MARTYRED 
 FOOL
 
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 7 
 
 /9^Y^-.
 
 THE MARTYRED FOOL 
 
 H novel 
 
 BY 
 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 ADTHOR OF V 
 
 "aunt Rachel" "Joseph's coat" "by the gate of the sea' 
 "time's revenges" "in dikest peril" etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 ] 895
 
 Copyriglit, 1894, by Harpkr k Brothers. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Book Fihst 
 
 PAGE 
 
 the sowtng of the seed * , . . . . 1 
 
 Book Second 
 the reaping of the harvest ... . 117
 
 THE MARTYRED FOOL 
 
 :SBoo\{ first 
 
 THE SOWING OF THE SEED 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Just fourteen years ago, in the July, that is to say, of the 
 year 1879, a very small boy sat shivering on the bank of a 
 swift-flowing, turbid stream, with his back to the trunk of 
 a big tree, and his hands rammed deep into the pockets of 
 his ragged trousers. If the small boy had peeped round 
 the big tree almost due north-east, he might have seen very 
 dimly and very far away the last spur of the Australian 
 Alps. If he had followed the turbid stream five miles, he 
 might have stood on the shore of the South Pacific Ocean. 
 Small as he was he was aware of both of these facts already, 
 and had no inclination either to look or to wander. It 
 was early July, and mid-winter. He was bitterly cold, and 
 still more bitterly hungry, and his young heart w^as filled 
 with loathing of the world, and with anger at the inequali- 
 ties of fortune. Across the swift-flowing waters of the 
 creek, only four or five hundred yards away, stood the 
 prosperous and rising settlement of Koollala, embraced all 
 around by rising tracts of eucalyptus forest. The great, 
 changeless gums wore in dead winter the same solemn and 
 sombre livery they showed in spring, in summer, and in 
 autumn, and without in the least knowing wh}^, the small 
 boy felt hurt and dispirited in the face of this fact of
 
 nature. Around him and before him the great shapeless 
 trunks rustled their cerements of gray bark, and their leafy 
 bouglis sobbed in answer to the uneven wind. The river 
 had a voice of mourning, and the clouds that scurried over 
 the tree-tops threatened rain. 
 
 The prosperous and rising settlement of Koollala, so far 
 as it was visible from the root of the big gum-tree on 
 which the small boy sat, consisted of ten or a dozen houses 
 built of weatherboard, and set on stilts, to save them from 
 the rain which occasionally rushed down from the sur- 
 rounding heights, or the waters which occasionally tres- 
 passed from the creek below. The rudely split planks of 
 which these scattered tenements were built had once been 
 white, but were now purple gray, rusty gray, green gray, 
 from exposure to all sorts of weather. Everywhere among 
 the scattered houses were evidences of a rough cultivation, 
 but in all the unfenced fields great charred stems of trees 
 stood up like monuments of ruin, and the prosperous and 
 rising settlement looked at least as much like a graveyard 
 as a village. The land had been cleared to the water's 
 edge, but behind the knoll on which the small boy sat, 
 sinking in sombre bowl after sombre bowl of foliage, 
 lay the unbroken primeval forest. The waters of the 
 creek ran five or six hundred feet higher than the land in 
 their immediate neighborhood, but many a thousand j'cars 
 ago they had been caught in a cleft of granite, and unable 
 to break tlirough that strong boundar}^, still held their first 
 course toward the greater waters of the ocean. 
 
 What with cold and what with hunger, what witli a 
 certain eerie sense of loneliness and a certain bitter 
 chafing against the world at large, the small bo}^ gritted 
 liis teeth and had to close his eyelids very tight and 
 hard to prevent the flow of tears. People are apt to 
 think little of the sentimental woes of children, but 
 Evan Rhys, aetat. seven, was as full of despair and rage
 
 against the world as he could well have been if he had 
 been seven and twenty. He clenched his red fists tightly 
 in his ragged pockets, set his teeth hard, and squeezed his 
 eyelids as closely as they would go, and the whole declara- 
 tion of the infant soul was in favor of no surrender. As 
 he sat thus, a boy on a pony approached the creek from the 
 civilized side, and after staring about him a while, sighted 
 an old and stubborn antagonist. 
 
 " Halloa, you there ! " he shouted in an imperious treble. 
 
 The small boy was on his feet in an instant. 
 
 « Halloa, you ! " 
 
 " How did you get over there ? " said the boy on the 
 pony. 
 
 " Find out ! " said Evan Rhys. 
 
 The boy on the pony was very nattily dressed, and the 
 boy on the far side of the creek was in rags. They were 
 of the same age within a month or two, and the dullest 
 observer of their encounter could have seen an offensive 
 patronage on the one side, and an angry repudiation of it 
 on the other. 
 
 "Do you hear what I am saying?" asked the boy on 
 the pony. " I asked you how you got there." 
 
 "Do you hear what Vm saying?" the enemy answered. 
 " I told you to find out. You dassn't come, any way ! " 
 
 " Daren't I ? " said the boy on the pony. " I dare do 
 anything you dare do. A lout can never beat a gentleman." 
 
 " Can't he ? " said young Evan Rhys, with a grimness 
 beyond his years. " You come across and see." 
 
 " Come across yourself," said the trim young Valentine, 
 disdainful of the woodland Orson before him. " We'll 
 jolly soon see who's master ! " 
 
 " All right ! " said Evan Rliys, accepting the challenge 
 with alacrity. " You go round the bend o' the crick. 
 There's a big gum fell over there. You climb over that 
 crick, only you dassn't ! "
 
 " Oh, yes, I dure ! " said the otlier boy coolly, dismounting 
 from his pony as he spoke. 
 
 " Oh, no, yon dassn't ! " responded the woodland chal- 
 lenger. 
 
 Tlie boy opposite hitched his pony to a shrub near at 
 hand and walked alongside the creek. The enemy kept 
 pace with hira on the other side. Thirty or forty j'ards 
 up stream the river swerved suddenl}'^, and a little beyond 
 the turning it was seen that a giant gum, some thirty feet 
 in girth, had fallen from its rain-soaked bed, and now lay 
 prone across the raging waters, forming a rude natural 
 bridge. The enormous breadth of the tree made it impos- 
 sible for the intending intruder to climb it at any spot 
 nearer than that at which the lower branches, vast as an 
 English elm, stretched out on either side. To reach the 
 nearest of these, he had to turn his back upon his enem}', 
 who took unfair advantage of that circumstance, and 
 jeered at him. 
 
 "A gentleman wouldn't have done that," the other 
 shouted across the broiling water. " Don't 3'^ou think I'm 
 afraid of you ! I've got to turn my back to get at you, but 
 I shall get at you all the same." 
 
 Evan Rhys, in anticipation of battle, took ofp his ragged 
 jacket, turned up his ragged shirt-sleeves, and began to 
 beat himself about the chest and shoulders with both 
 swinging hands. The enemy meantime climbed actively 
 enough, reached the great flat back of the i)rostrate trunk, 
 ran across it, and climbed down by the wet and slippeiy 
 roots at the far end, growing ycry muddy and untidy in 
 the process. Arrived, and being face to face with his 
 enemy, he, too, took off his jacket, and rolled up his shirt- 
 sleeves. Then the juvenile combatants shook hands on the 
 young gentleman's invitation, and set to work. 
 
 The fortune of war was various, and now on the slippery 
 and uneven earth one was down, and now another. On the
 
 whole, wlietlier it were fortune, pluck, or skill, or that dis- 
 dain of pain which poverty is early taught to feel, the 
 ragged boy began to get a good deal the better of it ; but 
 the other's pride was up in arms, and it was evident that 
 so long as he had a grain of fight left in him he was not 
 likely to ask for quarter. The war was not carried out 
 according to the rules of art, and included a good deal of 
 clinching. Once or twice the combatants fell out of breath 
 together, and glared, exhausted, at each other, till one of 
 them said " time." The word was talismanic, for the 
 failure to respond to it would have been regarded as a 
 surrender, and, whenever it was spoken by either, the other 
 breathless infant struggled to his feet, and the strife began 
 anew. At length, in one of the unscientific clinches which 
 marred the display from an artistic point of view, the 
 ragged boy fell so heavily upon the young gentleman as 
 to drive all the wind out of his bod}^, and rising, beheld 
 him comatose, or thereabouts. 
 
 " Had enough ? " asked Evan Rhys. 
 
 The gentleman warrior gasped like a fish and rolled his 
 eyes, but was in no condition for verbal answer. 
 
 " Say you've had enough ! " said the conqueror, advanc- 
 ing vengefully. 
 
 The other rolled over, face downward, on the ground, 
 and the rustic touched him contemptuously with the toe of 
 his ragged boot. 
 
 " There," he said, " you've been kicked, and you lie 
 down to it. If you'll do that, you'll do anything. Don't 
 you come a-nigh me any more, that's all." 
 
 The defeated combatant was at too great a disadvan- 
 tage. He was unable to make answer, and when at last he 
 came to himself he saw his late opponent perched high in 
 the muddy roots of the fallen eucalypt above him, with 
 the thumb of derision planted at the tip of a muddy and 
 bloodstained nose.
 
 6 
 
 " Had enough ? " said Evan Rhys from that height of 
 vantage. 
 
 The young gentleman said nothing, but rolled down his 
 sleeves, and struggled into his jacket. He stood sullen 
 and downcast for a full minute, hitching his feet here and 
 there, and shrinking from an encounter with the victor's 
 eye. 
 
 " Fair play up there ! " he said at last ; " no shoving when 
 I'm not ready." 
 
 By way of sole response Evan Rhys arose from his perch 
 among the clotted roots and slid down to the broad trunk 
 of the tree, across which he sauntered witli an air of irri- 
 tating indifference to the other side. Thus left to himself, 
 the vanquished followed in his footsteps, and mounting his 
 pony rode off unmolested. 
 
 Little Evan walked into the village. The miry, unmade 
 road, full of deep cart-ruts, and pitted everywhere with 
 the tracks of sheep and cattle, led him between mournful 
 clearings in which the scanty stubble of the last harvest 
 slowly rotted. Here was a patch of black bean-stalk, and 
 there a patch of scanty rye-straw ; here a segment on 
 which wheat had been grown, and here another which had 
 been sown with oats or barley ; all easily recognizable to 
 the accustomed eye. None of the crops were fenced, 
 and among the desolate reminders of them all stood the 
 huge charred stumps, some of them still retaining their 
 tortured branches, and standing in such weird and writheh 
 attitudes that they seemed still to retain the memory of 
 the torment of their burning. The rain began to pelt 
 down sharp and cold, and the small boy, tucking the rag- 
 ged collar of his jacket about his ears, ran for the furthest 
 house. Here a ladder of half a dozen steps led to the 
 floor of a rotten veranda, about the supports of which 
 twined a (quantity of bare and dejected creeper, which had 
 doubtless been grown there to give pleasure to the eye,
 
 but now played its part in adding to the decrepit and 
 ruined look of the whole building. The broken windows 
 had been inefficiently pasted over with old rags of paper, 
 which now fluttered disconsolate in the wet wind. The 
 wail of an ill-tempered and neglected child sounded from 
 the outer chamber of tlie house. A litter of pigs, in a 
 ruinous lean-to attached to tlie building, fought and 
 squealed. There had once been an attempt made at the 
 arrangement of a garden about the building, but this had 
 evidently been abandoned for some seasons past, and was 
 now in a state of ruin and disorder, which fitted all the rest. 
 
 An unkempt, ragged woman issued from the house at 
 the sound of the boy's footsteps. 
 
 "Yew're back again," she said, in a strong English 
 west-country accent, and then a moment later, "Yew've 
 been a-fighting again, our Evan." 
 
 " Yes, I have," our Evan answered, edging away a little, 
 and raising a defensive elbow. 
 
 The woman, with a shrug of resigned despair, turned 
 back into the house, and ill-temperedly hitched out from 
 its darkened recesses a tin bucket of potatoes. She made 
 another entry, and returned with a tin bowl of somewhat 
 muddy water and a knife. 
 
 " Peel them," she said, " and see as j^ew don't waste 'em 
 like ye did yesterday. If ye do, I'll peel yew." 
 
 The boy arranged the materials for his task before him, 
 and sat down, half-sheltered from the rain, upon a three- 
 legged stool. 
 
 "Who ha' yew been a-fighting with this time?" his 
 mother asked, with a querulous tone of exasperation in her 
 voice. 
 
 "I've give that young Penthearn a hiding," Evan 
 answered. 
 
 " Or else took one from him," said his mother ungra- 
 ciously.
 
 "I'm bad enougli," the boy responded, passing his 
 sleeve gingerly across the tip of his damaged nose, " but 
 you should ha' seen him ! lie won't come a-cheekin' me 
 no more." 
 
 " Oh ! " said his mother, " like father, like son ! There's 
 no dealin' with ayther on ye. If I'd ha' known what I 
 was a-doin', I'd ha' gone a long way afoie I'd ha' married 
 a AVelshman. If I'd ha' known what he was a-doin' when 
 he asked me to come out to Australia, I'd ha' seen him 
 further first, and then I woiildn't. Tile and mile from 
 marnin' till night, and no rest ever, and nothin' to be got 
 out of it." A sudden squeal from the pigsty arrested her 
 attention. " We'll have to kill 'em to keep 'em from 
 starvin', though where the salt's to come from to cure 'em, 
 I don't know. They're askin' two shillings a peck for it, 
 and there ain't sixpence in the house, nor sixpence-worth, 
 so far as I know. Do j'ou see how you're a-wastin' them 
 potatoes, our Evan ? My life here ain't nothin' but one 
 continual grind. Nothin' goes right, and nobody takes 
 a minute's notice o' me." 
 
 Possibly the small boy was used to this dejected mood, 
 and knew aforetime the voice of these reproaches. lie 
 worked on at least like a stoic, looking neither to right nor 
 left, and paying no more apparent heed to his mother than 
 he did to the equal meaning of the voices of the wind and 
 rain. The Avoman curled her hands in her untidy apron as 
 some refusre asrainst the biting ccld, and shrank back half 
 within the door-way. 
 
 " There's yew," she said, evidently exasperated by the 
 child's silence, *'a-fighting every day and all (lay with all 
 and sundry, and there's your father away all day after 
 politics. I never see such a family in all my born days. 
 What's it matter to him who's M. L. A. for the districk ? 
 'Spose he does get Watson in? lie saj^s he will, but I 
 don't believe he's got no more influence than you liave.
 
 Will that mend these 'ere dratted winders, or find the 
 wash to feed thickyer crowd o' pigs ? Oh, I'm sick o' you 
 and him and everythin' and everybody. If I wasn't a 
 Christian woman Avith a soul to save, I'd go this minute 
 and drown myself in that there crick, I 'ouldn't live 
 another hour, I 'ouldn't ! " 
 
 The youthful Evan, pausing only now and then to 
 caress his injured nose with the palm of a dirt-grimed hand, 
 peeled his potatoes, and dropped them one by one into the 
 pannikin of dirty watei", comforting himself as he did 
 so with some distant view of an insufficient meal. His 
 mother went indoors, and snatching ujj the crying baby, 
 spanked him with sudden ardor, and set him to nature's 
 fount. She came back again with the child in a slatternly 
 bundle at her breast, and nagged for half an hour. By 
 the end of that time the potatoes were all peeled, and 
 Evan was despatched to the creek for more water. As he 
 came back staggering under the weight of the bucket, a 
 man stepped on to the veranda and took his seat upon a 
 three-legged stool. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, Avith a 
 pale olive complexion, lank black hair, clear-cut and hand- 
 some features, and eyes which looked the very natural 
 home of a permanent discontent. He was dressed in a suit 
 of patched moleskin, which gleamed with moisture, and as 
 he took his seat he struck his streaming wide-awake angrily 
 against his leg, and distributed a shower about the veranda. 
 
 " The people about here," he said, with a marked Welsh 
 accent, " haf no sense whatever. They haf no character 
 whatever. They see that eferj^-poty is going to the tefil, 
 and they let efery-poty go." 
 
 " I wish I'd never seen the country," said the woman, 
 sulkily nursing her cliild, half in and half out of the door- 
 way. 
 
 " Inteet," her husband answered, " I tare say the country 
 returns the compliment."
 
 10 
 
 Young Evan came staggering to the steps of the brief 
 ladder, and liis fatlier, risijig and stooping, took from liim 
 with a strong hand the bucket he carried. Tliis, by a 
 series of small misadventures on the wa}'^, had been half 
 emptied, and Iieavy as it was in the child's hands, the man 
 lifted it as if it had been a feather. 
 
 The man plunged both hands amongst the potatoes in 
 the pannikin, and began to wash them in the fresher water 
 brought from the creek. 
 
 "Young Efan Rhys," he said to his son meanwhile, " I 
 want 3'ou to rememper this. You'll nefer get any goot 
 out of the folks who call themselves chentleiieople. They 
 CO for their own interests, and they co for nothing else, 
 and nefer will. The poor man's hant is akainst tliem from 
 the pekinning, and will be till the endt. Nefer forget 
 that." He rose suddenly from the three-legged stool, and 
 bending down toward the boy put a forefinger under his 
 chin, and by a series of little jerks edged his face upward. 
 " You've been fighting." 
 
 " Well," said young Evan, with a defiance which seemed 
 to be a part of the family attitude, " I'd got to. I wasn't 
 going to let young Penthearn cheek me and not cheek him 
 back again." 
 
 " Was he impertinent ? " asked the father. 
 
 " He said 'halloa' to me," Evan answered, "and I said 
 'halloa' to him." 
 
 " Quite right too," said Papa Rhys. 
 
 "Tlien he said he'd come across and give me abiding. 
 I told him he dassn't, and he did, and I gave him one." 
 
 " Quite right too," said Papa Rhys. " If efer you see a 
 chance to hit a chentleman, hit him. You can't co wrong, 
 my boy — you can't co wrong," 
 
 So saying, the gaunt man patted his son upon the head 
 approvingly ; then, lialf rising, he passed the tliumb and 
 fingers of each hand strenuously from thigh to knee of his
 
 11 
 
 moleskin trousers, squeezing out the moisture from them 
 in a thin, discolored stream, and taking up the bucket full 
 of potatoes, walked indoors. Evan, a little comforted by 
 the paternal approval, fingered his damaged nose Avith an 
 inward sense of triumph. 
 
 Out of the one track in the bush which led past the 
 station of Merioneth to the great district town, twenty 
 miles away, came a road-worn figure carrying an exagger- 
 ated looking kind of knapsack. The bearer of the knap- 
 sack slipped on the rain-soaked, clayey soil, and narrowly 
 escaped a fall. Then he came zigzagging from side to 
 side, hidden to the midriff by an intervening hillock. The 
 hillock surmounted, he came skating down the clay coun- 
 terside, and then, a little more at ease, butting at the wind 
 and rain with crouching head and shoulders, approached 
 the house. 
 
 " We don't want no tramps here ! " said Mrs. Rhys, 
 who still stood nursing her baby half in and half out of 
 the dooi'-way. 
 
 " Who says not ? " her husband demanded from inside. 
 
 The new-comer reached the veranda and paused, hat in 
 hand, his hair tumbled by the streaming rain and roaring 
 wind. 
 
 " What do you want ? " asked Mrs. Rhj^s. 
 
 The man's face was foreign, and when he spoke it was in 
 a foreign tongue. Evan Rhys the elder emerged from the 
 door-way and bade him enter. 
 
 " We're poor folks here," he said, "and haf little to gif 
 to anypoty, but you're welcome to share what there iss." 
 
 Whether the man took in the words seemed doubtful, 
 but the master of the house made him a gesture which he 
 understood. He mounted the ladder with an air of toil, 
 and releasing a strap on his right shoulder, laid his burden 
 to the ground, and smiled.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The smiling stranger read no welcome in the eye of 
 Mrs. Rhys, Avho scowled at him with an open hostility and 
 contempt, and turning her back upon him walked deliber- 
 ately indoors. The new-comer's face fell, and be looked at 
 Evan Rhj^s the elder with a childlike appeal and projjitia- 
 tion in his face. 
 
 "It's all right, Johnny," said Rhys, laying a friendly 
 band upon his shoulder. " Nefer jon mind the missus. 
 Sit down and rest. You look as if 3'ou'd travelled a long 
 way whatefer." 
 
 He pushed the three-legged stool toward the stranger 
 with his foot, and motioned him to be seated. 
 
