt and hasitntion. *' It's hardly a kilometre
to the station," she said, shrinking back. *' But, Eustace, I
ilaren't cross that thing now. If it were up in the mountains,
and I were fresh and strong, perhaps I might venture ; but I'm
so very weak and giddy with fatigue and hunger I Leave me
here, leave me here for a while, and send people back to me from
the village with food. I shall be quite safe where I am, you
know. I shall sit by the roadside, and nothing will hurt mo."

Le Marchant considered seriously lor a moment with himself.
She was certainly in a very weak and faint condition. It
required nerve and strength to cross that bridge. He hardly
cared even to face the task himself. Yet, on the other hand, ho
didn't Hke to leave Meriem alone and unprotoetod by the open
roadside. He rellected, however, that Kabyle maidens are gener-
ally very well able to take care of themselves ; and also, whiclj
was perhaps a great deal more to the point, that nobody was
likely to he passing at that early hour <lo\vn an uninhabited
i4orire. along a lonely railway line. As the outcome of which
deliberation, he decided at last it would be host to leave Meriem
by herself lor the time being, and hurry un, for hor sake as well
as for the sake of the besieged at iSt. Cloud, to the n»»rv;H

THB TENTS OF SBEM.

23?

village. The sooner he could get there, the sooner she would
have food, warmth, and shelter. Though it looked, perhaps, a
little cruel and unchivalrous to leave her, it was the truest
chivalry and kindness in the end — the only way to procure her
all tliat she needed.

•' Very well, Meriem," he said, with regretful decision. ♦' Sit
here by the side ; I won't be long. I shall come back to you
r-'oon with food and clothing." Then a suflderi idea struck him
as he turned to go. *• You must take caro of the engine." he
said, in a warning voice ; '• you know what that is — the great
iron horse that comes puffing and snorting along the rails. II'
it passes by while you're here, don't go on the hne, or it'll run
you down and crush you to atoms. Better not stir at all froiii
the spot. Sit where you are by the side till I return; don'i
move hand or foot, for fear of danger."

Meriem nodded her weary head in assent, and took his hand
in her own, dreamily. She raise 1 it to her mouth, and printed
a kiss upon it. Eustace stooped down and kissed her forehead
in return. " Good-bye, Meriem," he said, *' I shall soon be
back. Good-bye my child, and take care of the engine."

And he turned to make his way across that dangerous bridge,
with & wave of bis hand towards the half-fainting Kabyle girl.

'I^A

*HK Ti;Nrs Ml -ilEjH,

L X...,

. . .il.

PEAU..

Fhb bridge proved harder by far to pass than Enstace had at

i at first anticipated. }' ^vas one of those spider-hke trestle
Liuctures with which Tra ; tic Engineers have made us so

amihar ; and its hghtness a airiness were in American ex-
Lieines. The ties stood open rucher far apart ; the gorge below
vuwned deep and rock-bonnd ; and the distance bridged seemed
out of all proportion to the actual size of the torrent-stream,
owing to the immense width and abrupt descent of the chaam-
like valley. At every step along those open sleepers the English-
man's knees trembled under him. He dared not look down at the
abyss below ; he dared not look back at poor weary Meriem, for fear
he should grow giddy and Ijse b dance entirely. He could only
walk on — walk on mechanically, planting one foot after another
on the uncertain ties, and steadying himself as best he might
with his arms spread out like an acrobat or a rope-dancer.

It would have been a ticklish task even at the best of times.
With his numbed and weary limbs, after that long tramp, it was
almost too much for him. He had got half-way over, however,
in safety, when a strange, dull noise vibrating along the metals
underfoot made him si an and listen with vivid eagerness.
Hark ! what was that? The rails seemed to thrill with an in-
definite hum. A moment's suspense I Then he heard a voice
calling to him aloud from the further bank.

•• Eustace, Eustace ! "• the vo'»e 'cried in agony. " It's com-
ing ( It's coming ! "

He knew what that meant. He recognised his peril. It was
Meriem crying aloud to warn liim of his danger. With a thump
of the heart he took it all in.

The morning train from Setif to Palaestro !

Oh God 1 — Oh, God t it was rushing down upon him resist-
lessly I ^

TUS TENTg OF BUKM.

287

There was no time to think or plan escape now. No place to
turn aside, to right or to left. Only the line itself, and the
river beneath. He could hear the wild dash of the engine as it
came roaring and thundering down that steep incline to the
mountain river. He could hear the rattle and ring of the rails
as they grated under tliQ wheels. The brake was pressed hard.
It thrilled and resounded along the trestles of the bridge. He
realised the deadly peril in which he stood. But for one thing
he was grateful. Thank heaven, he hadn't tried to take Meriem
over with him 1

Meriem, at least, was safe from peril.

His first thought was to make a wild dash for it, and try to
get to the other end of the long bridge before that rushing engine
could reach and overtake him. But one second sufficed to shew
him how mad and hopeless was that wild plan ; how impossible
the chance of getting across before the engine bore him down.
Only one bid for life yet remained — for Meriem's sake, and the
besieged in the mountains. Like a flash, the solution occurred
to his quick mind. He must lower himself on his hands in the
gap between the ties, hang on by his fingers as one hangs to a
trapeze, and let the eaigine and train pass bodily over him.

It was a bold idea, yet not wholly impracticable. F'or as soon as
it had passed, he could raise himself up again on Uis elbows, like
a gymnast, and continue his journey to the nearest station. But
for the moment, dear life was all he thought about.

Quick as thought, he lowered himself on his hands as steadily
as he could manage, and placing one foot against an angle of the
iron trestle-work at the side — the ro.l attaclimonts were too thick
and too big to climb by — clung with hooked fingers to the sleeper
above in speechless suspense and quivering expectation. How
long he might have to wait there he had no conception. But he
waited for ages. Hours, days, years, seemed to pass slowly
before that rusliing engine, at full speed, rolled over his head
with its rattling burden. There he iiung, inert, between earth
and sky, with one foot just poised against the elbow of the trestle-
work, and the other dangling loose in empty space, and heard
the great iron horse dash pufiing and panting across the long
line of iron girders, in slow haste to destroy him. Would he
have nerve to cling on when once it got fairly overhead, he won-
dered ? He hardly dared to hope it, his hands quivered and
shook so much already. The mure physical jar and concussion
as the train passed by would perhaps sulRce to loof^en and shake

off bis tremulous fin-^era.

Fatigue

and hunger had unnerved

288

THE TENTS OF SHEM.

him already : the ordeal was a harder one than his exhausted
frame was then and tliere prepared to go through.

But Meriem at least was safe upon the bank ! Thank Heaven
for that. Pie had not fooliohly and thoughtlessly imperilled
Meriem.

Jar, jar, jar; how the girders rocked ! The train was coming.'
rolling and rattling on. It approached, it approached ; nearer,
nearer, nearer. He saw the lumbering engine pass slowly over-
head. The boiler went over him, grate, grate, grate. The
funnel puffed and steamed and snorted. The fire glowed red
above his face with a fierce hot glow. But still he held on,
trembling, trembling violently. Great heavens, would the thinu'
take all day to go past ? Each instant seemed to l(^ugLlien itsell
out into an eternity I

A second's breathing space. The engine passed him I

Then the tender went next, jar, jar, jar, jar. And after it the
carriages, with their unconscious living load of humanity, not
one soul of whom knew how an unhappy fellow creature was
hanging on below thcie for dear life with straining hands to the
ties and sleepers. One, two, three, four of them, each jarring
separately, and each almost shaking him from his insecure hold
with those numbed dead fingers. A cattle truck next ; two,
three, four, five, six good waggons. And then a pause. Eustace
breathed again. Thank heaven, thank heaven, the jar was over.
The train had passed. He might safely get up again.

But when he came to try, nis cramped hands refused to raise
their heavy burden. He hadn't purchase enough to pull himself
up. He must wait for a few minutes and recover his strength.
The nervous strain had unmanned him for the moment.

So he waited, waited ; half fainted, but waited. '--

Another quick change! Great heavens, what was this ? The
jar ceased abruptly. The girders left off vibrating one moment.
The train had stopped, before reaching the end I Something
must have happened. Then, suddenly, the jolting began once
more, but in the opposite direction. A horrible doubt appalled
his mind. Next instant, the doubt resolved itself into a cer-
tainty. The engine was reversed I The train was coming back
again t

Could he muster up strength to face it out ? Could he ever
hold on till it had reached once more the other side, numbed and
cramped as he was already with his superhuman effort ?

And even if it went back and passed him over unhurt, it must
still go on a second time, and make its way liually to Bouira and

TUK TENTS OF SUEM.

280

Palaestro. Twlco moro of that speechless, indescribable «us-
ponao I TwicMi more of that liorrible grating and jarring I He
could novor oiidure it. It would kill him with the uncertainty.

}>a(d(, back tliuy cumo, all those same cruel carriages, in re-
vcrsod ordur.

Ouo, two, tlu'oe, four, five, six — those were the goods wagons.
Ho co'.mtod thorn all, wagon by wagon, a long age each, going
slowly over a^'jiin. Then the cattle-truck; he could hear the
oxen in it. Tiien one, two, three, four — eastward they went
Jij^MJn, tliOHO four passenger carriages. Jar, jar, jar, as they
pa.sHod ovorhoad ; the grating this time far more deliberate and
worso than ovor. The tender rolled next, on slow, slow wheels ;
ind now for the danger of dangers — the engine. That was
worst of all, bocauso of the heat and glare and blast of the fur-
nace. If it halted over his head (and it was going very slow) the
h(!at would torture hiin ; it would be all up with him,.

How inHtatitaneouH is thought ; how swift ; how indivisible I
la that sucond of time between the tender and the boiler he
i'au.!<ht hinisnlf speculating in his whirling brain why the train
had turnofj hack on the bridge at all, and how long it would wait
Ut't'om it W(!nt back a,Li;ain.

Then tho boiler came, and with it oblivion.

All Iks knew clearly was that a dart of pain, presumably in the
hiuid, waH followed fast by a faint sensation of rushing air buoy-
ing' him Uf) all round — a sudden plunge, a thud, a stoppage.
riie uuivftrse seemed to reel and whirl around him. All else
A as hlank. lie had fallen insensible.

One Hpurt of hoilijig water from the engine as it passed had
hopped accidentally on the hooked hand that barely clutched
the ru<,'g('d uleoper, That sudden throb of scalding pain made
him relax liis tenaciions "niscles instinctively. It was all up then.
His liandH let ;;o. il had fallen on to the sandbank that
bounded the river.

0^1

Af 0.;

•■ I

240

ffn TSNTI Of IBBli*

CHAPTER XXXVIIl

WflY IT STOPPED.

And Meriem f Well, the train was putting back to pick up
Aieriem.

When Eustace left her, she had eat for a while listless on the
bare bank, too Weary to think of anytliing but her own fatigue,
and longing for rest ahd food and release from anxiety. For
Vfernon Blake's, danger was still an ever-present reality to lier
uiind. persisting through everything as a vague back;. round of
consciousness. She watclied Eustace, as in a trance, uiakuij,' his
Way slowly over those open ties. Would he gel across the bridge
in safety, she wondered, half dreamily — would he get across and
rouse Algiers in time to rescue Iris and Vernon ?

So she sat there listless, with her eyes part closed. But, like
all mountaineers, she had keen hearing. An indefinite lium soon
attracted her attention. What was that faint, low noise that
bu/zod aioug the line? A distant b'r'r, that seemed to sJiake
the bridge ? Though she had never beheld a railway-line in lier
life het'ore, she felt sure it was the train coming up from east-
ward.

A train she knew only as a wonderful, horrible, death-dealing
machine. Strange stories had reached her ears in her remote
mountains of the magic pace and dangerous whirl of those inven-
tions of Satan, which run a man down before ever he can cross
the path in front of them. The infidels knew how to make wild
iron-horses that careered along the ground with dizzy speed, like
birds on the wing, or shooting-stars in heaven. If any living
creature presented itself in their way when they were in full
flight (may Allah preserve us I), they crushed it in their wrath
under their heavy wheels, as an angry bull crushes a grasshopper
beneath his tread on his way to dash fiercely at a bellowing rival.
Those who have never seen a locomotive have always heard of it,
indeed, chiefly as a fearful engine ol" destruction. Meriem's

Ms TENTS OF 6U.&ii

841

'•y

terrore were raised to the highest pitcii of snpnrstitious awn, n<^
she saw thw great snorting and puffing creuturti, breathing lire
from its nostrils, wheel rapidly round the comer of the moun-
tain, and bear down with a wild swoop upon the bridge in front
of her — the bridge where Easlace was feeling his way slowly,
with tentativ* feet, above the yawning abyss of the gorge 0/
Isser.

And it was she who bad sont him on his awful errand I She
who had urged him to cross the bridge I 8he who had asked
him to try that dangerous path, for Vernon's sake — for Ver-
non's and Iris's I

He was so good, so brave, so true, so gentle t And he loved
her so truly I How could she ever have aacrificed that earnest
soul to her unkind lover ? Her heart snjote her with a terrible
remorse. She flung herself on the line in an agony of regret.
" Eustace," she cried, in a wild cry of despair, " Eustace, Eustace,
it'i coming, Eustace."

Bat he never heard her, or, if he heard, he never turned his
face aside to listen for one moment. It would crush him where
he stood before ever he was aware of it 1

If only she had done as Eustace told her — waited patiently by
the side, and never stirred from her place, come what might, all
might yet have gone well with them. The train would have
passed over his head in safety, and Eustace, when it had passed,
might have summ'^ne' up his strength, by slow degrees, to raise
himself on his elbows to the level of the bridge again. But what
woman on earth could keep her presence of mind enough to obey
a man's instructions at such a crisis ? She only knew that
Eustace was in danger — that she had sent him to his death—
that for her sake be had gone — that at all hazards she must try
to save him.

The horrible thing was deaf, and blind, and senseless, indeed,
as it came roaring and rushing with lightning speed down that
steep incline ; but it had a man on board, no doubt ; an infidel
at the helm, but still a man who guided and directed it. She
would fling herself in front of it and attract his attention. She
would throw up her arms and beckon him to stop. He would
pull up, perhaps, (if to pull up were possible), when he saw a
v/oman on the line before him. waving her hands and shouting to
him frantically.

For though she had never seen a train in hci- life before, she
eaw at a glance how it ran upon its rails, and took in, iustinc-
tively, the main manner of its external workiixf .

.-'i\\

■I'll

21^

TUS TENTS OF SHEM.

Running backwards on the line before the advancing oM;:;ine
lie flung up her hands with all the energy of despair, and wavt:'
(sr white haik wildly in the breeze, to catch, if possible, tl
iigine-driver's attention.

Nearer and ever nearer came that horrible thing, snortii:

team from its uncouth mouth, and glowing in its front, like soni

iving creature eager to swoop down upon her of set purpose, t

•rush and destroy her. But she had no thought for herself; sh

liought only of Eustace. It might knock her down and rui

over her lifeless body at its own fierce will, if only she coulti

make it halt before it reached Eustace — Eustace, Eustace, ol;

Allah, Eustace 1 She ran backward, ever backward, withou:

looking where she went, waving her hands wildly, and shoutim

in Kabyle, " Stop, stop, in Allah's name stop, for mercy 1 " til

she almost reached the beginning of the bridge ; where she woult

have fallen through the open spaces, or been crushed between th<

ties by the devouring engine.

But before she could reach it, the unspeakable thing, do\^
slackening its pace somewhat, as if in answer to her cries, wr.^
uiirly upon her. No matter for that. She knew it was slacken
ng I Then they saw her I They saw her I They mean to pu.
ip I Perhaps the thing would stop before it reached Eustace.

*• For Allah's sake, stop ; for mercy, for mercy I"

Next instant, the buffer had struck her full on the bosoi i
)he stumbled and fell. Lights danced before her sight. A U c
lible sense of a stunning blow overcame and sickened her. blit
closed her eyes wearily. And all was silence.

The driver of the morning train from Setif, looking aher.
along the line as he turned that sharp corner before reaching tli
trestle bridge across the Isser, had been surprised to see a vvouin
— une indigene — these natives are so foolish — running backwn
on the line, with her face towards the engine, and waving hti
iiands frantically before her face, to stop him. •* Tiens," he re
marked with philosophic calm to his friend the stoker, " vinL>
ncore une de ces imbeciles qui desire se /aire calandrer comme oii
alandre le linge chez la blanchisseuse ; and yet, if we run over her
hey'll start & proces-verbal against us, par exewple, for causing tin
ieath of a native by carelessness. Those idiots of lawyers ! "

But be did his best, none the less, in his own iuteresft tc*
verl a catastrophe. Those idiots of law^'ers must be pacific/'
rnehow.

THE TENTS OF BHEU.

24»

The train was rushing (lo^vn the incline with all stoam on, to

-nnt the steep gradient on the other side, as it went towards

niira ; but the brake had been well in hand for the purpose of

• irniiig the sharp corner of the gorge in safety, and the engine

h-iver was therefore able to apply it in hot haste the moment he

^aw that mad Kabyle figure careering and gesticulating along the

single line right in front of him. The man on the bridge he

ilid not see ; that dancing creature in the wild white robo dis-

o-acted his attention from all else beyond for the first few

seconds ; and before he could recover his presence of mind

sufficiently to grasp the whole situation at once, Eustace, letting

liimself down by his hands between the girders, had disappeared

beneath the ties among the mazes of the trestle-work. However,

the womun alone was well .vorth stopping for ; those idiots of

lawyers hold you guilty of contributory negligence, worse I'uck I if

you don't pull up sharp even for a suicide. The driver put on

the brake quick and hard ; the hiss of it grated with jarring

vihration all along the whole length of the bridge and the girders.

But it isn't so easy to stop a train, either, going full pelt by

steam and gravity, down a steep incline, with a bridge at the

l)ottom. Before he had time to bring the engine fairly to a

tand-still, the bn Iters had hit tliat frantic Kabyle woman full on

he breast, and the train had passed calmj^ and resistlessly on

cross the level of the bridge in front of her. It was only when

hey had almost reached the opposite side that the wheels with

liiRculty obeyed tlie brake, and pulled up sharp midway with a

jar tliat grated hard through the long line of carriages.

A dozen heads peeped forth at once, inquisitive, from a dozen
windows. " Qii'est-re qnil-y-a done? " a dozen querulous voices
exclaimed in concert in their highest key. A.nd the guard, from
his little perched box Ixhiiid, res;)OM<lod cheerfully, " As far as I
i*,an see, Messieurs et MesJames, tliere's no harm done ! An in-
cident of Algeria I \Ve've run over an indifjene ! "

" Nothing wrong with t!ie train, my dear," a reassuring" ; rpa,
in a black skull-cap, with h-u wing his head, remarked to a >. r.iu-
lous mamma huddled up in the corner. *' Pas de deraillement !
The engine's al! right. We've only stopped because we've had
the misfortune to run over a stray Kabyle woman."

'* Pas plus que en ! " Madame answered, consoled, an^' Strttled
herself down comfortably once more in her rugs in the corner.

But in the roadway behind, Morif^n lay stunned and bleediny
)n the iins ; and midway across Uid bridge, Eudta.ce Le Mar

244

THE TBMTl OF 8BEI|.

chant still hung with hooked hands for dear life to the ilseprt^
buneath them.

'* What to do ? " the engine driver murmured in doubt to h
friend the stoker.

"Go back," the stoker answered, vvitli glib suggestivrnt'H-
•' and pick up the body, Strictly *»» ifi/le. That satisfiea tin
Court. It sliovvs at least (sacred name ol" a dog 1} you've doin
tike best you could to avert an accidejit."

"You have reason, imm vieu.r," the engine-driver answered,
slapping bira on the back, and reversing his locomotive. " Alh>tis
ilonCf let us pick her up, as you say, for form's sake, this mangled
out Kabyle woman.

So they turned and went back to pick np Meriem.

And as tliey passed the spot where luistace still clung with al'
his might to the hard angles of wood, three or four boiling drop
from the waste-pipe, turned on by the reversal, hiippened to fa.
on his left knuckles, and finished the task of sending him to tin
bottom.

The little tragedy worked 'tself out in its own dim way, all uii
known to the principal but unconscious acto.'S.

So they picked up Meriera, a bleeliiig mass of limbs antl
clothes, and kid her with rough, unfeeling hands on the tioor of
an empty third-class carriage.

** Tiens," the passenger in the skull-cap remarked with anima-
tion to the guard as he passed, looking down into the sand at the
bottom of tliB ravine. " Do you run over many of them hero in
this gorge ? Tliere's another indit^ene lying stilT and dead on the
oankdownyonder bythesideof the torrent there." For Kustace's
new suit of Kabyle costume had, ot coui-se, transformed him in
outward appearance into a complete and very unmistakable
Algerian native.

" C'fst imtV* the guard answered, shading his eyes with his
hand against the newly-risen sun, and cabling a curious glance
down the deep ravine. " But, thank lieaven. we've noiliing to
do with liim, at any rate, we others. We can tell the people at
the station to fetch him along and make all enquiries. Her hus-
band, no doubt I Tumbled over and killed. It was him, you
may be sure, she was making such a fuss about. They trespass ,
like cows on the line, these indiijene.s ! "

And the incident being thus satisfactorily closed, the tram
steamed on gaily upon its way once more, with Meriem's body
cSifdly abuiird, mi s^rnved. to the stoker's conscious pride, only

tHE tENtS or SRSM.

246

^evtllk minntes behind the advertised time at Beni-Mansonr
Station.

" There's another of them lying dead in the guiley down be-
low," the engii e driver o. ■ Tved to the chef de (fare, with a wave
of hif hand towards where Eustace lay huddled. ♦' A monsieur
in a first-class carria^re detected him. You'd better tell the
Sisters at the Home over yonder to send out a stretcher to bring
him ap, and get him bid out and buried decently."

For accidents will happen, even on the best-re£;ulated French
railwtiyi.

^m^^

-Z40

t:i^ ItiN'i'b OF 8BE1&.

-J .'

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE BELEAGUERED FORT.

All night long, St. Cloud held out bravely ; and all night
long fresh hordes of insurgents kept pouring in from outlyinj^
villages on the inaccessible spurs of distant hills ; for the Kabyles,
like the eagles, perch their eyries on the topmost ledges of thf
mountain peaks, where no other foot can easily follow them.
All night long, too, Iris Knyvett sat, white and anxious, tending,'
Vernon Blake and the other wounded men, while that hideous
din continued to wax fiercer and ever fiercer outside, and that
awful glare to glow redder and ever redder through the cracks
of the case-mate. Even Madame I'Administratrice herself felt
her martial ardour cool soriewhat, as she saw how the natives
gathered thick in fresh swarms around that doomed Fort — one
seething, surging mass of half savage humanity, now hanging b}
hundreds like bees from a branch on the bare brick walls of tlu
frail fortress, and pressing on to their death with Mahommedui.
ardour in the cumbered line of the shallow green fosses.

" The more we mow down, the more seem to grow up afresh,'
Madame exclaimed at last, raising her hands in horror and as
tonishment to heaven. " They use each other's bodies like rats
or vermin, just to make a bridge of dead for the survivors to
trample on. The hateful creatures I I wish I was a man ! I'd
like to go out and have a good shot at them myself before the\
hacked me into little piecies."

And even as she spoke, a loud yell of triumph arose up ane\\
from the Kabyle ranks. They had succeeded in setting aliglu
the gateway of the Fort. Big bursts of flame spurted forth from
the loopholes. The red tongues of fire were already mounting
high upon the stone lintels.

" Unless reinforcements arrive by mid-day," Madame I'Ad-
ministratrice remarked, surveying the situation with critical
coolness through her tortoisesheU glasses, *' we shall have to
lurrender, as they did at Palaestro in '71 ; and then, my dear,"

VHX TENTS OF SHS2S.

247

sni^Tostivply, with a sudden click nrross lior
will make mincemeui of as :

savages

ihe 3rew hot hand
small white throat, " the
it'll be all up with us."

" What happened at Pahiestro in 71 ? " Iris asked, with a
shudder, as the shouts once more rose loud and clear from the
gateway, heavenward.

"Ah, my dear," the little P/enchwoman answered, with a
sagacious nod, " you should just have been here then; that was
something like fighting. You'd have known what an insurrec-
tion was like, I can tell you. I was the only woman who escaped
alive from old St. Cloud ; and at Palaestro — pouf ! — with a
bourn ! bourn 1 boum ! they extinguished the garrison after it had
surrendered."

*' After it had surrendered ' -ris repeated, shrinking.

•' Ah, after it had surrendered, je le crois bien, mon enfant I
Murdered them all in cold blood. The settlers held out to the
very last moment in the niaison cantonniere and the Gendarmerie
next door. But when the Gendarmerie was almost tumbling in
ruins about their heads — riddled througli and through, as we
shall be soon — Bassetti and the rest came out on parole — that
brave Bassetti — with a promise that they might retire with
credit, their arms in their hands, bien entendu, for the honour of
France, to the nearest civilised settlement in the district. No-
thing more military — they surrendered on terms. They carried
their arms out with them, like true French soldiers. He bien,
ma chere, as soon as they'd got just outside the house— on terms,
remember — houp, sauve qui pent, the savages were down upon
them, knocking them over with the butt-ends of their rifles, and
massacring them then and there in cold blood, with true Kabyle
treachery. Poor old men and beardless boys, voyez-vou bienf
Do you wonder that I hate them, then, these coclwna d'indi-
gencs / "

Iris shuddered. * It's terrible, she cried, " terrible,
terrible I "

"And to think, Iris dear," Mrs. K.iyvett remarked, with
superfluous reproachfulness under these painful circumstances,
" that if it hadn't been for your determined opposition to your
dear uncle, we might have been sitting at our ease this very
minute in Sir Arthur's villa at Mustapha Superieur, not knowing
there were such people as Kabyles anywhere. Oh, if I only
once get out of this horrible place, I'll never, never, as long ai
I hve, go among such frijlitfui creatures again — never, uevM^
neve;, never."

248

TUA liLU'Lfi or bHlLJI.

«i

But yon won't get out of It, cuore dams,'* Madame continued,
eomplacently, just grasping her meaning through the mist of her'
English ; " I was coming to that. I was just going to teU you ;
they'll do with us precisely as they did at Palaestro — they'll
murder us wholesale. T'chk, t'chk, t'chk at every one of our
throats. It's a Jehad, you know — a holy war ; and in a Jejiad,
madame, there's no keeping troth or trust with the infidels.
Well, the women and children were in the rnnison cantonniere, as
I was on the point of telling you (whew I what a bullet 1 it
nearly made a hole through the casemate). They held out
there, with just a handful of men, till the fire around them
actually scorched and burnt their dresses ; and tht;n, of "irsf.
they could hold out no longer. So they surrendered n. fist-
surrendered on terms of sparing their poor httle lives alone.
The savages accepted them. But as soon as they came down, ^
r'r'r, the same as before — the men were killed — ^just knocked
on the head, so, before the women's eyes ; and the women were
stripped of their very clothes, and handed over, in I dare not --
tell you what shameful condition, to the tender mercies of '
those savage brutes there. That's what we may expect, if
Hippolyte's fool enough to listen to terms. But I hope he
won't. For my part, I'd sooner die first, with my tongue in my
cheek, flinging a eurse with my last good breath against those
dogs of savages."

With euoh cheering conversation, the ni^ht wore through, and
the morning dawned upon their weary eyehds. More and mdre
Eabyles Beamed to burst upon them for ever. Monseigneur
and Blake, and the other wounded who could still bear arms,
had gone out long since perforce to join the shattered little
band of tired defenders. The guard-room and dwelling-house
alone held out now. The courtyard of the fort was in the hands
of the enemy.

•• Unles* reinforcements arrive before noon," the commandant
said, with a despondent glance at the enemy, "we must ask for
terms. We can't hold out much longer against such over-
whelming numbers."

*• liet us die where we stand first," Sabaterie answered with a
shudder. •• For the sake of the woinen, let us all die fighting."

Presently the front of the house became quite untenable.

*• We must put you on the terrace," M. I'Administrateur
eaid quietly, coming up to the women. *• You'll be out of
reach of the bullets there. Duck behind the parapet. When
that's DO longey safe, we must taJce such terms as they chooM lo

wmm

TSM TSMTl or IHXU.

249

•• No terms ! No terms I " Madame answered firmly.

The women and children, huddling close together, made their
way out by the steps at the back on to the flat top of the old
Moorish villa. A wall surrounded it on each side, t^ foot or two
high, and sufficiently thick to be quite buJlet-proof. Madairie
TAdministratice, irrepressible still, raised her head for a moinont
above the summit of this parapet to see how tlie (i.^Mit now went
below. In a second, the sight of that hated face drew a shower
of fire once more from the Kabyles in the courtyard, wlio,
inspired alike by bigotry and liate, thirsted for tlie blood of the
high-heeled woman. The indomit iltle httle soul, not daunted
even now, drew off one of hur da; ^iv Parunan evcnin'jr shoes
a strange reminder of last ni^,'!it's suddenly interrupted fos-
♦ivities — and held it on a casun I .fragment of bamboo bi>4h alio*.*'
the parapet. "Let them w;iste tlmir bu'dots on that," she
^•ried, derisively; and waste them they did, inileinl. in gotxl
earnest, for in another minute not a shred was left of the ui-
- aulihig token. Madame knew as well as they did by wlmt nick
name she was called among the wild tribes, and she tlaunted in
their faces in this last extremity thai expressive symbol of her
hated presence.

All through the morning, the little garrison still held out by
superhuman efforts. Noon came at last, and with it the glare
of an almost tropical sun. Icy-cold as they had been on the
snow-clad tops of the Djurjura last night, when Meriem crossed
them, it was broiling hot now in the full eye of heaven on the
white-washed roof of that flat open teirace. A burning sky
hung hazy blue overhead, and a hot sirocco swept on with
fierce force from the sweltermg desert. All round, the smoke
and heat of a great conflagration went up in bUnkii\^,' mist from
the ruddy ruins of the still smouldering village. Nothing
remained of St. Cloud to behold, indeed, but chnrred and
blackened sites, and broken walls, and that one gaunt fort, now
tumbling visibly to pieces by slow degrees before the vigorous
assairlt of the victorious Kabyles.

Their only hope lay in the arrival of succour. Had Any ru-
mour of the rising yet readied Alj^iera ? Had any messenger
descended on the rail at BenirMansour ? Could troops hurry up
from Tizi-Ouzou, or Fort National ?

Or were Tizi-Ouzou and Fort National themselve?. too, in
flames I Was this a general rising of ail tiio confederated Al-
gerian tribes, or a mere local and isolated Kabyle insurrection ?

The)- knew nollung. They could guess oothing. They could

250

THB TENTS OP SHEM.

only wait and hope and wonder, and look with straining eyes
along those two white lines curhng round anion,!,' the hills, that
showed above the parapet in either direction — the roads to the
two nearest European stations.

By noon, the situation was no longer tenable. The Zouaves
could hardly fight another half hour for sheer fatigue and thirst
and hunger. Muttered cries of " Surrender " began to be heard
here and there from the men. The fort, in fact, was but a rid-
dled shell, it might fall down bodily about their ears at any
moment.

Just then, M. I'Administrateur made his appearance suddenly
at the door that led upon the flat wliite terrace. He was grimed
with smoke, and covered with stains of powder or blood. •' I'm
going to make terms," he said, sliortly.

" Jamais I " Madame cried, in her shrillest and most authori-
tative accents, stamping her little foot angrily upon the tiles of ,
the house-top. •• Jamais ! jamais ! viille foie jamah ! "

•' We can no longer delay it," Monsieur responded, coldly,
twirling his mustaches.

•* Surrender if you hke, but I'll fi.'^lit till I die, if I hold the
fort myself alone," Madame answered with spirit, seizing the
sword at a wrench from the scabbard by his siJe. " I shall not
be massacred here in cold blood as we were at Palaestro. I
shall die blade in hand. For the honour of France, I refuse to
surrender." .

*' I command this garrison," Monsieur said with dignity.

" And 1 command you,'' Madame retorlcd briskly, with her ^
irrepressible street Arab readiness. "Go back," she went on, .
in a coaxing tone, pouting her pretty little Parisian lips at him >
coquettishly. •♦ Go back, there's a good man, and light it out '
like a soldier to the bitter end. If in twenty minutes, twenty ■
inimiti.'S by my watch — the little w;irch you gave me, you re-
member, IIip[)()l\te — we're not relieved from Fort National or
somewhere, pnrol.f iriiomieur, I'll jump down among them myself,
all alive, from the parapet. Not a woman shall bo taken pri-
soner. We will save our honour I Death, if you will, but not —
not these savages I "

" You are right," Monsieur f.ricd with spirit, taking her hand
in his. " Such a woman as you toach mon how to die. I
admire you, Adele. You shew me nj\ duty. We will never
surrender. We'll fight them to the end. if they eaUy: bhii
U«uAtt, it skall be over our duul budieA."

!!1 'i^PIfi

XBM raUTi OF §MMM»

ttl

Madame, !n a indden bnrst of unwonted tandemess* fll«pp«d
forward with a bound, and kissed him roundly.

But Iris held her hands to her ears in horror. They must die
where they stood 1 They mrj^ die that day i Die by the sword t
There was clearly no help for it I

Unless a relief party arrived in twenty minutes 1

. ■!■->*'

■^^T-

THl TBNT8 Of IBBli.

CHAPTER XL.

OUT OV THE HURLY BURLT.

When the Sisters at Boni-Mansour, aftor carrying Meriem
tenderly to the Rest House, went down witJi a stretcher into the
gorge by the river in search of tlie dead Kabyle whom they were
told to expect there, they found Eustace Le Marcliaiit breathing
still, though shattered and insensible from his terrible adventure.
At the point wliere he fell, the sand bank, by good luck, hap-
pened to be soft and very yielding ; it had broken his fall as
nothing else could have done, and received him gently, as on a
natural muttress.

As they laid him on the stretcher, he opened his eyes, and re-
covering consciousness for a second, remembered everything.
Then, the gravity of the crisis supplying him with false strength
for the unwonted eil'ort, he cried aloud in French, with a sudden
burst of feverish energy, •* Danger in the hills I Telegraph at
once to Tizi-Ouzou and Fort National for aid ! St. Cloud's sur-
rounded. The wires are cut. The Kabyles have risen, and are
attacking the Fort. They've proclaimed a Jehad. They hold
the roads to prevent an alarm. I came down, disguised, over the
Col of the Djurjura, to bring word and warn you, and ask for
succour." Then his streni;ili gave out ; he could say no more;
he fell buck insensible on the pillow of the stretcher.

The startled Sisters carried him off to the Rest House without
delay and laid him on a bed, and tended him tenderly. But
before nven his first rough needs had begun to be satisfied, tvo
of their number, all trembling with excitement at so important
a mission, went off to the little mo.in'e of the settlement with news
of the strange tidings brought them in such a providential man-
ner by the unknown, disguised, and wounded European.

Information so serious and so genuinely vouched for could not
be disregarded even by the most severe of French red-tape offi-
cials ; and before six o'clock in the early morning, therefore, a
telegram iiad reached the post of Tizi-Ouzou, " Reported rising

IIP

■I

IHB TENTS OF BHKM.

of th« KabylGB in Djurjnra. St. Cloud surrounded. T
garrinon in danger. A sin^-Me European struggled in this moi
ing, liaving slipped tlirougli the lines in native dress, and d(
peril toly iujurou. Suud assistance at once to the Fort. Seeui
apm'oaclioB."

The news was not wholly unexpected. Douhts had bei
raised at Tizi-Ouzou even earlier, owing to the interruption (
tolegrapliio communications, as to the safety of the outlyin,
little garriHon at St. Cloud. The wiroa wouldn't work ; an
when tliu wires won't worli in an occupied cuunfry, you ma;
always KiiHpnct the possibility at least that souicbudy fiomewher'
has delibcnitcly cut them.

NevcrllielcHs, as the Commandant afterwards renikrked in hi
official diHpatch, " no .serious apjirehension was at first entei
tained, as the Kabyles bad exhibited few symptoms of uneasines
during the period immediately prpcedin" the outbreak."

Tht'Ho thunderbolts, indeed, alwiiy.s fiill in Al.t^'ona fj-oin a clea
sky. Tbo utter isolation of native from Eurupcan hie makes i
possible for the Ariibs or I'erbers to [ilot an insurri'ction in it-
minni(!St details, and that not even with much show of secrecv

to V

of conccidment, yet without arousifig for a moment l)y word or
deed tiie vij^ilance of the authorities. The two streams of lif'
lluw on t(i;;(Lher side by side, unrelated. They touch, bi;l lhe\
do not mi,\. Ilcli/^'ion, manners, sr'^^ch, divide tliem. Wlun
the Kabyb? thinks or plans or hopes is v sealed book to his next
door nt'ighbodr, tlie li-uropean settler.

lleiicu it (!amo about that at Tizi-Ouzou that niji^ht nobo-Iy ha
f(dt Very inucli alarm at the tem]>orary interruption of telegraphu
( omniniiication with the mountain posts. \A'ires are alwa\^
hable lo get wrong anywhere. Their getting wrong excited no
sinister suspicion. But as soon as the message from Beni-Man
sour arrived, everything was, nevertheless, in readiness for hn
mediate action. Where thunderbolts from a clear sky may b.
expected nt any moment, people live in the perpetual attitude fo!
receiving them like Ajax. In a very few minutes, the Zouaves
were called out iindcr all arms, a hasty little column turned witl
marvtilloufl speed in good order; and with bayonets set and face.-
on the alort, the hurried relief party marched steadily up tin
military road that leads by slow zigzags toy/ards St. Cloud in
the mouiitM,ins.

They marched all morning nt a forced pace, seeing more and
more signs as they went along their track of the havoc that th»-
Kubyiutt hud vvruu^jht that night among the outlyint; settlements

2ff4

tHX TKNT8 or 8HEM.

Ai they seared St. Glond, the blackened farms and smouldering
ruins on every side told their own tale ; they had come, if not
too late, not one moment too soon. A massacre had clearly
uken place at the Fort, or was on the very eve of taking place,
unless they could arrive just in time to relieve it. Here, a smok-
ing oil-mill lay burnt to the ground ; there, a settler's cottage
stood out with charred walls, and roofless, skeleton timbers ; ,
yonder, again, a mutilated corpse on the dusty roadside told how '
the Kabyles had wreaked their vengeance, with hideous disfigure-
ments, on some inoffensive colonist. One night had sufiiced to
lay in ashes the result of many years' active toil — the valley of
St. Cloud spread, before their eyes one vast scene of sudden and
wretched desolation.

On their road, however, they met with little or no opposition. ^
Only on the pass just below the village of the Beni-Merzoug, .
••vhere Meriem and Eustace had in vain endeavoured to force
their way, a strong body of Kabyles held the gorge in force. ,
But a twenty minutes, skirmish with superior arms of precision
sufficed to dislodge these ill-equipped foes, and the little column
passed on upon its way unmolested to the Col that overhung the
St. Cloud valley.

It was there that the full extent of the mischief wrought by
the insurgents broka with a flash upon their horrified eyes. As
they gazed into the ^\en, where once.the Fort and village gleamed *■
white in the centre, no sign of the settlement seemed for a '
moment to remain anywhere. All they could make out was a
confused mass of living and moving creatures — the swarm of
Kabyles, like ants from an ant-hill, surrounding all that remained
of the tottering small fortress. ■: -. r-

Was St. Cloud itself demolished ? Did anything yet remain ?
Had they come too late to relieve and save that gallant little
garrison ? Or was there still a remnant left fighting hard to
the death against tremendous odds for life and honour and the • '
fair fame of the fatherland ?

From the Col they could hardly yet make out for certain ; but .
the frequent shots that echoed through the hills showed that ^^
fighting of some sort was still going on. Unless, indeed, the
Kabyles were now engaged, after their wont, in massacring the \\
prisoners after a surrender I

The reheving column charged at a double down the slope of
the hill, resolved at least to avenge the memory of their slaugb-
rored fellow-countrymen.

TBI TENTS or SHEM.

25S

;• \

In the Port meanwhile afTairg l:ad corne to th« last gasp.
Ammunition, wasted like water in that sharp fight, was begin-
ning to give out. It was a question of sabres and bayonets now.
Let the rebels come on I They must sell their lives dearly, and
then — all would soon be over.

The women, crouched and huddled together in a mass on the
hot terrace, were silent at last in mute expectation. Even
Madame I'Administratrice found her courage fail ; she crouched
Avith the rest and uttered not a word, but gazed av/ny to the west
with a yearning heart towards tlie Col of the Beni-Merzoug,

Presently Iris looked up and spoke.

" What's that cloud," she cried, " coming over the Col — away

yonder on the left ? Do you see it ? Do you see it More

Kabyles, I supposo. Oh, mother, they'll soon swarm over us."

Madame shaded her eyes with her hand and looked. For a mo-
ment she hesitated. Thev were hard to make out. She dared not
behave her own eyes. Then all at once, in their hour of deliver-
ance, her calmness broke down and her nerve forsook her. The
\toman within her, so long repressed, and repressed artificially,
by that theatrical courage, burst forth with a rush in its natural
womanhood. She fell upon Iris's neck, sobbing, with a wild and
hysterical flood of tears.

" They're Zouaves I '* she cried, flinging her arms madly
round her English friend, " they're Zouaves I 1 can see them,
I can tell the uniform. I can recognize the even red line of
march I I can make out the flag ! Nons smiirnes sauces, saiives I "
And she kissed her a'.'ain and again on both cheeks in a frantic
outburst of pent-up feeling.

At that very instant, along the opposite hill, a second column
appeared above the crest, in a cloud of dust from the direction
of Fort National. A cry burst forth with eager energy from all
those watching women's lips,

" Les Chasseurs, les Chasseurs I Mere d* Dieu I Notia sommea
sauves."

Madame I'Administratrice waved her handkerchief wildly
round her head in triumph. With a burst of joy she rushed to
the trapdoor, and shouted aloud to her husband beJow,

** Hippolyte ! Ilipi^olytel One minute longer I Hold out for
your lives I We shall b.^at them yet 1 Two columns are coming.
Zouaves and Chasseurs ! We have them between two fires.
One from Tizi-Ouzou ! The other from Fort 'witionall "

A few moments later all was changed ns if by magic. On
either side a body of trained and drilled French soldiers was

T,1^\'-'^

2ff6

TBS TXMT8 OV 8HXM.

charging with fixed bayonets the wearied mob of irre^lar I^a-
byles. For a quarter of an hour the din and smoke and turmoil
were indescribable. Hideous shrieks went up to the noondav
sky. Short swords were brandished and rifles fired. A frightful
meUe of slaughter ensued. Then the noise slowly died out to a
few stray shots, and ceased at last. The women on the roof
breathed freely once more. The Kabylea were surrounded — dis-
armed — taken prisoners I

Under the charred remains of the burnt gate, the two com-
manders of the little reheving columns came up with smiles on
their scarred faces, and gave their hands to M. TAdministrateui'.
M. I'Administrateur, all blood and powder, grasped them warmly,
with his own left. The right hung limp and idle by his side.
The women had crowded do^vn, now their terror was reheved, to
welcome their deliverers. Madame I'Administratrice, herself
once more, bounded up to kiss both her husband's cheeks openly,
coram populo.

** Hippolyte/' she nried, with genuine admiration, " your wife
is proud of you I You fought them well. I didn't believe, moji
ami, you could fight Uke that I I'm glad we're not licked by these
dogs of Eabyles.

Iris gazed forth, in fear and trembling, for the two among the
party who most interested her personally. Was Uncle Tom safe ?
and — was Mr. Blake not further wounded ?

Presently: from the black and grimy mass of humanity by the
gate, there disengaged themselves two very dusky, much torn
objects, in the shape of men, but with clothes and fe&tures
scarcely distinguishable for dirt and tatters. Their faces were
ingrained with dust and ashes ; their garments were torn ; their
general appearance was a cross between a sweep and a London
scavenger. One wore what had once been an evening suit ; but
his tie was gone and his shirt-front was far from being spotlessly
white. The other had his elbow looped up with a pale blue scarf
— Iris's own scarf, fastened round it last evening. It was with a
start that she recognised her two brave heroes. How prosaically
dirty and hot they looked 1 The gallant defender would do well
as a rule, in fact, if he washed and dressed before presenting
himseK in person, to receive on the spot the thanks and con-
gratulations of rescued beauty.

Uncle Tom " came up smiling,*' however, in spite of ovory-
thing.

" My dear," he cried, kissing her through all his dirt, " I've
been perfectly astonished. I'd no conception these Frenchmen

to
Ir
ht
h(

^1^^

tHJI TINTB OF SMSII.

117

could fight like deyils, as they've been doing txiis morning I By
George, Iris, no British army could have fought more pluckily I
But it's hot work, I can tell you, Amelia, precious hot work ;
a long sight hotter, for a man of my weight, than even lawn*
tennis."

As for Vernon Blake, it must be candidly admitted that he
took a mean advantage of the situation. For, as he grasped
Iris's hand with his own burnt and grimy fingers, by that
hard-contested gate, he murmured so low that only she could
hear, " And do vou still insiat, then, I must marry th« Kabyle
girl?-

■>».

. ccn-

THUi lANl'll OM MUKM.

CHAPTER XLL

SnrOULAA DISOOVEBY AT SIDI &U. , \.

At Algiers town, meanwhile, in Dr. Yate-Westbury'a commo-
dious villa on the Mustapha slope, Harold Knyvett found hiuiHcll
in the lap of luxury. With Sidi Aia conveniently next door, for
the full development of his recondite plans, and old Sarah do-
lighted to show every attention to Sir Arthur's nupliew and Miss
Iris's cousin ("God bless her pretty face, the dear young lady ! "),
the lines had indeed fallen to him in pleasant places. lie could
endure with equanimity even that old bore Yate-Westbury's in-
fernal chatter about self-concentration and the origin of insanity,
when he knew it all wafted him every day so much the nearer
to the accomplishment of his grand scheme for acquiring the
estate and bringing Miss Iris down upon her bended knees
(metaphorically) before him.

For h ^ loved that woman I He must have that woman ! He
would hb able her in the dust, and then make her marry him I

So he worked in the dark, underground, like a mole, surely
and silently.

But the worst of the mole ia, it only sees what takes place he-
Death the surface.

" I want you to come over with me this afternoon, Yate-
Westbury," he said at luncheon one day, discounting his triumph,
" and have a good look round again at those Moorish antiques in
my uncle's villa, or, rather, in Iris's. I can't quite make up my
mind what I should do with that alcove in the drawing-ro'^-
if the house were mine. The point's unimportant, perh
unimportant, I admit — considering the purely hypothetical i «
of the supposition ; but still, as a simple matter of taste, I wu^it
to settle it."

The famous specialist looked hira through and through at a
single glanch vviih hie keen, quick vision. " Got a remote eye on
the heiress, eh ? " he said, siiarply. *' Well, you might do worse
for yourself m the end liian ui.a i) )uur cousin. A dae girl with

THJB TENTS OF SHKM.

250

fine property ; though I'm novcr in favour myself, if it comei

timt, of consanp;uineous marriages."

'larold laughed a short, self-cornplacent Httle laugh "I'li

.lit the notion of reuniting the family has sometimes, more or

■t vuguoly, crossed my mind," he answered, with a satisfied

lirk. •' It has many advantages, "'he girl would suit me,

le villa would suit me, and the money would suit me down to

'le very ground. From several points of view, in fact, a

ational man might take the match into bis favourable con-

ideration."