 The man drew back with bent head, and hands out- 
 stretched in polite protest, and spoke a word or two which 
 conveyed nothing to the minds of his hearers. Rhys took 
 him gently by the shoulders, and the man, obeying the 
 impulse thus given him, sat down, and smiled once more. 
 He was apparently about fifty years of age, short in stature 
 and sturdily built. His long iron-gray hair, parted in the 
 centre, fell almost to his shoulders without a symptom of 
 a curl, until it curved inward at the ends. He had a 
 remarkable mass of forehead, a nose of extreme brevity, as 
 broad at the base as it was long, thick protrusive lips, half 
 hidden under a gray mustache, and a long bifurcated 
 beard. He needed only the robe and head-dress peculiar 
 to the craft to have stood as a type of the peasant priest 
 of the Greek Church. His eyes were large, soft, and 
 luminous, and they and the forcliead together might have 
 belonged to a saint and a poet. The squat nose and
 
 13 
 
 sensual lips were Tartar all over. The physiognomy was 
 half angelic, half animal. 
 
 " Look here, you Efan," said the master of the house to 
 the small boJ^ " Put that sack across your shoulders and 
 run across to Frenchy. If he iss at home, ask him to come 
 ofer." 
 
 The boy took up a piece of old sacking from the floor, 
 threw it about his head and slioulders, and was gone. The 
 stranger drew from his pockets a pipe of well-blacked clay, 
 a good-sized hunch of tobacco, and a formidable-looking 
 clasp-knife. He began to shred the tobacco and to fill his 
 pipe. Rhys involuntarily put a hand into his waistcoat 
 pocket and drew out a well-used clay, but immediately 
 returned it, Avitli a look both furtive and ashamed. The 
 new arrival noticed the gesture, and stretched out the 
 tobacco and the knife. Rhys protested feebly, but the 
 stranger insisting, he accepted the offer, and having 
 shredded for himself a very modest portion, stood rubbing 
 it between his horny palms, and looking out at the slanting 
 lines of rain, which came down more and more bitterly. 
 
 " Fire ? " enquired the stranger, touching the bowl of his 
 pipe to make his meaning clear. 
 
 " All right, Johnny," Rhys answered, and entering the 
 house came back in a second or two with a lighted brand 
 from the kitchen fire. 
 
 Each man lit his pipe, and for a while smoked in silence. 
 It was Rhys's first taste of tobacco for a fortnight, and he 
 sucked at his pipe with animal noises of satisfaction. 
 
 "Dobro?" said the stranger, looking up at him and 
 laughing. Rhys stared. " Good, eh ? " 
 
 " You may well say that," the AVelshman answered. 
 " There is nothing petter than a pipe of topacco when 
 you're hungry for it." 
 
 " Good ! " returned the stranger, understanding the tone, 
 if not the words.
 
 14 
 
 After this conversation came to an end, but in about 
 five minutes' time Evan the younger came whooping 
 througli the rain, waving his hand as if to indicate the 
 prosperity of his mission. He reached the veranda out 
 of breath, and pantingly announced that Frenchy would be 
 there directly. In effect a man in a glistening wet water- 
 proof was seen striding hastily along the main street as the 
 boy made his announcement. lie waved a hand to Rhys, 
 and quickening his pace to a run, sprang nimbly to the 
 floor of the veranda, and looked about him with a bright 
 laugh. 
 
 " What is this ? " he said. " Your boy tells me you 
 have some kind of foreign creature here who can neither 
 speak nor be spoken to. If he can speak French or Ger- 
 man I am his man, but there my accomplishment in the 
 way of languages comes to an end." 
 
 The foreign accent with which he spoke was so faintly 
 marked, that it would be unjust to attempt to indicate it 
 by i^honetics. The French rhythm was there, but the 
 rhythm only, and his choice of words was made without 
 approach at hesitation. The speaker himself was talJ and 
 blond, animated to his finger-tips, and as obviously a 
 gentleman as Rhj-s was obviously a peasant. He turned 
 on the stranger with a bow which was part burlesque, part 
 politeness, and part high spirits, and addressed him in 
 German. Tlie stranger responded in the flat, unaccented 
 French which is so commonly noticeable among the Rus- 
 sians who speak that language. 
 
 " A])a ! " cried the latest comer, " nous sommes u notre 
 aise ! " 
 
 The two fell into animated talk, and Rh3's stared in 
 a bewildered fashion from one to the other, striving in 
 vain to separate a single word from its neighbors. He 
 had spoken Welsli ami English indifferently from his 
 earliest childhood, but this was the first occasion on which
 
 15 
 
 he had ever heard a conversation in a language unknown 
 to him, and lie had a half suspicion that there was no 
 meaning in it. The two men became more and more 
 eagerly engaged, and in a little while each was so ani- 
 mated and noisy that the onlooker foreboded a quarrel. 
 To his utter amazement, and not a little to his disgust, the 
 scene ended by an embrace in which each kissed the other 
 repeatedly upon either cheek. To kiss a pretty girl had 
 been all very well in its way once upon a time, as Evan 
 Rhys could very well remember, but for a man to kiss 
 a man, and for the man kissed to be a foreigner into the 
 bargain, was nauseating to the stomach. The exhibition 
 was no sooner over than the latest comer turned flashing 
 on Rhys, with both hands gesticulating wildly overhead, 
 and his eyes burning like coals of fire. 
 
 "My God!" he said, "you have entertained angels 
 unawares, my good friend Evan Rhys, Who do you think 
 is this man who comes here in the guise of a pedler, Avho, 
 hoping to make a morsel of bread, tramj^s twenty miles to 
 this rotten village on a day like this ? Who is it, do you 
 think ? " 
 
 « Well," said Rhys, " who iss it ? " 
 
 "It is Boris Petrovna ! " returned the other, with an air 
 as regal as if he had introduced an emperor. 
 
 "I nefer heart of him," said Rh^'s. 
 
 " This is the man," the other declaimed, shaking the fore- 
 finger of his outstretched right hand under Rhys's nose — 
 " this is the man who for fifteen years was the mainspring, 
 the brain, the right hand of revolutionary Russia. This 
 is the man who, ten years back, in the prime of life and 
 the fulness of his kingly intellect, was condemned for 
 life to the mines of Siberia. This is the man who 
 executed his jailer, who travelled on foot two thousand 
 miles across the winter desert, Avho was recaptured, who 
 escaped again, and with whose name the ears of all
 
 16 
 
 lovers of liberty tlirougliout the world have been made to 
 tingle ! " 
 
 " That iss all right," said Rh3's. " I am fery glat to see 
 you, sir." He reached out a hand toward the pedler, who 
 accepted it warmly. 
 
 " Tell him," said Evan Rhys, his olive skin flushing with 
 a sudden passion, " that my grandfather wass a Chartist, 
 and wass killed py the tragoons at Peterloo. He wass mj"^ 
 grandfather on my mother's side." 
 
 " So I will, old Steadfast !" cried the Frenchman, clap- 
 ping him boisterously on the shoulder. " This is one of 
 us," he continued in his own language. " This man's 
 grandfather was a martyr in the cause of liberty in Eng- 
 land lifty years ago." 
 
 Boris Petrovna rose solemnly from the three-legged 
 stool and bowed. 
 
 " The good seed," he said, " is everywhere. We shall 
 reap the harvest in due time. Here at least," — he waved 
 a hand about him, — " is liberty." 
 
 "Liberty!" cried the Frenchman; "there is here, as 
 elsewhere, the liberty to scramble with your fellow- 
 creatures for insufficient bread. The poor man enjoys 
 here, as elsewhere, the liberty to lie down and allow him- 
 self to be trampled on by the rich. Ask our friend Evan 
 Rhys, here, how he appreciates his liberty, and how much 
 more free he finds himself in the new Avorld than he used 
 to be in the old." 
 
 "Ask him," said Petrovna, " and tell me what lie says." 
 
 The Frenchman took up his parable in English. 
 
 " Mr. Petrovna says that there is liberty liere. I have 
 told him to ask your opinion on that question. How 
 much more liberty have you here than you enjoyed in the 
 old country ? " 
 
 " I wass nefer so worse off in all my life," Rhys responded 
 gloomily. " It iss a young country, and there iss chances
 
 17 
 
 in it. But, look you, it wass Squire Penthearn's fatlier in 
 Merionethshire who stole my father's little pit of ground, 
 and it iss Squire Penthearn out here who puys up all the 
 land tliat iss worth any thing whatefer. We are in a new 
 country, but the laws are the same. There is efery thing 
 for the man who does not want any thing, and there iss 
 nothing for the man who iss in need of efery thing." 
 
 The Frenchman translated this speech, and Petrovna 
 threw his hands abroad with a resigning gesture. 
 
 "Yet," he said, " I have heard otherwise from many." 
 
 "Ah! "the Frenchman answered, "as our friend here 
 says, it is a young country, and there are chances in it. 
 The chances," he added, looking about him, "do not 
 always prosper. This is the home of enterprise and 
 industry, but does it look like it?" 
 
 "Elsewhere," said Petrovna, " in this new land I have 
 found prosperity everywhere. Why should there be 
 poverty and stagnation here ? " 
 
 " This," his companion answered, " might have been as 
 prosperous as any place you have found in all your wan- 
 derings. But the curse of the capitalist is upon it. 
 Every bit of land worth any thing for miles and miles 
 about us has been bought by one wealthy man. This 
 handful of imported peasantry is bound by a girdle of 
 iron. It has no power to extend its boundaries, and by 
 and by it will wither all awa}^ You will not find many 
 such places in Australia at present, but unless things 
 change they will be thick and tlireefold in a hundred 
 yeai-s, vast as the country is. It is a new land, but the 
 old curse is upon it." 
 
 Rhys, who in his modesty had but one-third filled his 
 pipe, crammed a horny fore-finger into the bowl, and 
 pressed down the little remnant of tobacco there to secure a 
 final whiff or two. He planted his broad shoulders against 
 the wet weather-board of the house, and looked angrily at 
 2
 
 18 
 
 the dismal prospect before him. Little Evan stared wide- 
 eyed and open-mouthed at the men who thought it worth 
 while to expend so much fire and fervor on a jargon wliich 
 must be incomprehensible to every-body. The mother, 
 free of the slatternly child by this time, lounged to the door 
 with her hands beneath her apron, and surveyed the whole 
 group with pronounced disfavor. 
 
 Boris Petrovna pulled at his well-blacked clay in silence, 
 and looked discomfited and depressed. 
 
 On a sudden a squelching and pounding noise was heard, 
 followed by the sound of splashing and the long slide of 
 a horse's hoofs. With this last came the tones of an 
 imperious voice : 
 
 *' Hold up, you stupid brute ! and be d d to you ! " 
 
 " That iss Squire Penthearn," said Rh3's, turning an 
 angry eye toward the ojioning in the bush, but otherwise 
 making no movement. 
 
 Squire Penthearn came into the open at a hand gallop, 
 and drew up in front of the partyon the veranda. He 
 was in his v,'aj as Welsh as Evan Rhys himself, but the 
 t3'pe was wholly different. The peasant was black-haired, 
 Avith an olive skin and e^es like night. The gentleman 
 was foxy-red, hair, beard, and eyebrows all of the same 
 rufous tone. His eyes were blue-graj', ami, though his 
 skin was somewhat tanned with lifelong exposure to all 
 sorts of weather, it had been originally of that excessive 
 fairness and pallor which so often accompany red hair. 
 His eyes blazed with anger, and the riding-crop he carried 
 trembled in his outstretched hand. He had started in a 
 rage, he had ridden in a rage five miles, flogging bis own 
 anger all the waj', and now, what with breathlessness, — for 
 he was a burly man, and hard riding tried his wind a good 
 deal, — and what with the passion wliich by this time fairly 
 mastered him, he could not speak. He sat snorting and 
 blowing and shaking his riding-crop for near on a minute.
 
 19 
 
 Rhys's gloomy stare met his own glance full, and the man, 
 nursing his now empty clay pipe in one corner of his 
 mouth, threw one leg over the other, and dug his hands 
 into his trousers pockets with an air of contemptuous 
 defiance which exasperated Squire Penthearn still further. 
 
 The Frenchman looked from one to the other with a 
 glance of amusement, which broadened more and more. 
 
 "Look here!" said the horseman, with a spluttering, 
 wrathful stammer, " look here, you Rhys." 
 
 "I am looking," said Rhys, with angry quiet. 
 
 "If that brat of yours," stuttered Penthearn, "ever 
 dares to lay a hand on my boy again, Pll cut his life out." 
 
 " Then," said Rhys, " I sliall haf the pleasure of seeing 
 you hanged, and there will pe two troublesome people 
 less." 
 
 Mr. Penthearn was getting his wind back again, and 
 began to storm gustily, his face growing paler and paler 
 as he raged. 
 
 " My boy rides home, mud from head to heel, with a 
 black eye, and one tooth knocked out, and tells me it's 
 that young imp's doing." 
 
 " Very well," said the small boy. "What did he say 
 ' Halloa' to me for ? He isn't every-body." 
 
 " What did he say ' Halloa ' to you for, you spawn of 
 Satan ! " cried the angry horseman, raising his crop 
 threateningly. 
 
 Evan Rhys dashed at the boy, and took him in his 
 arms. 
 
 "Now, you stand there," he said, setting him in the 
 door-way, " and answer me. You haf been fighting with 
 young Penthearn ? " 
 
 " Well," said Evan the younger, " he challenged me. I 
 was on the far side of the crick, and he come over. He 
 said any gentleman could beat a lout, and I said he dussn't 
 come. He said he dar, and he did, and we had a fight."
 
 20 
 
 " That seems all fair eiiougli, doesn't it, farmer ?" asked 
 tlie 3'oung Frenchman. 
 
 " Farmer ! " cried Penthcarn, in an exasperation so pro- 
 found that the word sounded like a cr}?^ of anguish. 
 " Farmer ! " His Welsh blood had been hot enough 
 already in all conscience, but at this smiling insult he 
 fairly bubbled over. lie contrived to stutter out : " You 
 
 d d Frenchman ! " as he struggled from his horse. 
 
 He was encumbered by the long water-proof cloak he 
 wore, the skirt of Avhich caught in his right spur ; but his 
 intention was so evident that the insulter felt himself 
 justified in stepping from the veranda and possessing him- 
 self of the angry man's riding-crop. There was a tussle, 
 which lasted only a second or two, and the Frenchman, 
 cool as a cucumber, had seized that weapon of offence and 
 stood on guard with it, as if to begin a bout at single- 
 stick. 
 
 "My good friend," he said, "3'ou are fat, and verging on 
 the sixties. It will be quite a mistake for 3'ou to assault 
 
 me. I am, as you are good enough to say, a d d 
 
 Frenchman, but I Avas bred at Oxford, and studied there 
 the noble art of self-defence." 
 
 Penthearn, with a niight}^ effort, controlled himself. He 
 had pluck in plenty, but, even in the madness of his anger, 
 he had self-restraint enough to see the ignominy of inevi- 
 table defeat. That fact did not serve to cool him, though 
 it restrained him from any further attempt at violence. 
 
 " Bred at Oxford ! " he sneered passionately, rising sud- 
 denly from the speechless red heat of excitement to that 
 white heat which knows how to be fluent and accurate in 
 its choice of words. "Bred at Oxford! Wherever you 
 were bred, you were bred to be a puppy, a bully, and a black- 
 guard ! You left your country for your country's good, I 
 fancy. That's a fact, I think, monsieur? You ought to 
 be a better man than you are, for you were sent out to
 
 21 
 
 New Caledonia by three of the best judges in your own 
 country. They gave you twenty years, I think." 
 
 " The jest is excellent," returned the smiling Frenchman, 
 " but not original. It was first levelled at your fellow-sub- 
 jects, inliabitants of this charming country." 
 
 " I won't parley with you any more," said Penthearn. 
 "And as for you," — turning on Rhys, — "I want you to 
 understand, if that brat of j^ours dares to lay a hand 
 upon my boy again, I'll find a way to make him sorry 
 for it ! " 
 
 "And," said Evan Rhys, flushing to the eyes, "if that 
 prat of 3'ours dares to lay a hand upon my poy again, my 
 poy shall peat him as he did to-day, and as he can any 
 day." 
 
 "An excellent mutual understanding," said the French- 
 man. "Your riding-crop, sir." He handed the weapon 
 to Penthearn, who swung it back, mastered by a new 
 impulse of rage. Pie found himself seized by either wrist. 
 " Better be quiet, farmer," said his adversary, with a face 
 of smiling mockery. " Ride home, like a good fellow, and 
 let us have no more nonsense. Boys will fight, and their 
 parents should know better than to interfere between 
 them." 
 
 " You infernal cad ! " said Penthearn. " Call yourself 
 the Comte de Montmeillard, don't you?" 
 
 " I call myself nothing, sir," said the Frenchman. " But 
 people who know me address me by my name." 
 
 "You're a jail-bird," said Penthearn, "whatever else 
 you are ! " 
 
 "That is perfectly true," the Frenchman answered, 
 " but a repetition of tlie statement may tempt me to flog 
 you, sir, and you are an older man than I am. I should 
 advise j^ou to go, and to go without delay." 
 
 He released his hold upon Pentliearn's wrists, and, turn- 
 ing his back upon him, sprang lightly on to the veranda.
 
 22 
 
 Penthearn mounted, and rode away slowly, without 
 another word. 
 
 " Mr. Petrovna," said the Frenchman, addressing Rhys, 
 "will come wnth me. I can give him house-room in my 
 little shanty, and he will be happier with somebodj'^ whom 
 he can understand. Come with me, M. Petrovna," he 
 continued, in his own tongue. 
 
 The pedler rose from the three-legged stool, re- 
 shouldered his jjack, saluted Rhys and his wife, and 
 trudged off through the rain by the side of his new-found 
 host. 
 
 " I say, dad," said Evan the younger, after a pause. 
 
 " Halloa ! " said Rhys, looking down at him. 
 
 The woman had gone indoors again to look after her 
 supper of potatoes. 
 
 "Is that true?" asked Evan the j^ounger. "Is Frenchy 
 a lag ? " 
 
 " Yess, mj'^ poy," said Rhys, gloomier than ever. " You 
 Avill know petter apout it when you are a man. That iss 
 how^ all civilized countries treat men who ask for freetora." 
 
 " What did he do ? " asked Evan the younger. " He 
 didn't nobble any thing that didn't belong to him, did 
 he?" 
 
 " Wait here a minute," said the father, " and I will show 
 you something." 
 
 He walked into the house, and returned a moment later 
 with a little shabby gray book, bound in glazed boards. 
 
 "You haf been a good po}^ to-day," he said, laj'ing his 
 big hand lightly oti the lad's tattered wide-awake. "There 
 iss a great teal in this which you will not be able to under- 
 stand. But you can read this little book, and when you 
 have read it all, you can come to me, and I will answer all 
 your questions." 
 
 Evan the younger expciicnced a thrill of exultation as 
 he laid his dirty little paw upon the volume.
 
 23 
 
 "You shall first," said his father, " wash j'our hands, 
 and always before you touch that pook you sliall wash 
 your hands." 
 
 Evan the younger darted into tlie house, and came back 
 smelling of mottled soap. In his enthusiasm he had even 
 attacked the unirrigated surface of his features. He was 
 clean from chin to eyebrows, though forehead, ears, and 
 throat were still left under their ancient winter incrusta- 
 tion. In summer Evan spent half his time in the deeper 
 holes of the creek, but in the cold season he and water 
 rarely made acquaintance with each other. But being now 
 thus far purified, he Avas intrusted with the little volume, 
 and sat down to study the indictment hurled against 
 Napoleon the Little by Victor Hugo. He read it in bald 
 translation, and two-thirds of what he read was beyond 
 his comprehension. But, in spite of that, he was inthralled, 
 and, hungry as he was, his mother called him twice or 
 thrice from tlie darkened interior of tlie house before he 
 could tear himself away from the printed page and the 
 last lingering touch of rainy twilight to attack his scanty 
 meal.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 The winter weather was not always disagreeable at 
 Koollala. Sometimes tlie snow-clouds would slowly and 
 lingeringly detach themselves from the last spur of the 
 Alps, and leave a white sprinkling on the ground, but this 
 never lay there for more than an hour or two. Sometimes 
 the "Southerly Buster" would rage through the bush, and 
 set the giant trees moaning and shrieking for a day and a 
 night together. But then, again, at times, the north wind, 
 whose arid breath in summer made life an intolerable 
 burden, would fan over the forest with balmy wing ; and 
 at such an hour it was a luxury to breathe the winter air. 
 The spices which in summer burned and intoxicated grew 
 purely exhilarating in the tempered cold, and manj-^ and 
 many a day young Evan Rhys, with the indictment against 
 Napoleon the Little tucked between his body and his dirty 
 and tattered shirt, would steal off into the bush, and sur- 
 render himself to the w'onder and m^'^sterj'^ of an enchant- 
 ment scarcely a tenth part understood. Napoleon the 
 Little to his childisli fancy was not ver}^ much more than 
 an enlarged edition of a young Penthearn who wanted to 
 say " Halloa " to every-body with impunity, and generally 
 to have his own way, to the detriment of otlier peoj)le. 
 