" And the girl? " Dr. Yate-Westbury ventured to ask, with a

adden glance up at him from those searching eyes. " Might a

:iti:?nal girl take the match into her favourable consideration,

too ? ^Vould you suit her as well as she and the villa'd suit you,

I wonder ? "

Harold drew himself up to his full height, with somewhat

jlfonded dignity. Those doctor fellows presume altogether too

lucli upon a mere professional and business acquaintance. " I've

.10 doubt," he answered, with stony politeness, " if I were to ask

•jy cousin to become my wife, my cousin would advise herself

■<]] under the circumstances before she rejected me."

Pr. Yate-Westbury changed the subject at once with medical

Iroituess. His patient was fumbling away quite too visibly

low at that unfortunate button. When a patient gels off on his

nervous hobby, the wise physician avoids dangerous ground by

diverting his thon'jhts with a jump upon dexterous side-issues.

"No doubt," .e echoed, "And the vii a's certainly very

liiirming, too. i iie,se pretty Moorish things would make any

liuuso beautiful. Did you go in for many purchases in the town

i.his mornmg ? It's a quaint old place, and fuU of interest,

i.^n't it ? "

" Why, I hardly knew whether 1 was standing upon my head
•r my heels," Harold answered, with ti'^^h. " One's first visit
o the East's a perfect revelation. EjveryiJulz^ Oriental's so
loliciounly new. I felt as if Algiers was one huge kaj'jidoscope,
ind I was one of the little loose glass pieces rattling about insiilc
t. The colour, the din, the change, the excitement, are all so
Irange. And yet in a wa,y, too, so curiously familiar ! Tin
•ople nd things one has read about fron. one's child^ ■ 'i '
^itside, this is apparently to the naked eye tl e Xin(^t(eiir
iry ; in the narrow old alleys of the native town. I iMun '
1 1 at once transported at a bound on some euciiauteu carpet l.
,iiu Bj "dad of good Haroun-al-Raaehid."

260

TIIK TKXTS P' *<IIKM.

Did you go into any of the shops ? " Yate \\'(stl""-' i^lteu
still observing him closely.

" Oh, yes ; rather. Your man Ahmed took me into one in
the Rue 4e la Lyre; Abder-er- Rahman's, he called it ; the nanit.
clone's worth all the money, i was quite taken aback when i
got inside— a dim old Mooris! liouse, you know, with ii tiled
court yard and ISaracenic arcade, and piles of rich Orieutal stufifa
lying about loose everywhere, and pierced brass lamps hanging
down from the roof, and an abstruse air of the ' Arabian Nights '
pervading mysteriously all the quaint surroundings."

•' And yopi bought largely ? "

" Bought largely ! my dear sir, it's a place to spend thousands
in. My first idea, when I turned over those great piles of Alger-
ian embroideries, and Persian saddle cloths, and Tunisian silks,
with my fingers itching, was to telegraph over at once to my
lawyer in London, * Sell out everything instanter at close market
prices, and forward the proceeds to this address iox immediate

investment in Oriental needlework I ' Yes, I bought a

good deal — some Tlemcen rugs, and several nice brass and silver
inlaid trays, which I mean to put up over the front arch of the
red room — when — when — " and he broke off suddenly.

" When you marry the heiress ? " Yate-Westbury suggested,
with a meaning smile.

Harold had checked himself with an involuntary start. It
was Ro hard to anticipate the discovery of the will — that will he
himself knew so well already. •• When I marry the heiress," he
repeated mechanically^ " Yes, yes, of course, when I marry the
heiress." And that unlucky button twisted round and round
wi^ih infinite twirls in his tremulous fingers, till it was in immi-
nent danger of breaking away from its moorings bodily.

" 1 like the way they do business here," he went on with an
effort, trying to appear at his ease once more, and to talk with
his usual glib Pall Mall readiness. " I like the quaint flavour
of antique life about the fat impassive old Moor in the embroid-
ered jacket who keeps the bazaar, and puffs his cigarette in a
dignified repose that seems to imply customers and telegraphs
and price lists are not. My friend Abd-er-Rahman, in fact,
conducts affairs even now in the stately old style of the one-
eyed calender, when time was not yet money, nor were mer-
chants shopkeepers ; when to buy a brass tray was a commer-
cial treaty between two high contracting parties, and to chaffer
for a lamp or qji embroidered portiere was a di]plomati9 evfat to
be duly solemuiged by prigrer and festivities."

llsr.

VBE TENT9 OF SHEM.

201

" Ani you go!, -.vli;;! ; om w.intc.l '? '" Y;ite-Westbury A9ke4 s-gftin
luriously.

Harold's mouth twitched with a more nervoiif twitch than evei

s he re[)li€d, in a studied mook«cfurele89 tone, " Oh, ^hat key ;

(38 — to i!ie singular draw of my ^ncle'8 davenport, you mean.

vh, ol cuiu-ae, I remember. WeU, I'm not quite sure. I hunted

p a buudie cf skeleton keys at the serruner's in the town, and I

aru say one of them may happen to fit it. J3ut it's not of muoh

)nsequ6nce whether it does or not, thank you. I've no right,

iideed— except 9"< a cousin — to go poking at^put Iris's house in

ler absence. {Still it's queer nobody should have noticed tliat

'rawer in the davenport. My uncle told me he always kept his

I lost important papers there." And as he spoke, the buttqn at

ist came fairly off in his irrepressible fingers.

After lunch, they lighted their cigars and strolled out upon the

iwn, and Harold drew on his seemingly unsuspecting ccimpanion

y casual side paths towards the garden gate at Sidi Aia. The

octor followed with suspicious eyes. They walked up the drive

lid into the central hall. There Harold began pointini? out the

iirious places in the house and grounds where he would effect

•^lmdry alterations and improvements of his own " if tlie property

were his/' and to fiddle in between whiles with his bunch of keys

iit the rusty old locks of that recalcitrant davenport. How he

hugged himsqlf on the cleverresa with which he had already

concealed witliin it the — well, the other will, and then made

Yate-Westbury, willy'txillji an unconscious accomplice in the act

of finding it.

" They'll none of them fit," he cried at last, flingingthe bunch
iway from him in a pretended ill-temper. •• Alter all, it's no
business of mine to look. Iris can try, if she cares to investigate,
when she coinea down from the mountains."

He knew already that Yate-Westbury prided himself not a
little upon his mechanical skill, and delicacy of wrist. ♦• Let me
have a try,", the doctor said, taking the keys q' \te unsuspiciously
from the table where Harold had flung them. " A gentle twist
often succeeds in these cases where strength and violence are
thrown away to no purpose."

" You can try if you like, but they wou't fit." Harold
answered, pettishly, suppressing his anxiety, and feeling with
vague fingers for the abolished button.

Thus challenged to the trial, and put upon his mettle, Yate-
Westbury began with the bunch systematically, and pushed each
key in, one after tho other, till he came to the original identical

262

THB TENTS OF 8HSM

skeleton that Harold had added to the ring in the aolitudA of hi'^
own room just before luncheon. '

It turned in the lock without the slightest difficulty, as well i
night, seeing that the wards and hlanks of each had been fittci
lo the other from the very beginning.

Yatp-Westbury pulled out the slide entire. It wai a qmcr
little drawer— a secret drawer — stuck inconspicuously at one side
of the davenport, and with its lock concealed by an obtrusive pi< cc
of ornamental brass work. Nobody knew of its existence, indeed,
pave only Harold, who had bought this very davenport of set
purpose a year or two before at a shop in Wardour Street, and
p^nt over to Algiers as a present to his uncle, with the acute idea
that such a receptacle might happen some day, in case of an
pmergency, to come in bandy. He had locked the drawer and
kept the key himself as a measure of precaution lest anythiny
alien should ever get into it. So deep and long beforehand ha- 1
he provided against contingencies. He prided himself not a
iittle in that moment of triumph on his extraordinary prudence
and his judicious forethought.

The specialist sat down in an easy chair in the corner, and
I'pgan to inspect at his leisure the contents of the drawer.

" What have you there, doctor V ifarold asked, banteringly,
with assumed carelessness. "Gold and silver and precious
stones 1 The wealth of Ormuz and of Ind, 1 suppose. Or is it
only Sir Arthur's youthful love letters and other waste paper?"

" Bills," Yate-Westbury answered, turning over the papers
1 osely with his incautious hand, " bi Is, bills — mostly receipted. '

And so they were. For Harold had been at the pains to
acquire, by purchase, a large number of those incidental
accompaniments from hia uncle's valot, all dated Aix, to givt
K I eater vraisemblance to the discovery of the will.

''Nothing more than thati" Harold asked, with clever and
Well-assumed disappointment, "I expected at least a great
Iloggarty Diamond I"

"Nothing more than that," the doctor responded, cheer-

liilly, "Pour acquit on every one of them Stoi>.

"ere, what's this ! That looks rather more promising. ' Wdl ol
M.ijor General Sir Arthur W^Uesley Knyvett, K.C.B.' Whew —
I say ! Here's the old gentleman's la-t will and testament ....
Why this can't be the will they proved in London. What was
the date of that one, I wonder 1 . . . . This concerns you.
Knyvett 1 You'd better look into it."

Harold came over with a£Pected nonchalanee, hia fingers

niS TBNTS or SHBMU

268

and

frmtching horribly none the less all the while, and the corners ol
his mouth quivering hard with excitement. He looked over
Yate-Westbury's shoulder as the doctor read. The great
specialist whistled low and long to himself as he saw the terms
of the strangely recovered document. " By Jove," he cried,
looking up, " this is luck for you, Knyvett ; * Revoke all former
wills absolutely, and leave my entire estate, real and personal,
without remainder, to my dutiful nephew, Harold Knyvett, of

the Board of Trade, London, Esquire,' Then, my dear

fellow — there's no mistake about it — you're the owner of Sidi Aia
yourself, after all. Upon my soul, I congratulate you — I con-
gratulate you."

In the triumph of the moment, the room swam round about
Harold Knyvett's brain. His plot had succeeded, succeeded to
the letter I Everything had turned out exactly as he intended !
Yate-Westbury, not he, had found the missing will. No tinge
of suspicion would ever now attach to hisvname. Not even that
old fool, Tom WliitniArsh himself, could find any flaw in the
wording or the attestation — all had been done in strict accord-
ance with the simplest and moc« indisputable forma laid down in
Lord St. Leonard's excellent little handbook. He felt himself

already the monarch of all he surveyed at Sidi Aia He

had Iris at his feet I She must marry him or be beggared I

For a minute he could hardly gasp out in jerks a few inarticu-
late words to the doctor, " You'd better keep it You

found it, not I It must be duly proved, and all that

sort of thing. .... Till then, it should remain in your posses-
sion."

" A worse thing to have happened to him, in his frame of
mind," Yate-Westbury said to his assistant that night, as they
sat alone together in his httle consulting-room, " I can hardly
imagine. "Whether he forged it or whether he found il doesn't
much matter. In either case, the episode's deplorable — simply
deplorabie. He was on the very verge of acute dementia, even
before the will turned up. This miserable excitement will upset
everything. Vnd qow, no doubt, hail come into th* property a
caving liuuaUo."

was
you.

na tfeNti Of iBut.

CHAPTER XLIIi

PBBTENOB OR REALITT I

i-.-^

; -^ • .•'

.5 /rrt"-*

■•:vii

Tn tho dead of the night — of that same awful night— Haroli'!
Kn^vett lay upon his bed awake, and heard the clock on Yate-
''^'eatbury'B stairs clang out the hours, one by one, monotonouslv
A dreary old clock, with a cracked voice. So long and terrible a
twenty-four hours he had never known ; they dragged their slow
length with relentless deliberation. His accomplished crime
was beginning 'already its Nemesis upon him.

One of Yate-VVestbury's patients kept him awake — a joor mad
woman, chattering and moaning !

Weary at last with much copsing and turning, , he rose up, and
I • ked out of the little Moorish arcaded window, The moon-
-ht was pouring, in full pale green floods, on the white walls
Ml d flat roofs of Sidi Aia next door — his house, his own house,
^^hiphjie had procured for himself by his own wise forethought,
tiiicl his own clever handicraft. That bad old man Sir Arthur
^^co^t'ound him lor a coward !), had never had the c6urage to do
ihe right thing, and to make a plain will, in accordance with
vommon honesty and friehdliness and justice, Hut never mind ;
he, Harold Knyvett, had taken the matter boldly in hand, like
a man of mettle, and shrunk not from the terrors of the law, or
the commnuplaces of morality, in his determination that sub-
stantial right should at la.st be done him. With infinite skill
Hud patience and boldness, out of the nettle Danger had he
plucked for himself the flower Safety.

The moonlight played exquisitely upon those high white walls
of Sidi Aia. The shadows of the arches came out by contra^t iu
delicate tones of faint gr'^'U ; the capitals of the pillars gleamed
bright and beautiful with silvery radiance. Anything more
lovely in its way he had never seen. So romantic, so poetical,
po fit for himself and Iris to live in : for the intoxication q£ love
(or what answered to it in Harokl Knyvett's nature) was mixed
now in his brain with the meaner intoxication of accomplished
villiany. And it vras all his, his ; he had secured it for himself ;

THX TKMia or SHSM.

866

-j^

he had carved hia own fortune with his own bold hand ; h« had
made himself, at one blow, rioh, unassailable, muoh to be
envied.

Happy, happy, happy, Harold t Rich, unassailable, muoh to
be envied !

But sleep he could not, for all his wealth. The excitement
had driven away drowsiness from his eyelids. He lay down once
more on his bed uneasily and tried to escape from that flood of
thought that inundated his consciousness with teeming
images. His brain whirled round and round in a fever of think-
ing. He must repeat something over and over again to calm
and appease that internal whirlwind. He must say A B C a
hundred times over, according to the old formula, or picture to
himself sheep leaping over a gate, or count his fingers till he was
tired and drowsy. All, all, alas ! of no avail ! ABC became
to him a romantic tune, and set itself mentally to an air of Men-
delssohn's. The sheep that leaped over the gate figured them-
selves vividly as individual pictures, in every conceivable ovine
variety of fleece and attitude. The ends of his fingers as he
counted them to himself seemed instinct with extraordinary and
unnatural sensitiveness — too much alive, he somehow imagined,
like his brain itself, whicii .vaa working too hard for the fibres
that composed it.

And then, in a vague, dieainy, unrelated way, he thought of
those words Yate-^Yestbury was fond of repeating so often —
Yate-Westbury, with his odious professional habit of regarding
all mankind as potential lunatics. " Madmen live a great deal
too fast : their nervous system burns itself out at the rate of
three days in the twenty-four hours. "

Not that he for one moment applied them to himself. He
merely recollected them in a dreamy way as an apt illustration
of his present state. He was so excited and overwrought with
this one absorbing plan of action that his mind, too, like the
madman's, in spite of its clearness, was working too fast and
working too vividly. Images and ideas crowded in upon him
with wild haste one after the other. He saw and heard and
felt and thought with abnormal keenness and mtensity of sensa-
tion.

Not, again, that he was insane, or anything like it. Oh, no,
uadeed, He had never thought things out more logically or
consecutively in his life. He was, if anything, saner than usual
—perfectly collected, sensible, clear headed. Ideas came to him
now with a force and directness they }xad never before in his life

266

THB T£NT8 OF BHEM.

posseased. He could see tlirongh a brick wall, so piercing wa.^
his vision. No clouds or mists obscured liis mental sight. And
he was brilliant, too — undeniably brilliant. Efe thought he
could write poetry in hia present mood — he, who had hitherto
despised it aa mere sentimentality. At any rate, he talked aii
day long yesterday, with tliat pompous old fool for sole hearer,
a.s he had never before talked in the most sparkling drawing
rooms of London society. As a rule, one requires an audience to «
stimulate one. Dut not so now. Such point, such repartee,
sucli wit, such scnitillations ! He had fairly astonished himself
throughout the day by his own perfect fluency and flashes of
inspiration.

Yet somehow he wished to goodness he could only get Yate-
VVestbury's perpetual small-talk out of his head this evening.
That man's stock remarks seemed to dog and haunt him.

" You need never be afraid of going mad," the fellow said, " if
you think you're going mad. It's when you feel yourself sanest
that you're most in danger. People in the incipient stages of
insanity always flatter themselves that never in their hves were
they so lucid and coherent. They mistake the perfect clearness
and vividness of their morbid impressions for exceptional sound-
ness and sobriety of thought. They imagine themselves
cleverest when they're really maddest."

Hang it all I Would the man never get off his horrid hobby- :
horse ? What could be more depressing to a sane person —
such as himself — than this incessant harping upon the symp-
toms of insanity I Do we all of us want to be always mad-
hunting ?

But, oh, for a sleep, for a moment's sleep I How his eyelids
burned and tingled and smarted I So rich, so successful, and
yet no sleep! The words roused a latent cloud in his memory.

" Sleep, gentle sleep, nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted
thee ? " How well he remembered learning those lines long
ago at Winchester I It was on a half-remedy afternoon, he
recollected as distinctly as if it were yesterday ; and he took out
the book with him to Moab to learn his piece (they called it
Moab because it was the lavatory, and •• Moab is my wash-
pot ") ; and the Prefect of the Tub caught him sneaking away
there, and sent him back with the book, whimpering, to his ■
scob ; how near it all seemed 1 how vivid I how Ufe-like I

And then his imagination wandered off once more by devious
trnc ks to those old Winchester days in all their freshness. So
many little things crowded back on his memory. He remem-

TBI TKNT8 OP SHEM.

867

'» I. tl how hfl liad chiselled the Prefect of the Hall out of half-a
I" > II outt (lay, on u transaction in stamps, by selling him a

M nor wdodcut imitation, removed from a catalogue, for ;
liwaiian two-cent; and how the Prefect, when he found ou
he iii^M'tiioiis fraud, had niiide him eat the catalogue entire, t(
!iH (hHtiiict imperilraont of his previous digestion. Paper is su
••ly, vury jiinutritious 1 He remembered how the Posers came
lown from Oxford on the Tuesday after St. Thomas's Day ; and
how thuy worn greeted ad porta* with a Latin oration by the
senior HuholarH ; and how he himself had sent in a first copy of
verHua to the Posers which tiecured him the Exhibition ; and
liow, being uncertain about the gender of ventis, he had written
tliG adj«!ctivo intended to agree with its accusative in so doubtful
a way that you might make it either validum or validam, accord-
ing to the taste or fancy of the reader. At vim voce, the Poser
handed him tJie paperacross the table and asked him severely in
I Htorn voice for which it was meant ; and Harold, having settled
chu point artfully with the dictionary meanwhile, answered in
accordauco with his later knowledge, of course, in a surprised
tone, 80 winning the Exhibition by his cuteness from that dull
follow, Parker, who had fallen into exactly the selfsame trap,
hut had written bo plainly (like a fool as he was) that the Posers
never hoaiiatod for a moment to detect his error. Parker was
ilway^i a poor spiritless creature. He was slaving now on a
hundred a year as a curate in Hampshire, while he, Harold, by
his energy and skill, was the master of Sidi Aia and a splendid
fortune I

Parker's scob was 270. •' Scob " was " box " in Winchester
alang. Tlje paint was worn on the left-hand side. It was
^Miawed a bit on the cover within by a white mouse tliat Parker
tried to keep there for a pet without the knowledge of the com-
tnoners.

And then, In a horrible burst of revelation, these words of
Yate-WuHtbury's, in his •' Treatise on the Diseases of the Ner
\'ou8 Syatoin," camo back to hira with a rush : ** The patieni
exhibits a remarkable tendency in these sleepless periods todweh
with minute and exaggerated detail upon long past events or
diildiHh reminiscences. This symptom in particular I regard
as peculiarly indicative of approaching insanity ; when coupled
with a twitching of the fingers and involuntary movements of
the lips or facial muscles it is almost diagnostic of the incipient
iJta;.!:eH of acute dementia."

Aoute dttiuentia I Acute dementia t Acute dementia I With

268

Til£ TKMTI OV

a flash of recognition, in an rpny of terror, he saw it all. Ho
recognized the inevitabiti. For the first time in his life, he
realised, at one blow, the hideous fact that the symptoma he hai
heen simulating, or thought himself simulating, were all at
bottom really there. The twitching of the mouth, the nervous
movement of the hands and fingers, tlie forgetfulness of names,
of words, of phrases, the intense recollection of childish scenes 1
Great heavens, it was horrible, incredible, but true ! It was no
pretence, but a solemn reality 1 He was going mad with success
— with selfish triumph — with self-centred complacency !

Yate-Westbury's mad people were chattering up above there I
The idea flashed across him now with a horrible rividnesi : he
himself was only one of Yate-Westbury's mad people I

Then, for a single second, in a sudden outburst of inspired
self-revelation, as by an electric spark, the whole naked truth of
his own ingrained nature came home to him all at once in all its
vulgar and sordid hideousness. He was, indeed, just such a man
as Yate-Westbury pictured his ideal type of the insane tempera-
ment — cold, selfish, unfeeling, narrow ; incapable of expansive
or symp.^thetic thought ; careless of the good or ill of others ;
pursuing to the end with relentless calmness his own personal
schemes for his own personal aggrandisement. Not often is it
given us in a moment of truth to see ourselves for an indivisible
fraction of time in the vivid liglit of an awakened inner sense ;
but to Harold Knyvett, one of those rare moments occurred just ,
then among the paroxysms of insanity in the night watches.
For one lucid second, he knew himself mad; he knew himself
bad; he knew himself mean; he knew himself worthless. He
had wrouglit his own ill-will in his own vile way, and now, he
would be opulent, wealthy, a lord, a king — in a raad-house !

They could never take it away from him, even in a mad-house.
Come what might, he had at least humbled that girl Iris's pride,
and checkmated that meddling old fool Whitmarsh. He had
earned it all, with his own right hand I The property was his —
were it only in a raad-house I

Was it worth going through so much to win so little ?
" What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and
lose his own soul ? " And Harold Knyvett had lost his own
soul, in the most literal sense — ruined his intellect — destroyed
his reason I

He knew it, he felt it, in a revulsion of horror. If he could, he
would have burnt that vile forgery to ashes that one remorseful
moment. But he couldn't — he couldn't. Yate-Westbury had

11
s
a
a
s
a
h
h

«n TINTS or lUJlM.

%$9

i'ounc! It — Yate-Westbury was keeping It I Yat«-Westbury was
the guardian of that damning paper!

For hours he lay there and tossed in agonj. Mad, mad ! he
knew it. How horrible I how f/hr-stl' t

The other mad people, wprt' tin' i,i niipj up-stairs. Sidi Aia
would now be only his asylum.

Slowly the morning dawned oiice more — that morning thai
dawned on Eustace and Menem among the Djuijura slopes, on
Vernon lilake and Iris in the beitja^'uered fortress. The light
broke pink over tlie snow-clad mountains in the dim distance.
Harold Knyvett fell asleep of tnn-e fatigue. In his dreams, he
dreamt of Sidi Aia and riches.

When he woke again the ri).o.l was broken. Daylight brings
far other thoughts m its train. He laughed at his fears. Mad !
he wu • never more sensible in his life. A little nervoua twitch-
ing iii his lingers, no doubt ; but who wouldn't be nervous at
such a crisis ? Even if the symptoms were a trifle uncan?iy —
and he didn't deny he was somewhat excited — he would fight
a.L,'ainst them hard, and battle them down like a man, if neces-
sary. It is not good for man to live alone — Yate-Westbury
always advised marriage ; and when he was married to Iris at
last, why Iris would keep him straight and sane enough. A
lieautiful wife, and a splendid fortune I Mad indeed, says Yftt-e-
Wttituuryl Fool, doit, pig, idiut I

■''--"' <» "*-^ ■■ *v -'*-^- '■'' ^. .f" t V'* ■

-70

VUh. TAMTI Ot

CHAPTER XLm.

REVOLUTION.

In the Rest Honae at Beni Mansour the good Grey Sist«rs did
their best after the accident for Eustace Le Marchant. His
wounds, indeed, were less severe than might at first have been
anticipated, for it was rather the mere force of the concussion
that had rendered him insensible for the time being than any
distinct internal injury. Thanks to the softness of the sand and
the position in which he fell, no bones were broken. He was
weak and shaken with his terrible jolting, to be sure, but not in
any way permanently disabled.

For an hour or two he lay unconscious on She bed where the
sisters placed him ; then, about midday, he opened his eyes,
with a start, once more, and asked, feebly, in French, ••Where's
Meriem ? "

The sisters understood at once whom he meant.

•* Hush," one of them said, soothing his pillow gently ; •• yon
mustn't talk yet. You're far too weak for that. Mademoiselle's
in the next room. She's seriously hurt, but not, we hope, in
any immediate danger." - ,.

They took it for granted that Meriem, too, was a European,
merely disguised in Kabyle dress for purposes of safety.

*' Seriously hurt I" Eustace repeated with a gasp, raising him-
self all at once on his elbows in the bed. " Seriously hurt!
Why, what on earth has happened ? She didn't get in the way
of the train, then, did she ? "

•* She ran along the line, flinging up her arms in vain to
attract attention, for fear the engine should run over you," the
sister answered ; •* and the' train knocked her down, though it
did not crush her. But you must be tjuiel now. We can't allow
you to talk any more at present."

Eustace threw himself back, and lay quiet for awhile with the
greatest di£&culty. He was buruing to know how Meriem got

-. I

THS nCNTI or IHKU.

271

on. Ha wanted to see her, to assure himself of her safety. But
the sisters put him off from time to time with the formal report.
*• She's doing very well, but not yet conscious. You must leave
these things to us who understand tham. The doctor expects
her, with care, to recover."

Oh, but the hours seemed painfully long to wait, with Meriem
in danger so close at hand ; and with no possibility of getting
up to go to her I Yet it was some sad comfort to Eustace even
to think it was for his sake she braved that dnn^'er. For his
sake ? Well, perhaps not entirely that I Nay, lor Vernon's, in
the end, since upon Eustace's safety depended the chance of
relieving St. Cloud, and so saving Iris and Vernon.

Yet for the time being he ^1buld lay that flattering unction to
his soul, and believe it was partly for his sake she threw herself
so bravely before the approaching engine. He knew he would
have braved far more himself for her sake any day.

The hours moved on» wearily, wearily.

At last, towards nightfall, a sound of talking I He raised
himself up in the bed and listened. Through the open door
between the rooms, a faint voice came from Meriem's bedside.

" Can any one speak English ? " it murmured, plaintively.

A great joy throbbed through Eustace Le Marchant's soul.
It was Meriem's voice ; thin and weak, but Meriem's. Hia
heart leaped up into his mouth for delight 1 Thank heaven, she
was safe ! she was once more conscious 1

" I can, just a leetle," one sister replied, vnth a pretty twang.
*' What is zat you want ? Some drink ? some water ? "

The answer drove him wild with delight and astonishment.

" Is Eustace safe ? " Meriem cried out, eagerly. " The man
on the bridge. You know who I mean. Did he get across all
right ? Did the train run over him ? "

Eustace's heart gave one wild bound. ** Is Eustace safe f '*
were the first words she uttered I He could hardly believe his
ears for joy. What could be the meaning of so much anxiety ?
It was he, she first asked for ; himself, not Vernon. His cup
was full. It was he who came nearest to her heart that moment.

*• No, Le is not dead," the sister answered gently, in a sooth-
ing voice. " He has fallen from ze bridge upon soft ground
undemeas. He is shaken by ze fall and much hurted. But he
has no limb broken, we find, and he has not any danger."

•* Thank God I " Meriem cried. •• Where is he ? Where is
he?"

" In ze next room, close by," the sister answered, with a warn-

279

tu TBNVf 99 inai.

ing inflexion. ** But you must not go to him, my dtu ; yon trt

much too sick. He is your brozzer, zen, is he ? "

" Oh, no 1 " Meriem answered, with her mountain franknaii ;
" he's not my brother, He's only a friend — a very dear friend.
But I want to see him — I want to see him, oh, e';er so badly.'*

Her words sounded stranger and stranger in his ears. Eustaoe
could hardly take it all in. So much thought for him, so little
for Vernon.

There was a seoond'i pause, then Meriem spoke once more.
" Is there news from St. Cloud ? " she asked, anxiously, " Have
they relieved the Fort there ? "

"We know nozzing for certain yet? " the sister answered,
with patient gentleness. " We must wait and J earn ; it ii long
to hear. Ze Maire haai telegraphed zis morning to Tizi-Ouzou
to send assistance, and since zat time we heard nozzing. . . .
You have friends, at St. Cloud, perhaps;? Yon have brozzeri
zere ? — parents ? "

'• No»** Meriem answered once more, .with hor rllrect simplicity,
"but very dfiar £ciendsr-a cousin . . . . auU a lover."

Eustace's heart sank down aga>in to zejo. Yet wbftt else mi
earth could he. possibly have expected ? Her interest in him
was natural enough, of course; he was the last person. she had
seen befora her accidents— the one most recently left in direst
dimgex:. But that was all. He was only a friend. Yemon, her
lover, was still first favourite.

The doors throughout the Best House were all kept open (hot-
climate, fashion), as in almost all Algerian houses, and the con-
versation in the next room was distinctly, audible to him aa.if ii
had taken place at his own bedside.

-. Meriem seemed to fling herselt back on her pillow. " Well,"
she said aloud, but half musing to heraelf* "if Bustaoe ii.iafe, I
shall die happy."

**Zen he it a lover, too, ii he f* the sifter asked, quaintly,
with that not-ungraceful curiosity into the affairs of the heairt
which all. her kind often display, towardi that si^e of life they
have deUberately abandoned

"Well, a very dear friend," Meriem answered, v^ith. emotion,
" I don't know how to call it. A vtry dear friend. I mu$t get
up and see^him at onc6. I refblly must. Oh, do, plfaielet
me get up now to visit him I "

."No, no»" the. aiiter answered, "you must lie where you art.
I cannot let you get up just now. It is against our rule. We do
not allow ze patients to move. You must not see hia."

THS - TENT* mW BHiCM.

178

For a long, long time nothing uiuie wuh said. Only ihe sound
of deep breathing oould be heard. At last Meriem broke tho
lilencu once more.

*' I wisli we could hear from St. Cloud," ihe said eagerly. "I

wonder whether Vernon's safe, an<l Iris And ray uncle. If

I lave ono, J may lose the other."

•• Zen you have an uncle at St. Cloud ? " the sister asked, with
interest.

•• No, not at St. Cloud," Meriem answered, simply. " That is
to say, not in the Fort, at least. Among the other party. He's
gone there to fight against the Christians, you know. He's t
Kabyle, of course. He's the Amine of the Beni-Merzoug."

Eustace fairly laughed in his bed with amusement at the voioa
of horror in which the good sister ejaculated,

" To fight against ze Christians I Your uncle a Kabyle I Ze
Amine of ze Beni-Merzoug I Mon Dieu, quel horreur ( Zen you
are not of our side — you are not an Englishwoman I "

•• No," Meriem replied, "or at least, only half one. I speak
English, but I'm Algerian born. My mother was a Kabyle, and
I've lived all my life up yonder on the Djurjura."

*• And him ? Ze gentleman sat fell on ze bridge — ze one zat
talk such perfect French — he is not Kabyle, he, too ? He is a
true European ? "

" He's an Englishman," Meriem said. •' A real Englishman.
And I must see him 1 Oh, tell me how he is ! Let me get up
this minute. I must, must see him I " - •

Eustace could stand the restrairit no longer.

•* Mericin," he cried out, in a voice that trembled and quivered
for joy, •* I'm alive I I'm here 1 I shall be all right soon. Fm
not hurt. There's nothing much the matter with me."

At the sound of that voice, that tremulous voice, Meriem rose
from her bed, uncontrollable now, and breaking into a sudden
toiTent of tears, rushed wildly towards the place whence the
words came. With one flood of emotion she burst into the room,
and flung herself in a paroxysm of joy and delight, upon
Eustace's bosom.

•• Eustace," she cried, in her uncontrolled passion, before that
wondering sister, " Eustace, I'm so glad I I'm so pleased I I'm
BO happy I Oh, Eustace, how could I ever have thought as I
did ? I see it, I see it all clearly now. It's come home to me
with a burst. I know my own heart. « • • » Oh, Eustace,
(liUsiace 1 I love you 1 I love you t '*

i
I

274

tax TKNTS or SHEM.

The Englishman's eyes were brimmed with teari. He brushes?

ohera away hastily with the Kabyle dress which he still wore.

' Meriem," he cried, pressing her close to his breast, " thia is

t,oa much joy. Tell me how it has all come aboui. Tell me all,

Meriem."

The Eabyle girl signed with her hand to the sister to go. The
nster, wondering and doubting, wiped her own bright eyes, just
limmed by most unprofessional moisture, and went regretfully,
for she would fain have lingered. Then Meriem gave free vent
to her happiness once more. She knelt down on the floor by
'ilustace'i bedside, and cried silent tears of joy and gratitude to
iee that he was alive and so little injured.

'* Meriem," Eustace said again, " tell me what all this means.
EIow .... have you so soon .... forgotten .
. . , Vernon ? "

Meriem flung her arms desperately around his neck in her
transport. " Vernon 1 " she cried, " Vernon 1 who talks so
of Vernon ? What made me ever think so much of that man, I
wonder ? As I stood there this morning, waiting to see you
jross the bridge, and that horrible, roarmg, devouring thing
came rushing headlong down the hill to destroy you, it burst
upon me Tke a flash of lightning, how mistaken I'd been, and
how foolish, and how wicked. I said to myself, • Oh, God, what
have I done I Have I risked his life, Eustace's life, that precious
life, for such a man as Vernon ? Why he's worth ten thousand
like Vernon Blake, and he loves me as Vernon could never love
iny one. And I love him, too, though I never suspected it.
Love him deep down in the depths of my heart I I'd give my
life up this moment freely, if only I could save my Eustace, my
Eustace.' And then, before the hateful thing could come down
and crush me, I remembered everything — all — all — Uke a flash ; it
loemed to come across me in a rush, like fire, how good you'd
been to me, and how kind and thoughtful, and how forgetful of
yourself, and how anxious for my happiness. And I said to
myself, •• Oh, if only I can save his life to-day, I'll tell him I

shall be his wife befora this evening's over And I've told

you now, Eustace, for I love you, I love yon ! " And she flung
herself passionately once more upon his shoulder.

•• And then ? " Eustace asked, in an ecbLacy of delight, but
repressing himself finniy.

'• And then, the great thing cnme rolling and roarin?? and
hisanng above ma, and I know nutlung more except that i loved
/oa and hoped I'd be in time to stup it and save yoa."

)ld

}Ut

!••■

ffHX TSNTB or SHIM.

ITI

Eustace's eyes were too blind to a^e, but he drew tbtt Leantifu]
girl's face down to his lips with one hard embrace, and kissed
her fall rich mouth, with eager fire, a hundred times over. For
that moment he would have risked ten thousand bridges. His
heart was full ; he had found the desire of many days; Meriem
was his and he was M'^riem's.

" And only a Kabyl m ijJLrl f* said the scandalised sisters, ai
ihey peeped in hushed awe, round the deaeciated dooxwaT

lli

■■*ii

fud

S76

KUJ£ XSMIH HM iUiii^iki.

•:'U-»

* i-V' ■>■

' ' )

j:>

Thkv sat ther*^ Iottt;. hand clasp'^d i'^ mmI, silently. They
jeded no vvurds tu tuil ilnir tale ul Ion. iie another. There
!re moments when silence is the proioii.iactrft eloquence. The
i^nglish toni^iie is a very Une mstrumeiii of rational thought ;
but a pressure, a thrill, speaks tlia soiil's own language far better
tliaii the English tongue can speak :t.

Aleriem's heart was one vast soa of wonder. Now that the

truth had flashed upon her so vividly, so intensely, she couldn't

herself understand how on earth she had managed to go astraj

and miss it. Eustace was a better man by far than Vernon —

nearer to herself, truer, nobler, worthier of her. As she fled

>ackward before the face of that rushing engine in the grey

lorning, she had seen it all, as one often sees to the very centre

id core of things in a great crisis. That night of despair in the

ountain-snow, that morning of peril and agony on the bridge

f the railway, had opened her eyes to his real tenderness and

•r real devotion. The danger she had braved for him made

■r love him. She bent over his hand now and kissed it fer-

ntly. She was ashamed of her blindness. The vivid picture

I'Aistrice in deadly peril on the bridge had roused her with f

ish to the consciousness of his worth. She knew she had

'losen Uie better man. Her heart was glad, but it beat too high

r one wjio has just escaped so pressing a danger.

She put up her hand to her breast, instinctively, to lull it.

itli a sudden thrill, it struck her that a familiar touch was

uiting. Day and night she had knowni it there so long. " My

arm I " she cried, feeling ahout her bare neck for that well-

lown trinket. But she didn't find it. The chain and box

id pendants were gone. Her face grew pale v/ith a terrified

illor. •* Oh, Eustace I " she burst out in an agony of fear,

I've lost them I I've lest them I What on ^iarth's become o-

hem?"

tan t1iX£H Of iHXll.

id'n

Eustaoe looked at her neck close, and saw ft deep red marli
pressed into the throat on the left side. It was the spot where
the fastening of the chain had evidently been driven by main
force against the collar-bone. " I think, Meriem," he said,
" the charm must have been wrenched ofiF by a wheel of the
locomotive, or caught in the engine when the train passed over
you. It's lucky, indeed, it was only that, and that it gave so
readily. If it had been your dress that caught, you'd have been
hurled on the rails and mangled terribly. You must have fallen,
with a very light fall, full in front of the engine, flush between
the rails, and the locomotive must have knocked you down, or
barely grazed you, and then passed over you without hurting
you any further."

Meriem burst into tears once more. " Yusuf put it on," she
cried, in sore distress ; "it was Yusuf 's last present. I loved it
for Yusuf . . . But that's not all. If it's lost, Eustace, some-
body else may perhaps find it ; and if it were ever to get into
bad hands — for instance, into that wicked cousin's of Iris's that
Iria told me about — I can't tell you what mischief might come
in the end of it."

Eustace laughed a merry laugh at her childish superstition, as
he naturally thought it. " My dear Meriem," he answered, with
a smile of superior wisdom he could hardly repress, " you don't
really believe your charm's so potent that Iris's cousin could
make witchcraft against her with it, do you ? What on earth
has your locket got to do with Iris's cousin ? "

Meriem looked back at him with a scared face. *' Its not
witchcraft," she answered, in all seriousness ; " it a the use he'd
make of it — the things he'd find in it. Oh, Eustace, I won't
teU you just now, I think, but perhaps — perha^js some day I'll
tell you. We must find that charm, whatever happens. I
wouldn't for worlds have it lost or mislaid, or let it get into that
bad man's hands. He could use it to do so much harm to Iris."

Eustace fancied he could guess her meaning vaguely, but
refrained from asking any questions for the present.

All the rest of that day Meriem remained in a most uneasy
frame of mind about the loss of the locket, and was eager to be
allowed to go out and hunt for it. That course, however, the
professional nursing instinct of the sisters most emphatically
vetoed, and she was forced to obey them by mere powerlessness.
Early next morning, tidings arrived of the relief of Bt. Chmd ;
but the news that Iris and Vernon were safe only seemed to
increase Meriem'g anxiety as to her lust trinket. " The very

"'I- ■ •

■ lO

THB TKNTS OF BHBM.

first moment you're well enough, Eustace," she said many times
over, with great earnestness, " we must go out and huat up and
down t!ie line for Yusui' s locket."

Still they were happy days for Men'pm, those days at the Rest
House, in spite of the terril)le driblets of news which came in
to them slowly from time to time of the desperate fighting and
repulse in the mountains. Many of Meriem's childish friends
had been killed in the action, as she learnt by degrees ; while
the Amine himself, the ringleader of the revolt, with Hu'^sein,
Ahmed, and the Beiu-Merzoug marabout, had lied to the South
to the free Nomad tribes on the border of the Desert, where they
were practically safe from French intervention. lUit the more
Meriem heard of that awful outbreak, the less and less did the
Kabyles seem to her mind like her own people.

•• I can go away with you ever so much more easily now.
Eustace," she said one day, a,s she listened with a face of horror
to the ghastly details of the massacre he translated to her from
the Depeches Ahii'rienves, while he lay on his sofa by the open
window. '* I have no part with them left. I would never live
among those wicked people. It would have killed me with shame
if mv tribesmen had killed Vernon and Ins."

" I'hen you won't be afraid to come with me to England ? "
Eustace asked, half doubtful.

Meriem folded her hands meekly. *• Wherever you like. Eus-
l,ace," she said, with tliat perfect trustfulness a true woman
rej)()se8 in the man who has once succeeded in winning hei
lieaj-l from her.

There was a little pause. Then Meriera sai<d a!::ain, leaninr^
over him close, " You know you're marrying only a poor penni-
less Kabyle girl, Eustace, don't you ? I've renounced all claim
to that great soldier's property who died in Algiers. I promised
that much to Ins that day at I3erii-Mer/oug, ;ind I won't go
back upon it now — not even for your sake, Eustace."

Eustace smiled a quiet smile of aci[uiescen(te. " I know that
well, dearest," he answered, taking l,ier hand in Ins. " I shall
love you all the better if I can work for yi)u aiw.'vs, and feel you
owe everything you have in the world to me. Let Miss Knyvett
keep her money to herself. She and Vernun have more need
of it than you and I will have." ;

Meriem pressed his hand tenderly with naive frankness. Rh"e
had never learnt the coquetry or the reserve of our civilised
wcinng. Pier heart spoke out its own language freely.

" Tken lome day," she said, " i shall teil you why I must

TUB TKNTg OF SHEM.

270

find the missing locket. You can guess, perhaps; but T don't
understand it all, even myself. I only know that if that bad
man were ever to get it, he might do more harm than I can tell
to Iris."

As he spoke, Eustace took up the Deppches he had been hold-
ing in his hand loosely by his side witli a cry of astonishment.
A name in its columns had rivetted his attention on a casual
side glance. ,,

" Why, Meriem," he exclaimed, in blank wonder, " the man's
in Algiers! He's stopping this minute at a house at Mustapha —
Lhe very place, you know, where Miss Knyvett has her villa.
See here, it just caught my eye by pure accident ae I Jiappened
to look down. 'Visitors' List.' That's it. 'Villa Rossine,
Mustapha ; Harold Knyvett, Esq., Dr. F. Yate-Westbury.' "

" What does it mean ?" Meriem asked, in vague wonder.

•• It means mischief, I'm sure," Eustace answered, slowly.
" It means he's at Algiers. The man's come over here, you may
be perfectly certain, to juggle the estate away from Miss
Knyvett."

Meriem rose up in a paroxysm of alarm. " Can you got up,
Eustace ?" she asked, eagerly. We must go out. We mutt go
ind find dear Yusuf's locket."

How English she was after all in her heart I She had never
cared but for three men all her life, and all three were English-
men. The Kabvle was but the outer husk ; the heart and core
were Enghsh of the English.

Eustace rose from his sofa and hobbled out to help her. With
trembling steps they walked 'lown the ravine, and across a smail
ford one of the sisters showed them to the scene of the accident.
Eustace went down on his knees upon the lire by that well-
remembered spot, and hunted long and earnestly for the missing
lociiet. Not a trace con Id he find of it anywhere about. At last,
by the very sleeper wliere Meriem had been knocked down, he
discovered on the ground, by diligent search, two wrenched and
broken links of a silver chain. The locket itself then must have
been carried on further. Encouraged by this clue, they descended
the abrupt ravine once more, and searched the dry s^.ace beneath
the bridge with all eagerness and care ; but not a sign of the
charm could they discover anywhere. If it had dropt in the
centre and fallen into the river, it musl ha-ve been swept away
long since, no doubt, by the rushing torrent. At last, Eustace
sat down on the bank wearied and <lespairing.

" It's lost," he said, in a very despondent voice. •• Goot ajto-
ftther and left no traces, Meriem."

880

TBX TINTS OP 8HBM»

A ludden thought flashed across Meriem's brnfn. •• '"^ustftre,"
ih6 emd, seizing liii^ arm hurriedly, "the luvn on tjie ejigina
•vent back for me with their carriage, and brou<j;ht mo across the
i)ridge in the train, you remember. 1 wonder if they could iiave
uken it off my neck, on purpose ? Do yon think they d Iiave
stolen it ? Do you think they'd have kept it ? "

" We might make inquiries," Eustace answered, with a sicrh.
not over-hopeful of this new and forlorn clue. '• But 1 dun t
suppose, if there was anything of any value to any one in the
locket, they'd be particularly likely to give it up. We niifrjit otter
I reward, of course: the thing in itself — to anybody but you, J
mean, Meriem — would be worth a few francs at the outside as a
mere trinket. For half a Napoleon they'd probably i^e giad tu
give it back again."

That sura was untold wealth to Meriem, but she didn't pau^e
in her anxiety just tiien to notice it. " Oh, do you think.' siie
said, in a tone of deep distress, "do you think, Pjustnce, they'd
be likely to take it to that man at Mustapha, and sell il bo ban to
make wliat use he liked of it ? "

•* I don't see how on earth they could find him out," Eustace
mswered dubiously; "or, even if they did, how they could
I'lssibly know the locket had anything in the world to do with
iim?"

Meriem set her lips hard. " We must hunt it down," she said,

ivsolutely. •' We must hunt it down, however long it takes us.

[ couid never look Iris and Vernon in the face again unless I was

uite sure I hadn't broken mv word to them. I said to Ins that

lay, on the b ilside at Beni-Merzoug — 1 said it quite soleuinly

— • I don't want the money, Iria,' 1 said, it-e yours. Yoa

nay keep it.' And I wouldn't for the world Iris should e\cr think

1 tried to rob her either of that or of Vernon. Net that 1 grudge

ler Vernon now, of course, Eustace. My eyes are opened, and I

now better than that. But I want not to rob her of the monev

'ither, for I love her dearly. She's the only woman I ever nirt

in my lil'e wlio could treat me as she treated me. I love her tor

t, and it would break my heart if she were ever to tuaik I

v\'unted to rob her."

" I don't believe she could possibly think so," Enstnce
iMswered, with quiet confidence. " Nobody could ever look noon
\n\\T face, Meriem, and not see that you were truth and hout sty

Mu;iirii;lte."

Meriem's face flushed rosy red. *♦ Yusuf was like that," she
?aid, in her simple way. "I shall always be pioud to btt Lke
VuRufs dau{?hter."

i>—

)k>}

CHAPTER XLV.

ON THE TKACK.

(

'"• I 'TO brolvfln links he had found on tht railway line irre-
i- :.«i:,i.M/ 8U^'gustt)d to Eustace's mind the probahility that the
cliam as a whole, and the locket with it, must have heen oaunlit
by tho engine as It pnssed lightly over Meiiem's bo "v, torn from
hor at a wrench, and carried along f(;r an indefnut-o distance in
the dirootion of r>ouira. It was quite possible, inlcod, that tlie
entire omatnent mi;,dit still be clinging to some projecting screw
of the engine or buffers ; and the first question foi- l-Jhstace to
docide was, therefore, what particular locomotive had been at-
tached that day to the early morning train for Setif. If he could
find out that point, he might mtercept the engine at the station.
and examine its bottom and sides carefully.