 It was a queer book for a child to stud}", and it was read 
 under queer conditions. A year ago, when 3'oung Evan, 
 fresh from the West-England Frying-Pan, had found him- 
 self dumped down in tliis outlandisli quarter, the busli liad 
 frightened him, and he had been afraid to venture a yard 
 from any of the tracks cut through it. He liad heard 
 grevvsome stories of children, and, for the matter of that, 
 
 S4
 
 25 
 
 of men and women, who had strayed away into that track- 
 less labyrinth, and whose bones had been found, months, 
 and perhaps years, after, within a few feet of the road they 
 liad abandoned. Familiarity witli his surroundings had 
 banished this fear, and by this time he dared to give him- 
 self a tolerable liberty. He was still in mortal dread of 
 snakes, but so long as the cold weather lasted he could 
 afford to banish that danger from his mind. So day after 
 day, furnished with a hunch of bread, or one or two cold 
 potatoes, lie made off for a bower he had discovered, and 
 there spelled over and over again, with an increasing sense 
 of deeper meaning in it, the first book he had ever been 
 allowed to read unchecked. 
 
 Meantime the outlandish pedler so curiously dropped 
 down at Koollala stayed on there at the Frenchman's 
 shanty. He was picking up English as a pigeon picks up 
 peas, and before he had been there a week found himself 
 master of a score or two of simple phrases. His pedler's 
 pack was laid by, but his trade was not altogether aban- 
 doned, for his store of pins and needles, threads and 
 cottons, tapes, buttons, writing-paper, pens, pencils, and 
 other small odds and ends, was in fairly constant requisi- 
 tion among the members of the small settlement. He 
 buckled to also, not without ardor, at such Avork as his 
 companion could find for him — 'breaking ground for spring 
 planting, chopping wood, or carrying water for household 
 uses from the creek. The Comte de Montmeillard, as may 
 be readily imagined, made no claim to liis title in that 
 wilderness. His Christian name of Edouard had been 
 Anglicized and abbreviated into Ned. In his presence, or 
 when people wished to be civil to him in his absence, he 
 was called by that name. When people did not care to be 
 civil, they called him Frenchy. But as a rule he answered 
 to tlie generic hail of " Mate " or " Matey." 
 
 Little Evan sat one day reading in his bower. A great
 
 36 
 
 eucalypt bad been slowly lifted by tbe action of its roots 
 until the base of the trunk stood seven or eight feet clear 
 of the ground, forming a cave in shape like an inverted V. 
 At the base the knotted roots ran into the rough semblance 
 of an armchair, and here the youthful student might sit, 
 sheltered from all winds but one, and that one the Avarmest. 
 The bush swarmed with harmless life about Lim. Now 
 and then a great gray kangaroo would go by him like a 
 ghost, and now and again a wallaby, with liis helpless- 
 looking fore-paws dangling before him, would sit on bis 
 tail to stare at a strange species, and would be off again 
 with a ten-foot hop at the first movement the unknown 
 animal made. Sometimes the bell-bird sounded his pure 
 note, sometimes the swish of the whip-bird's strange voice 
 would be heard ; then a cloud of chattering parrots would 
 skim over the tree-tops like a flash, or a great lizard, look- 
 ing for all the world as if he were clothed in wet oilcloth, 
 Avould be seen, languid with the season, feebly -sunning 
 himself upon a slanting branch. At this time of year there 
 was no pest of fly or mosquito, and no fear of snakes. The 
 child was used to the harmless denizens of the wilderness, 
 and if his boyish instinct urged him now and then to hurl 
 a piece of rotten Avood or a chip of bark at fur, feather, or 
 oilcloth, he Avould go back to his dreams or his scarce 
 understood l^age again, and sit for hours in quiet. 
 
 At one such time he heard a faint and distant call. It 
 was so very faint and far away that he was half inclined 
 to think it no more than fancy, Avhen it came again. lie 
 drew a full breath, and with all the force of his lungs sung 
 out : " Coo-ee ! " Then he waited, and in a while he heard 
 the call again. This time he thought it sounded a little 
 nearer. Again he answered, and again the sound came 
 nearer. So, with call on call, the wanderer, whoever he 
 might prove to be, drew nearer, UTitil Evan could hear the 
 noise of his footstej)S crackling through the dry under-
 
 27 
 
 growth. Another call, and the adventurer came in sight. 
 It was no other than the Russian pedler, and at the first 
 sight of him it was evident that he had been in difficulties. 
 His face and hands were scratched with briars, and his 
 poor garments were torn in half a dozen places. He was 
 bareheaded, and his hair and beard were in wild disorder, 
 and studded grotesquely with twigs and leaves. His eyes 
 were still wide and wild with recent fright, and, though the 
 day was crisp and cool, the perspiration streamed from his 
 face as if it had been dipped in water. 
 
 "Halloa, Matey !" said young Evan. "You've been 
 lost." 
 
 " Lost ! " said the Russian, passing his trembling hands 
 across his face with the look of a man newl}^ awakened. 
 « Yes, I am lost. You " 
 
 " No," said young Evan, " I ain't lost. 'Tain't so 
 easy to lose me about here. You've liad a scare, my 
 word ! " 
 
 " You safe ? " asked the foreigner, with a pause between 
 each word. " You know your way ? " 
 
 " You bet ! " said Evan Rliys. 
 
 Whether the man understood the Avords or no, he 
 fathomed the meaning. He took a place upon the tree-root 
 from which the boy had risen a few minutes earlier, and 
 sat gingerly pulling out the thorns which stuck in the 
 back of his hands, breathing hard all the time like a man 
 who has run himself to a stand-still. By and by he became 
 aware of the condition of his hair and beard, and began to 
 comb them with his fingers. 
 
 " You good bo3%" he said. " I forgot not." 
 
 " I heard you give a chi-hike," said Evan, " but you was 
 so far off I wasn't sure. You shouldn't go into this 'ere 
 bush alone," he added, with an air of fatherly expostula- 
 tion, " not unless you know it. I don't ever go anywheres 
 without beinsf sure of the road back,"
 
 28 
 
 The foreigner looked and nodded, and smiled in rather 
 a ghastly man nor. 
 
 " Good boy," he said again, " I forget not. Go home 
 now?" 
 
 "All riglit," said young Evan, " I can put you on to the 
 track. You'll be all right then," 
 
 He stooped to pick uj) the book, which, on his first rising 
 to listen to that distant voice, he had cast upon the ground. 
 He was about to tuck it away beneath his shirt when the 
 Russian laid a hand upon his wrist. Evan surrendered the 
 book, and the pedler looked at it with a quaint lifting of 
 the eyebrows. 
 
 " You read ? " he said, and then, failing to find the 
 words he wanted, tapped the volume with an illustrative 
 finger. Evan, with both hands in his pockets, nodded. 
 " That is droll," said the foreigner, in his own tongue, 
 " but it will do for a beginning." 
 
 He surrendered the volume to the boy's care, and Evan, 
 with an assured footstep, led the way. In five minutes 
 they were on the rutted track to the settlement. 
 
 "That's the road," said Evan, pointing. "You'll be 
 there in ten minutes." 
 
 " Good boy," said the pedler, a third time, " I forget 
 not." 
 
 Evan went back to his wood}' grotto, and the pedler 
 walked briskly toward the settlement, and made straight 
 for his comrade's house. The Corate de Montmeillard, in 
 moleskin trousers, uidjlacked boots, a Crimean shirt, and 
 a shapeless wide-awake, was on his knees on the stilted 
 veranda. His sleeves were turned up above the elbows, 
 and with his right hand and arm he was gravel}^ stirring 
 up a mash of sharps and water for the mid-daj'^ refreshment 
 of his pigs, who were already loud in reminders of the 
 hour. 
 
 " Halloa ! " he said, looking uj), and noting his com-
 
 29 
 
 rade's condition, " you've been in tlie wars. What is the 
 matter ? " 
 
 "I have been lost," Petrovna explained. "I have been 
 lost in the forest. Until I got back to the track, and could 
 see the sun again, I thought I had been lost for hours." 
 
 He detailed his adventures, and told how he was just 
 coming to despair when the boy's call had answered to his 
 own, 
 
 "And what do you think that child was doing there?" 
 he asked dramatically. 
 
 " How should I know ? " asked the Comte de Mont- 
 meillard, drawing his arm and hand from the stodgy mess 
 he had prepared. He rolled up a little pill of the mess 
 between finger and thumb, and, slipping it between his 
 white teeth, looked up at his guest. " What was he 
 doing ? " 
 
 " He was reading," said the pedler, with a laugh — " he 
 was reading ' Napoleon le Petit,' by Victor Hugo. I was 
 not able to ask how much he understood of it, but I should 
 like to know. You must teach me English, my friend," he 
 added ; " I should like to talk with that boy." 
 
 "I will teach you English, my dear Petrovna," the 
 count answered, " with all the pleasure in the world. Just 
 take up that bucket yonder, and pour slowly into this mess 
 while I stir it." 
 
 Petrovna obeyed this behest, and the count, having 
 brought the swill to a proper consistency, gravely marched 
 off with it to the pigsty, where the clamor of apj^etite 
 rose to an ecstasy at his appearance. 
 
 "And now," said Petrovna, at his return, "let us get to 
 English, Let us, above all, be scientific. Let us begin witli 
 the verbs. Your only safe groundwork for a foreign lan- 
 guage is the verbs," 
 
 " Brigadier," responded the Comte de Montmeillard 
 flippantly, " vous avez raison,"
 
 30 
 
 The two lit their pipes, Petrovna took up pencil and 
 paper, and the count, lying at lazy length upon his bed, 
 prepared to dictate. Before nightfall Boris Petrovna had 
 safely packed away in that piled-up attic of a head a dozen 
 English verbs. He pored over them all the evening by 
 the light of the paraffine lamp, and went to sleep repeating 
 them. 
 
 lie had a natural genius for languages, and in a fort- 
 night he could make some headway through the shoals and 
 quicksands of an English newspaper paragraph. At this 
 period he became talkative, and would hold lengthy con- 
 versations with the inhabitants of the settlement. He 
 insisted upon making his comrade speak English, and 
 nothing but English, in their daily intercourse, and, though 
 at first translation was pretty often necessary, he made 
 astonishing strides. 
 
 Spring came slowly up that way. It was full September, 
 and sun and wind were bright and treacherous, when young 
 Penthearn and Evan Rhys the younger again encountered. 
 The juvenile aristocrat was riding by on his pony, and 
 would have passed in silence. If young Evan had known 
 every thing that hung upon silence at that moment, he 
 would have let him go, but he could not resist the tempta- 
 tion to be domineering in his turn. He swung upon his 
 lieel, and sent a contemptuous shout of "Halloa ! " after 
 the cavalier, who was already half out of earshot. The 
 blood of the Penthearns awoke. 
 
 " Who are you calling after?" shouted the latest scion 
 of the name. 
 
 " You," said Evan. 
 
 The insult was complete and formal. 
 
 *' Wait till I tie up my pon}'," said Master Penthearn, 
 riding back full heat. 
 
 " Oh," said young Evan, " I'll wait." 
 
 The prestige of victory was with Evan the younger, and
 
 31 
 
 the sting of defeat rankled in little Pentliearn's heart. 
 The one was pretty certain of a renewal of victory, and 
 the other as certain of a repetition of disaster. The young 
 gentleman was pale, but he was not going to be afraid 
 because he was, in all probability, going to be beaten. 
 He was here, as it were, for execution, and prepared to 
 meet fate with all the courage he could command ; but 
 children are like savages in the impulse to brag, and as a 
 savage trussed for torture will shout his own glories in the 
 teeth of enmity, so 3'oung Penthearn turned upon Evan. 
 
 "You haven't got a pon}^," he said. Evan took off his 
 jacket, determined to avenge that circumstance along with 
 others. " And if you had," young Penthearn added, " you 
 couldn't ride him, nor yet you dare not trj'." 
 
 "All right," said Evan ; "I'll ride him home for you. 
 You'll have to walk, see if you don't." 
 
 There was a new fight, and an old result. Even Homer 
 can grow tedious with the story of oft-repeated battle, and 
 the records of " Fistiana" have no more variety after many 
 years of reading. One wearies of the fact that the Chicken 
 countered smartl}^ landing on the right ogle, or that the 
 Pet got home heavily on the bread-basket. The eternal 
 fact that one or the other, or both, came up smiling and 
 looking dangerous palls on the intelligence of the student 
 of past manners. Let the fact, then, be recorded with all 
 brevity : the fight was fought, and poverty won it. The 
 little Penthearn, who had been taught, and who believed 
 with all his soul, that a boy of good breeding was worth 
 two of the commonalt}', was staggered anew by this result, 
 alike in mind and bod3^ But the young Evan fulfilled his 
 threat, and, mounting the pon^^, rode him home, right to 
 the slip panel of Mr. Pentliearn's home paddock. There 
 he turned him loose, and, with a sounding smack on the 
 haunches, sent him galloping toward the house. 
 
 The empty saddle told a tale of disaster to the Penthearn
 
 32 
 
 household, and the boy was sought for far and near. He 
 came home afoot, a dismal spectacle, an hour and a half 
 after the ponj^'s arrival, while his father, with all the run- 
 riders and rouseabouts within call, Avas scouring the 
 countr}^ after him. The squire came home after sunset, 
 and, finding the boy safe, gave him a good, sound, fatherly 
 hiding for having been again beaten by j^oung Evan, and 
 sent him to bed. 
 
 None the less, the squire's wrath burned. In his own 
 way he was as good a fellow as might be found. That he 
 was choleric was a fault of blood. That he was domineer- 
 ing was a fault of breeding. That he hated Evan Rhj^s 
 and all who bore his name was a fault of education and 
 custom. Evan Rliys's father in far off Merionethshire had 
 been a thorn in his father's side, and Avhen Squire Penth- 
 earn, growing poorer year bj^ jx'ar at home, and finding it 
 year by year more difficult to make both ends meet, had 
 resolved to expatriate himself, he learned with passion that 
 his old enemy had settled himself with all his old dis- 
 content, and his accustomed sullen rebellion, within five 
 miles of his gates. 
 
 Had it been daylight when the news of this last outrage 
 reached him, he would have ridden to KooUala at once, and 
 would have had his quariel out with Evan Rhys in one 
 way or another. As it was, the road being dark and 
 dangerous in darkness, and lie being pretty well tired 
 already, he went to bed and slept upon his anger, with 
 no very good result as things turned out. His morning's 
 resolve was to treat " that fellow out there " with con- 
 tempt, to forbid his boy from wandering in the direction 
 of Koollala, and to let the matter slide. Yet, day by day, 
 while he mused, the fire burned, and, on the whole, Squire 
 Penthearn was much more likely to be dangerous to him- 
 self and others because of the very self-repression he 
 exerted.
 
 33 
 
 Nobody ever knew quite clearly how the fatal business 
 came about, and it is quite possible tliat, even if Penthearn 
 himself had survived, the story would have been very 
 much left in darkness. The people of Koollala went on 
 quietly planting their meagre crops, eating their meagre 
 meals, and watching the last potentiality of misery as it 
 came nearer, week by week, until at last full summer 
 blazed down upon the whole country. The hot winds 
 beat pitilessly from the north, the sun flamed like some 
 unbelievable jewel in a white sky, the yellow sunset sad- 
 dened night by night over every thing for a brief quarter 
 of an hour or so, and then the darkness, charged with a 
 heat more oppressive even than that of mid-day, swept to 
 the zenith and beyond. The turbid waters of the creek 
 had all run down to the ocean long ago, and now only here 
 and there a rocky pool remained. 
 
 One night Evan Rhys the elder, who had tramped, 
 starting at early dawn, to Manchester, a score of miles 
 away, and, starting back at four o'clock in the afternoon, 
 had tramped home, entered the shanty with a pale and 
 excited face. He said nothing, and when his wife 
 ungraciously pushed across the table the tin plate con- 
 taining his evening meal, he pushed it back again. His 
 wife noticed, at first with no surprise, that the hand which 
 removed the untasted dish grasped a broken stick of some 
 sort. But, the ponderous fist resting on the table, she 
 made out by and by that the stick was not of common 
 wood, but of a delicately painted malacca, and that the 
 handle was of buckhorn, bound to the cane by a mount 
 of silver. 
 
 " What 've you got there ? " she asked. 
 
 Her husband, looking at her, caught the direction of 
 
 her eye, and flung the thing to the ground savageh\ She 
 
 picked it up, and by the light of the candle saw that her 
 
 own hand was red. One end of the stick was broken to 
 
 3
 
 34 
 
 a jagged point, and there for two or tliree inches it was 
 half caked and half glutinous with blood. 
 
 " Where did you get this ? " she asked, in a frightened 
 whisper. 
 
 " I proke it on his lying head," said Evan Rhys. 
 " I peat him on his wicked body as long as it would 
 hold." 
 
 " You'll be in trouble over this," said his wife. 
 
 "Ihaf been in trouble about many things," said Evan 
 Rhys. " I haf been in trouble all mj'- life." 
 
 There was a dreadful stir in all the countryside. Mr. 
 Penthearn of Merioneth Station was missing. Nobody 
 had seen him for a day or two. There was no reason to 
 be assigned why he should have gone away, and every 
 enquiry that was set on foot failed to hit the mark. 
 Rhj^s went about his work in his ordinary fashion, and 
 his wife, shaken with horrible tremors and suspicions, 
 burned the malacca cane, and stirred the fire again 
 and again until even the silver band was a cinder, 
 and the buckhorn handle an unrecognizable bit of charred 
 bone. 
 
 The young Evan, whose ears had scarcely been touched 
 by the news, if at all, was afoot one radiant morning with 
 a volume of Orr's *' Circle of the Sciences " tucked for 
 safety in his waistband. He had borrowed the book from 
 Sandy Quahar, a neighboring Scot, with some reputation 
 for humor and a turn for letters, and he Avas away, for the 
 first time for a month, to make acquaintance with his new 
 treasure in his old haunt. He chased an oj^ossura some 
 thirty or fortj'^ yards from his accustomed track, and on 
 a sudden, right at his feet, arose an enormous cloud of 
 flies. He started back and stood with a feeling of terror 
 for which he could have given no reason even to himself. 
 The cloud of flies settled down again, thick and black, 
 but he saw and recognized the watch-chain and the bunch
 
 35 
 
 of seals which had always been a part to him of the figure 
 of Squire Penthearn. There was a sickly poison in the 
 air, and a no less sickly terror in his heart. He ran till 
 he could run no longer, and by sheer hazard fell face 
 downward on the track which lay between Merioneth 
 Lodge and Koollala.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 On the open track the sun blazed intolerably. Little 
 Evan gatliered himself up after his fall and ran. But he 
 had scarcely gone a score of yards further when something 
 seemed to take him at the throat from the inside and he 
 began to sob terribly. The clutching hand at his throat 
 took his breath away, but he stumbled homeward somehow, 
 with all his raiment sticking to his body. AVhen he came 
 in sight of the home shanty, his mother was sitting with 
 folded hands on the veranda, nursing her own angry and 
 disappointed temper in the shade. The sound of young 
 Evan's blubbering reaching her ears, she turned wrath- 
 fully. A child's trouble was an instant cue for punish- 
 ment. The poor soul had been maternal once after a 
 fashion, but a life of grinding i:)overty had soured her 
 temper. 
 
 " What's the matter now, ye gurt brabblin' oaf ? " she 
 demanded. 
 
 Evan came stumbling on, and climbed the little ladder 
 which led to the veranda. 
 
 " The squire " began Evan, but a sob made the words 
 
 inaudible. 
 
 His mother shook him fiercely by the shoulder. " "What 
 have yew got to howl about ? " she asked. 
 
 "The squire " gasped Evan, and this time she heard 
 
 the words, and fell back with a face as white as death. Her 
 mouth opened and stayed open, showing half a dozen rug- 
 ged gaps where the teeth had fallen away. Something 
 clicked audibly and harshly in her throat twice or thrice, 
 but at last she spoke, with a tremendous effort and a 
 
 36
 
 ghastly attempt at unconcern. This, following on the 
 evident horror with which she had greeted the first 
 mention of the name, alarmed the terrified boy still 
 further. 
 