Next morning, accordingly, as soon as he was able to find his
way on his own legs out into the village, he m;i(I'j inquiries of
the ofliciala as to the locomotive in question, 'i'l^e chef de c/ni''
was all French politeness ; it was the Avcnir de Aiivrie that drew
the train on the day Monsieur's most deplorable acei ent ; and if
MonHiour, who had rendered such signal service to the colony at
the risk of his life (for a telegram from the Governoi -General had
already conveyed to Eustace the public thanks for saving the
beleaguered garrison of St. Cloud) would have the goodness to
call at tho station to-morrow evening at 4.20, the Avenir de
CAifertH would be delayed for five or ten miimtes as it passed, so
that Monsieur might make a thorough search for the missing
jewellery. ♦• Mademoiselle wore dia-uiionda, no doubt," the cA«/
de (jan, luggef-'ted politely.

Eufltaf«< smiled. The notion of Meriera possessing Hurh pew-
gaws was too supremely ridiculous. Yet he could hardly say he.
was making all this fuss about a mere Kabyle box in rough white
inetal, studaed loosely on the lid with coral and lapis Uzuli.

•• It was not su much the locket itself," he replied, eviisively,
•* that Mademoiselle so highly valued, as the nature of the oon*
ieutti wiuoh he believed to be of singular and luu^^ v%lu« "

tHE TENTS OF SHXU.

The clxef d» gare nodded. The train should be delayed t!?en.
The colony was proud to manifest its gratitudo to Monsionr, who
had shown so much devotion in saving the lives of our follow-
citizcns.

But Meriem wag little consoled to learn that she must wait
another thirty hours or more before even a search could be made
for her missing toinket — Yusuf s last gift, and all that depended
apon it.

At 4.20 next day, Eustace presented himself duly at the station,
and with the help of the porters overhauled the locomotive and
tender thoroughly. They found but one trace there to reward
their pains — three or four more links of the broken chain, wedged
in between the gearing that supports the buffers.

That discovery impressed more than ever upon Eustace's mind
the hopelessness and vagueness of this wild-goose chase. Evi-
dently, the locket had been carried away by the locomotive, and
then dropped. They might have to look for it, bit by bit, along
the whole line from Algiers to Constantino, a distance which it
took thirteen hours for the fastest train in the day to traverse.

He went back to Meriem very ill-satisfied with the result of his
search. But Meriem, when she heard his report, clasped her
hands fervently, and answered with all the energy of her simple
nature, " We must search the whole line as soon as I'm v/ell
enough, if we have to tramp from here to Constantine to do it.
Not for world/j would I let that locket go into the hands of any-
body who might try to use it against Vernon and Iris."

It was a dismal look-out, but Eustace tried to face it. His
strength returned much faster than Meriem's. In a day or two,
indeed, be was able to venture out for a longer walk along the
line, which he followed for a mile or so in the direction the loco-
motive had taken on the morning of the accident. He thought
it probable the locket would have been dropped before the train
had gone many minutes on ; and in effect, about the third
kilometre from Beni-Mansour, he came to his delight upon the
broken lid, with its well-known decoration of rough blue stories
and red bosses of jewellery. Where the lid was found, the box
itself and its contents could not be very far distant. Following
up tb« line a few hundred yards further, he soon perceived the
remibmder of Meriem's much-prized necklet, with the locket
attached, lying between the ties in the middle of the rails. He
eanght it up aoid examined the contents eagerly. They were all
oafa — and Um secret was out He iowaA. four or fivo small
ifBjunMi «f Iknt fontipi cto t e ^frnf i em. M4o4 m fmCcUdiod wttib

XUK TENTS or SUBM.

fl88

acmpulous <'^rp jn^t tn fit tlifl box, and apparently ooverod on
both sides wiii; u auM) uiaiiuscnpt in EurDpcan letters.

He could guess now why Meriem wished to read English
. haudwriting.

Curiosity would natnnilly liave led hira to examine the manu-
script, but without Mi'tiein b consent he could not dream of doing
so. lie only saw va.i,niely aiJi'ainst his own will, as he replaced
the little squares caretully in their receptacle, that the outside
roll bore on its face tlu' <listinct words, *' I, Clarence Knyvett,
formerly comet " — and there the visible part of the paper broke
off, with the line unfinished.

Happily in that dry climate, the papers had lain out in the
open air so many days and nii^dits unhurt, with the box covering'
them. Li England, they would have boon reduced long before
then to a spontuneous amateur form oi puj^ier mache.

It was with j.;ri;at joy that he returned to the Rest House with
his spoils to Meriem. She took them anxiously, and, turning
them over, looked at each paper separately, v it i an eager eye.
lest any should be niissin^t,'. Then she glanced up at Le Mar-
chant, and said with a sigh, " So now you know my secret,
Eustace."

♦• I do not," Eustace answered ; •' or, only a little of it. I saw
the papers were safe ; but, without your leave, I would never
have dreamt of looking at one of them, Meriem.' '

Meriem gazed hiick at him with her large soft eyes.

" I knew you wouldn't, Eustace," she said, confidently.

" Then why do you say I know your secret?"

** Because, seeing tliese, you must surely guess it."

•• Not altogether," l^ustaee answered, with truth. '• I've an
idea, of course, but nothing i'urther."

Meriem turned to him, and opened them at full length before
his eyes.

" We ar'> one now, Eustace," she said, simply. '• I can trust
you with iin. tiling. You may read them if you will. But you
took me penniless, and penniless you imist keep, me."

Eustace aci^epted the papers without any false show of reluc-
tance from her hands, and read them through. His eyes were
full of tears once or twice as he rea,d. Wheai he had finished, he
turned to Meriem, and said, quietly, "You meant never to shov
them to any one, Menem?"

•* 1 will nevpr show them," Meriom answered firmly. " Hut
because 1 lovu )ou, and because 1 can Uxiat you, 1 show ihetu

284

THB TENTB Or SIIEU.

to yon, and to you only. You will never l^otray my lecret,
Ruatace."

Eustace rose and kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
- •• Never," he answered, with solemn eiupliasia. " You're a
brave girl, Meriem, and I honour you for it. I am work for you
and keep you, in what to you and me will be suflicient comfort, or
even luxury. Let Miss Knyvett hold to her money, if she will.
[, for one, will never enlighten her."

There was a short pause. Then Eustace spoke again. *' It's
better as it is," he said. " I've always felt that. I never wished
to marry a rich wife. I prefer to work, so that the woman I love
may owe me everything. It's manlier so. Yet it will be some-
thing for us both to know through life, Meriem, that money was
as water to us, when we had it to take, compared with our love
for one another."

Meriem, nestling close to him with her errand proud head,
answered in a very low voice. " One tiling alone," she said,
'• in these last few days, has made me falter. Do you remember,
lliustace, one morning in the tent Mr. Whituiarsli was loo kin;,' at
that lovely collection of yours — the butterlluis and beetles — and
he said — that man who could never uiulerstaml you — • Jf you
'hose to sell these things in London, Mr. Le Marchant, I expect
you could make a great deal of money out of them.' And you
looked up from the bird you were stulling and answered quietly,
'I've no time to waste on making money.' Though I wasn't in
love"" with you then, I thought that was grand. I'm only a woman
—a poor, ignorant Kabyle woman — and I couldn't quite uiuier-
stand your work, of course, or why it was so important for yon
to learn all about the beasts and birds, and the plants and
flowers, though I fancy I can dimly guess just a little how it is ;
but I thought what you answered was grand for all that ; I said
to myself, ' If it were not for Vernon, how a woman mi;4ht love and
admire Eustace I ' And now that it's come home to me, all in a
flash, how much greater and better a man you are than Vernon,
I've said to myself again, more than once or twice, ' Eustace has
no time to waste on making money I I love him for that ; I
admire him for that ; it's so great and noble. But still, if he
had money all ready made, if I had moiiey of my own to give
him, how much better work he might do for the world in that
high way I can hardly understand, in finding out how everything
came to be so I And sometimes, these last few days, I've almost
regretted. I might have tukeu it lor juur i^ake, Eui>taue, if i

^mHtmrn^

taiL TENTS OV StIEM.

2b6

hadn't saui that day on the hillside to Iria, • The money's yours.
You iuu.st always keep it.' "

Eustace looked down at her witli ))r* le and joy. " Meriera,"
he said, pushiiif? back the hair from her hif^di, white forehead,
"if only you knew how much plensure it gives me to hear you
speak like that, you'd never want me to be rich in anytliint^ else
but in your own dear love, my treasure, my darlinjjj. That you,
who have lived this simple, villaj^e life, without schools or books,
should so enter into one's thouglits and comprehend one's aims
as few educated Englishwomen could ever do is to me wonderful
— a tnuiiii)li of nature. It makes me feel, more than ever, what
p I'^wfl 1 have found, and how unworthy I am of you. With you
to help lue and to spur me on, I shall need no wealth. I shall
need no money. AVe two will do great work togetlMU- yet, [feuni-
less Hs we are. Keep your word to Iris, my child. n-h!it''V('i
happens. Let Iris have her fortune still, as jou ^iuunatia. ild)
MAineiu, you le wunh a thousand iriaitis."

%^^

.^^%%

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

Tr
^

1.0 fM IIIIIM

I.I

11.25

1: M^

2.0

U il.6

^;.

.'''^#

''^^

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 >NEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, K.' H580

(716) 872-4503

C/j

™

I'iUk iJhikA* UiP acUU&i

CIl-

TLTL

OTVCT! MOniS UNTO THR BRBAOB.

Trtr and [her mother, meanwhile, with Uncle Tnm, s^einUtt
iilake, and the St. Cloud fugitivei, were slowly rccoverincr fr*^'"
their fatigue and their hurts at Ti«-Ouzou — which is, ocii.,
interpreted, the gorge of the broom-plant — a picturesque litt!
Frenchified village, perched on the summit of a conioal hill, aji<
sepa'^ated from the base of the Kabylie Mountains bj a broac
but sliallow arid brawling river. St. Cloud itself having practi
cally, for the moment, ceased to exist — a mere shell and a singl
shattered keep now alone represented the ci-devant Fort, whil.
lothing more than blackened ruins remained ol what was onci
the flourishing village — the rescued survivors had perforce rotire<
it once upon the nearest secure European station, where it wa.
aecessary for theij to rest for a few days en route, before proceed
ing to Algiers, to regain their wonted strength and composure.

Vernon Blake's wound, too, neglected by dire necessity on the
aight of the outbreak, had now to be more carefully dressed and
bandaged ; and the task of nursing him in the little inn at Tizi-
Ouzou, which proclaimed itself aloud as Hotel de I'Univers,
naturally devolved, in the fitness of things, upon Mrs. Knyvett,
and, more especially upon Iris. They were the only two womei
intho place with whom the English painter had any language in
common ; and it must be admitted parenthetically that Iris, foi
her part, in spite of her profound etliical studies, was by no
means unwilling to accept this very good excuse for continuing
to see somewhat more than was right of the man whom bIk
still persisted in regarding as ds Jure her cousin Merifim'g lover.
The female conscience, even though it belong to the aggravated
Knyvett variety, is readily salved in such cases. It hoodwinks
itself, on easy terms, with the " tyrant's plea " of necessity. For
how could Ins let a brave defender (and handsome, too, at that)
Uick £t attendance from his own fellow-countrywoman in hii

- -^ TTK-t—^

CHX TKMT8 OF gUSM.

•17

honr of need on no better ground than mcrelj beeanso Meriem
happened to have a vested interest in him f

Nay, it must even be admitted, with a blush, by the candid
chronicler that both Iria and Vernon intensely enjoyed these
necessary interviews thus thrust upon them against the will of
one party at least by the inevitable decrees of manifest destiny.
It's wrong to flirt, of course, as we all know, with somebody
else's afTianced lover ; but if somebody else's affianced lover is
seriously wounded in the left shoulder, in somebody else's
unavoidable absence, r.nd with nobody else to tend and care for
him — why, common charity compels a girl of feeling to under-
take, in somebody else's own interest, the vicarious task of
nursing him ; and even if that task should happen to prove
in itself agreeable, can there be anything wrong in thus giving
way (on compulsion, observe I) to your natural instincts as a
ministering angel ? Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, as Ver-
non Blake had found Iris Knyvett in her hours of ease at 8t.
Cloud in the mountains, he was forced to acknowledge t'^it when
pain and anguish (neither of them, it must be admiiL i, very
profound in character) wrung his brow at Tizi-Ouzou, she was
the neatest and deftest and most thoughtful of nurses. The
stern moralist himself could hardly object, indeed, to one's put-
ting fresh roses and violets every morning with tender care by
an invalid's bedside ; and all the rules of propriety are silent in
the lump as to the \>^rongfulnes3 of bringing good beef-tea to a
wounded man (engaged or otherwise) on a pretty Moorish tray
rendered sweet with stephanotis, plumbago, and lilac-blossom.
To such double-dyed crimes. Iris pleaded guilty each evening
with shame to her own conscience in the privacy of her bed-
chamber — and absolved herself forthwith on further esnmination
upon the varied pleas of gratitude, friendship, and medical
direction.

Communications with thoir absent friends had already been
restored. A telegram from Eustace had announced, shortly
after their arrival at Tizi-Ouzou, his own safety and Meriem'i
while gliding with a light liand over the thrilling story of then:
respective accidents. Iris knew, therefore, it was to Meriem'i
devotion in part that they owed their safety — the papers, indeed,
had told her so much— and she was pursued day and night by
an uncomfortable feeling that this new claim on Meriem'i part
put her all the more upon her honour in ail her difficult anl
very uncertain relations with her cousin's lover. Yet in spite 61
•var} thiiig — for tli« human heart will have its Mj witkin itself^

tmjt TXNTS or SHKM.

reptess It as we may in all external maifestationa — the Third
Classic couldn't deny to her own soul that she was aupremely
happy With a momentary happiness in taking care of her wounded
painter. It was a happiness, alas that must soon ceuse ; the
horrid shoulder would gel well hi time ; but while it lasted, at
any rate, it was well worth enjoying. Munochronos. kidune, her
Greek Epicurean guide had toid liur ; the one fleeting moment
of pure delight in a transient world is all we can count upon.
Might she not fairly drink it in wliile it still endured ? for Mer-
iem would have hira soon, too soon, for ever.

On that fixed point she had made her mind up fairly and
Squarely once for all. \)bJi ether he would or whether he would
not, Vernon Blake must murry Meriem.

Yet when once or twice, discreetly smiling, she returned to
the charge of her Invalid in this direction with a dexterous aide-
thrtist, Vernon Blake had only answered her with malicioas
audacity, '* Without descending into such minute particulars as
that, you know, I propose at any rate, mth your kind permission,
to marry somewhere into the Knyvett family." And thereat,
Iris, discomforted, could only laugh and blush — feeling all the
time that both blush and laugh were distilict betrayals of her
trust to ileriem.

** If you go on talking so," the Third Classic exclaimed to him
once, continuing nevertheless to arrange tlie roses in the vase by
his side with trembling fingers as she spoke, "I shall go right
away this very minute and not come back any more at all, but
just leave my mother to do all the nursing. It's very unkind of
you to take such an advantage of your helpless condition. I've
told you once for all quite plainly what 1 think, that day at ISt.
Clotid, and I can't reopen the subject again with you now."
But none the less her quivernig lips belied her angry words, and
her downcast eyes had a strant^'e mist gathering almost imper-
ceptibly over their dimmed pui)iJs.

" YeS, I know: I remember," Vernon Blake replied, with that
false boldness which love had taught his sensitive nature : •' you
said that day at St. Cloud you did love me ; and when the
woman he loves once tells a man that, do you think he's likely,
Miss Knyvett, ever to forget it ? *'

Iris winced. " But I also said," ghe murmured, in a very
low voice, " I could never marry you : I could never rest till
you'd married Meriem."

" And / said for my part," Vernon Blake retorted, pretending
to move his wounded arm painfully to attract her sympathy, *' /

"'/T.'t^*-*-'

%'.

wmm TBMTi or bhbm.

said « I'll marry yon or nobody, Tria.' And I don't ■•• wht what
I suAiax that particular occasion shouldn't be stuck to juet B.i
uuob M what you said, Iris. Oh, yes, I'll call you Iriit if 1
:hooBe; I shall ; and if you don't like it, you may go away as
vou threaten and send yuur mother." But he clung for all that
10 the hand that he'd seized among the roaes by his side, and
pressed it tight. " You told me you loved mo, you know," ht
murmured once more, " and when a woman once tells a mar
such a thing as that, ho hau a right if he chooses to call hci
Iris."

The blushing Girton girl struggled hard to set herself free,
but all in vain. Man remains the stronger animal of the two ir
spite even of the higher education. " Oh, how can I ever faci
Meriem again?" r^he cried at last, bursting into suddez) tears.
" It's cruel of you, Mr, Blaka, to bring up such a casual phrase
against me. What I said that day, I slipped out by accident ;
by the purest accident : I said it out of the fulness of my heart
at the moment, trusting to your chivalry not to use it against
rae ; and now you're using it against me and against Merierp
Oh, how can I ever dare to face her again and tell her all this ^
She'U think I've betrayed her ; she'll think I've been false t(
her. And I — who'd break my own jaeart to serve her I — I sai<
to her that morning on the rocks at Beni-Merzoug, ' He mu-
marry you Meriem I He shall marry yoi? I I'll make hii
marry you I' And if I tell her this,, she'll say I've betrayed her.

VemoT) Blake released her hand with a jerk, as if in ange.
" Apd did it never occur to you," he asked, with mock sternness
*' that in making that private disposition of somebcdy elso'i beai
and hand on your own account, you wure arranging a bargai
without asking the consent of one of the most interested parti
in the arrangement ?"

" But, you'd made her love you I" Iris cried, pleading fniiit..
It's hard to have to plead your rival's cause against your o\v.
inclination. •' You'd no right, you know, to break poor Meriem'
heart. You, who were so much above her, and better than he.
in every way ; you, who could paint such beautiful pictures, anr
say such lovely poetical things, and fill her poor head witl
thoughts that could never otherwise have got there, how couk.
you fail to win her heart wiien you tried — or even if you did no!
try at all, for that matter ?"

" That's juat my excuse," the painter answered, contritely.

Iris blushed once more. She recognized too late that she hac!
inadvertently played the enemy's best card, so she relapsed into
the lAmf refuge of silence.

^.00

THE TENTS OV

Vernon Blake let her muse on for a moment without following
ip his advantage. It was better so. He knew it by instinct.
V woman can feel her own heart beat hard against her breast in
AiesQ awkward pauses. Her emotion has time to force itself on
iier consciousness. Then he began again in a very low voice.
' At St. Cloud the other night," he said^ softly, •• when you
women were all huddled in a group on the roof, and the Kabyles
were firing and stabbing and thrusting at us like wild beasts,
ind the gate was one hving blaze of light, and all hope was over,
iind the men were giving up, I said to myself, ' If it comes to the
worst, I shall rush upstairs and take her in my arms, rpv
wounded arms — that queen among women- and hold her tight
there in one last embrace, and press her just once to my bosom
like a lover, and wait for those brutes to kill us two together —

and then no Kabyle girl on earth shall ever divide us.

She shall be mine, one moment, if we die for it together !' And
just as I thought my dream was coming true — you may pity me,
Iris, if you can't love me— the Zouaves came up, those horrid
Zouaves, and spoilt it all — and here you are telling me to go and

narry Meriem You may tell me till you're hoarse, but,

Iris, I swear to you, if I wait a hundred years, I shall make you
marry me, now I know you love me. I shall never, never marry
Lhe Kabyle girl I"

Iris bent down her head in her hands and sobbed. " You are
^ruel, Mr. Blake," she cried. •• You are too, too cruel."

How inartistic in its brusque transitions is real life I Just at
that moment, that critical moment, as luck would have it, when
the painter would fain have bent over her and kissed her, who
should appear most inopportunely at the door but Francois, the
boots, who, thrusting in his head with the comic confidential nod
of the French manservant, observed laconically, like one that
takes in the situation at a glance, *' Ne vous drnuun's pas. Messieurs
t dames — voila le J'acteur qui vient d'arriver — une lettre /Kinr Maile-
iiioiselle" and vanished with a discreet smile itistaiitaneously.
Iris took the envelope from his hands and int'uluuiically opened
it. It was a note in a large round child. aii liand, the very first
letter, in fact, Meriem had ever tried to write to anybody in
Ulnglish manuscript.

"My dear Iris," it said, in its big strapjrling characters, "I
lave something very iiri[)ortat)t to tell you \*iieu we meet — some-
hing that I think will make you ever so happy. Please don't
ay anything to Vernun thai will hurt him till you see me. i

THE TXNTl or SHEM.

291

will go to Algiers with Eustace whenever you're ready to go your-
self. Eustace will arrange with Vernon to meet U8 at the place
the train stops at, when he knows what day you mean to start.
It's all so strange to me, I can't arrange about it. Now I must
leave off. This ig all. Excuse the blots, as this is the first
English letter I've ever written. I know you'll be glad when
you hear what I have to tell you.

" Ever your very loving cousin,

<« MEBiBif Enyvstt."

The signature alone was full of novelty. Iris folded the letter
up, and slipped it into her bosom with a throbbing heart. What
thing it might forbode she hardly as yet even dared to conjecture,
but she somehow vaguely realised to herself the fact that it was
a way out for herself and Vernon. She looked at her painter
as he lay pale upon his bed, with one wistful look; and then,
mindful of Meriem's charge, slipped from the room without on^
otJier word to him. Her heart was far too full, indeed, for words ;
they might mislead her. And suppose she were mistaken, what
going back would then be possible ?

Till she saw Meriem now, she could never dare to face Vernon
again. It was with no little relief, therefore, that she learned to
her joy that evening from the Tizi-Ouzou doctor her patient mi^^ht
venture u^uu leaving to-morrow.

-«

1 "J

iFflB—

29fl

TBX TXMTB OF 8XUJtf.

CHAPTER XLVII.

TO ALGIERS.

It was with a distinct shrinking that Meriem Enjrett (as she
had for the first time signed her name in her letter to Iris) allowed
herself to he hurried into a first-class compartment on the East
Algerian Railway at Beni-Mansour station. Her only previous
acquaintance with the locomotive, indeed, had heen far from a
reassuring one ; and it required no small exercise of courage on
the part of an untutored mountain girl to trust herself now to be
whirled along through the country at the tail of that snorting,
roaring, careering fire breather, whose fiierce assault she had so
lately experienced in propria persona as it swooped down the slop*
towards the bridge in the gully. Eustace, however, assured hei
there was no danger in the railway ; and if Eustace said so, so it
must be ; for to Eustace she now trusted herself wholly with that
sweet self- surrender which a true woman can always display to-
wards her chosen counterpart. In fact, the timid Kabyle-bred
girl seated herself in the train with as much outer composure as
if she had been accustomed all her life to travelling on the line ;
for Meriem shared with all other women of free democratic moun-
tain communities that perfect natural breeding which prevents a
person from ever feeling gauche or restrained or awkward, in
whatever society, or under whatever circumstances. Habituated
only to free intercourse with equals, it never even struck her
that the greatest lady could look down upon her wherever she
might be, or that she had need for any but her own natural
manner to put her at her ease in what company she might come
across.

Eustace had before this recovered his European clothes by
special messenger from the tent at Beni-Merzoug, and sat by
her side, an Englishman once more, in his wonted garb, smiling
and contented. The train moved off at last from the platform
to Meriem's inward discomfiture, with a loud shriek of the dis-
cordant whistle, and soon the inexperienced mountain maiden

Wf.

"4T.5»W'«|?|fWI!#i

TTWT"

THE TKNTg OF SBEM.

898

lound herself rushing Hf wliat Beemecl to her % wildly impossible
pace (ihougli Bu8tK((' lUclared it was but the usual 4I0W Algerian
travelling) down tiie lung inclines that lead from the lijurjura
CO the plains on whose edge stands the town of Algiers, in gleam-
ing glory. Meriem was very, very happy. II never occurred to
her to think, in her perfect innocence, how odd a si^ht it seemed
to her fellow travellers to see an English gentleman thus
familiarly conversing with a simple Kabyle girl in hmk end bur-
nouse. To her, it was merely herself and Kustace. The
conventionalities had not yet begun to exist in her. 80 she
rolled along the smooth line in strange content, ^lad in her heart
w think she was going away with Eustace, and leaving those
terrible scenes of war for ever behind her.