 " What about him? " asked Mrs. Rhys. 
 
 " He's lying in the bush a mile from here. He's dead. 
 He's all over flies, and " 
 
 Before Evan knew what had happened his mother felled 
 him with one brawny hand, and with the other had 
 dragged him inside the shanty. She landed him roughly 
 on his feet, and slammed the crazy door with a vigoi'ous 
 motion of her foot. A dilapidated old blanket, soaked in 
 water, had been tacked across the empty window-frame, so 
 that now the room was dark, except for one or two pierc- 
 ing arrows of light which found their way through chinks 
 in the wall and door. 
 
 " You young imp ! " said the mother, in an awful 
 whisper, " what do you mean by it ? What do you mean 
 by coming hoam with a taiil like that ! " 
 
 The unexpected assault and the sudden change from 
 light to darkness, coming on the child'so riginal terror and 
 distress, left him not only sjieechless, but empty of sensa- 
 tion. 
 
 " You've been a-dreamin', you have," said Mrs. Rhys. 
 " You've been and fell asleep in that there bush, and 
 you've had a nightmare. Don't you never let me hear no 
 more o' that nonsense. Do you hear me, now ? " 
 
 "But he was there," said the boy. "I see him a-lyin' 
 o« his back, with the flies on him as thick as " 
 
 The mother's heavy hand came down again, but he 
 evaded it. 
 
 " Don't you let me hear no more of that cussid rub- 
 bidge," she said, still speaking in the same harsh Avhispcr. 
 
 Ever since he could remember young Evan had been at 
 war with a cruel and unreasoning authority, but he had
 
 38 
 
 never felt so indignant against it as lie now began to feel. 
 He dodged to reach the other side of the heavy table, but, 
 tripping over a bucket, which was invisible in the thick 
 twilight, fell headlong. But before his mother, whose 
 eyes were as little accustomed to the darkness as his own, 
 could seize him he had crawled under the table, and had 
 found a refuge on the other side. Rebellious anger was 
 fast driving out the terror by which he had been first 
 assailed, and he could command his voice again. 
 
 " Don't talk to me about rubbidge and nightmares," he 
 cried, at the top of his shrill voice. *' The squire's a-lyin' 
 in the bush. I seen him. I was within a yard of him. 
 What 've ye got to knock me about for ? It wasn't me as 
 killed him." 
 
 "Evan," said his mother, in a horror-stricken whisper, 
 « Evan, hush ! " 
 
 " Very well, then," said Evan, in a lower voice. " What 
 do 3^ou want to punch my head for ? I 'on't stand it. I'll 
 go away and drownd myself in the crick fust." 
 
 " Evan, dear," said his mother, " Evan, darling, I never 
 meant to strike you. It was being surprised like as made 
 me do it. But don't yew never speak a word about it. 
 Now, don't 'ee ! don't 'ee ! don't 'ee ! " 
 
 " Very well," said Evan, content with truce, obtained 
 on what terms soever. " But don't you smack my 'ead no 
 more for nothin'. I 'on't have it, and so I tell you." 
 
 " No, no, Evan, dear," the woman whined. " I 'on't do it 
 never any more. But, Evan, dear, don't yew never say a 
 word about that there gliastly fancy. Yew haven't seen 
 nothin', and ye know ye haven't." 
 
 She began to coax him, and would have fawned upon 
 him, but that the boy, mistrusting strategy, evaded her, 
 and kept to his own side of the table. Tliey were both so 
 occupied that neither heard the footstep of Evan Rhys the 
 elder as he mounted the ricket}'^ steps and strode across
 
 39 
 
 the veranda. He pushed the door open with his foot, and 
 let in a sudden stream of light. 
 
 " It iss you for darkness," he said, wiping the perspira- 
 tion from his brow with the back of his big tanned hand. 
 
 "I can't abide that there glare," his wife answered. 
 " I'm just a-goin' to send our Evan on a errand. Look 'ere, 
 Evan," — she drew him from the room on to the veranda, 
 and wliispered to him hastily, — "if your father was to 
 know what you've been talkin' about, he'd skin yew alive. 
 Now, don't yew make any mistake about that. He'd skin 
 y' alive. Now, yew run and pla}'^ anywheres joii like, 
 there's a good boy, but don't you speak a word about 
 that there notion o' yours, not if you sets a vally on your 
 life." 
 
 Young Evan, mightily bewildered by it all, gripped the 
 veranda bar and swung himself to the ground. The 
 broad, briglit, desolate sunshine flamed everywhere. The 
 familiar section of the bush repelled him. He had no 
 mind to face again the palpable horror which lay hidden 
 in its quiet and rarely trodden solitude. He made his 
 way down to the creek, and, having there, with some diffi- 
 culty, found a shadowed hole deep enough to bathe in, he 
 stripped and plunged into the clear, tepid water. There 
 were at first too many emotions working in his mind for 
 any one of them to be dominant and steadfast. The 
 tumbled chaos of tliought and feeling consisted raainl}'^ of 
 tliree elements : terror, anger at injustice, and mere won- 
 der. Anger died first, and then wonder and horror 
 remained behind. Why should his mother have been so 
 terrified and angry at the mere mention of tlie squire's 
 name ? Why should what he knew to be a fact be treated 
 as if it were nothing more than a dream ? And if it hdd 
 been only a dream, why should he liave to be so strenu- 
 ously forbidden to speak about it to any body ? Of course 
 the thoughts of a child not yet eight years of age take no
 
 40 
 
 such settled form as this, but this in the main was the 
 upshot of young Evan's reflections. Finally even the 
 wonder died, and nothing but the horror remained behind, 
 and in that there was a certain sort of invitation. The 
 ghastly thing called out to him, and he felt as if there were 
 something like a compulsion upon him to go and look at it. 
 He could see it clearly enough, in all conscience, in mere 
 fancy. He had never been worth much in his life, but, 
 poor as he was, he had his little lioard of boyish treasures, 
 and he would have given them all never to have set eyes 
 upon it. He not only had no Avish ever to see it again 
 but he shrank from it with absolute loathing and blank 
 terror, and yet it seemed to draw him toward itself im- 
 perativel}^. 
 
 He got out of his tepid bath, and sat a while upon a 
 sheltered shelf of rock to dry. Then he dressed idly and 
 lingeringly, resolving all the while that he would avoid his 
 old section of the bush altogether, and prospect for a new 
 bower in a different direction. The fallen gum-tree still 
 formed a bridge across the creek, and the whole unex- 
 plored country beyond that boundary lay open to him. 
 He would try that side, and, so thinking, he arose and 
 scrambled back into the full glare of the sunshine. Then 
 he changed his mind ; it was too hot to go anywhere just 
 then ; he would saunter home and go to sleep on the shady 
 side of the house in the little garden patch. But by the 
 time he had reached his father's shanty he had changed 
 his mind again. He was not going near It, but he Avould 
 wander a little way along the bush track. The horror of 
 the morning began to get hold of him once more, and for 
 the first time in his life the bush looked desolate and fear- 
 ful to him. He stood balanced between a di'eadful fear 
 and a curiosity as dreadful. There was not a soul in sight. 
 There was not a sound to be heard but the ceaseless and 
 monotonous drone of countless insects. He tore a branch
 
 41 
 
 from a low-growing shrub and beat away the swarm of flies 
 which surrounded him as he moved. They brought to 
 mind the sight he had seen, and he shuddered anew to 
 think of it. 
 
 " I 'ouldn't go nigh there again," he said aloud, half 
 frightened at the sound of his own voice — " I 'ouldn't go 
 a-nigli it not for a 'undred million thousand pounds." 
 
 Yet he went on, hoiTibly afraid and horribly curious. He 
 entered the bush at the accustomed spot, where his childish 
 feet had long since made a faintly perceptible track, and, 
 terror tugging at his very soul, took his familiar way with 
 halting footsteps frequently arrested. 
 
 Then the Thing began to be quite suddenly everywhere 
 about him. He could have walked unhesitatingly to 
 where it la}'^ could he have found the courage, and yet in 
 some mysterious fashion he felt it behind him, before him, 
 and on either side of him at once. It lurked in every 
 shadow of the gloomy woods. It took all manner of 
 strange attitudes. He saw the face, but it never wore the 
 same expression for an instant. It Avas angry, it was 
 smiling, it was unconcerned, it writhed in some unspeak- 
 able torment. 
 
 If young Evan could have broken free of his own 
 terrors, he would have raced from the spot, but he felt 
 rooted there, as if he had been in a nightmare. Suddenly 
 there was a rustle. A wallaby hopped across the trail, and 
 the terror he inspired broke the meshes of that magnetic 
 net which had seemed closing round the boy's heart. 
 Young Evan turned and fled again, nor stopped until he 
 was once more in sight of home. 
 
 He lingered about, not caring, for some unknown reason, 
 to enter. On the unshaded side of the house the weather- 
 board burned the hand which rested on it. The house 
 was roofed with a thick, tarred felt, and this sizzled in the 
 sun, giving forth a peculiar disagreeable odor of its own.
 
 42 
 
 Not a soul was astir about tlie whole settlement. All the 
 waters of the duck-pond had long since evaporated, and 
 the bed gaped with thirsty fissures. To the fancy of the 
 moment there seemed something more friendly in winter's 
 cold and rain than in this unwinking sunlight and this 
 sweltering heat. 
 
 The silence was broken by a distant jingle, and j)res- 
 ently there rode into the clearing a man attired in well- 
 fitting cord breeches, a red flannel shirt, and a slouched 
 hat. Round his waist went a broad belt, from which 
 hung a revolver-case of time-stained leather. A rifle hung 
 at his back, and he Avas solidly but neatly booted and 
 spurred. While young Evan gazed at him in some aston- 
 ishment, the man paused, turned, and looked back on the 
 bush road from which he had just emerged. Then came 
 another jingling sound, and two men, clad precisely like 
 the first comer, joined him. The first figure had been 
 sufficiently striking to the boy's inexperienced eye, but the 
 three together made quite a show, and filled him with an 
 agreeable wonder. They were all dressed precisely alike. 
 Then the horses they rode were all pretty much of a size, 
 and the men were all three weather-tanned, close-cropi>ed 
 about the head, and heavily mustached and bearded. At 
 the first glance they were so much alike that all three 
 might have come from the same mould, and have been 
 colored from the same palette. They held a moment's 
 conversation, and then rode forward together abreast. 
 One of them hailed 3'oung Evan. 
 
 " I say, you boy ! is this Koollala ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Evan. 
 
 " There's a man living here," said the spokesman of the 
 trio, " named Evan Rhys. Wliich is his house ? " 
 
 "This is it," said young Evan, pointing. 
 
 " Any body in ? " the man asked. 
 
 " Father and mother's both at home," said Evan.
 
 43 
 
 " Oh," said the man, and, taking up a handful of his 
 great beard, bit at it for a second or two in silence, regard- 
 ing the boy meanwhile. " You'd better run away and 
 play, my lad," he said at length, but Evan was too 
 inspired by curiosity to follow this advice, and waited to 
 see what might happen. The man took no further notice 
 of him, but, riding up to the veranda, struck one of the 
 uprights supporting the roof with a stout switch he 
 carried. " House, there ! Evan Rhys, you're wanted. 
 Keep a lookout on the back. Bill," he said, addressing 
 one of his companions. 
 
 The man to whom this order was given moved quietly 
 so as to command a view of the i"ear of the shanty, keep- 
 ing his comrades in sight meantime. Evan Rhys appeared 
 upon the platform. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, mate," he said quietly. "You want 
 to speak to me ? " 
 
 " If you're Evan Rhys," the other answered. 
 
 " I am Efan Rhys." 
 
 " Very well," said the cavalier. " You've got to be care- 
 ful what you say. Where was you last Monday ?" 
 
 " I wass here in the morning," said Rhys. " Then 
 I walked to Manchester, then I wass here again at 
 night." 
 
 " You walked back ? " 
 
 " Yess, I walked back." 
 
 " Then you crossed Merioneth Station ? " 
 
 " Yess," said Evan Rhys, " I crossed Merioneth Station." 
 
 " Did you see Mr. Penthearn ? " 
 
 " I did," said Evan Rhys. 
 
 " Oh, you did, did j'ou ?" asked the spokesman, looking 
 right and left at his two comrades, and again gathering 
 his beard in a great handful, and biting at it for a 
 silent second or two. " Well, now, you've got to be 
 careful."
 
 44 
 
 "I haf not got at all to be careful," said Evan Rhys. 
 
 " Did you speak to him ? " 
 
 "I spoke to hiin." 
 
 "Well, now, look here," said the horseman, after an 
 uncertain pause, " fair play's a jewel. You know Avhat we 
 are, 1 suppose," nodding his head at his comrades left and 
 right. 
 
 "Oh, 3"ess," said Rhys; "3'ou pelong to the police at 
 Manchester," 
 
 " You know that Mr. Penthearn's been missing since 
 Monday night." 
 
 " Oh, yess," said Rhys, " I have been tolt that." 
 
 " Well, now, if you like," said the horseman, " you can 
 go ahead and spin any kind of yarn you please, but if I 
 was you, between man and man, I should say nothing. 
 Any thing you do say it will be my duty to repeat after 
 you in the proper place. You know where that is, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " Oh, yess," said Rhj'^s, "I know where that iss." 
 
 " It's known far and wide," said the horseman, Avhom 
 even young Evan now began to recognize as an officer of 
 police, "that Mr. Penthearn and you have been quarrelling 
 like blazes ever since he came to settle down here. You're 
 the only man as is known to have nursed any grudge ag'in 
 him. He's been missed now since Monday, and naturally, 
 don't you see, suspicion points at you. I shall ask you to 
 come along with me, and if I was in 3'our place I shouldn't 
 say another word." 
 
 " Fery well," said Rhys, "I don't want to say any 
 thing." 
 
 "You'd better make up a bit of a swag," said the 
 officer, " if you want to be comfortable — a shirt or two. 
 Odds and ends like that." 
 
 "All right," said Rliys, "I'll be pack in a minute." 
 
 He was to all appearance perfectly unmoved, and seemed
 
 45 
 
 to take no account of the dreadful charge which was hang- 
 ing over him. His wife, who had heard every word of the 
 colloquy, sat upon the side of the untidy bed, with her 
 apron thrown over her face, and rocked herself to and fro 
 witliout a sound. Little Evan stood in the sunlight, star- 
 ing from one horseman to another. He understood every 
 thing now quite clearly. The body that lay in the bush a 
 mile away, with that thick crowd of flies black about it, 
 had been robbed of life by his father's hand. He was so 
 shaken by horror at this thought tliat he began to laugh. 
 He was very young, but not too young to know that at 
 such a moment laughter would look altogether shameless 
 and heartless in its levity, but for the life of him he could 
 not restrain himself. The three mounted men turned and 
 stared at him in amazement. 
 
 "You're a nice young cub, you are," said the nearest 
 man, and, stooping from his saddle, cut him smartly across 
 the back with the switch he carried. A sudden bittei- 
 sense that the blow was undeserved — that, and the 
 pain of it, and the sense of shame, changed the current 
 of his feeling in a second, and he burst into a loud, 
 weeping. 
 
 "That's changed your tune, has it?" said the officer 
 contemptuously. "You get out of my reach or I'll give 
 you something more to howl for." Young Evan cast him- 
 self on the ground, hiding his face, and mufiling his sobs 
 in the sleeves of his ragged jacket. " Pretty tender hide 
 yoiCve got," pursued the horseman, more contemptuous 
 than before. 
 
 Young Evan could have spoken no Avord to defend him- 
 self even if he would. His heart writhed under the 
 unmerited insult. 
 
 Indoors his father packed up a small bundle in a red 
 handkerchief, and left the house without a word of fare- 
 well. His wife still rocked herself upon the edge of the
 
 46 
 
 bed, with her rougli red arms folded across her bi'east, 
 and her face hidden in the folds of her coarse apron. As 
 Rhys appeared on the veranda the senior officer dis- 
 mounted from his horse, threw his reins to a comrade, and 
 produced a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. Rhys set 
 the knot of his little parcel between his teeth, and held 
 out both hands. 
 
 " It's a longish tramp into Manchester," said the police- 
 man, as he adjusted the handcuffs, "and you can have a 
 lift from time to time. To begin with, you'd better 
 march in front." He slung his rifle into an easier 
 position, and struck the butt of it solidly with his hand. 
 " You know what to expect if you come any hanky- 
 panky." 
 
 "I know what to expect," said Rhys, as dispassionate 
 as an echo. " I shall co straight. Good-py, my little 
 Efan." He knelt down by the boy's side, and took him in 
 his manacled hands. 
 
 " You needn't bother about him, matey," said the one 
 
 man who had hitherto kept silence. " It's d d little 
 
 he cares." 
 
 "You're a liar!" flamed Evan, springing to his feet. 
 " You're a liar ! " He stood palpitating after this out- 
 break, unable to speak a word, but, throwing himself upon 
 his father's breast with a loud cry, he hung there, and 
 could hardly be removed without violence. 
 
 "I think you are mistook, Bill," said the leader. 
 " Looks like it," answered the man addressed. " I've 
 been took that laughing way myself when I felt a sight 
 more like crying." 
 
 Rh^'s rose to his feet, picked uj") his fallen bundle, and 
 set out for the bush road at a sturdy pace. The three 
 horsemen went jiugling leisurely after him, and soon dis- 
 appeared from sight. None of the widely scattered neigh- 
 bors had witnessed this strange scene, though had they
 
 47 
 
 known it not one of them would have missed such a break 
 in the weary monotony of life. 
 
 Young Evan was down upon his face again, stilling his 
 sobs to listen to the fading noises of the little cavalcade. 
 The sounds grew fainter and fainter, and finally died 
 away.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Rhys tramped on sturdily for a mile or thereabouts, and 
 then stopped short so abruptly that the nearest horseman 
 almost walked him down. 
 
 " It wass here," he said, turning, " here, or hereapouts." 
 
 " Now, you've been warned alread}-," said the spokes- 
 man of the party. " If you like to give a slack to your 
 jaw, you must, and it's no part of ray duty to stop you." 
 
 " Fery well," said Rhys, '• I shall tell you all about it." 
 The other, surrendering opposition, struck a lucifer match 
 on the tightened leg of his cords, lit his pipe, and listened 
 with a motionless countenance. " I met Penthearn," said 
 Rhys, " at the slip-rail in the big paddock. We had had a 
 goot many rows, and he wass ready for one more. I Avass 
 ankry enough to do him a mischief, and I would not speak 
 a word. The more I would not speak, the more he wass in 
 a rage. That pleased me, and I would not say a word. 
 So he followed me to about here, apusing nie all the way, 
 and then he struck me with his riting-stick. Then," said 
 Rhys, with no sign of heat or excitement, " I thrashed 
 him ass long ass he could stand. I proke the stick across 
 his body, and I came away." 
 
 " Is that all you've got to say ? " asked the mounted 
 policeman. 
 
 " That is efery thing," Rhys responded. 
 
 lie moved on again without waiting for an order, but 
 before another hundred yards had been traversed one of the 
 men called a halt, and dismounted hastily. 
 
 " This looks a bit like it," he said, carefully examining 
 
 48
 
 49 
 
 the ground about liini. " There's been a bit of a turn up 
 here." 
 
 Fifty years ago, — and a good deal more or less, — the 
 belief in the ability of the aboriginal native to read "sign" 
 amounted to a superstition. There is no doubt at all that 
 a great many of the black fellows were very clever at this 
 sort of work, and until the white man learned the trick a 
 good deal of their work looked almost miraculous. To 
 this day the Austi'alian police employ black trackers to 
 follow criminals who have taken to tlie wilderness, though 
 there are by this time dozens of white men who are fully 
 equal to any black fellow that ever breathed. This man, 
 by name Ned Cooper, was one of them. He was a cur- 
 rency lad, born in the bush, and bred there. He had spent 
 two-thirds of his life among the aboriginals, and knew 
 every thing they could teach him. He had as quick an eye 
 as any one of them, and a keener intelligence. 
 
 He stood looking downward for a minute, directing his 
 sharp glance here and there, and at last fixed on a place at 
 the edge of the track, and there knelt down to see things 
 closer. Then he rose and walked into the bush. 
 
 " Track's as plain as blazes ! " he called, when he had 
 gone poi'haps twenty yards. 
 
 "Come out of that," returned the leader. "We've no 
 time to fool about here. We shall have a good three 
 hours in the dark as it is." 
 
 " Wait a bit ! " bawled the tracker. " He's foundering 
 already, staggering about like a drunken man. He can't 
 have got far in that state." 
 
 " I left him here," said Evan Rhys. " What should he 
 want to go into the push for ? " 
 
 " One man's tracks or two ?" shouted the leader of the 
 police party. 
 
 " One," replied the tracker, invisible by this time, and 
 his voice muffled by the intervening trees.
 
 50 
 
 " Carrying any body ? " cried the leader. 
 
 " No," said the otlier, and so Avent on again. 
 
 The horses pawed the road, jingled bit and curb-chain, 
 and snorted now and then, but in the perfect silence which 
 came between these sounds they could still hear the crackle 
 of the retreating footsteps. At length, and the time of 
 waiting was not great, a long-drawn, melancholy sounding 
 "Coo-ee " soared from the bush. The leader answered the 
 call, and it was repeated. 
 
 " He's found something," said the man called Bill. 
 " Wants us there, I fancy." 
 
 " You wait here," returned his senior, " and take care of 
 the horses and this chap. I'll have a look." 
 
 He dismounted and went off into the wooded solitude, 
 calling for guidance now and then, and j^ursuing the 
 answering voice. Evan Rhys stood like a statue, with his 
 little red bundle clasped between his pinioned hands ; the 
 horseman, with an unwavering eye ujjon him, sat like a 
 statue, and the two waited. In a while the tracker 
 returned, very pale and quiet. 
 
 " I want you," he said, " the pair of you." 
 
 He drew" the bi-idles over the horses' lieads, and, passing 
 the reins twice or thrice about a fore-leg, left the beasts 
 standing in the road, and walked into the bush. Evan 
 Rhys went next, and tlie remaining policeman brought up 
 the rear. A walk of barel}^ two minutes brought them to 
 the place. The senior of the trio had withdrawn a little 
 apart, and was smoking violently, but a dozen yards off a 
 ceaseless, monotonous buzz of wings and a black towering 
 cloud of flies showed the whereabouts of what they had 
 come to seek. The tracker took Rh3's b^^ the sleeve and 
 led him forward. 
 
 " Tliere j^ou are, mate}^," he said. " No fair play ever 
 did that, 3'ou know." 
 
 Rhys looked down upon what was left of liis enemy.
 
 51 
 
 His olive skin paled, but he gave no other sign of 
 emotion. 
 
 " He iss dead ? " he said. 
 
 " There's no mistake about that," one of the men 
 answered almost brutally. " You'd better have held j^our 
 jaw." 
 
 " I am not afraid of the trutli," said Rh^'s. " I flogged 
 him, but that iss all I did." 
 
 "You can keep that yarn for Manchester," the man 
 responded. 
 
 "Look here," said the senior, addressing the tracker, 
 " you'd better ride full tilt to Merioneth and let 'em know 
 what you've found. They'll take it home. I'll go on as 
 hard as I can split to Manchester, and get the doctor to ride 
 over and look at the body. You can take care of that chap, 
 Bill. He won't want more than one to look after liim." 
 
 So said, so arranged. All four men came out of the 
 bush pale and quiet. Two mounted at once, and rode 
 away, and Rhys plodded sullenly along, followed by his 
 escort. As they entered the big paddock, after a little 
 more than half an hour's walking, the horseman saw a 
 body of men hurrying toward him from the station. He 
 distinguished his comrade among them, and as the men 
 drew nearer he saw that they carried poles and blankets 
 with which to make a litter for the dead man's transport. 
 
 The two parties crossed each other at a little distance, 
 and Penthearn's men hooted the prisoner, who looked 
 across at them with a face of anger and disdain. 
 
 Meantime Evan lay face downward in the dust, crying 
 as if his heart would break. Nobody came near him. 
 Nobody cared. He was alone in the world. 
 
 His father was the only living creature who had ever 
 shown him a sign of affection, and, since love is sure to 
 beget love in a child's heart, his father was the one
 
 creature for whom lie cared. His motlier may liave bad 
 love for him of a sort ; but sbe had grown bitter of tem- 
 per, and was heavy-handed, and prone to avenge herself 
 for any trouble she might encounter by passing her dis- 
 comforts on to little Evan. And now his father had gone 
 away to prison, and there was no kind face nor kind voice 
 left him in the world. 
 
 While he lay thus abandoned to sorrow, he beard his 
 mother's voice calling to him. But between himself and 
 her there seemed at the moment to be nothing in common, 
 and he made no answer. It did not occur to him to think 
 that they suffered the same grief. He could not conceive 
 of his mother as a sufferer, but only as an inflicter of 
 suffering. 
 
 She called again ; but still be made no repl3% and he did 
 not even notice the mystery and urgenc}^ of her voice. 
 She came near, and he hardened his heart for more injustice 
 and cruelty. He was surprised when slie laid a hand 
 gently upon bis shoulder, and strove softly by her touch to 
 persuade him to rise. 
 
 " Evan, darling," she said, more gently than sbe bad ever 
 spoken to him before. "Evan, darling." 
 
 He had been lying face doAvnward, with his closed eye- 
 lids pressed bard against bis arm. The hot tears bad 
 forced their way, and his eyes were red and swollen. 
 When he lifted bis head, the sunlight blinded him, and he 
 could make out nothing. But bis mother saw the tear- 
 scalded face, and the eyes which looked dim with a pain 
 too great for so young a child to bear, and somehow her 
 bruised heart stirred in her as it had not stirred for 3'ears. 
 She sat down on the baked earth in the blazing sunlight, and 
 took him, mother-like, in her arms. They cried together, 
 and she rocked him as though be were a baby again. 
 
 This scene made so strangely vivid an impression on his 
 mind that in after years it stood like a wall, or rather like
 
 53 
 
 a bower of beneficent greenery, between him and tlie 
 remembrance of his arid infancy. When he came to man- 
 hood, and looked back upon his baby days, he realized little 
 of the neglect, and remembered hardly any thing of that 
 atmosphere of blows in which he had lived. Had things 
 gone on in the old way with him and his mother, had 
 they even been long together after this reconciliation of 
 their hearts in sorrow, they would have quarrelled anew, 
 and would have suffered and inflicted injustice as of old. 
 But this was not to be. The hard hand had fallen upon 
 him for the last time, and his mother's voice was never 
 again to address him except in accents of kindness and of 
 heart-broken farewell. IsTeither of them guessed this, but 
 for the hour their reconciliation was complete. 
 
 The brawny, strong-limbed woman rose with the boy in 
 her arms, and carried him to the house as if he had been 
 indeed a baby again, as for the moment her sorrow and 
 pity made him seem. She sat down with him on the bed, 
 rocking and soothing him. This was all new to Evan, and 
 for a time he cried without restraint, being more moved 
 by affection than he had been by grief and the loneliness 
 of his own heart. 
 
 " Evan," said his mother at length, " hold your whist, 
 ray dear, do 'ee, now, do, there's a darlin' boy. We must 
 do wliat we can to help your poor father. Hush your 
 whist, Evan, and tell me, now, do yew think you'd know 
 your way to that there thing in the coppice ? " 
 
 She was English bred, and could never bring herself to 
 speak of the Australian forest as the bush. She knew but 
 two forms of congregated trees, coppice and spinney, and 
 she chose the term which she thought the larger. 
 
 " Yes," said Evan, sitting up in her lap, and looking at 
 her strangely, " I could find it. Why ? " 
 
 "Are yew sure," she asked, " as you know to it proper? 
 Could yew take me there, and make no mistake?"
 
 54 
 
 « Yes," said Evan again. " Why ? " 
 
 Slie set him on his feet with an air of complete, quiet 
 resohition. Slie wiped her eyes with a corner of her coarse 
 apron, as if tears were done with, and, rising, closed the 
 door. Then, returning, she knelt down by Evan, and set 
 a hand on either shoulder. 
 
 " If they finds that body," she said, in a matter-of-fact 
 voice, "they'll liang your father. We've got to save un, 
 Evan, and if you can guide me there, we'll do it. Yew go 
 and get the pick and the shovel." 
 
 " We'd better wait till niglit-time," said Evan. 
 
 "No," said his motlier, "I couldn't abide to wait a 
 minute, and beside that us'd have to carry a lantern, and 
 that 'ud look suspectious. Nobody 'ull notice if us goes 
 out now. And, for tlie matter o' that," she added, after 
 pausing to lift the curtain and to peep rapidly about the 
 space outside, " there's nobody about. Come along, Evan. 
 It's a ghashly job, an' the Lord send us the heart to get 
 through with it." 
 
 She put on a great old-fashioned sun-bonnet by way of 
 sole preparation, and Evan, without a word, went round to 
 the back of the pigsty, where he found a battered old 
 shovel and a mattock with a broken handle. He shouldered 
 these, and set off for tlie bush track accompanied by his 
 mother. Each looked nervously around, but their going 
 was unobserved. 
 
 Broad daylight as it was, they walked in terror. They 
 were afraid alike of observation and of the task Avhich lay 
 before them, but they went on sturdily, and in silence, 
 until they reached the track made by the boy's own foot- 
 steps. Here Evan took the lead, and they plunged almost 
 at once from blazing light into deep shadow. The very 
 undergrowth of the monstrous bush was thirty feet over- 
 head, and tlie air felt muffled and confined. A black snake 
 crossed the track, and the woman, stooping with a harsh
 
 55 
 
 shriek, gathered lier skirts about her ankles, and stood 
 trembling. The reptile glided on harmless, and in a while 
 she found courage to go on again. 
 
 The whirling pillar of black flies rose with a startling 
 suddenness as they came upon the object of their search. 
 The woman screamed again, but Evan said gravely, and in 
 the voice of every day : 
 
 " Here it is." 
 
 They looked down on the recumbent figure, scarcely 
 recognizable for what it was, loathsome and distended. 
 Within a very little distance of where it lay, — a yard or two 
 only, — was a patch of sand, and on this they set to work. 
 A few inches below the surface they came upon a thick 
 tangle of roots, but they labored with all their might, 
 scarcely pausing to take breath, and barely conscious of 
 the sweat which poured from their brows like rain. They 
 made slow progress in spite of all their labor. The air was 
 a poison. The startled flies buzzed round them in myriads, 
 and settled in the panting nostrils, on the parted lips, and 
 assailed eyes and ears with constant irritation. They 
 brought with them a sense of unconquerable loathing, but 
 the pair worked on, digging, as each thought in ignorance, 
 for the salvation of a husband and a father. 
 
 " Move together, boys ! " said a clear, loud voice, and the 
 two laborers started upright. From every side of them, as 
 it appeared, came the sound of a foot-tread from the under- 
 growth, and in a minute or less they were surrounded by 
 half a dozen sturdy fellows. Among them was Cooper, the 
 tracker. He had guided the party to the spot, and, hearing 
 strange and unexpected noises as he drew close to it, had 
 withdrawn a little, and had distributed his men in a circle, 
 prepared to converge at the word of command toward a 
 centre. 
 
 " That's Mr. Penthearn's body," said Cooper. " Some of 
 you chaps can see to it. One of you can give me a hand
 
 56 
 
 here. I shall have to trouble you to come along with me, 
 missis, and you, too, youngster. You're Mrs. Rhys, I 
 reckon ? " The woman looked at him like one fascinated, 
 and breathed heavily. She made no answer, but he nodded, 
 and said : " I thought so. The whole family's in it, seem- 
 in'ly. Here, let's get out of this — it's enough to poison the 
 very flies. You take charge of the kid. Now, missis, I 
 must trouble j^ou to come with me." 
 
 One of the late Mr. Penthearn's casual hands took Evan 
 by the collar, and marched him out of the wood. Tlie 
 woman obeyed the motion of the tracker's hand, and fol- 
 lowed him, Avalking like one in a dream. 
 
 " We can't march tliis pair to Manchester," said Cooper, 
 addressing the man in front. " One of you fellows will 
 have to ride up there, and bring down a buggy." 
 
 Neither of the prisoners spoke a word. The man Avho 
 had charge of J'oung Evan relaxed his hold upon his collar 
 as soon as the track was reached. The boy made his way 
 to his mother's side, and stole a hand into hers. The 
 mounted policeman lolled idly along in the saddle, smok- 
 ing, and the unmounted man begged a fill of tobacco and 
 a light from him. 'J^lie station came in sight, and after 
 a weary march was reached. Mrs. Rhys and the bo}' were 
 locked away in an outhouse, safely secured on the outside. 
 They waited there a long, long while, with nothing to say 
 to each other, and too cruslied by the turn affairs had 
 taken even to think consecutively. They lieard the dread- 
 ful burden they had attempted to bury borne home by 
 men who staggered with fatigue. 
 
 " That job's worth a glass of beer, anyhow ! " said a 
 voice outside, and another answered : 
 
 "Beer be blowed ! I want a bottle of forty-rod to 
 drown the flavor." 
 
 The men moved away, laughing and talking among 
 themselves, and once more the two were left in a waiting
 
 57 
 
 silence. It was growing dark when the wheels of a buggy 
 came rolling along the pebbled roadway which had been 
 laid down in front of the station. The folding doors of 
 the barn were unlocked, and a man appeared carrying 
 a tin dish and a jug of beer. 
 
 " You're not to be starved," he said roughly, and set 
 the provisions on the floor of beaten earth between them. 
 Neither had the heart to eat, though the mess in the 
 pannikin smelled savory enough to have tempted appetite 
 under ordinary conditions ; but they both drank heartily, 
 and young Evan was soon sleepy with the unaccustomed 
 draught. Cooper lounged in, pipe in mouth, to take a 
 look at his charges. 
 
 " It's fifteen miles to Manchester," he said, "and if you 
 mean to make a meal at all, you'd better be quick about 
 it. We're just waiting for a change of horses, and then 
 we're off." 
 
 Neither of them answered, and he went on with a sort 
 of rough commiseration in his tone : 
 
 "That was a foolish kind of thing to do, missis, if you'd 
 only known it. I don't say as it wasn't natural, but, you 
 see, it let you in as well. Makes you accessory after the 
 fact, don't you see." 
 
 The woman neither understood nor cared. She had 
 done what she could, and had failed. If she had as yet 
 any feeling at all, she was not ill content to be taken in 
 a common condemnation with her husband. She woke 
 to one moment of emotion. 
 
 "They can't hurt the child," she said. 
 
 " Oh, the kid," said the officer. "No, I shouldn't think 
 they'd hurt him. I shouldn't, any way. He's too j'oung 
 to be responsible." 
 
 She made the best of this crumb of comfort. 
 
 The yellow, mournful twilight was everywhere, flood- 
 ing the sky north and east and south and west, wlien the
 
 58 
 
 buggy, driven by an officer in tlie same informal uniform 
 as his fellows, drew up at the barn-door. The two took 
 their places, Coojier whistled for his horse and threw^ his 
 leg leisurely over the saddle, and they set out in the 
 gathering night. On these free uplands the air grew cool 
 after sunset. The man in charge of the buggy drove fast, 
 and the passage of the vehicle made a refreshing breeze. 
 The wheels were almost soundless on the grass, and the 
 vast, unbroken prairie faded and faded, contracted and 
 contracted, until the brief twilight failed, and night rushed 
 down. Then they whiled on through the dark, the 
 trooper jingling along behind, gliost-like, his face in 
 alternate red glow and shadow as he pulled away at his 
 pipe. Then the moon got up, and cut every thing into 
 clean light and shadow, and still they bowled along. 
 
 On a sudden the dim thud of the horse's feet and the 
 noiseless spin of the wheels changed to a startling clatter, 
 and there were houses on either side. Another hundred 
 yards, and the journey was over. 
 
 A man in uniform trousers and a flannel shirt stood in 
 the door-way under a swinging oil lamp. He received the 
 party with oaths and grumblings, having, as it appeared, 
 been kept away from some social engagement in order 
 to receive the prisoners and enter the charge against 
 them. The formality was speedily gone through, and 
 Evan and his mother stood hand in hand, looking on 
 and listening with no very intelligent apprehension. An 
 officer tapped the woman on the shoulder. 
 
 "This wa}'', missis," She moved meclianicallj'', still 
 liolding Evan by the hand, "No," said the man. "The 
 kid goes this way," 
 
 " You ain't going to part me and the child ?" she said. 
 
 "That's your side," the man answered, " this is his."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Someone took young Evan by the hand and led him, 
 not unkindly, into another apartment. This chamber was 
 furnislied, or unfurnislied, something after the manner of 
 a military guardroom, that is to say that some three 
 parts of its space were filled up by a great sloping plank 
 bed with a wooden pillow. From the ceiling hung a sickly 
 oil lamp, the flame of which rendered darkjiess barely 
 visible, while its acrid and unpleasing odor made the air 
 heavy. A solitary figure lay stretched on the plank bed, 
 and a movement only just percejitible showed that Evan's 
 fellow-prisoner was awake. 
 
 " You needn't cry, my little man," said Evan's guard. 
 " You've got your father to take care of you," and at this 
 the recumbent figure sat up suddenly. 
 
 " Efan ! " cried the father, in a tone of wild surprise. 
 " What prings you here ? " 
 
 " Him and his mother," said the guard, " was found 
 digging a hole for Mr. Penthearn's botly. That's wliat 
 he's here for." 
 
 The man retired, closing the heavy door behind him, 
 and the two Rhys's, father and son, heard tlie grinding 
 of solid and ill-fitting bolts before the man's footsteps 
 retired. The boy was crying bitterly at the sight of his 
 father here a prisoner. Rliys took him in his arms and 
 lay down again, pillowing his head upon his shoulder. 
 He said nothing, and after a long while young Evan, 
 exhausted by his own grief, fell asleep. 
 
 In the morning came questionings, and Rhys learned by 
 what accident the body had been discovered, and by what 
 
 59
 
 60 
 
 a fatal desire to serve bim his wife had been led into her 
 present grave position. 
 
 "She meant well," he murmured to himself, "but she 
 has put the rope round my neck, all the same," 
 
 The three prisoners were brought before the resident 
 magistrate that morning, and after formal evidence were 
 remanded for a week. The Australian summer daj's 
 burned slowly one after the other, and the two for the most 
 part lay sprawling on the comfortless plank bed in complete 
 languor of mind and body. But now and then Rhys 
 talked with extreme gravity, teaching the boy what little 
 he knew in his own darkened mind of the polity of the 
 great world. It was perhaps a good deal of a pity that a 
 child should get such lessons as were there taught him. 
 It was certainly a pity that such lessons should have been 
 offered with so much authority and in such a place, for 
 they were bitten into the young soul as if b}'^ the action of 
 some corrosive acid, and so long as he lived he was bound 
 to bear their scars inwardly, to carrj^ them about with him 
 like a message written in tears and fire and terror, legible 
 and authentic to the limit of his days, ineradicable, inefface- 
 able, never to be foi'gotten for an hour. There was a 
 prodigious amount of nonsense in this unfortunate teach- 
 ing, but the mischief of it was that the nonsense had the 
 sturdiest support from facts which were known familiarly 
 both to pupil and teacher, and that thousands of otlier facts 
 which should have gone to modify certainty were unknown 
 to both. 
 
 " Wlien your grantfather wass in Merionethshire," said 
 Evan Rhys the elder, "he was a tenant of Squire Penth- 
 earn's father. lie hat a little pit of land which hat been 
 saved from the Avaste, Gott knows when. Tliere wass 
 nobody so old as could toll him wlien it liat not been farm- 
 land. Squire Penthearn wass tlie lord of the manor. Your 
 grantfather hat no little piece of paper to show that he
 
 61 
 
 had a right to the land, and the squire took it all. Your 
 grantfather, and his grantfatlier, and his grantfatlier 
 again, had made the land. Thay had worked perhaps for 
 hundreds of years to make it. The squire wanted it, and 
 he took it. Your grantfatlier was turned away, and got 
 nothing whatever. Tliey saidt it was the law. Fery well, 
 my little Efan, it iss the law that all good people have to 
 fight against. When the rich man shows a poor man a 
 law, he shows him something that he has to fight, to worry 
 with teeth and nails. You are quite safe, my little Efan ; 
 they will do nothing to you, pecause you are too younk ; 
 but when your father hass been hanked by the neck, and 
 jj^our mother hass been imprisoned for life, you will 
 rememper." 
 