On the platform at Menerville, the party from Tizi-Oiuou was
waiting to go on with them. As they steamed into the station,
ivieriem rushed to the window to catch a first glimpse of her
recovered Iris. She knew not why — perhaps it was because
DJood is thicker than water, perhaps because Irin was the only
Sfirl she had ever met who at all approached her own natural and
vigorous mental stature, the only one whocould syniputhise with
the profounder European half of her strong nature — but at any
rate, for whatever reason, she loved Iris already as she bad
never before loved any other woman. On the platform, she
caught sight of Iris's pretty face, still a trifle pale from the
terrors of the night attack, but beaming with wreathed smiles at
Meriem's evident childish anxiety to greet her. Meriem leapt
out, in ipite of her fears, almost before the train had quite come
to ft standstill (regardless of the regulations to the contrary in
the Company's by-laws), and flung her arms wildly, in an excess
of fervour, round her cousin's neck. Then she turned with a
smile to Vernon Blake, and holding out her \vliite hand with
perfect frankness, leant over in her innocent simijliuity to kiss
nim.

As their faces met. Iris's heart beat hard in suspense. But
Meriem, drawing her English kinswoman aside, while Uncle
Tom was hurrying Mrs. Knyvett into her place in the train, half-
whispered in her ear with a smile of dehght, "We shall soon be
cousins, you know, Vernon and I ; for as soon as you hear what
I have to tell you, I'm sure. Iris, you won't any longer refuse to
marry him."

Iris pressed her hand hard in mute reply,' and kissed the beau-
tiful Kabyle girl on each cheek once more. There was no time
just then to ask anything further. The inexorable tinin that
waits for no man was whisthng in its eager anxiety to be off.

S94

THJB TXNTl OF BIT EM.

*' En voituret mMflnin/'^ f" sn,j\g out the .shriIl>yoiced ehaf-it-
gar*: and, with a iiuintid returii, tbey wuru soon on their road
again for Algiers — and Harold.

How they chatted and laughed, in spite of all their pas^ terrors,
on that merry journey ; Meriem full of the doubla delight of hor
own new-found love, and of making Iris happy ; Iris, notwith-
standing her wonderment and surprise, yet vaguely conscious in
her silent joy that for some mysterious reason Meriem wah
cheerfully and willingly yielding Vernon Blake up to her. How
they exchanged the terrible stories of th^r respective perils m
the minutest detail 1 How Iris described the horrors of the nigiit
attack till Meriem was heartily ashamed to herself of thofic
creatures who had once been her fellow-countrymen. How
Meriem, in turn, dwelt upon the wild terrors of that appalling
machine which civilisation had sent, with its fiery steed, to startle
and alarm her native mountains. They tingled and thrilled mhh
their mutual confessions. But at last, when Iris had finished
her narrative of that ghastly assault, and retailed with picturepqui'
horror the savage onslaught of those fanatic insurgents, Menem
looked up at tier and asked, with a sigh, •' Are there ever Jehtttls
in your religion. Iris ? "

" No," Iris ii-nswered, fervently ; " thank heaven, no, Meriom.
Our religion's spread by persuasion alone. It horrifies us to see
such deeds as those done."

•' It horrifies me, too, to hear of them,*' Meriem replied, simply.
"But our people think it right. They must be mistaken ..."
Then, with a sudden burst, " Oh, Iris, Iris, I'm ashamed to think
I ever belonged to them I I ahnost wish .... it may be very
wrong .... but I somehow almost wish I was like you — a
Christian I "

Iris could hardly forbear a smile at the perfect naivete of this
quaint confession ; but Mrs. Knyvett, sitting bolt upright in the
corner, started back in her seat in the utmost alarm, and gazed
at Meriem with the sort of horror and surprise with which one
regards a scorpion or other venomous reptile. '* Gracious
heavens, Iris," she cried, astonished, " you don't mean to say this
poor misguided girl — your uncle Clarence's daughter — has really
and truly been brought up a Mussalwoman — or whatever else one
ought to call it ? "

•' Why, what else on earth could she possibly be brought up,
mother dear ? " Iris answered, with a gentle warning.look. Thii
was surely not the best way conceivable to still poor Meriem'f
still surviving prejudices.

THB TKim Of IHSM.

I — a

1 this
the
Lzed
one

^ious

this

mlly

one

UPf

■?hif

**I never mat any infidels at all before I met Eustace an
Vernon, you lee, Iris," Meriem went on, red uv* Lively. " Till ther
of coarse, I'd only heard harm and evil speaking about infldeli^
Some people said Yusuf was an infidel at heart himself till th«
day of his death, and that that was why he went down somatime^
to St. Cloud to see the Pere Baba ; but I used to be very angr^
with thom when they t I'l uw that, u Uiirally, because I though*
in those days that all Christians must be very, very, very wicked.
And now, since I've seen how Christians behave and how orii
people behave, I'm befjinnin? to think — I'm not quite sure whethei
it's sinful or not — but I'm oe^iuiung to think .... I wish i
was a Christian like you, Iris."

Iris's eyes dropped timidly to the ground. •• I'm a^id it'f^
not often," she answered, humbly, " we Christians commenil
ourselves among people who do not belong to our religion in thai
way, Meriem. I wish we did so a great deal better. But I iuj)-
pose you won't live amonp; Kabyles any more, now your ancle's
gone. You'll come and live with iis over in England, of course ;
and then you'll soon learn to think and feel as we do."

•• I'd never live among people like those again," Meriem cried,
energetically — •• no, not if I was to be killed for it. I'd never
Hve among people who beheve in Jehads, and try to shoot others
(men, women, and children) for no excuse or cause. \Vhy, it's
horrible to think of it. It's worse than the French who fought
against our people, though Yusuf always said they were wickeder
than anybody. I'm glad you're all Englisli, and not French. !•
suppose that's because I'm Yuauf's daughter. And as to the in-
fidels, why, I suppose, of course, I shall be a Christian myself,
too, when " — she checked herself suddenly, with, a rich, red
blush. She had nearly blurted out in her haste and vehemence,
•' when I'm married to Eustace." But, frank as she was, she
couldn't quite tell her whole heart's secret as opuuly as that
before the face of Vernon and Uncle Tom and Mrs. Knyvett.

•♦ When you get to England," Iris suggested, quietly finishing
oflF the broken sentence for her in a non-coramitting fashion.
For Iris, too, had observed how lier eyes fell upon Eustace, half
unconsciously, as she spoke, and l)cgan now to spell out for her-
self the solution of this singular mystery.

"When I get to England," Mtriem answered, catching gladly
at the proffered means of escape. " I don't know how it is,
Iris, but I somehow feel sure I dhall hke En.L,dand. I've felt
more at home, more sympatliic, 1 tl.uik you call it, with all you
EngUflli ikaa X «ver fult with ttii/nuu; ti .lii at Buui-Merzoog* I

tuK iktiti w itbtM.

iiaed to think at first, when Vernon and Eustace were newly
cotiie, it was only because you were Yusufa people, anc! I was
(ir-partMl t > like you for Yusufa sake, as Yusul's teilow-country-
iii«n. r.iiL tl»e more I've seen and known ol" you all, Ihe more
^i've hMKid out that that was a mistake. I'm nearer to all of
}ou tlmii 1 ever could be to anybody else ; I like and sympathise
with )()ii, not only because you're Ynsuf's people, but Because
you'i-e my people — my own people — n-t well — my neighbours, my
kinsmen, my like in nature. One day \'ernpn repeated me a oit
of Knglish song — about a bird, a skylark, you know — and thai
day 1 remember it came home to me suddenly thai 1 feli ail
that quite diiTerently from the way I could ever feel anything In
the Kabylii verses. Ours are all verses about siicu common
things — the olive-harvest, and the corn, and fightiiig, and wife-
buyihg. But this was a song about how a bird went up linging
and l-GJoicihg in the air — such a beautiful song — and I reineiii-
ber ^ bit of it, a bit that said —

t7e look before and after.

And pine for what is Ddt {
Our sincerest laughter

With iomo pain i» fraught, .

Oar sweetest songs are thoae that tell of saddest thongHf.

I ibought that was lovely — as much as I understood of it-;-and 1
thoUgJit, too, no iLabyle that ever lived could possibly have mad^
a song like that ; so t thou(}:ht at tlie same time, I hiust be a
good deal English after all myself, or it wouldn't seerti so mucli
more beautiful than any of our silly little Kabyle verses."

Not even Uncle Tom. could refram from joining in the hearty
laugh that greeted this candid outbutstof native simplicity. The
idea that any Kabyle poetry could possibly come into competition
with Shelley's *' Skylark " was too utterly grotesque for the most
prosaic intelligence, the Probate and Divorc^ Div^' 'on itself iii-
cluded. They all laughed, biit they all ladghed with very
different undercurrents of inner emotion.

Iris, half-piqued at the idea that her painter should have
repeated those exquisite lines to any other woman, yet couldn't
help feeling at the same time how infinitely Vernon must realise
her own superiority to poor barefooted Meriem. She, with her
oultivatod Huroi)eau mind, to be jealous of that ignorant, uncul-*,
tured Kabyle girl 1 It would be really and truly quite too tidic-
ulojs.

Yttuon, half-ashamed Meriem should thui innoct^^ J)r rftke aj

rVi ■■^'

TIIK TXNT8 or SBKM.

4u;

his pftst evil (\op.(h n^^'ainst liim.yet couldn't liolp fcbling that Iris
must see how utterly ho wouM be thrown away upon such a girl
as Meriem. To wiisto himself on her, with his poetical nature,
when a Third Classic had confessed her love for him, would, in-
deed, ho little short of simple wickedness.

And J'iUstace, del if?li ted with Meriem 's perfect candour, thoti^'lit
to himself witli admiration how profound was the imture of that
wild mountain lU'irl, who could see for herself on a first glance
the wide j^nilf tlint separated sucli a poet as Shelley from her own
fellow-countrymen, and could pick out instinctively from his
most exquisite poem the deepest and most essentially central
8urroundin<j's for its free development, and witl^ congenial com-
panionship to gui(fe and direct it!

What a wonderful passion is love to warp apd bias our cplmer
judgment 1 }lo)\ clearly it lets us see one side of a question, atid
how perfectly contented it makes us, not on|| th tlje neryon
on whom it fixes its oblique glance, but with oui;M.lve8 in-o the
bargain, seen by the reflected light of that oi-hor person b pro-
fouTid admiration I

So they journeyed on merrjly together to Algi ra, each in a
vei} good '•■• nourwith himselt', and unhee(|ful of t..^' ♦Inniderho't
that Harold Knyvett held in readiness w let loose u^ou thorn lui
800.^ as they got then.

298

CHS T£NTS OF SU£M.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

CHECK I

At Algiorg station Uncle Tom recovrrod snch fragments c
lugj^age as still remained to them (for must of their wardrobe ha*,
been desti-oyed at St. Cloud, so that they were sorely in need o
a rapid i- turn to their base of supplies at Sidi Aia), while Iri.^
seized the opportunity to charter a special Jiane of her owi
(with a picturesque turbanedArab driver) to mount the Mustapha
Mill in quiet conference alone with Merieni. The others could
all go in the big carriage, she said ; her own carrin^i^e ; Uncle
Tom, and mother, and Mr. Dlake, and Mr. Le Marcliant ; but
they two girls would drive up in solitary grandeur m a hired cab;
for to say the truth, the Third Classic, for all the world liiie any
common boai'cung-school miss, was burning with the desire to
have a good tctp-a-tetc for half an hour with her Kabyle cousm.
Uncle Tom objected that this course of action would look very
odd ; the young woman hadn't even got stockings to her feat !
but Iris, of course, promptly overruled his futile objection; and
as Eustace Le Marchant put in a word, too, on the same side,
Uncle Tom, overjoyed, at least, at the chance of separating the
heiress from that dangerous fortune-hunter for half an hour,
consented to connive at the improper arrangement.

" We must keep her well away from that sneaking naturfilii^G
fellow, Amelia," he whispered in his sister's ear in strict confid-
ence. " It's a jolly lucky thing it was the painter, poor creature,
who was up with us at Bt. Cloud the night of the fight — he's an
innocent boy, that, and as shy as girls used to be when you and
Iwerevoung; but if it had been the other one, why, I'll bet
you a sovereign he'd have proposed to her outright on the
strength of having got a slight graze on his shoulder in the little
brush with those brutes of Kabyles."

Uncle Tom was inordinately proud of his o^^ti part in that
Uttle brush, and therefore, of course, always grucnfully apoke of
it, after the fashion of our kind, with becomm^' di«>parugem<uit.

!!PiWif!J.'*-BJil*

^fK^mt^m

^^PP^H^PPP

THX TENTS OV SHSlf.

290

" Now, yon must tell me all about it, Menem," Iris said at
once, as soon as they were seated side by side, incongruously in
that convenient ^acr<?, and out of earshot, on their way up to
Mustapha. " You know you're to be my guest at Sidi Aia, of
course ; and before I get there I've a particular reason for want-
ing to know exactly how you stand with — with Mr. Blake and
Mr. Le Marchant."

Meriem smiled a curiously contented and suppressed smile at
the patronising way in which Iris comported herself as the
mistress of Sidi Aia ; but she went on, nevertheless, with all
young love's first gushing readiness, to pour out her story, her
strange, strange, story, into the sympathetic ears of a female
confidante. She told the whole tale with that unvarnished
frankness which in Meriem resulted as a joint product of Kabyle
simplicity, and the straightforward inherited Knyvett nature.
She suppressed nothmg; she apologised for nothing ; she softened
down nothing ; not even how she said, "What ever made me
think so much of Vernon ! " Iris smiled a little satisfied smile
of conscious superiority when Meriem said in her simple way,
•* It burst upon me all like a flash of lightning, you know. Iris ;
I thought to myself, with a sudden revulsion, ' Great heavens,
what have I done ? Have I risked his life — Eustace's life — for
such a man as Vernon ? He's worth a thousand times as much
IS Vernon Blake I And he loves me as Vernon could never love
anyone.' "

At that Iris's brow clouded over a little for half a second.
She hardly knew if she ought to sit still and listen to such sacri-
lege as those words of Meriem's. Her Vernon I her painter !
her poet I her king of men I This Kabyle girl dare so lightly to
reckon him up with her own small reckoning I What presump-
tion I What audacity 1 What foolhardy self-confidence I . . .
. . . But at any rate she was free to marry Vernon now I Free
to marry that man she so loved I For that, she could forgive a
ureat deal to Meriem 1

And when Meriem ended at last, with her transparent guile-
Icssness — " So then, Iris, he just drew me down to his sofa and
sissed me, and I laid my head, so, on his shoulder and cried, and
Ads, oh, so luippy, so unspeakably happy I " — the mollified Gir-
lon girl fell half inclined, there in the open road, on the
Mustapha hill, to fling her arms around her newly-found cousin's
eck, and ki^s the barefooted Kabyle maiden then. and there
("fore th« eyes of wondtring passers by, Arab or European.
: ove i« 80 very much alike at bulloui, after all, is &11 of ai I

80(1

ttiJE itujs of i&Eil;

•* And now, trl^," Uetieth cHed, iri conclusion, Hblding her
oonnin'g gloved hand tight ill her dwil bare gloVeless fingers, " I
want you and Vernon to he mai'ried to bhe another, and to be
rich and happv, arid tb livd as ybu Hke at 8idi-Aia."

•' But 70U mtist have ^othe of my mbiiey, too, " Iris eifelaimed,
with 6fftlsit)n, regdrdles^ of Uncle Tom's oft-itferated advice.
• You must let me share it with you — not, half, jierhaps, but as
much as Uncle Tdrti thitl?*" right and pf-bptei-."

Meriem smiled a r^titieht smile — that Curious smile that Iris
had noticed so often this iilorning.

•• I'll take some of Sir Arthur's thbhe^, if you wish it," she
answered, sedately, not like one who accepts a favour, but with a
certain grand reserve vv-hich struck Iris at once, as did also the
altered phrase, " Sir Arthur's money." " Biit Eustace and jrour
uncle will settle all that between them, I dare say. Of course,
I don't understand such things as thesJei. Whatever you asirtinge,
Eustabe and I will be well satisfied."

Tiiey turned round the corner at the Colonne Vbitol — Meriem
all aghast, internally, as she went along the road at the grandeur
and magnificence bl' the great white Moorish villas that studded
the hillside after the nairow streets and rough stone huts of her
native mountains — and swept at last into the broad drive of a
tinul white villa, more stately and magnificent and imposing than
any of them. Meriom's heart rose up in her mouth at once at
the sight. So this wiis Sidi Ala I This was Yusuf's inheritance!
This was the palace that once might have been hers I But, like
Caractacus at Home, she envied it not. She was glad it had
•^one to Vernon an<i Ins.

What had she to ijo with grand villas like these? "With
Eustace by her sule, she cqukl be happy anywhere.

The carriage had passed tlieni on the slope of the hill, and
arrived at the door half a minute earlier. Vernon Blake was
there ah'eady, waiting to give the heiress his hand as she alighted
from ihejinrre at her own proud porch. She took it tenderly,
with a faii:it pressure. lie lialf-guessed what that meant as he
mounted the steps gaily by her side into the first outer court,
with its marble fountain, its iloor of painted tiles, its palms and
orange trees, its luxuriant basin of waving water-weeds. His
painter's eye loo'ced round with delight on that perfect specimen
of old Moorish Architecture. Nothing more beautiful had he
•seen in Africa. The exquisite arcade, the long line 0^ pillars,
the glorious display of antique tiles, the depth of shadow in the
recess of the doorway, ail charmed and intoxicated his artistic

'P'^T

^m^*

IBM TXNTB or gUKM.

601

instinct. It was a pure delight to Iris thus to show oflf her own
dc>main in all its beauty to the man whom she now looked upon
as its unconscious but predestined future possessor. "It's
lovely, Mr. Blake," she sq-id, turning round to him with a smile
of quiet pride ; •' very lovely, isn't it ?"

And Vernon Blake, gazing about with a sigh, ejaculated fer-
vidly, '• It's more than lovely. It's a painter's dream. Anything
so exquisite I hardly thought existed in solid stone on this poor
little planet of ours. How proud you must be . • . Miss
Knyvett . . . to be its possessor t"

Iris's eye had an unwonted twinkle in it. " Do you remember
the Lord of Burleigh ?" she said, looking up at him with an
audacious smile. The Girton boldness was surely breaking out
at last in the girl. •• Well, what Meriem has told me on the
way up this morning has made me myself into a sort of inverted
topsy-turvy Lady of Burleigh." She took his hand once more,
before Uncle Tom's very eyes, apd led him with wondering feet
into the broad white court. '• Proudly turned she round and
kindly," she quoted low, with a change in the gender alone: "All
of this is mine and thine !" '' ,

*• You mean it. Ins ? " he cried, with blinded eyes.

•• I mean it," she answered, simply, in a whispered voice.
'* And I am yours, too ; I, too, am yours for ever, Vernon."

As she spoke. Uncle Tom, who was following them close, drew
back suddenly with a startled cry of surprise and indignation.
•• God bless my soul I " he exclaimed, eagerly. " What the devil
is that fellow doing here, I wonder ? "

Iris lifted up her eyes at these unexpected words, and looked
in the direction where Uncle Tom was indignantly waving his
heavy red hand. There, on the top step of the short flight of
stairs that led from the outer to the inner court, stood
xiarold Knyvett, bowing and smiling, with arms outspread on
cither side of him, in an attitude of profuse and generous
hospitality.

His fingers did'nt tremble or his mouth twitch now. He had
schooled himself by violent efforts for some days before to bear
the shock of that supreme interview. Not a feature but was
under complete control. His face was calm, with a sweet smile of
conscious triumph. But he was bland and benignant too, with a
rose in his buttonhole ; for he meant to win Iris as well as the
property. He stood there waving them in like a great proprietor
with a lordly iweep of his delicate hand ; come one, come all.

802

THX TXNT8 OF 8H2M.

(hey flhonld taste his fare in his newly acquired home with
princely munificence.

'♦ Why, goodnesa gracious, there's Harold 1 *' Mrs. Knyvett
exclaimed, with a benign nod of the condescending feature.
•* How kind of him, really I But he's always so nice. He's run
across to Algiers to bring me my bronchitis kettle I"

As for Iris, she looked up at that complacent figure in a vague
dismay. Meriem, too absorbed in other affairs, had forgotten to
tell her of the bad man's presence at a villa at Mustapha. She
hardly knew in her confusion what to make of the scene ; when
suddenly Harold enlightened her at a bound by coming down
a step or two with a polite bow, and exclaiming point-bhink
at her in his courtliest voice, *• Good morning, Iris ; how
d'ye do, Aunt Amelia; I'm delighted, I'm sure, to welcome you
both — and Mr. Whitmarsh too — as my guests in my home at.
Sidi Aia I "

Iris shrank back with a shudder of dismay. His home at Sidi
Aia I Was the earth going to fail beneath her feet ? What a
bombshell 1 What a thunderboU 1

■i"'

TB£ XKNTS 01 8HBU.

801

CHAPTER XLIX.

CONDITIONS OF PEACE.

" Well, but what does he mean, dear?" Mrs. Knyrett waa

t'. first to ask, with a* gasp, breaking the ominous silence thai

il for a moment over tlie whole hushed Httle group at the

und of Harold's strangely signilicant words.

" I .... I don't know, mannua," Iris answered, undaunted

.ill in heart, but taken aback somewhat by Harold's resolute

ttitude. " I think he must mean that .... that he has some

!aim or other we haven't yet heard about to Sidi Ala."

" He means confounded ijnputlonce ; that's just what he

means," Uncle Tom burst out, with a burly bluster, walking up

the step to confront his opponent, angrily. '* The fellow's been

Juggling in your absence with Sir Arthur's letters and papers, I

-iuppose, and thinks he's succeeded in muddling up a claim

gainst you. But it won't do. I'm not the man to be put off

v'itli that sort of humbug. He's got the wrong person by the

•ar this time to deal with."

" Oh, Miss Knyvett, Miss Knyvett," old Sarah cried out, in

dismay, rushing down the steps and flinging her arms round

I ris's neck, passionately ; " it isn't my fault, my dear. I couldn't

help it. Mr. Knyvett,, he came over here three days ago, or there,

vith a paper in his hand ; and he said how he'd found a new

vill, and how the house and grounds was all his, and he was

ome to stay, and I must look upon him, henceforth, as a master,

md that kind of thing. And I said, had he any orders from

. ()u ? And he said, no, he hadn't ; he needed no orders ; he

ame entirely on his own authority; and Sidi Aia was his own,

ot a bit of yours ; but he'd be glad to welcome you back for a

liile, as liis guest, to it. And what could 1 do, my dear, with

111 coinii!i( like that, and threatening to call in the gendarmes il

frit'd ti) ifsist him I "

As ahf apuke, Harold moved slowly down the steps towards Iris.

B04

THE TKNT8 OW 8RRM.

lie cast an angry glance towards Uncle Tom as he passed—
surely those Kabyle fellows, if they were anything of shots,
might have managed to put a hole through that broad mark, his
waistcoat, and rid him at once of a dangerous and experiencec
opponent I The least among the marksmen of Wimbledon
could not have missed it. Hut, no matter lor that ; the day was
lys, quontl riinnft. He had fairly conquered all along the line.
He could afford now to be gentlemanly and generous. And to a
nan of taste, Hke Harold Knyvett, tl|e expansive and liberal
^^entlemanly policy is always, in the end, the pleasantest and
most con^'t'nial one.