 The children of the very poor are precocious. There is 
 nothing in the world which can give so early an edge to 
 intellect as poverty. Look at any great city, and observe 
 the prematurely mannish childhood of the poor. Tiiere 
 are children in London, in New York, in Paris, in Vienna, 
 in all great cities, Avho face the world with many devices 
 of strategy, who contrive somehow to squeeze the water 
 of life from the almost dry sponge of street charit}' and 
 petty enterprises contrived without capital. The childien 
 of the rich would die, in spite of more delicate wit and a 
 finer training, where these waifs of fortune flourish. 
 
 Young Evan was quick to absorb all his father's lessons, 
 and nothing was too wrong-headed for acceptance. How 
 should it have been so? Tliere was not a fact in his own 
 little experience of life which did not corroborate his 
 father's theories. 
 
 "Suppose," said Rhys, "that efery tay of j^our life you 
 robbed a pig of his cabbage-stalk, or you stole a saucer of 
 milk from a puppy — would you expect the pig or the 
 puppy to be thankful ? And we are not pigs or puppies, nn^ 
 little Efan, we are men and women, and they rob us every
 
 62 
 
 day, and they expect us to co with our caps in our liands, 
 and to say tliat we are fery mucli opliged for peing allowed 
 to live at all." 
 
 Once, and once only, he talked of the charge which was 
 to be brought against him. 
 
 " I nefer meant the man any mischief," he declared. 
 " When I wass a little bo}^ in Merionethshire, I peat him, 
 as you have peaten his little boy. When he krew up, he 
 remempered, and he Avass always fer}'^ angry. He came 
 after me threatening what he would do, and I knew it 
 wass the safest way to make him angry to say nothing. 
 I said nothing for two miles, and he followed me, and I 
 did not care until he raised his riding-whip. Then I took 
 it fi'om him. I do not know why he iss dead, but I flogged 
 him, and if he could die of a flogging he is welcome to die. 
 And so am I welcome to die," he added, with a certain 
 gloomy stoicism, " and to not you forget it. If I did not 
 leaf my little jjoy in the cold, I should not care at all. I 
 am very tired, my little Efan, and I am quite reatj' to go 
 whenefer." 
 
 The upshot of all the lessons learned was that every 
 rich man was a rogue, and that every poor man was more 
 or less a martyr, bound to rebellion. That the king was 
 per se a knave was beyond dispute. That whole genera- 
 tions of one family of lords might be losels and Avastrels, 
 prodigal alike in plenty and in bankriiptc\% Evan Rhj's 
 the elder unhappily knew^ by local tradition and the surety 
 of his own eyes ; and that all families holding the patent 
 of nobility should be equally worthy of contempt and 
 blame seemed an easy conclusion to arrive at both for 
 him and his pupil. Everj'-where the story repeated itself. 
 The worker enriched the waste earth with his sweat, and 
 fed its verdure at last in the decay of his body, and 
 whosoever had money had it first or last by trickery or 
 tyranny.
 
 63 
 
 The gloomy little room in which these lessons were 
 taught became to the boy a temple of intellectual freedom. 
 The plank bed was an altar of revolt, and on it already lay 
 the immolated figure of a father, at once a victim and a 
 protest, a prey to social tyranny and a proclamation 
 against it. At the next formal enquiry father and mother 
 and child were alike committed for trial, but when the 
 case was ready to come on for hearing before the higher 
 court, the grand jury thought it absurd to bring so grave 
 a charge against so young a child, and, although a true bill 
 was found against Evan Rhys the elder and his wife, Helen, 
 the boy was set at liberty. This, in its way, was a blow, 
 for it left him alone in the world. He would not leave 
 the prison in which his father was confined in the strange 
 new town to which the}'' had been carried until force was 
 employed. He was borne out in the arms of a warder, and 
 set down in the street outside the jail. He cried so pite- 
 ously at leaving his father, and at the sense of his own lone- 
 liness, that the warder gave him the only half-crown he 
 had in the world, and so sent him about his business. 
 Under conditions entirely civilized it would have been 
 made somebody's concern to see the child home, but the 
 district was but newly and sparsely settled, and tlie admin- 
 istration of justice had not yet fallen into the groove in 
 which it runs in older countries. 
 
 Two or three people staring at young Evan in "the street 
 made him ashamed of his open outburst of grief. He con- 
 trolled himself as best he might, and walked awaj'', intent 
 on notliing for the moment so much as to hide himself. 
 But, coming in a while upon the desert outskirts of the 
 town, he threw himself upon the grouTid in complete sur- 
 render. The mere fact of yielding to his own grief bred a 
 sort of hysteria, and a stranger passing that way was 
 moved to astonishment and pity. 
 
 This stranger was a remarkable man in his wa}- — the
 
 64 
 
 Marquess of Avelcburch, son of tlie Duke of Kingsclere, 
 a young man of great wealth and enormous expectation. 
 He had taken his degree at Oxford five years before, and 
 liad since tlien occupied himself in travel and tlie study of 
 mankind. He was a young man of supernatural gravity 
 and solemnity of demeanor, a circumstance mainly due to 
 the fact that he had been bred to as heavy a sense of 
 responsibility as if he had been a prince of the blood. 
 Tlie fact that he was the Marquess of Avelchurch, heir to 
 the dukedom of Kingsclere and a colossal fortune, had 
 never been allowed for one moment to be absent fi-om this 
 unhappy 3'oung gentleman's mind. He was b}" nature a 
 most lovable and high-spirited fellow, full of warm-blooded 
 impulses and enthusiasms, and his childish dream, when he 
 first became aware of the vast wealth which would one 
 day be his own, had been to ride abroad distributing 
 largesse to the poor. In his youth he would empty his 
 purse at any moment in answer to a piteous tale, and he 
 had been the prey of cads and cadgers past the computa- 
 tion of arithmetic. But when a lad so circumstanced has 
 able tutors near him, when his study table is thickly 
 littered at every post with begging letters, and when he 
 has been compelled to enquire personally into some hun- 
 dreds of cases, he grows hardened. The young Marquess 
 of Avelchurch had learned years ago that his money was 
 as likely to do a mischief to the people on whom he 
 bestowed it as a benefit. He had been taught to dread, as 
 a terroreven greater than the pinch of poverty, the pauper- 
 ization of the poor. He had been tauglit, — and he was of a 
 nature to learn tlie lesson easily, — that his social position 
 and his wealth laid tremendous responsibilities upon him. 
 He held social position and wealth alike as a trust from 
 God. He was an old-fashioned young man, and believed 
 in God. The agnosticisms of modern Oxford had slid 
 from him like water from a duck's back, and the old-fash-
 
 65 
 
 ioned defenders of an old-fashioned faith found an enthu- 
 siastic disciple in the Marquess of Avelchurch. The onh^ 
 touch of modernity about the young man was to be found 
 in the form and method of his hereditary Toryism. The 
 old Toryism, though Lord Goodheart and Lady Bountiful 
 tempered it by innumerable kindnesses, was scornful, held 
 its head high, and rejoiced in the divisions which Provi- 
 dence had established among the races of men. The 
 modern Toryism, as the Marquess of Avelchurch under- 
 stood it, regretted the social partitions, and was yet bound 
 to preserve tliem as part of a scheme with which it would 
 be sinful to interfere. High-minded, honorable, generous, 
 and so over-conscientious in giving and in refraining from 
 giving that his life was an hourly burden to him, the 
 young man had spent this last five years in travelling the 
 world, and accustoming himself to think more and more 
 basely and despairingly of it. He dragged at each remove 
 a lengthening chain. The sense of responsibility grew 
 like a snowball. To refuse charity was an insult to his 
 heart ; to bestow it in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred 
 seemed a crime. What, in these mournful circumstances, 
 was a young man to do ? 
 
 Young Evan lay writhing there, in the sparse verdure of 
 a waste field, like a worm that has been trodden upon. 
 Childhood is keen to suffer — few j^eople ever care to think 
 how keen. And surely here, if ever in the world, a child 
 had a right to be down-hearted. His father was going to 
 the gallows, and his mother to penal servitude, and he, so 
 far as he knew, had not a friend in the world. He was 
 full, too, of that gall of bitterness which his father had of 
 late days poured into him with so unsparing a hand. A 
 child of eight despaired and loathed the world ! 
 
 The Marquess of Avelchurch looked down on the 
 writhing little body, and heard the sobs which seemed torn 
 by the roots from the child's heart. By and by he stooped, 
 5
 
 66 
 
 and laid a hand upon young Evan's shoulder. The boy- 
 looked up, savage in the desolation of his misery. His 
 desert was sacred to him. He had a right to his solitude. 
 
 "Go away ! " he snarled. 
 
 The marquess sat down beside him, and, let young Evan 
 writhe as he would, he kept a firm yet gentle hand upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " It can't be as bad as that, my lad," he said. 
 
 Evan ceased to cr}^, though the effort cost him dear. 
 Every now and again a great shivering sob shook him 
 from head to foot, but otherwise he lay quiet. He even 
 ceased to resist the hand upon his shoulder, but he resented 
 it with a passionate sullenness of Avhich the intending com- 
 forter had not the faintest conception. 
 
 "Let me help you, my boy," said the marquess, kindly 
 and gently enough, and yet with something in the tone 
 which angered where it Avas meant to soothe. " What 
 brings you in such trouble ? Tell me what is the matter, 
 and if I can help you I will." 
 
 The unfortunate young nobleman was always offering 
 a sop to conscience. He was willing to help young Evan 
 if he could, but if he could, meant if the case were deserv- 
 ing. To be conscientious]}^ assisted by the Marquess of 
 Avelchurch meant that 3'ou should have got into trouble 
 absolutel}^ without any fault of your own. The way of 
 the transgi'essor was hard, and, though his good heart 
 checked him painfully many a time, he solemnly felt it his 
 duty to make it harder. In point of fact, what would 
 have been his vice would have been virtue to ninety-nine 
 men in a hundred. Had he done throughout his life the 
 things which would have pleased him, he would have been 
 universally beloved. As it was, he was almost univer- 
 sally respected, but by some regarded as a prig of the first 
 water. 
 
 Young Evan made no answer to all this pleading, but lay
 
 67 
 
 there in a stubborn silence, affronted at the intrusion on bis 
 grief. 
 
 Steps sounded on the rough gravel of the pathway, and 
 the Marquess of Avelchurch, more than half ashamed on 
 the better and more tender side of him, of being caught in 
 the act of comforting this ragged urchin, rose to his feet. 
 
 " Quoi done ? " said a cheery voice. *' Toi ? " 
 
 The Comte de Montmeillard, in shabby serge trousers, 
 a shabby jacket of the same material, and collarless Crimean 
 shirt, was holding out a hand to him. 
 
 " You are here I " cried the count, " in Australia of all 
 places in the world. Here, my friend, you will find plenty 
 of food for your philosophies." 
 
 " The Comte de Montmeillard ? " said the marquess. 
 
 "The Comte de Montmeillard, mj' dear friend, at your 
 service. The Comte de Montmeillard — no longer the 
 most illustrious of boulevardiers, but, as you behold him, 
 an exile, my friend — an exile in the cause of that divine 
 conscience which used to be so precious to you. Is it still 
 so precious as it used to be, the divine conscience ? For 
 my own, I have given him the bridle-rein, and he has run 
 me here, but I will sell him to any body who has need 
 of him for a passage home and one little supper chez 
 Bignon." 
 
 " I thought," said the marquess, " I understood " 
 
 " Ah !" cried the count, "3-ou supposed that I was in 
 the New Caledonia — that Caledonia stern and wild, fit 
 nurse for a rebellious child ! I am here, my dear Avel- 
 church, what they call an escape. The word is an insult 
 to my native tongue, but I accept it." 
 
 " Have you no friends here ? " asked the marquess. 
 " No — no resources ? " 
 
 " I grow a little garden," the count responded gaj'ly. 
 " I sometimes sell a little garden produce. I feed my 
 pigs. Eh, Petrovna ? "
 
 The marquess for the first time became aware of a 
 fourth figure on the scene, the figure of a sliabby man 
 witli a pug nose and a great beard. 
 
 "I feed my pigs," cried the count. " I kill my pigs, I 
 salt my pigs into liams and bacon, and therewith I buy 
 my bread. I am a protest in favor of that aristocratic 
 principle of which you are yourself so distinguislied a 
 pillar. But what is this, Petrovna? Here is our little 
 Evan, for whom all day we have been enquiring every- 
 where." 
 
 lie sat down with a vivid action on the grass, picked up 
 the bo3', and took him in his arms. Petrovna knelt beside 
 him, and put one arm about the child's shoulder. 
 
 "I am glad," said the marquess, "that the little fellow 
 has found his friends." 
 
 " He is in need of them," said the count. 
 
 "If I could be of service " said the Marquess of 
 
 Avelchurch. His hand moved irresolutely toward his 
 pocket-book. 
 
 "To the hoj without doubt," the count responded. 
 "To me, my dear fellow, no. Take him, Petrovna," he 
 added, handing over little Evan to his associate with 
 scant ceremony. He rose to his feet, and, taking the 
 marquess familiarly by the elbow, led him to a little dis- 
 tance. "You have been long in the town here? " 
 
 " Three or four days only," tlie other answered. 
 
 "At least," said Montmeillard, " 3'ou will have heard 
 the news. That wretched little fellow there is the son 
 of the man who is charged with the murder of Mr. Penth- 
 earn at Koollala. In a month or thereabouts the law will 
 make an orphan of him. He is a briglit boy, and full of 
 promise. I would give the little devil n chance if I could." 
 
 "Come and see me at my hotel," said the marquess — 
 
 " the Belleville. Ask " He blushed a little here, and 
 
 hung fire for a mere instant. "Ask for Mr. Johnstone."
 
 69 
 
 " Olio ! " said the count, " we travel incognito ?" 
 
 " It saves a great deal of trouble," the marquess 
 answered. " But, excuse me, who is that fellow with 
 you ? You called him " 
 
 "Ah," responded Montmeillard. " He is not a pillar of 
 order and respectability. That is Boris Petrovna, lately 
 of Siberia. Shall I introduce him to Mr. Johnstone?" 
 
 " No, thank you," said the marquess dryly. " Come to 
 me at the Belleville. Let us have a talk together. Will 
 you dine witli me to-night?" 
 
 "In this garb?" said the count, stretching his arms 
 abroad, and flashing his white teeth in a smile. 
 
 " Why not ? Come in any dress you like." 
 
 "Very well," the count answered cheerfully. "I will 
 come in the only one I have. The Belleville, you say ? " 
 
 "The Belleville. If I can be of use — I mean, if I have 
 
 a right to be of use " He looked toward Evan, whom 
 
 Petrovna was rocking to and fro in his arms. 
 
 " The boy," said the count, " is friendless and penniless. 
 They will hang his father to a certaintj^, and they will 
 hang a good fellow, for whom I have a sincere respect-. 
 They will lock up his motlier for ten or twelve years at 
 least. I would have taken him home with me, but I 
 am a broken reed for any body to rest on. Poor old 
 Petrovna and I can just hold body and soul together, 
 and that is all. I am sorr}'^ for the child." 
 
 " Is this the boy," the marquess asked, " who was found 
 with his mother in the act of attemjDting to bury the body 
 of the murdered man ? " 
 
 "That is the child," Montmeillard answered. 
 
 " Well," said the Englishman, after an undecided pause, 
 "come and dine with me to-night, and we can talk it over. 
 Perhaps you might let me do something for you also." 
 
 "Forme?" cried the count, laughing once more. "I 
 am happy with my pigs and my Petrovna."
 
 70 
 
 When the two had parted, the count sat on the grass 
 beside Petrovna and the boy, and opened out to him the 
 prospect he thought he had secured. 
 
 "My little Evan," he said, "you saw the gentleman 
 who has just gone away? He is one of the richest men 
 in the world, and one of the kindest. He is a great lord 
 in his own country, — in England, — and if I ask him he will 
 take care of you." 
 
 " Who is he ? " asked Petrovna. 
 
 " He is the Marquess of Avelchurch," Montmeillard 
 answered. " We were at Oxford together." 
 
 " Will you go with him, my little Evan ? " asked 
 Petrovna, in a voice of silky mockery. His halting 
 English lent an odd emphasis to his speech. " Will you go 
 to him, my little Evan, and be a little servant, and learn to 
 be proud to dirty little hojs, and to turn up the nose at 
 people because they are poor? Oh, you should go, for by 
 and by the great nobleman will dress you in silk stockings, 
 and will give you a laced coat like the monkey at the fair, 
 and make you a fine gentleman indeed, and you will ride at 
 the back of his carriage, and will learn to be a snob and a 
 slave, my little Evan. Oh, what a chance, what an oiDi^or- 
 tunity ! Won't you go, my little Evan ? " 
 
 Little Evan had been brought up in a rough school, and 
 without his consent had listened to a good deal of rough 
 language, Montmeillard laughed aloud Avhen the boy 
 clutched Petrovna with a new burst of indignant tears, and 
 blubbered out : 
 
 " I'll see him cjo to hell first ! "
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 As a concession to circumstance the Comte de Mont- 
 meillavcl bought a paper collar and an inexpensive tie. He 
 borrowed the blacking-brushes at the cheap little boarding- 
 house in which for the time being he rested, and Avith his 
 own aristocratic hands brushed his own boots, singing 
 gaylj meanwhile. At the appointed hour he presented him- 
 self at the Belleville with his shabby jacket buttoned over 
 the Crimean shirt, and his hat cocked on three hairs, as 
 smiling and jaunty as if he had had a million at the bank, 
 and had trodden the asphalt of his native Paris on his 
 way to that little supper chez Bignon for which he had a 
 few hours eai'lier professed himself willing to sell his 
 political conscience. 
 
 Mr. Johnstone's incognito was less successfully preserved 
 than the Marquess of Avelchurch fancied, and when that 
 gentleman ordered that some extra care should be taken 
 with the day's dinner, the landlord of the Belleville con- 
 strued the request after the most generous fashion. The 
 astonished convives found before them a couple of fowls 
 boiled, a couple of fowls roasted, a pair of roast ducks, a 
 roast goose, and a huge wild turkey some thirty pounds in 
 weight. Half a score of pies and puddings stood upon the 
 sideboard, and every kind of vegetable the district could 
 supply steamed in as many dishes. A marquess and the 
 son of a duke, the landlord argued, might- very well be 
 more plenteously supplied than a commoner ; at least, he 
 had a right to a lai'ger bill, and the house was plenteously 
 provisioned for a day or two. The count's shabby exterior 
 made no difference in his reception, for whom the Mar- 
 
 71
 
 72 
 
 quess of Avelcluirch cared to distinguisli by his hospitality 
 was of necessity a person of importance. 
 
 The marquess ate little, but the count, who had long 
 been strange to good fare, devoted himself to the wild 
 turkey with such vigor as to make a considerable inroad 
 even upon that majestic bird. The host had found in his 
 cellar a really excellent Australian hermitage, and for an 
 hour the exile was happy. A cup of indifferent coffee 
 crowned the banquet, and a cigar from the marquess's own 
 case seemed to taste of heaven. 
 
 " Unhappy man ! " said the count, lolling back in his 
 chair, and looking idly at his companion through the 
 smoke-wreaths. " You dine every day." 
 
 " Is that a matter of commiseration ?" the other asked. 
 
 " Try my plan," said the count, " Refrain from dining 
 for five years. Then dine," 
 
 "Why not go back to Paris?" asked the marquess. 
 
 "My dear fellow," returned Montmeillard, " since I must 
 wear a shabby jacket, I would rather wear it anywhere in 
 the world than in Paris. To be poor in Paris is the very 
 devil. I have tried it, and I know. To be poor out here 
 matters nothing at all. It is a great deal better fun than 
 you would fancy." 
 
 "Well," said the marquess, after a pause, "about tlie 
 boy. I have been making enquiries, and I find there is 
 not the remotest probability of an acquittal in the case of 
 either of his parents." 
 
 "There is not," Montmeillard answered, " the faintest 
 little shadow of a chance." 
 
 "You spoke of the child as showing promise," said the 
 marquess. "In what direction ?" 
 
 "He's a bright little fellow altogether," the count 
 answered; "a boy of whom I fancy you might make 
 almost any thing," 
 
 "He has no friends or relatives in this country?"
 
 73 
 
 "Not a soul." 
 
 " I see no reason," said the Marquess of Avelchurch, 
 after a lengthier pause — " I see no reason why I should 
 not help him. He might be sent to school, and then 
 taught some useful trade. I think I could undertake that. 
 One would have to find somebody to look after him, and 
 it would be better for the boy to be removed from the 
 region of this miserable tragedy. Yes, I think I may 
 undertake that. I will have it seen to. Is the boy with 
 you?" 
 