" Iris,' he murmured, coming up to ber close, with a sickly
smile, and hol4ipg put an obtrusively cordial hand, which Iris,
ip lior righteous wratl^, did not deign so much as to notice,
" tlien.'H no necessity for any scene just here. 1 desire this
matter sliould at tifst be talked out in a fnentUy wtiy. ^s between
|)rincij>aiS alone. An ^.njieable arrangement on tVmiily grounds
would, 1 siu'e, be easiest and most pleasinj;; tp ^11 of us. ISucli
an arvaii^uaiept I can readily submit to you if you'll allow me
the pliicisure of twenty innmtes' conversation vyith you alone in
my library. Perhfips you coald spare me so mucn jus); now of
your valuable time. Sp glad to see you looking so bloomnig too.
in spite of your shoclf. It's best we should uiidtn'-slauJ one
another distinctly, you know, from the very beginning."

*• 1 shall decidedly object to any propoatii,! of the sort." Uiicle
Tom burst out, witl| a very red frice, blocking the staircase with
bis capacious frame. '* If Iris desires to hold any business com-
munication of any sort with you, the regular thing will be for her
to contluct ber cat^e "

But Ins cut him short, before he could get any further, with
m imperious nod of her self-willed little head. 'I'hough her
[physical courage had failed her completely before the cut-throat
bands of the insurgent Kabyles, she had moral counige enou.nh
left still to face a. hundred interviews with her cousin Ilarolil.
She knew what the man wanted as well as if he bad told her,
and she preferred to say No to that degrading projiosa.l before
the eyes of no living witness. If Harold must again inhult her
by the hateful offer of his hand — that lying, scheming, mean
wretch of a Harold — at least she would take care he did not
insult her before the face even of her own nearest and dearest
relations.

" I'll go with him, Uncle Tom Jyar," she put in boldly, sooth-
ing his arm with her tiny hand. " I'm not afraid to conducts my

THT- T'-v+fi o# iiticii*

BOB

with
her
roat
u.^h
roul.
her,
fore
her
lean
not
iresl

own case hi ^^rsoil, in iJv.. .. ..i llul-, iii&HU ^b^. fearbld has

adiliili^ tb Say td tii6, 1 kiiow, tliat vbii^ JirBauuce could in any
way ihflUfeiib^. I'll Sfettle this qiiestibh witli liiiii alpha. Tbu
and he can talk dv^ir business ari'ahgiBtTieiiitB ibgethei: aher-
w#ds."

Hai*bld ilfccefitad ilie last sentence at btice ad all tiit equivalent
to & t^ai-tidl feiirl-eiider, and siiiiled benignly, with his pi-bspective
triumph. In the hour of success he would not be hard upon the
fallen fd^. •* t^etliflps," lie rertiarked. Js^ith jild blaiidest. , West
End Jidiii^hiBsa, •* your riibtlier and Mir. Wliitmairsh will step
intd ihj^ di-awiiig-rddiTi ahd take a cliair while tney wkit foir us
for the present, Iris. And the lady in the bare feel, too — I
haven't tlie pliBasUre b^hei* persbrial acqiiaintatibe, it's true — but
still, as she seems to be dne of the party — 1 daie say, Sarah, you
cari tiiake Iter cdihfbrtable in the kitchen somehow."

He didn't suspect, of pbi^rse, tl^at B|eriem could , understand
him ; hut the nery ilush that mantled the Kabyle girl's sunburnt
face, fi'oni f<'i-uhead to neck, was i^ai;dlyB0^ intense as tnat which
dverspreadjria's jsensitiveoheek at this unintentional rpdenessto
her brave Aigerian cousin. Even,. Uncle Jori\, w|io had never
been predi.spf)sp(,l in favour of the Qlaimant, bu,t whose personal
dislike to, t;iat Paynim maiden had been .naturally lessened by tlie
story of her gallant attempt tp cross the li^ountains for their
safety's snlcG, ^ill.it no\v san}{ all ^t dace to pro., being metamor-
phosed into a feeling of positive friendliness ny the suddeti appear-
ance on the scene of this, new impdstor — pvan Uncle Tom hiiii-
self turned, round to the. bldshirig, Kfebyle girl kindly, with a still
deeper tint reddening his already rod and indignant face, and
laying his hand on her shpulder, ,said to hfer ih, his most gehtly
paternal voice, " Come along, Merie^ii my child; you must be
tired alter y,oar journey ; ,wfe'll go and take a seat, till this busi-
ness is linislivil, in .IHs's drawiilg-room."

But Iris folJowod ,Iiarold blindly irlto the library, and there fell
rather than seu^ed liei-self ill the big Arm chair, while the now
proprietor of Sidi Aia took a place at some distance on the divan
opposite.

" Well ? " she said coldly, as he wriggled into his seat, lobking
up in his face with a defiant expi-ession.

" Well," ililrold replied, keeping his eves directly fixed on
hers, lest she should have it to sdy that he dldn't.dare to look her
in the face ; " I suppose you can guess what this means, Iri«.
The storj 'i a short one. Briefly, I was suffering from nervouf

:''■/-'

906

TSB TXNTg OV Sir

irritation at the office in London — overwork, I suppose, entailing
loss of memory — so I consulted Yate-Westbury, the well-known
specialist on such cases, who advised me to try a trip to Algiers.
And that, you see, accounts for my coming here."

**I see," Iris answered, gazing back at him stonily. He
quavered before the steady stare of those beautiful blue eyes,
but he kept on nevertheless upon his straight path with cynical
fortitude.

" Well, after I got here, stopping next door as I did with Tate-
Westbury, I naturally took an early opportunity of calling round,
and looking over Uncle Arthur's place, by good old Sarah's kind
permission."

" I see," Iris replied once more, with rigid emphasis. " In
short, you took an early opportunity, after your kind, of prowling
about my house while I was away by deluding my servant with
the practically untrue excuse of cousinhood."

Harold winced. '* Not your house, Iris," he answered,
abruptly, and with some asperity. " That's exactly what I'm
coming to. You anticipate too iiast. But just at first, of course,
I wasn't aware of that myself. Ho^'ever, as it happens, I didn't
come uninvited. I called at Aunt Amelia's special request to
bring her bronchitis kettle, whi6h I'd carried all the way from
London ; and Sarah, learning I was Sir Arthur's nephew,
naturally asked me in to view the villa — a piece of hospitality
which you, apparently, would not have extended to your own
relations."

Iris bowed courteously. " You interpret my eentimenta with
absolute correctness," she replied, in the same cold and freezing
tone as ever.

** We shall see about that soon,*' Harold went on, with a faint
attempt at something like gallantry. "Iris, let's be reasonable.
I don't want to be hard upon you. I don't want to quarrel. I
•Arant to be friends. We were children together, you know, and
always friendly. Let's be friendly still ; don't let a matter of
money come between us like a shadow. I'm prepared to make
a liberal arrangement, a most liberal arrangement, if you'll only
listen to reason. But wait awhile for that ; facts first ; this is
what happened. I brought Yate-Westbury to the house quite
casually one afternoon, and as he was trying a lot of keys on a
concealed drawer in Sir Arthur's davenport, suddenly, to his
^turprise, one of them fitted it. Well, he opened the drawer, ol
ooUKM, and turned over the papers ; and tuuong them, to mj

•07

fanmenM astonishment, as well as his own/* — Irii bit her lip to

stifle a sarcastic smile — "came across a will of Sir Arthur's,
later in date than the one yon found in London, leaving every-
thing absolutely to me, and naming me also as sole executor.
So that Sidi Aia and all the English property's really mine.
And I grieve to say your not benefited a iingle penny by Uie final
disposition."

" Is that all ? " Iris asked, with an impatient movement, gazing
at him frigidly.

" No, that's not all," Harold answered, rising from the divan,
and drawing a chair very tentatively a foot or two nearer to his
pretty cousin. •• Iris," and he leant across towards her with a
persuasive air and a killing smile, •' I know you don't want to be
friends — that's, unfortunately, obvious ; but I can't bear to think
this money should sever us — this wretched money — a mere mat-
ter of a few acres of land and a few pounds at the banker's — w«
who were always such good friends before — and I, who have
always loved you as a cousin, and have lately learned how much
more profoundly and intimately I loved you as a friend and an
admirer, not to say as a lover. I couldn't bear. Iris, to deprive
you of your wealth, or, rather, of the wealth you once erroneously
supposed to be yours ; and I'm longing to make a proposition to
you now which wiU leave it yours just as fully as ever. I don't
want you to give me an answer at once — in your present frame
of mind, I'm afraid I know what that answer would be — I want
delay, I want respite ; I want you to turn the matter over and
consider it. . . . Iris, I asked you to marry me once. You were
then, you thought, rich, and I was a beggar. To-day, you see,
the tables are, unhappily, turned. It is I who am rich, and you
who have practically next to nothing. I regret the change, but
I won't let you lose by it. For your sake, for your dear sake,
I'm willing that things should remain almost the same as ever.
If, after due consideration, you can find it in your heart to change
vour mind, and consent to marry me, I'll make a settlement of
half the property upon you, so that you will still be rich, and, as
my wife, will practically possess it all absolutely. . , . Now,
don't answer at once, Irid ; take time to think. Remember, I
adore you, I worship you, I love you ; and what I care about in
this is not the money — the paltry, miserable, wretched money —
I'd fling that in the sea if I could gain your approbation by so
doing — but you, my beloved, my queen, my darling. I loYtyoo,
Irii, and I mmt, I will, I ihall make yon marry m« t**

™'

m inn «» m^«

l^e Vf^^mt \\ as lie spoke— hp fpei^^t every lyppl pf i^. T\m pro-

:}pr]Re Of t\\^t vm mn ^99'^^i^\ ml liM msw\ biro for a mo

inpnt» rqgue a-nd fprgpf ^8 {)^ ^a^, oiu of hi^ pwn vilt? ndf
.^pd lie felt lip cp^lq fpaljy (jipg i\\u, unv^ty mtQ tlie Medittiniu'
4f]— tl^at s^pjen qiqnftjf— if 9nl.y l>fi PPhM wjn Iri.s's loye by io
iiin<2:ing it. Her swoet fiice kept down for awhile tlie jini I
i|i:ip^}f3e^ tl^lf^ Stfuggjpjj fqi: im'^WH wiMmi I'lin- He wttiquiv.-r-
ing with excitement, but it was the hoiieste.st expiteil^^eut he hail
k|-|pwp fof i|ippt|}3— th|^ ^ane^sf. t||p pijr^sj;. the leW lelfish tttid
«!;|f-"ceii|;fffl. \U Ipn^wl j'qr Irjii tP JJ"^9}' 1»}S >K^'tvlt|i ; he longed
jip ^lij^re hi§ >vp^ltlj Wj^b Irjj^. I h i\ jcjea for the s»)i;ond k«'i)l hiin
iluratiiy Sij,i)j4. fj^ vifi|,§ ivlipost if;^ ra-tipUi]-! and (jullmjtod an »)ve|r.
fiijt lci§ rose ^s l^^ fipisl<«d his spM^ich— that vile aput«ch of

jjt^— |;^^^' vjfretpb H'l'P JHf!tf«fl H^r «P mu^Jb by hia pwo vile
fi^pc^afc] ^]}^t |i^ tfliQUi,'!)^ }|e cpujd \}^y Iris Jvnyvett foe money—
.jfi s|,ffpdii|g Ijfifore ]\\]i\ s\}\]\'\\}i§, in jjer full heigbt {how imppg-
(ij ^ gqqd wPflHI'P IprH^ in bp'' five fi.?tt 8i5^ pf rigljteoua iiii|igna-
ipn I) sbp ar|s\yec^i| l^iin Rj^sgiopj^tply, >yith ft wild outl^urst of

peepfi; ••feyer! Npypj^j NEVliiil ^fEVKUt

lq,rQJ^, I r]ep4 P9 ^i^fi ip aopsi4er. I dpp't want to ppjlute my-
self by ije^nng ^diat ypH b^ye tP ^sy. 1 loathe and dptost
/qu fqr yo\]if mxA^ ^PflPPilP^i jib^t d«.y at Kensington. I loathe
mq dptesji yoH fpr ypur horrid attempt to buy pne tp-day. I
{op't knp>y wbetlier ypij fp|:ged tbis will or not ; I don't know
.ylietber Unqjp Tpm cg-p figbtypw pver it or not ; I don't know
wjipt jipr you cap fijch awa^^ my prpperty or npt ; but rich pr pppr,
fpfger or lip,r, pucce^s pf l^ilnre, I'U never m^rry you — never,
pey^]:, pevef, p^yer. Fqf money I care a great deal less than
pojihing. Ypu may do your worst but ypu wpn't alter me. And
lesji ypp sbpuld st;i|l cpntinue tp hppe, and scheme, and plan,
an4 ^W9J Vf^^ witb yPUr bPi^^ible attentipns and yPur base pro-
pps^l^, i'U tell ypu tbe truth at poe fell blow : I've already
q,ppppj)e4 » better mm tban ypu — ten thousand times better ; an^
. [f we §tarye tpgetber, tbrough your machinations, him I'll marry
and np pt|ier. And sbe mpved tpwards the dopr with that
resplute aif wbiflb, as Harpld Knyvett instinctively perceived,
implied tb^t the qnestipn between them was clpsed for ever.

^^rq|d fpllpwed her thrpugh the stately Saracenic archway,

fc^|r(ipg tbe reipstftte^ button with a nervous twitching in his

rrpmwPPf fipgers. *' Very gppd," he said, cpldly, the devil

. itnin him r§-a8^erting itf hateful sway pnoe mora, i* \yB ove^

fin^wvmm.

Twmmim.

.wa:

dtyil

tti tXMtB Of SBJlM.

809

war, then, to the knife, Misa Knyvett. You leave yourself no
door for escape or mercy. This will shall be proved — and you'll
be beggared — beggared I "

Iris didn't see him as she swept from the room with her back
turned to him. If she had, she would have observed that his face
as he spoke, for all his calmness, was distorted with rage, and
hideous to gaze upon. U bokea like the fucu of a devil, or a
maniao.

** "^ ^ '^ ^'ji i ^ m mmMn m mt t^mi^^ ^«^w

'^m^i/i ^^«I*k'»%MUhA<W.»Hin«> .

nio

\ ',

ffU TKNTS or ■HKM.

CHAPTER li.

OPEN WAB.

In the drawing-room opposite, Uncle Tom was seated on a:
oriental ottoman in the pretty arched recess between the tw<
deep windows, while Meriem by his side, with eyes oast round ii
wonder upon that beautiful room, was conversing with the red
faced old gentleman eagerly and unreservedly as to what thebac
man could possibly want with dear Iris. This denouement wa
worse, indeed, than her worst anticipations. It was clear tlu
bad man had asserted his claim to ruin Iris. In the centre oi
the room, Mrs. Knyvett occupied her active mind in turning ovti
the ornaments on the occasional tables, unconscious of the crisis,
to see if they'd been properly dusted in her daughter's absence ;
while on one side Eustace and Vernon were conversing in an
undertone, exchanging ideas on this sudden alteration in the
aspect of their joint matrimonial prospects. To whom, tims
engaged, enter Iris with a sweep, her face showing all the air of
a tragedy queen ; close followed by Harold in the rear, composing
his features with great diflficulty into a sufficiently calm and
quiet frame to suit his expected interview with that old fool
"Whitmarsh.

As they entered, Uncle Tom rose abruptly, and motioned Iris
to a seat by the window with old-fashioned courtesy. The dis-
comfited heiress sat down with emphasis by Meriem's side,
holding her cousin's hand tight in her own. Meriem guessed
from her hot flushed face and her downcast eyes what the bad
man had been saying to discompose her. But Harold drew up a
chair as if nothing out of the usual had lately happened, and
addressed his discourse at once with ostentatious franimess to the
ruffled old barrister.

" M. Whitmarsh," he said, fumbling with one hand in his
breast pocket for a well-known paper, •* a worldly-wise person,
with the fear of litigation before his eyes, would not, perhaps,
take the bold itep I am about to take. He would leave you to
find out at your leisure for your own side the line of action he

tWM TXMTt OV tHEM.

611

ied on fi:

the tw(

round ii

the red

at theba(

eynent wa:

clear tli(

centre ol

rning over

the crisis,

absence ;

5iug in an

on in the

'horn, tJius

the air of

composing

calm and

t old fool

ioued Iris
The dis-
sm's side,
a guessed
.t the bad
di-ew up a
ened, and
^ess to the

id in his
e person,
perhaps,
e you to
botioB hi

proposed to adopt, and allow yon to govern yourself as bnst you
might accordingly. 13ui this present Iiu^s'mcsh hcs. fortunately,
aU within the umily. We're all rehaions, and all, 1 trust,
friends."

** No,'* ancle Tom tlmndorod out sullenly, and then was
silent.

" All relations or connoctlnns, at least," Harold went on, lesF
glibly, fumbling still with his ri^ht hand in a nervous way in
that left breast-pocket ; " and you're all now staying as guest
in my house, so that I'm nuturally anxious, as a mere matter c
hospitality, to do the straightforward and honourable thing b,
every one of you."

" The determination does you the highest credit," Uncle Ton
interposed, eying him close and long through his forensid eye
glass.

" And I think it right, therefore, to explain to you here at full
length what I've just been explaining in hasty outline in the
hbrary to Iris."

He drew the paper — that precious paper — with a flourish from
his left breast-pocket, and deposited - j, with much show of
internal reluctance, on the little Moorish occasional table. Then,
in slow and deliberate words, he repeated once more at greater
length the ofiBcial story, so to speak, of its accidental discovery
by Dr. Yate-Westbury in the secret drawer of Sir Arthur's
davenport. Uncle Tom listened with settled expression of pro-
found scepticism on his acute round face. " Ah, well, my fine
fellow," he thou;i;ht to himself, with an internal smile of malici-
ous triumph at Harold s approaciiing discomfiture, *• you've done
for yourself this time, anyhow, you may be certain. The thing's
a forgery, as sure as a gun ; and if it's a forgery, I'm cocksure
to be able to detect it." But Harold, never heeding that cynical
smile, went on with his story to the bitter end, and then pro-
ceeded further to relate the generous offer he had just made in
the library to Iris, *• which my cousin," he said, coldly, "has
been ill-advised enough, I regret to say, to decline with unneces-
sary warmth of sentiment and language. Under these painful
circumstances, unpleasant as such a course must be to me, noth-
ing remains for me but to prove the new will ; and lest you
should ever say I'd taken you by surprise, and not given you all
due warning, I've brought the document with me here to-day j.
that you may iudge for yourself of its authenticity and validity.
This is it," and he took it from the table afTectionately, with a
wana imile of parental partiality— his bantling, his favourite^

312

TBK TKNTI Of BHSM.

his own pet handiwork, " If you'll take the trouble to oast
your eye down that," he said, with an air of profound convic-
tion, •' I think you'll agree with me that Iris would have done
ar. better for herself if she'd accepted my equitable, and even
^'onerous offer."

Uncle Tom took up the paper from the table with the same
sceptical and supercilious smile as ever. This tyro to suppose he
could forge a will that would baiBfle the acutest and most experi-
enced hand in the whole Probate and Divorce Division I The
thing was monstrous, absurd, incredible. But as he read and
read, both Eustace Le Marchant and Harold Knyvett, who were
standing by and watching his features closely, perceived a change
come slowly over his purple face. He was no longer amused ;
he was by rapid stages, first puzzled, then surprised and annoyed,
then vexed and baffled, then finally angry, and very indignant.
That he should show his anger, Harold knew by a keen intuition
for a certain sign of the success of Iws strategy. If the will
were bad, if the signature were doubtful, if a flaw had been sus-
pected in theiaw of the case, or the wording of the documents,
if a loophole had been left for escape anywhere, that old fool
Whitmarah, with his professional skill and his legal acumen,
would of course have spotted it ; and if he had spotted it, he
would have pounced down then and there, with the savage joy
of battle in his keen old eyes, upon the expectant culprit. But

his silence and his wrath, his internal fuming, were

auguries

good for Harold's success ; the greatest authority on the subject
of wills in all England had no weapon left but impotent rage
with which to meet and face that magnificent device of his.

Harold twisted the top button off its thread once more in his
transport of delight, and then played, for a change, with the
empty button-hole.

'• You scoundrel I" Uncle Tom cried, finding words at last,
and rising up in his wrath, with an eager desire to strangle the
fallow then and there, as he sat smiling and fidgeting inanely
before him. " Don't try to come any of your nonsense over me 1
You forged this will yourself, and you know you forged it."

Harold's tliin lips curled gracefully up, and he lowered hia
head with polite sarcasm.

•♦ That will be for a Court of justice in England to determine,"
he answered, coldly.

*♦ Did he forge it, Uncle Tom ?" Iris asked from her comer,
with perfect calmness, turning round to her uncle. •' Are you
lurt ib'8 A forgery ? Can you be quite certain about it V*

ilpp"p>l

^■•■•9BP^P<ilP""<^

Ttjf

THE TENTS 07 8HKM.

818

ige

tis

ist,

^ly

••Quite eertain,'* Uncle Tom answered, gasping hard for
ti'eath. But he wrote with a pencil on the back of an envelope,
which he handed across to her for greater security, " A forgery,
beyond the shadow of a doubt, my dear, but the cleverest scoun-
drel I ever knew for all that. There's absolutely nothintj tan-
gible to go upon. It's as clever as sin. Ha'il prove his will, and
we can never disprove it."

At that outward and visible sign of the old man's defeat,
Harold sat and chuckled inwardly to himself.

*• It's not too late even now, Mr. Whitmarsh," he observed,
in a low and gracious tone. " I'm open still to negotiations. If
you'd like to use your influence with Iris on the subject "

But before he could finish that sentence in his cowardly throat,
Vernon Blake had risen from his place in the corner, and come
forward all aglow with fierce, youthful indignation.

♦* You may do as you like about the will." the painter said,
half choking, and plantmg himself full in front of the astonished
Harold, •' but if you dare to utter another word to insult Miss
Knyvett by your disgraceful ofifers "

The rest was unspoken, but a significant glance at the
painter's fist efficiently replaced the remainder of that suppressed
sentence.

*• That'll do, Blake,"* Uncle Tom responded, taken aback at
this well-meant though unexpected interposition. •• The fellow's
proposals will not ba entertained. But we don't need your help
in solving the question, thank you. To forge a will first,
indeed, and then think he can force a girl like Iris to marry him
off hand on the strength of the forgery I I'm ashamed of the
fool for Lis ignorance of character I"

As he ispoke, Ilarold Knyvett folded'up the forged document
with trembling fingers, and replaced it carefully in his breast-
pocket. •' Very well, Mr. Whitmarsh," he said, with freezing
frigidity, " you reject my olive branch ; you'll be sorry for it
hereafter. This ia war now, open war, with all of you ; and not
by my fault. I shall prove the will, and resume my property.
Meanwhile, under the present unpleasant circumstances, it must
be obvious at once to the meanest understanding that you can
none of you accept my hospitality any longer. I'll ring for the
carriage to take your luggage round at once to the Boyal."

Before he could reach the electric bell at the side, however,
Eustace Le Marchant, who had for some time been whispering
Apart very seriouply in a corner with Meriem, gave a meaning
^l«ao« and .a look •£ query toward his £abyl« fianc$t, Tb«

ai4

THE TEKTS OF IHEM.

beautiful Algerian answered with a quiet no^ of assent. Tbca
Eustace stepped out into the middle of the room. " Stop," he
cried, in a very stern and determined voice. "Don't dare to
touch this lady's bell," and he waved his hand vaguely sideways
towards Meriem. *' The mistress of Sidi Aia empowers me to for-
bid you. I, too, have some important documents here — of earlier
date, but of greater genuineness — that may serve to put a some-
what different complexion upon this person's action. It was not
our intention at first to produce them at all, as against Miss
Knyvett's original claim. We were willing that she should
inherit unopposed, in a friendly fashion ; but if you think this
person, sir," and he turned to address himself to Uncle Tom for
a moment, " is likely to succeed in his attempted fraud, it
may be worth while, at all hazards,
mediately by any means in our power
I'll read them over to you all first ;

to checkmate him im-
These are the papers,
you can then examine

them finally at your leisure, and judge for yourself of their
authenticity."

Harold's face was livid with excitement now. He clutched the
buttonhole hard with all his might. lie had neglected one
chance, and that chance had defeated him I He saw the whole
truth in the twinkling of eye. Tlio barefooted native girl was
Clarence Knyvett's daughter and heiress.

But not legitimate 1 Oh, no, not legitimate! By the law of
England, certainly not legitimate I It was all to no avail I It
would profit them nothing ! In the eye of the law, she was no-
body's daughter. Thank heaven for that charming obliquity •/
the law 1 Blaukstone for ever I Ijong hve ii^usticel

■I

tMM TAMXS or tiU£M.

iid

CHAPTER LL

CHECK AGAIN.

Blowlt Eustace nnfolrlpd the little bundle of documents he
held in his hand, and laid them one by one on the table before
him. They were worn and ragged to the last degree, mere rough
memoranda jotted down on thin sheets of French foreign note ;
and they were folded very small into numerous squares, so much
rubbed at the edges by long wear that they hardly held together
in places where the strain was greatest. Uncle Tom regarded
these doubtful allies with a suspicious glance. Remarkably
flimsy materials indeed, he thought to himself silently, to lay
before the Probate and Divorce Division I

Eustace, however, undeterred by his scrutiny, proceeded next
to produce from his pocket a broken Kabyle charm — a tiny metal
box which Iris at once recognised with a start as the one that
Meriem had worn habitually round her neck in the mountains at
Beni-Merzoug. " These documents," he said, demonstratively,
turning to Uncle Tom with a quiet smile, " were found enclosed
in that little box, which you see before you now on the table.
The box was given to Meriem by her father, Clarence Knyvett,
who strongly urged her never on any account to lose it, or part
with it. It was unfortunately broken by the accident with the
train, and picked up by me on the line, near Beni-Mansour, in
its present damaged and crushed condition. I then for the first
time became aware of the nature of the papers it contained.
Meriem for her part had ascertained their importance some
weeks earlier, but had been unwilling, for Miss Knyvett's sake,
to disclose their contents to me, or to any one. Nor did I in turn
contemplate disclosing them till this very morning. We had
made up our minds not to disturb Miss Knyvett's title to Sir
Arthur's estate. Under existing circumstances, however, and to
defeat Mr. Harold Knyvett's designs — upon which I, for my part,
offer no opinion — we think ourselves fully justified to day in
bringing th«m forward for your oousiddratiou. "

SiC

Ttai tauvs or aw*!!.

H« looked at Meriem, who nodded •. silent approval once mort.
Then he took up the first docuin* '{ read it aloud. *' It's a

statement," he said, '* by Merit * ther, Clarence Knyvett/
explaining the circumstances undt. .iiich he became, to all in-
tents and purposes, a Kabyle in Algeria, and the reasons he had
for so disposing of the other documents found with it."

Everybody leant forward with hushed attention. And this was
the statement to which Iris, Uncle Tom, and Harold Knyvett
listened, each in his own way, with breathless interest.

" I, Clarence Knyvett, formerly cornet of the 8th Hussars in
the British service, and lately, under the name of Joseph Le-
boutillier, a private in the 8rd Chasseurs d'Afrique, write this
last account of my life and misfortunes for the benefit of my only
daughter, Meriera, to whose care I now confide it, in explanation
of my accompanying will and annexed documents. The nature
of the space to which I must entrust them compels brevity. 1
left England under strong suspicion, which I could not refute, of
having fo)'ged my father, Admiral Knyvett's, name to sundry
notes of hand, bills, and acceptances. I solemnly swear before
the face of heaven that I did not forgo one of these papers ; that
[ received tliem all to be cashed on his account from my brother,
Charles Wilbcrforce Knyvett, whom I solemnly believe to have
I'oiged them himself; that I afcepted them in good faith, on his
i-epresentation, as bearing my father's genuine signature; that I
believed a detailed story he palmed off upon me as to why they
had been uttered and why he did not desire to cash them in per-
son ; that 1 foolishly accepted part of the proceeds as a loan from
him to assist me in the payment of debts I ought never to have
contracted ; and that by so doing I left myself without any
means of disproving the vile accusation which my brother Charles
at last permitted to be brought by my father against me in the
matter."

Uncle Tom looked up with a glance of supreme contempt at
Ilia enemy, Harold.

"Like father, like son," he murmured, half-inaudibly. "He
was always a sneak, Charles Wilberforce Knyvett."

"My brother Charles," Eustace went on reading, " had laid
his plans so det'piy, and woven his wobs around me so cunningly,
that I found it impossible, when the exposure came, to make my
father believe the truth, though I afterwards wrote him more
than one letter in the depth of my misery which I trust may
have opened his eyes before he died to the true state of the case
between us. For the time, however, he believed Charles, and

tU TXNTS or SHEM.

817

Le
|re

1 *'

only ftIlow«d m% to esoapt proBecntion, which I knaw must
almost infallibly go - against me — so incredible would my true
story have sounded to any jury — by conniving; at my escape
under disguise from England. It would have been impossible,
indeed, for me to set up the true defence without making admis-
sions about a lady, a member of my family — not discreditable
but highly undesirable — which a sense of honour imperatively,
precluded me from ever making. Under these unhappy circum-
stances, I bad no course open to me but to flee the country, and
take refuge in France, where I enhsted for my bread in the
Third Chasseurs."

•' A harum-scarum fellow," Uncle Tom murmured low : " but
good-hearted after all I I never thought him criminal ; I neyer
thought him criminal."

Meriem's eyes were dim with tears as Eustace read ; but ihe
held Iris's hand tight in her own meanwhile, and Iris, in return,
stroked her soft arm tenderly. The story went on in brief lan-
guage to describe the circumstances under which Clarence Ejiy-
vett felt himself bound in turn to desert from the French colours
during what seemed to him the essentially unjust Eabyle war,
and thus, of pure necessity, to cast in his lot with the half-savage
Mohammedan mountain people.

** By no fault of my own," he wrote pathetically, '• I thus
found myself at last proscribed and an outlaw before the eyes of
the two most powerful and civilised nations of all Christendom,
, and compelled for my own safety outwardly to conform to the
distasteful rites and usages of Islam. Hunted to earth, and
banished for ever from home, I accepted the inevitable. I be-
came as a Kabyle, and took to myself a wife from among mj'
adopted countrymen. But not knowing what disposition of his
property my father might make, and anxious to secure to my
children the benefit, if any, accruing to them under his possible
wiU, I induced my wife, after going through the native Kabyle
ceremony with me in her own village, to be secretly married to
nrj at the Mairie at St. Cloud, in accordance with the lex loci
i\ien and there prevailing in a manner that would be recognised
as undoubtedly valid by any English court of law.

Eustace paused, and looked at Uncle Tom significantly. Uncle
Tom arranged his necktie with much studied care, and glanced
at his boots with a non-committing glance, much wondering
what might next be coming out of this very unexpected and up-
setting dooumenU

i)l«

THS TKNTI or UOll.

" So Mericm's Uncle Clarence'i daughter afUr all, in Uw u fai
faot ! " Irii exclaimed , fervently.

*' Stop a moment, stop a moment my dear I " Uncle Tom in-
terposed, with a frightened face. '* Not so fast, Iris, not so fast,
I beg of you. The register of the Etat Civil at St. Cloud was
completely destroyed in the last insurrection — before our own —
and the marriage may therefore be provable o? not — ^provable or
not, according to circumstances."

With a quiet smile, Eustace read on the paper to the very end,
where Clarence Knyvett, at length, declared how he went forth
with his life in his hands on his las^ expedition, ignorant whether
he would ever return alive or not, and anxious for the safety of
his only daughter. " It's attested, you observe," he said, hand-
ing it over for examination to Uncle Tom, " by two priests of
!.he Mission of St. Cloud, as having been deposed to before them
by Joseph Leboutillier ; and it's also sworn to as a true state-
ment — unexamined judicially, comms papier de J'amilU, by U
iiiinnne Y'usuf, h'ubyU, before the Juge de Paix at Palaestro, in
' Irande Kabylie."

" So I see," Unc.„ Tom responded, drily. As yet uncertain
whither this thing might lead, he was disinclined to commit mm-
sclf to anvthinf^ definite.

Dut Harold Knyvett looked down at them all with a fixed
sneer. *• 1 should like immensely to see the proof of this alleged
marriage," he remarked, scornfully.

** You shall," Eustace answered, with great promptitude.
" Here it is, you observe, a sworn copy extracted from the Actes '
de VEtat Civil de St. Cloud- en- Kabylie, before the insurrection,
attesting both the civil marriage of le novime Yusuf, before the
Mairc of that commune, and, on a separate form, the religious
ceremony before the mission priests of Our Lady of Africa."

Uncle Tom took the two little documents up and examined
them critically.

** It may possibly be a valid enough contract," he answered,
with dubious and oracular reticence. As a matter of fiact he saw
at a glance they v^ere simply unassailable.

♦• The third paper I have to produce here is not a legal one,''
Eustace continued, smiling'. •' It's a certificate of the baptism
of Meriem Mary, daughter of Clarence Knyvett, otherwise
"^'' '!"?uf, otherwise Joseph Leboutillier, by Brother Antoine, called
t Paternoster, a mission priest of the same Order."

' Am I a Christian then, after all ? " Meriem cried out, with

mmmmm

V«« TKNTt or IHXK.

819

a gndden bunt of comprehension as to the meaning of this
hitherto raisunderstooil docuinont. •* Did Yusuf make a Chris-
tian of me when I wha a iiulu child witlu>ut my ever kituwing
itf

" Yes, dearest," Iris answered, oxamining the certificate, and
kissing her cousin's iorcliead totidurly. '* And if Yusuf hadn't,
you'd have been one of yourself, for jnobody could eve" make a
r«iAl Mohammedan of you."

•* Thank heaven for that," Mericm cried, with a sigh, " for
e\er since I heard of that horrid business down there at St.
Cioud, I've longed to be a Christian like you. Iris."

** The fourth document," Eustace went on, with calm persist-
ence, " is the last will and testament of Clarence Knyvett, duly
signed and attested with the English attestation clause before
tvto witnesses, according to which pa[)er the tfistator leaves and
bequeaths "

There was a dead pause, and all listened eagerly. Uncle Tom
in particular being keen as a beagle on this last most important
point of all.

" Everything he dies possessed of, real or personal, in equal
parts, as respects one moiety to his daughter Meriem Mary, and
as respects the other moiety in proportional shares to the child-
ren of his beloved brother, the Uev. liegiiiiild Knyvett, M.A., to
the total exclusion of his two brothers, Arthur and Charles, or
then 43scen( a its.'

Witli an eager movement, Uncle Torn took t!ie will anc* glanced
over it very carefully. As he looked, his face grew brighter and
brighter. It was clear he accepted its authenticity oif hand.
"Half a loaf's better than no bread. Iris, my dear," he muttered
at last, with a smile of tvhcf. '• You're entitled to a moiety.
As far as it goes that's Ingiily sutisl'actory. Mr. Le Marchant,
vour hand. 1 beg your pai-don. I think these documents will
hold water. Harold Knyvett, you ini'eriiul scoundrel, 1 fancy
we've cooked your goose at last. Your I'orgery was a confound-
edly clever forgery, but it hasn't jjiolitcd you much after ail.
Things are not as goo>l us tJiey might be, (piite. Iris ; but if the
Claimant's really, as these papers hwau to show tlie lawful issue
of your Uncle Clarence Knyvett's body — and she nuiy be, she
may be — why, we can't grudge her half — wc niilly ciiii't grudge
it to her. And they've come in most ofipoituiu'ly, I must con-
fess, to cut that desperate forger's tijroat ; tor I'll allow, mj
3dar," and his voice tiroi';:»-d low, " that hi* forger) would hav«

820

VHB TENTB OF HUElt.

been tbe very hardest to fight against I've ever known in the
whole of my long and unique legal experience."

Iris rose, and folded Meriem in her arms. •• Then we each
take half I " she murmured, joyfully.

" I wanted you to have all, Iris," Meriem answered through
her tears, pressing her cousin tight to her bosom in return; ♦• but
when the wicked man tried to get it all for himself, Eustace said
to me — and I quite agreed with him — it was the only waj;
possibl* to defeat hig wickadneijs 1 " ^

W¥T~

p-""""iBr

"^Tl~~-Ti ■ •fmm'

t» TBMTi 0» fSia*

the

jacb

ugh
but
said

t «

(

CHAPTER LIL

OHJilCKMATII.

Habold Knyvett looked on stealthily with a deadly stare in
his cold blue eyes. The corners of his set mouth were twitching
horribly now. ♦* It's all very well, this hugging and embracing,"
he exclaimed, with a sneer — all his native brutality breaking out
at last — " but you've me to reckon with, you must recollect,
you've me to reckon with ; and I'm not to be put off with miracu-
lous discoveries of hidden wills in a Kabyle girl's necklace, 1 can
tell you that. Make up your minds for a good battle-royal. I
shall fight you every inch — every word — every letter of it."

Uncle Tom had chosen his side now, and meant to stick to it
like a man at last. "You can't," he said shortly. "You'll
find it's no use. Those documents would carry any case in
England."

Harold Knyvett glared back at him with eyes like a tiger's on
the point to spring. " They're forgeries," he cried, in an icy
voice " mean, disgraceful, inartistic forgeries ! That fellow got
them up," and he pointed with his forefinger contemptuously at
Eustace. " I can see it in his face. He's a miserable forger.
And he's got them up very badly, too. He's copied the signa-
tures. That's easy enough to do. Any fool can copy a signature,
you know. I could copy 'em myself. I could copy Sir Arthur's
— " his bloodshot eye was roving wildly round the room now, " as
soon as look at it. I'll do it before you, if you like, j ust to show you
how it's done. TJie difficulty's not there ; it's to make your
forgery reasonable and vraisemhUihle ; and this fool hasn't
managed that at all ; he's invented an absurd, cock-and-bull,
melodramatic story that no jury'd believe ; whereas here's my
will — Sir Arthur's own hand — at Aix, you observe- all of them
dead — two indubitable witnesses. Ha, ha, ha I Not a shado^^
of doubt about that. The veritable thing! Just look at ii

TH^ TENTS OF SaKM.

Tonrself. A beautiful will ! An irreproachable document ! **
He could hardly oontrol himself with excitement and aiif^itr now.'
He was drunk with rage. Ue drew the roll like a dagger, and
brandished it in their faces.

Suddenly, with a start, he grew cool once more. A storm of
conflicting emotions seemed to be sweeping through him. "Why,
you're taking it for granted," he cried, again scornful, " tliat this
fellow Clarence, if he ever came to Algeria at all — which wo none
of us know — outhved Alexander — the original leg[at6e, the lirHt
inheritor. Unless he did, he never inherited, and never could
dispose. Don't go too fast. It doesn't all Ue between this
woman and Iris, as you seem to think. You've me to reckon
with. Me, MB, ME, to reckon with ! " — striking his breast liard,
with insane intensity — •• and you'll find me devilish tougli pe ■
son, too, for any one to fight against."

" Oh, that's all right," Uncle Tom resumed, turning over the
papers critically once more, with his experienced glance.
** We've satisfied ourselves about all that long ago, you may be
sure. Do you think I took up practice in the i'rubate and
Divorce Division yesterday ? No, no, Harold Knyvett, don't
bluster any longer; the case is doad ; you may retire gracefully.
You're not in this cause any more, I assure you. Your forgcsd
will is so much waste paper. (Jlever, I admit, but inoH'cctual,
ineffectual. Iris, my dear, will vou do nie the favour to ring tlio
bell, and order your carriage to take Mr. Harold Knyvett's alTuir.s
round to the Jtoyal I . , . . But before you go, Mr.
Harold, let me just explain the case succinctly to you. Clnnmee
Knyvett, alias Joseph Leboutellier, alias Yusuf the KabyJc, on
indubitable evidence, outlived his brother Alexander, as I ut first
to my intense dissatisfaction discovered, by several weoks — quite
long enough to inherit, and therefore, quite long enough to dis-
pose legally of his own pro})erty. Till to-day, I was under the
impression that he died intestate, without lawful issue, in wliicli
case, under your grandfather's will — tlifit most extraordiruiry
will — so unsafe not to employ a professional hand ! — the estate
would have descended in due course to his brother Arthur. I
now learn from these papers supplied by Miss Meriem it was not
so. The papers, I judge, are undoubtedly genuine, and above
suspicion. They have not been thrust upon us by tlu'ir present
possessors. 1'hey were only produced under stress of necessity
to baffle you. That guarantees and corroborates their intrinsic
credibility. I accept them as valuable allies against you. Ltl

■■p

ffHX TXNT8 or 8HEk.

828

■\

as nse plain words. They nullify your forgery. Sir Arthur
never owned the estate at all. He had nothing to leave but his
savings, if any, from bis half-pay. bidi Aia he held as part of
the trust. Clarence Knyvett was all along the real possessor.
And Clarence Knyvett leaves his fortune in equal shares, one half
to his daughter — my dear, your hand ; thank you — and one half
to his niece and mine, your cousin Iris, whom you tried to defraud
by your vile machinations. These papers prove the entire case.
I never saw a clearer set of documents in my life. We can settle
it between us, Meriem, when we get back to England, in a
friendly suit. And you, sir, you may go to Bath with your
forgery I "

The word Bath, having been loudly but somewhat inarticu-
lately pronounced by Mr. Whitmarsh, cannot be guaranteed as
textually correct by the present chronicler. Indeed, it seems
not improbable, from internal evidence, that Uncle Tom, in
his warmth, really made use of a somewhat hotter and strong
expression.

But Harold Knyvett's hapd trembled fiercely now. His face
was a horrible sight to behold. Disappointment, rage, mean baf-
fled ambition, all were pictured upon his distorted features at
that moment. He saw at a glance that everything was lost.
He had played his trump card and had been overtrumped out-
right by a barefooted Kabyle girl. This wretched conspiracy of
truth against a lie, of honour against dupHcity, of fact against
forgery, had unaccountably triumphed I His cleverness and his
skill had all been set at naught by a dead man's will and a good
man's forethought. He was mad, mad, mad with wrath and in-
dignation. Can months of patient toil thus go for nothing ?
Can hours of dishonest industry thus pass unrewarded ? "lis
an unjust world, where an able forger isn't even allowed to come
by his own that he has plotted for so cleverly. If there had
been a fire in the room Harold Knyvett would have seized those
disgusting, discomposing truth telling documents, and flung
them into it with wild inconsequence. As there wasn't, a sav-
age thought surged up fiercely in his mind. He would chew
them up small and swallow them wholesale I He made a mad
dart across the room to the table where they lay, with all the
wild energy of rising insanity. Eustace and Venion Blake anti-
cipated in part his savage design, and caught him by the shoul-
ders with stern resolve before he could lay his trembling; haodi
upon the precious papers.

■w

m nuiTi Of f nai

"Tom him out," Unole Tom said, in a ealm TOice, ai retri-^
bntive justioe. But there was no need for that. Harold Eny-
▼ett, baulked even of that last revenge, turned slowly of his own
accord to the door and went down the steps, crushed and broken.
As he left the room, quivering from head to foot like a whipped
cor, hiB face was livid with strange distortions. Iris saw with a
horror not unmixed with disgust, that he, a Enjvett and gentle-
man bom, looking back at his enemies who had fairly conquered
him in just fight, lolled out his tongue, hke a street boy or the
down at a circus. It was not till long months after Meriem and
■he were both happily married that they learned the truth, the
horrible truth which Uncle Tom and their husbands knew before
nightfall. Harold Enyvett went forth from Sidi Aia that after-
noon to Yate-Westbury's madhouse a raving maniac.

Af he left the room Uncle Tom came forward, and gave his
hand, with frank apology to Eustace. " I've wronged yon, Mr.
Le Marchant," he said cordially. ** I see you're a friend. I
took you for an enemy. But I'm not too old yet to acknowledge
a mistake. I regret my error. Now, why didn't you produce
those documents earlier ? "

** Because," Meriem put in, with her transparent simplicity,
" I didn't wish it. I told him not to. I wanted Iris to have ill
the money, as I promised, and I thought Eustace and I would be
happy without it."

" Eustace and you 1 ** Uncle Tom exclaimed, with a sudden
merry twinkle in the comer of his eye. " Whew I Whew I So
that's the way the wind blows, after all, ii it ? Upon my soul,
I never thought of that. Bemarkably blind of me — a man of
my age. I took you for a fortune-hunter, Le Marchant. I was
wrong there, I own ; but, after all, I wasn't so much out ; for
even now, it seems, you'll marnr the heiress.*'

** Against his will, though, Uncle Tom," Iris cried, enthusias-
tically. ** Here's Meriem's been telling me all about it. And,
oh ! they've both behaved so beautifolly < How much you've
misjudged them, you dear, dreadful old ancle 1 Why, if it
hadn't been for Harold producing this forged will," and she
tossed aside that precious document carelessly ; for Harold had
actually left his bantling behind him, in his blank despair;
" Meriem was never going to show us those papers at all, and
Mr. Le Marchant was going to acquiesce in her never showing
tiMm 1 Kow» uncle dear, don't you jnai call that 46Toti^ f **

i«

m mm ov naiir

Unole Tom Boized both thoir hands in his with ferronr, and
pofitiyely went so far, in an access of penitence, as to stoop
down and kissed that distinctly good-looking girl, the Claimant,
on her smooth, high forehead. "My dear," he remarked, in an
apologetic tone, patting her cheek with his hand, " if ever you
practise as long as I've done — which isn't hkely — in the Probate
and Divorce Division in England, yon may be excused for taking
as a general lule, the lowest possible view of human nature, and
all its moti'^^GS. That there's anything in the way of the milk
of human kindness left uncurdled in my mind at all, does high
credit, I assure you, to my original disposition."

"And when Iris and Vernon are married " Meriem began,

innocently.

" God bless my soul, what's that ?" Uncle Tom exclaimed,
with a burst, turning round upon her sharply. " Iris and who ?
What — him — the painter-fellow ? Why, my dear Miss Meriem,
or whatever else your heathenish name is, who on earth put
such a ridiculous notion as that into your pretty head now ?"

Meriem stood back, all covered with confusion. But Iris,
blushing somewhat, yet with a certain not ungraceful pride on
her dainty little features, came forward with Vernon Blake,
looking perhaps a triile awkward and guilty about the c^^es.

" Uncle Tom," she said, shyly, " Meriem's quite right. Vernon
and 1 have arranged that part of our affairs privately between
ourselves, without any assistance, and we think we understand
one another now altogether. So Meriem suggests, as a first
rough idea for the division of the estate, that Vernon and I
should keep Sidi-Aia, while she and Mr. Le Marchant take the
villa at Aix for themselves to live in."

Uncle Tom's hair stood on end with surprise — partly because
he ran his fat hand through it once or twice abstractedly.

"God bless my soul," he exclaimed once more in a puzzled
way, "that innocent-faced painter fellow who never looked as if
he could say Bch to a goose — that hs should have gone and
executed a fiank movement in this way i Who the dickens
would have thought he had it in him ? Who the dickens would
have supposed it was he that was after her? Who the dickens
would have imagined she'd ever take him ? And that I should
all along have been keeping my weather-eye fixed firm on the
other one I . . . Well, well, Iris, it's your own affair. You
take the law into your own hands yourself as a rule ; and all I
can say is if your man turns out one half as decent a ohap as tka

826

TUB TENTS OF BHEM.

fellow I did'nt want you to marry seems to have done, you'll
never have any cause to be ashamed of him. Though you will
admit, it does upset a man's calculations most confoundedly 1"

'* ^nd, Iris dear," Mrs. Knyvett ejaculated with a sigh^ glanc-
ing round the cabinets and tables uneasily, "do you know I
really do believe 'Harold never after all brought over my
bronchitis kettle !"

THE END.