 *' Petrovna has him in charge just now," the count 
 answered. 
 
 "The sooner he is out of Mr. Petrovna's charge the 
 better," said the marquess. "I will see that arrangements 
 are made for him at once." 
 
 Now that he had secured the sympathy of so powerful a 
 protector young Evan's prospects would have seemed to 
 brighten, but there came an unexpected hitch in the 
 arrangements for his benefit. Before the benevolent 
 scheme of the marquess could be put into effect Evan 
 Rhys the elder had been tried for the murder of Mr. 
 Penthearn, had been found guilty, and sentenced to be 
 hanged. His wife had been convicted, as every-bod}^ had 
 foreseen she would be, as an accessory after the fact, but 
 in her case the judge was merciful, and inflicted a com- 
 paratively light sentence — one of five years' imprisonment. 
 
 Montmeillard's one purpose in visiting the city had been 
 to witness the trial. Now that was over he would have 
 returned at once but for young Evan. He waited to see 
 the boy disposed of, but he waited in vain. 
 
 Evan seemed almost stupefied. He ate nothing for days, 
 and the people about him began to be afraid for his life. 
 Nothing short of force, — and nobody had the heart to 
 apply that, — could keep the wretched child from rambling 
 round the prison in which his father lay awaiting the
 
 74 
 
 sentence of the law. He had to be souglit there late at 
 night, but he was back again with the first glimpse of 
 dawn, and all day long he prowled about the prison or sat 
 staring at its blank walls with a face as barren of expres- 
 sion as their own. On the fourth day after the delivery 
 of the sentence Montmeillard found him seated on a heap 
 of road metal at the back of the prison, bunched up like a 
 diminutive old man, with his hands clasped about his 
 knees. 
 
 "You must come home with me, Evan," said tlie count, 
 stooping over him, and laying a kind band upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 The boy lifted his face, striped and grimed with tears, 
 and shook his head. 
 
 " You must really come," Montmeillard urged him. 
 "There is a lady there who has travelled all the way from 
 Melbourne on purpose to find you, and to take you away 
 from here." 
 
 Young Evan shook his head again, very slowly and 
 doggedly. 
 
 " The lady," said the count, " will take care of you and 
 be kind to you. She will take you to school ; you will be 
 well dressed and Avell taken care of. You will be taught 
 how to grow up to be a man, and you will have companions 
 of your own age. You are going to school, Evan. Don't 
 you think you will like that?" 
 
 A third time Evan shook his head. Tlie count took one 
 of the grimy little hands, and made a movement as if to 
 lead him away. But the child resisted sullenly. 
 
 " Now, my poor little fellow," said Montmeillard, " what 
 is the good of this ? You are only making yourself ver}', 
 very unhappy to no purpose. You will be better when 
 you are away." 
 
 Persuasion was altogether wasted. The boy refused to 
 speak a word, but sat staring at the prison wall, and only
 
 75 
 
 shook his head from time to time when appealed to. Mont- 
 meillard had no mind to cany him away, or to drag him 
 forcibly through the streets, and yet he did not care to be 
 baffled. He left him, therefore, and went in search of a 
 cab, a luxury he could ill afford. He found one in a few 
 minutes, and returned Avith it, lifted the child bodily into 
 the vehicle, and drove away with him. Evan struggled 
 to free himself, but, finding that of no avail, sat still in 
 silence. 
 
 They reached the boarding-house, and there Evan was 
 introduced to the lady of whom the count had spoken. 
 She was a kindly looking woman, dressed in fashionable 
 mourning, and it is very likely that to the boy's fancy she 
 was a member of one of those dreadful upper classes of 
 whom he had heard so much. He refused to say a word 
 to her, and had nothing but that dogged shake of the 
 head in reply to all proposals. 
 
 " Very well, my poor little fellow," said the count at 
 last. " It is of no use talking any more. Every-body 
 means to be kind to you, and you will have to go." 
 
 " I sha'n't stop," said Evan, opening his lips for the first 
 time. 
 
 " You will have to stop," said the count. " You will be 
 made to stop." 
 
 " All right," the boy answered, with a short, contemptu- 
 ous laugh. 
 
 The count gave vent to an exclamation in his own 
 language, and the lady addressed him in halting and indif- 
 ferent French. 
 
 This was really, she said,- a most disagreeable and 
 intractable child. He was not at all the kind of boy she 
 had expected to find, or at all the kind of boy her husband 
 was in the habit of receiving. She professed herself most 
 anxious to oblige le marky, and it would be easy to make 
 the child outwardly presentable, but she was ver}^ doubt-
 
 ful as to the moral influence the young gentleman would 
 exert in lier husband's seminary. 
 
 "The Marquess of Avelchurch," asked the count, "has 
 given instructions for the boy's outfit ? " 
 
 Yes, said the lady, the marquess had given instructions 
 that the child was to be respectably attired, and in all 
 respects reasonably provided for. In tliat case the count 
 suggested that it would be well to send at once to a tailor. 
 
 During this colloquy Evan sat silent, looking shrewdly 
 from one to the other. The sound of a foreign language 
 made him suspicious, and he felt that he was being dis- 
 posed of in some clandestine fashion. 
 
 An outfit was found, and in the course of an hour or 
 two Evan, having been bathed and scoured, was newly 
 dressed from top to toe. He was quite passive under this 
 change, but in another hour he had disappeared. He was 
 sought for in the neighborhood of the prison, and again 
 found there, and once more taken home. 
 
 " It's no good, Frenchj^" he said ; " I ain't goin' away. 
 I shall stop where dad is till they've — till they've hanged 
 him." 
 
 He had begun sulkily, but he ended in a new passion of 
 tears. He vowed, storming, that he Avouldn't, wouldn't, 
 wouldn't go ; that as often as they took him he Avould run 
 away. He backed all this with an oath, wliich sounded so 
 dreadful, coming fiom such childish lips, that the school- 
 master's wife lifted her hands in horror. 
 
 " Je voudraise obleegy le mark}'," said the lady, "mais 
 le petty garyong est ampossib." 
 
 " Madam," said Montmeillard in his own tongue, " the 
 boy has been roughly bred, but he is a child of an excellent 
 disposition, and Avhen this great grief is over, I have no 
 doubt you will find him easy enough to deal with. I am 
 afraid," he added, " that the shock of recent events has 
 almost unhinsred his mind."
 
 The lady relented, and, "pour obleeg}' le marky," would 
 do her best for this intractable waif. A generous outfit 
 was packed for him, and a close watch was kept upon him 
 to see tliat he did not again escape. Tlie train for Mel- 
 bourne started at an early hour next morning, and the 
 count and Petrovna saw him off by it under the charge 
 of his new protectress. This done, they turned their backs 
 upon the city, and struck out across the wilds on a three- 
 day's tramp to Koollala. 
 
 Young Evan bolted at the first station at which the train 
 stopped, but Avas there at once arrested and brought back, 
 strucfirlinfir and fifrhting:, in a savage silence. At the next 
 station he made another attempt, but tliis time the feeble 
 authority of the school-mistress was backed by the guard, 
 who for a slight fee undertook the charge of the boy for 
 the rest of the journey. 
 
 Once at the Spencer Street Station in Melbourne he was 
 supposed to be safe, but he took advantage of a moment of 
 confusion, lost himself in the crowd in a mere instant of 
 time, and was away into the streets. He had not a penny 
 about him, and the journey which he proposed to himself 
 had taken eighteen hours by train. Had he been older the 
 prospect of five hundred penniless miles might have dis- 
 mayed him. As it was, he was far too young to be provi- 
 dent in his ideas, and the only definite thought in his mind 
 was that every step he took would bring him nearer to his 
 father. His first impulse was to run fast, in no matter 
 what direction, so long as he could evade pursuit. But 
 the minute he had made up his mind that he was not being 
 followed he stopped to take breath, to look about him, and 
 to resolve upon his course. He found himself in a by- 
 street in which there were but few people going up and 
 down. He allowed two or three to pass him, not finding 
 any thing inviting or sympathetic in their looks. But by 
 and by a broad-set, burly man, with a sun-tanned face and
 
 78 
 
 hands, came along the street, and Evan ventured to stop 
 him. 
 
 " I say, mate," he began, " which is the way to 
 Adelaide ? " 
 
 " Oh," said the man accosted, " you say ' mate,' do 
 you?" He looked down laughingly at the diminutive 
 figure. " Well, if you say mate, I say mate. What do 
 you want to know the way to Adelaide for? " 
 
 " I want to go there," said Evan. 
 
 The stranger stared at him with rounded eyes. " Why, 
 my lad," he answered, "you don't know what you're talk- 
 ing about." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do," said Evan. " I want to go to 
 Adelaide." 
 
 " Why, Adelaide's a matter of five hundred miles from 
 here," the man responded, stooping, with a weather-stained 
 hand on either knee, to get a closer look at this small 
 curiosity. 
 
 " I Avant to go there," said Evan. " Which is the 
 way ? " 
 
 "You look," said the stranger, "as if you had some 
 decent folks to take care of you. Where do you live ?" 
 
 " I don't live anywhere," said Evan. 
 
 " H'm ! " said the man, " that's a queerish sort of a yarn. 
 Where do you come from ? " 
 
 " I come from Adelaide," said Evan. 
 
 " Whereabouts in Adelaide ? " the man asked, his red 
 face growing redder as he stooped. " Come, now, no 
 tricks with travellers — whereabouts in Adelaide ? " 
 
 "I didn't live in Adelaide," said Evan. "I come from 
 there yesterday by the train. I live in Koollala." 
 
 " Oh, at Koollala, did j'ou ? " the man said, straighten- 
 ing himself. " Why, that's the place where What 
 
 did you say your name was ?" 
 
 " Evan Rhys," said Evan.
 
 79 
 
 The man gave quite a jump, and stared at him liarder 
 than ever. " What do you want to go to Adelaide for ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 "I want to go," said Evan. His features began to 
 work, and his lips to tremble. 
 
 " Now, most likely," said the stranger, " you've been 
 brought away from Adelaide for a reason, you have. 
 You've bolted from the friends that brought you here. 
 Eh, is that it?" The boy made no answer. " Now, what 
 do you want to get back to Adelaide for ? " 
 
 " Dad's there," Evan answered. 
 
 " You bet he is," said the stranger, in a low murmur to 
 himself. " And whereabouts is dad in Adelaide ? " 
 
 At this the boy bi'oke down, and the strange man took 
 him by the hand. 
 
 " You come along with me, my lad," he said, " and I'll 
 see what I can do for you." 
 
 " No, no, no ! " cried Evan. " I want to go to Adelaide." 
 
 " If you've got any right to go to Adelaide," the stranger 
 answered, " I'll send you there. But if you haven't, you 
 must go back to your friends. You come along with me." 
 
 Evan cried and struggled, but the stranger held him 
 tightl}'', and he recognized the futility of resistance. In 
 a very little while, however, they came upon a crowded 
 tlioroughfare, and, the man's grasp relaxing for a moment, 
 the boy tore himself free and ran as if for life. The burly 
 stranger pursued him for a few yards onlj'-, and then 
 resigned the chase. Evan took another by-street, which 
 led him toward the river, and there lounged about for 
 hours, looking at the faces of the passers-by, and finding, 
 after his recent experience, no encouragement in any one 
 of them. 
 
 The way was full of difficulties he had not even dreamed 
 of. He was only a child, though perhaps unusually 
 precocious ; and he felt himself quite foiled and helpless
 
 80 
 
 as lie walked about tlie inliospitable streets, not daring to 
 accost a creature for fear that he should be once more 
 arrested. 
 
 He began to grow hungry and a little footsore, for the 
 boots with which he had been newly supplied cramped 
 him. He longed to take them off, but found no bare- 
 footed people, and was afraid of looking singular. 
 Neither pain nor hunger nor fatigue could dull the edge 
 of his resolve. His determination to get back to Adelaide 
 and be near his father was perhaps much less a resolve 
 than a mere instinct ; but, then, instinct is much stronger 
 than mere resolve, and the bidding of his heart was alto- 
 gether imperative, and not to be denied. 
 
 At last chance gave him what had been denied to 
 enquiry. He found a group of men sitting b}' the water- 
 side in Flinders Street smoking and talking. He had no 
 interest in their conversation, but in a dazed sort of wa}- 
 he listened. 
 
 One of them said : " I am off out of this to-morrow. I 
 shall hump my bluey early in the morning, and I shall 
 make Geelong by nightfall." 
 
 " Back for Adelaide ? " said another. 
 
 The man nodded. 
 
 *' What do 3'ou want to go to a sleepy hole like 
 
 that Adelaide for ? " the other asked. 
 
 "I've got a pal there," the first speaker answered. 
 
 Young Evan took courage. Here was the first hint be 
 had been able to discover as to the road on which ho was 
 bound to travel. He touched the speaker on the shoidder, 
 and asked him : " How far is it to Geelong ? " 
 
 " Why," said the man, staring at him rather curiously 
 "it's a matter of five-and-thirty mile, perhaps. What do 
 you want to know for? " 
 
 "I want to go there," said Evan; "which is the 
 
 way 
 
 9"
 
 81 
 
 " Geelong ! " said tlie man, rubbing a bristly chin, and 
 staring hard at him ; " you will never make Geelong with 
 them little legs of yours." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I shall," the boy answered confidently. " I 
 Avant to go there, and I want to start at once. Which is 
 the way ? " 
 
 The man stood up and with a slow and heavy gesture 
 directed him here and there into a tangle from w^hich no 
 intelligence could have escaped; but young Evan caught 
 two points — the Warrabee and Chingford Station. They 
 were on the way, and that was enough for him. He 
 started on the road indicated, and from time to time made 
 new enquiries. Now that he was able to ask for guidance 
 to places which it did not seem quite impossible for him 
 to reach, his questions were answered readily enough, 
 though the people he accosted still showed some surprise 
 at the spectacle of so very small a boy embarked alone 
 upon so long a journey. 
 
 He drew clear of the city in a while, and pegged on 
 steadily. When once he was free from observation, he 
 took off his boots, and, tying the laces together, hung 
 them over one shoulder. He rolled his socks into a ball, 
 and stowed them away in his jacket pocket. In this 
 fashion he walked more easil}^, for until Avithin the last 
 eight-and-forty hours he had no acquaintance with shoe- 
 leather. He had not broken his fast that day. The 
 weather was blazing hot, and he had already rambled 
 miles about the city, which now lay beliind him. Manj^ a 
 time he was fain to stop and rest, but the longing in his 
 small yet valiant heart tugged him onward. Sometimes 
 his hurry seemed so to draw him that he began to run, but 
 it was not long before he found that this was likely to be 
 the poorest way of making progress, and he set himself 
 with a dogged tenacity, very remarkable in a child of his 
 years, to a settled pace, and so went on mile after mile 
 6
 
 82 
 
 along the lonely road, never once looking backward, and 
 never once reckoning on the chances of success or the 
 almost absolute certainty of failure. His father was five 
 hundred miles ahead of him, sentenced to be hanged, and 
 the craving to be near him was stronger than any physical 
 impulse of fear or hunger or weariness.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 But in any prolonged contest between soul and body, 
 body has many hours of victory. It was still broad 
 daylight, and there were still whole hours to walk 
 in, when Evan came to a dead stand-still. When once 
 he surrendered his forces, he slipped to the ground 
 like a wet cloth, and for a while lay there almost without 
 thought or feeling. In some five or six minutes he 
 revived enougli to take advantage of the partial shadow 
 cast by a bush, and, having dragged himself into that 
 shelter, began to harden his heart for a continuation of the 
 journey. While he was in the very act of resolving that 
 he would rise and make another start, he fell asleep. 
 
 The sun veered round, and shone full on his closed eye- 
 lids, but he made no movement. Since he had left the 
 Spencer Street Station that morning he had travelled a 
 matter of some twenty miles, and for as many hours he 
 had not tasted food. 
 
 He lay until a heavy hand took him by the shoulder and 
 shook him again and again. Then he sat up, staring about 
 him, and seeing nothing but a blood-red glow and wavering 
 shapes of darkness. 
 
 "Egad," said a rough voice, "I thought you was dead. 
 What's the matter with you ? What brings you here ? " 
 
 Evan's sight began to clear a little, and he could make 
 out dimly that a man with a swag across his shoulders was 
 bending over him. He rubbed his eyes, and saw huge 
 globules of light and dark and red, but when he looked up 
 again, he could see tlie stranger pretty clearly. He was a 
 common enough figure for Australia at that time, bronzed 
 
 83
 
 84 
 
 and bearded, attired in moleskin trousers, great laced boots, 
 a collarless flannel shirt, and a big wide-awake. 
 
 "I fell asleep," said Evan, 
 
 "Yes," said the man, " that's pretty evident. You fell 
 asleep, and you fell asleep in the sun, and that's a dangerous 
 thing to do in these 'ere latitudes. Where are you from ? " 
 
 " Melbourne," said Evan. 
 
 " That's where I'm bound for. IIoav far is it ? " 
 
 Evan could not tell him. He thought it might be 
 twenty miles, and at that response the stranger swore 
 softly to himself and sat down. 
 
 " It can't be nigh on as far as that, youngster," he said. 
 " By my reckoning it should be no more than twelve. 
 And where are you going to ? " 
 
 " Geelong," said Evan. 
 
 " And where do jon put up by the way ? " 
 
 " I don't know," the boy answered. 
 
 The man said " Jehoshaphat ! " and regarded him with 
 the look of curiosity and wonder to Avhich he was now 
 growing fast accustomed. 
 
 "There's a station five miles on," said the stranger, after 
 a pause. " They'll give a whipper-snapper like j^ou a shake- 
 down there, I should fancy, thougli they're pretty hard on 
 a grown-up sundowner. Got folks living at Geelong?" 
 he asked, after another pause. 
 
 " No," said Evan. 
 
 " Where, then ?" tlie man asked him. 
 
 " It's further on a goodish wa}'," Evan responded. He 
 was growing wary, and perhaps in his inmost heart he 
 knew that the proposed walk to Adelaide was little short 
 of madness. lie was afraid of every-body. All sorts and 
 conditions of people seemed disposed to exert authority 
 over him. 
 
 " How long do you reckon to be on the road ?" enquired 
 the stranger.
 
 85 
 
 " A day or two," the bo}^ answered. 
 
 The man looked him up and down, shifted the swag 
 from his shoulders to the ground, and began to fill a 
 pipe. 
 
 " Got any tucker ? " he asked. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Are you hungry ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The stranger unbuckled his swag, and set bread and 
 meat before him, together with a tin bottle of cold 
 unsugared tea. 
 
 " Take a swig at that," he said, " and then pitch in. 
 You needn't spare," he added, with a nod. " I shall make 
 Melbourne to-night, and you'll leave enough for me, any 
 Avay." 
 
 He drew a huge clasp-knife from his pocket, opened it, 
 and handed it to the boy, wlio fell on the provisions 
 voraciously. While he ate, the stranger took between his 
 huge sun-tanned thumb and finger the collar of Evan's 
 jacket, and examined the material. 
 
 "That's pretty new. You've got folks to look after 
 you, seemingly. What brings you all alone out here ? " 
 
 It was a peculiarity of young Evan that he had not yet 
 learned to lie, unless it were in direct negative or affirma- 
 tive. He had no invention, and Avithout telling the truth 
 was quite unable to account for himself. He went on eat- 
 ing, therefore, and returned no answer. 
 
 The stranger questioned him no further, but when 
 Evan's appetite was fully satisfied, he corked the tin bottle, 
 carefully rolled up his provisions in his blanket, and 
 rebuckled the straps which held it. 
 
 "You're no affair of mine," he said, after going through 
 
 all this in silence, " but I'll be d d if you ain't a 
 
 curiosity ! " 
 
 He rose, slung his burden to his broad shoulders, and
 
 stood for a moment looking down at his chance-found 
 companion. 
 
 "The station," he said, "is about five miles along. 
 You'll make it in a couple of hours, and I should think 
 they'd give you some sort of shake-down," 
 
 Evan rose to his feet, picked up his boots, and started 
 on the road indicated by the man's outstretched hand. 
 
 " Halloa ! " said the stranger, " is that your manners ? " 
 
 " I'm much obliged to you, matey," said the boy ; and 
 so, without a backward look, he set out again upon his 
 journey. The man stared after him, tilted his wide-awake 
 to scratch his tousled head, and nodded a score of times. 
 Then he also turned and went upon his Avay. 
 
 Evan's shadow lengthened before him, until at last he 
 could see it bobbing up and down on bushes or chance pro- 
 jections of the ground a hundred yards ahead. Then it 
 melted into the general shadow, and the sun was down. 
 The boy had lived his life in the open air, and had been 
 afoot every day from morning till night, but, hardy as he 
 was, the daj^'s work had been too much for him, and he 
 could barely crawl. The great, waste, open country grew 
 more and more desolate as the vast ring of yellow light 
 faded rapidly from the sky. Then darkness came on, and 
 for a while he could hardly see the track, but after a few 
 minutes the stars began to light up, and bj^ and by diffused 
 a soft radiance full and clear enough to liglit his footsteps. 
 He reached the station of which the stranger had spoken, 
 but there was a great barking of savage dogs there, and lie 
 was afraid to go near the place. 
 
 A town-bred child would have thought the night full of 
 terror and misery, but Evan was hardened to solitude. 
 He found a soft enough bed in the furrow of a field of 
 lucern grass, and slept soundly until the dawn. In the 
 clear, pale light all tlie wide expanse of country looked 
 awfully solemn and lonely. Tlie curtained Avindows of the
 
 87 
 
 big station-house were like closed eyes. The dogs were 
 quiet now, and the only sound to be heard was that made 
 by a horse in the stables at the back of the house, who 
 rasped a restless chain through an iron ring attached to his 
 manger, and beat from time to time an iron-shod hoof on 
 a brick floor. 
 
 The sun was barely up when a soft, melodious voice, 
 exquisitively plaintive, called out : " Neil Gow ! Neil 
 Gow ! Neil Gow ! " three times, as if the speaker's heart 
 were broken by the night-long absence of some person of 
 that name. This woke the cynic of the neighboring wood, 
 the laughing jackass, deriding the grave melodist of the 
 morn with peals of scornful merriment. Down came his 
 native enemy, the shrike, with a cry as piercing as his 
 beak, and a fight ensued — all anger on the one side, and 
 all cynic laughter on the other. The shrill note of the 
 crane sounded solitary far and far away. 
 
 Evan emerged from the field in which he had slept, and 
 sat down upon a rail to await the awakening of the house- 
 hold. He felt no humiliation at the thought of begging 
 his bread. He was bound to be near the father whom he 
 must lose so soon, and he must needs hold body and soul 
 together. The sun was but just over the horizon when he 
 heard a faint sound of movement in the house, and by and 
 by a door opened, and a Chinaman came out and began to 
 water a kitchen-garden. He looked at Evan from time to 
 time as he went about his business with a face which had 
 no more expression in it than might be found in a cannon- 
 ball, but he made no enquiries, though even to a Chinaman 
 the presence of a strange small boy at such an hour at such 
 a place might have seemed a little curious. In a quarter 
 of an hour or so there was a rather boisterous sound of 
 voices in the rear of the house, and Evan knew that the 
 boundary riders were grooming their horses in preparation 
 for the day's work. The dogs were out again by thia
 
 time — three or four of them — monstrous creatures, throt- 
 tling themselves in their collars, and yelping madly to be 
 among the bustle of the morning. He was not afraid of 
 them now, but he gave them a wdde berth, for all that, as 
 he made his wa}^ round the house, and toward the stables. 
 
 " What you wantee here ?" asked John Chinaman, see- 
 ing him on the move. 
 
 "I want some tucker," said Evan boldly, and John 
 grinned in friendly fashion. 
 
 " All litee, you go backsidee — you get plog there." 
 
 A brawny, red-armed woman in the kitchen heard young 
 Evan's plea for refreshment, and handed him a huge 
 draught of buttermilk, half a loaf, and a dish of boiled 
 mutton. 
 
 " Where are you going to ? " she asked. 
 
 " Geelong," said Evan, Avith his mouth full. 
 
 " You won't get there afore nightfall." 
 
 She hacked a generous chunk from the loaf, and another 
 from the boiled mutton. "You'll want that on the way." 
 The boy ate his fill, and the woman, having found a piece 
 of old clean toweling, wrapped up the bread and meat in 
 it, and handed it to him with a kiss. He was not greatly 
 used to demonstrations of affection, and his heart was ten- 
 der. He had cried so much of late that the tears were 
 near his eyes. He blinked away the water from his lashes, 
 and gave one sniff of pathos. " You're young to be travel- 
 ling about by yourself," said the woman. She knelt down 
 by him in womanly fashion, with one hand upon his 
 shoulder, but just then a voice from inside the house called 
 her. She rose hastily to obey the summons, and Evan, 
 being thus left alone, slipped with a face of shame out of 
 the house, and took the road again. 
 
 He walked on all day long, and all day long he saw the 
 blank walls of the prison in which his father la}'^, and his 
 heart yearned to be before them, as if there lay there a
 
 89 
 
 very haven of peace and rest. The outside of the jail in 
 which his father sat under sentence to be hanged made but 
 a poor ideal of home for a cliild, and yet it was the only 
 one he had. Within that bleak and forbidding building 
 was all he cared for, or, as it seemed to him then through 
 the limited vision of childhood, all he would ever cax'e for. 
 The place drew him as a candle draws a moth, and he 
 walked on toward it mile after mile, and hour after hour, 
 the sun flaming down pitilessly, and the rough road scorch- 
 ing his bare feet. He reached the town at nightfall, but 
 somehow it looked less hospitable and friendly than the 
 wilderness, and, tired as he was, he dragged himself beyond 
 it, made his last meal in the darkness, and lay down to 
 sleep within sound of the calling of the sea. The woman 
 at the station had helped him so plenteously that he 
 reckoned himself provisioned for tlie morrow, but wlien he 
 woke in the morning, he found the meat quite rancid, and 
 even the plentiful hunch of bread was so tainted by con- 
 tact with it that his gorge rose at every morsel. There 
 were a thousand things to interest him on his journey had 
 he been less preoccupied, for the lad had an eye for nature, 
 and, having spent all his life in field and woodland, knew 
 more about her open-air secrets than eighty grown men 
 out of a hundred. He passed things which would have 
 been the delight and wonder of a summer day without a 
 sign of observation, for he saw more clearly than any thing 
 before his bodily eyes the bleak walls of the jail. 
 
 But let the heart's passion be never so overwhelming, 
 there is only so much work to be got out of any bodily 
 mechanism. His feet began to gall him, until the hot, 
 rough road burned like smouldering cinders under them. 
 He grew hungry again, and, what was infinitely worse, 
 began to know (for the first time in his life) what thirst 
 could mean. He went on weeping and whimpering, dogged 
 as ever, lifting one flinching foot after the other, and lick-
 
 90 
 
 ing with his baked lips at the tears which, in spite of res- 
 olution, trickled down his face. The little heart throbbed 
 with scorn and indignation at his bodily weakness, and 
 he stuck to his task until he could absolute}}^ go no further. 
 He had had in view for the last mile or so a dark belt of 
 bush, toward which the road led straight, and he had panted 
 for the cool and shade of this, and had promised himself 
 that when he reached it he would find refreshment and new 
 strength. He had barely struck the bush track when he 
 dropped on his hands and knees, weeping aloud for pain 
 and something very like despair and rage at his own weak- 
 ness. The welcome of those desolate walls, which had so 
 far drawn him on, seemed to recede from him, and to go 
 further and further away into an impossible distance. It 
 was a pitiable thing that a child should have such a goal 
 at all, but to be balked of that seemed intolerable, and, 
 being a good deal dazzled by the sun, and addled in mind 
 by the light and heat, and by pain and mental misery, he 
 grew conscious of something within himself which j^itied 
 him so profoundly that the sense of his own suffering and 
 of his better deservings broke him down altogether. He 
 thought himself miles away from any chance of refuge. 
 
 He tried again and again to defy his own weakness, but 
 his flinching feet refused to bear him, and at last he found 
 almost a luxury in the comforts of despair. He had tried 
 his best, and the thing was not to be done. If nobody 
 passed, or if such as passed were hard-hearted and refused 
 to succor him, he would die. There was no help for it. 
 
 He lay amid the undergrowth, on the edge of the track, 
 and pillowed his wet face on both hands. He would die 
 because he had tried to go where his heart called him, and 
 there was an extraordinary sweetness in the thought which 
 surged above all bitterness and pain. There are fountains 
 of sweet water even in the waste brine of great oceans. 
 In fancy he lay beside his father on his prison bed. He
 
 91 
 
 could almost feel with his cheek the rough corduroy of his 
 father's coat and its hone buttons. His fathei-'s arms were 
 around him. He was sure and more sure of that, and his 
 aches and pains were all fading away, when a distant foot- 
 step came into his dream, and, without disturbing him, drew 
 nearer and heavier, until the sudden pause aroused him, 
 and a rough voice cried out: "Halloa!" in a tone of 
 astonishment. He turned his head, and there before him 
 was the man who in Flinders Street, two days before, had 
 expressed his intention to walk to Adelaide. The boy's first 
 thought was like a gleam of joy to him, for one of his late 
 torments had arisen from an uncertainty about the road. 
 He knew now that he was on the right track, and the 
 reflection gave him no time to consider that he had fallen 
 helpless upon it, with barely a twentieth part of his 
 attempted journey done ! 
 
 "Halloa ! " said the man again, and stood staring at him, 
 pipe in cheek, with great beads of perspiration gathered on 
 his sandy eyebrows. " You've overshot Geelong, my lad, 
 by fifteen miles. Do j^ou know tliat ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Evan, " I am going to Adelaide." 
 
 " With them feet ? " asked the tramp. 
 
 The boy's bare soles, flayed and bleeding, with little 
 fragments of gravel sticking into them here and there, 
 were fully exposed to view. Evan sat up painfully, and 
 with difiiculty dragged a foot upon one knee, and inspected 
 it gingerly, brushing away the harsh morsels which had 
 forced their way thi'ough the toughened skin. 
 
 " This is all nonsense," said the man, Avho was a 
 
 stupid, rough fellow to look at. "You can't be let lie here 
 
 and die. Of all the luck I ever met in all my life this 
 
 is the est. It ain't enough as I've done fifteen miles 
 
 a'ready after five-and-thirty yesterday in this br'iling heat, 
 but I've got to take you up pick-a-back for the next fifteen. 
 Oh, blarst the world, I say ! Come along ! You've got
 
 92 
 
 to be fixed up somehow. I'm d d if your lips ain't 
 
 cracking. Thirsty ? Take a pull at that." 
 
 He had a tin bottle of tea, tepid with the sun's heat, 
 slung across his shoulders, and hanging down in front of 
 his bare, hairy chest. He unslung it, drew out the cork, 
 and proffered it to Evan, who began to drink greedily. 
 
 " Not that way," said the tramp ; " that's waste, that is." 
 He laid a restraining hand upon the bottle. " Don't do 
 you no good neither. A teaspoonful at a time, and roll 
 about your mouth well afore you swallows it. That's the 
 way. Does you ten times the good on half the quantity. 
 Feel better ? " 
 
 " I'm all right now," said Evan, trying to rise. 
 
 " Oh, yes," the tramp retorted, " you're all right, you 
 are, I don't think. You was all right to lie and rot here if 
 
 somebody hadn't had the d d bad luck to come by and 
 
 spot you." 
 
 Staring sulkily at Evan, and mumbling ferocious curses 
 all the while, he slowly swung round his swag from his 
 shoulders, until it reposed upon his chest. Then, still 
 cursing at the hardness of his lot, he knelt, and made a 
 back. 
 
 "Get up, you young imp," he said, "and don't you start 
 on no more walks to Adelaide when I'm on the Wallaby." 
 
 He shambled from his knees to his feet, and, having 
 shaken the boy into comfortable posture, started off, 
 growling to himself to the effect that he was the unluckiest 
 devil ever born, and that life for him was one continuous 
 and increasing burden. He did his service ungraciously, 
 but within the next six hours he carried a well-grown lad 
 of eight years fifteen miles, and finally, with many execra- 
 tions, deposited him at a roadside shanty, the occupant of 
 which was willing to offer shelter to the pair. 
 
 Evan lay footsore for two days, and then a passing 
 teamster gave him a lift to Ballarat. Here he learned that
 
 93 
 
 something like a fifth part of liis journey had been accom- 
 plished, though he had spent eight da3's upon it, despite 
 the help he had received. The rest had restored him, and 
 he was off once more with the break of morning light, 
 filled with all the old doggedness of resolve. When all 
 was said and done, he had prospered so far, and a faith 
 began to awaken in him that he would finish his journey. 
 
 It is very doubtful if at any period of his after life he 
 could have told the story of that journey in anj^ thing 
 like completeness. He ti*aversed great tracts of open 
 wilderness, and threaded his way through huge forests. 
 He met with constant help and kindness, and, though he 
 was often hungry and athirst, life was kept in him some- 
 how. The moon had been at the beginning of her last 
 quai'ter when he had started on his journey, but at one 
 portion of it night after night he walked under her beauti- 
 ful lamp, having learned to appreciate the advantage of 
 sleeping through the heat of the day. Night after night, 
 when there was no other human creature within miles, the 
 little figure toiled along with that one mild, unwinking 
 eye upon him, the more distant glory of the stars all 
 drowned in its effulgence, and the landscape rolling around 
 him wide and bare as far as eye could reach. Then Avhen 
 the moon's fickle time of rising changed, he went on in 
 the sweltering heat again. 
 
 Every-body he met was kind, and he had help in plent}'- ; 
 but people, when they questioned him, and learned on 
 what a journey he had embarked, looked at him with a 
 kind of wonder. Once when he was within a hundred 
 miles of Adelaide, and said that he had walked from Mel- 
 bourne, he was roundly denounced as a liar, and was just 
 on the point of having his ears cuffed, when the arrival of 
 a stranger on horseback caused a diversion, and he escaped 
 an undeserved chastisement. The mounted man had heard 
 of him all along the road, and asked, at the first sight of
 
 94 
 
 him, if that was the little chap who had started out to 
 walk to Adelaide. On this the i)eople who had disbelieved 
 made him an instant pet, and the horseman, riding on next 
 morning, told his story in advance, so that people looked 
 out for him, and the last five days of his journey were 
 made easy by many casts in country carts, and by a free- 
 handed hosiDitality which allowed him to want for nothing. 
 He was questioned again and again, but he never revealed 
 his name or his real purpose. His father was in Adelaide, 
 and he was going to him ; that was all his story. He was 
 not a lovable little boy to look at, with his snub nose and 
 his freckles ; and long before this time the respectable 
 clothes in which he had started were soiled and torn ; but 
 the amazing courage and constancy which stood in such 
 contrast to his tender years found him favor everywhere. 
 A friendly teamster gave him a final lift into the long- 
 sought city. 
 
 This last cast of the journey was taken by night, and 
 the boy was set down in the pale dawn within half a 
 mile of the jail. He made all haste to the dismal JNIecca 
 of his pilgrimage, found the pile of stones he liad been 
 accustomed to sit on weeks ago, and resumed his old place. 
 
 The day broadened, loiterers came, one by one, and two 
 by two, and hung about the place. At length quite a 
 crowd had gathered, but Evan, dulled b}^ want of sleep, 
 noticed little. He had occupied his place for hours, unre- 
 garded by any body, when a deep " Ah ! " rose from the 
 scattered crowd, and, looking up, he saw a black flag float- 
 ing over the prison wall. Something knocked within his 
 breast, he knew not what. 
 
 " That's an end of A/m," said some man standing near 
 him. 
 
 " An end of who ? " asked Evan. 
 
 " By God ! " said the man addressed, " that's Evan 
 Rhys's kid — catch him, somebody ! "
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Comte de Montmeillard was splitting rails with the 
 view to the erection of a new hogpen when a mounted 
 man rode into Koollala with a letter addressed to the 
 exile by his full style and title. The count was in his 
 shirt-sleeves, and was merrily swinging the heavy mallet 
 which drove home the wedge when the horseman rode up 
 and accosted him. 
 
 " This place Koollala ? " 
 
 " This is Koollala," said the count, pausing in his labor, 
 and looking up with his never-failing smile. 
 
 " I'm told that there's a French count hereabouts," said 
 the man — " the Comte de Mont something or other," 
 
 " I am he," returned the count ; " do you wish to see 
 me? The Comte de Montmeillard, at your service." 
 
 The man handed him the letter. He broke the seal, and 
 read the contents with a growing look of amazement. 
 Then, to the astonishment of the horseman, he began to 
 sing in his own tongue, and to dance and caper with 
 extravagant gestures. For the moment the messenger was 
 half inclined to think him mad. 
 
 " Petrovna," the count shouted, " come here ! " 
 
 Petrovna emerged from the shanty, his hands covered 
 with dough. He had been engaged in the making of a 
 damper for the evening meal. 
 
 " What is it ? " he asked eagerly. 
 
 " I have news," said the count, " the most glorious, the 
 most unexpected, the most magnificent. Behold in rae the 
 head of our so famous and historic house. My uncle is 
 dead," 
 
 95
 
 96 
 
 " Family affection," said Petrovna grimly, " it is a 
 beautiful thing ! " 
 
 " So I have heard," the count responded. " There is 
 nothing which so exalts human nature as the existence of 
 the family tie. For instance, the present case. I, hitlierto 
 known as Frenchy, Matey, Ned, am exalted, because of 
 that same tie, into the style and title of Due de Marais 
 Castel, with a revenue of Heaven alone knows how many 
 hundreds of thousands of francs per annum. Rejoice Avith 
 me, my Petrovna. We will go to Paris together, and we 
 will start a propaganda. I will pay for the powder to 
 blow up your Czar, and, ohe, oho, I will dine once more 
 cliez Bignon. Think of it, my friend : I shall have once 
 more under mj^ feet the asphalt of Paris. I shall flane, 
 flane, flane ! The pretty Juliette has forgotten me by this 
 time, but there is more than one pretty Juliette in Paris. 
 Paris, my good friend, — no disrespect to St. Petersbuig 
 intended, — is the centre of the universe, and thither all 
 good things, all things charming and of good repute, per- 
 petually flow. Thither flow I, late French}^ Due de 
 Marais Castel. Congratulate me, my Petrovna." 
 
 " You are sure of the amnesty ? " Petrovna asked. 
 
 " My good, sweet sir," the count responded, " are we 
 not now in the days of the Republic, and is it that I who 
 was a declared enemj' of the Empire shall be received with 
 any thing but welcome? Perish the thought !" 
 
 He was in reality half wild with this unexpected and 
 unlooked-for news, and for the first two or throe minutes 
 of his delirium the beautiful precision of his English left 
 him altogether. He spoke in English because he knew 
 that the deliverer of the missive would understand no word 
 of French, and for the moment he was proud enough of 
 his new-found wealth and importance to desire even so 
 humble a person to be aware of his consequence. This 
 was a little curious, and yet quite natural. He had borne
 
 97 
 
 liis misfortunes like a hero and a man of the world, but 
 he took good-luck with the effervescence and braggadocio 
 of a school-boy. 
 
 " But you, my Petrovna," he said, " seem in no way 
 exalted by this majestic intelligence." 
 
 "Why should I be exalted?" Petrovna asked. "A 
 good man will be sjioiled. A friend of the people will 
 become again an aristocrat." 
 
 " My good Petrovna," said the count, " a man who is 
 lucky enough to get it ma}' smoke a good cigar, may drink 
 a glass of good Burgundy, may eat a good dinner, and 
 may even kiss a pretty girl, and yet not cease to love his 
 bretliren. We march, my Petrovna, we march to-day. 
 Give me your name, my friend," he added, turning to the 
 horseman. " Unhappily, at this moment my pockets are 
 empty, but if you care for pigs, there are a score of them 
 at your service. Here is a freehold tenement, elegantly 
 situated, and fashionably furnished, with which I pi'esent 
 30U. This estate, sir, is 3'our property. You will sell it if 
 you can. You may reside upon it if you will. It is at 
 3^our disposal from this moment." 
 
 The man sat in his saddle, looking down upon the count 
 with an uneasy, half-bashful grin. 
 
 " D'ye mean that, governor ? " he asked. 
 
 " I mean it," the count returned, with a burlesque 
 flourish ; " upon my word and honor, I will make it over to 
 you by legal document at any moment. I have no further 
 use for it. Wait until I write you a letter." 
 
 He entered the shanty, found there a sheet of paper and 
 the stump of an old pencil, and in high excitement wrote 
 a dozen lines addressed to the solicitor in Adelaide from 
 whom he had received his splendid news. In this note he 
 requested that a conveyance should be sent to meet him, 
 stated his intention of starting at once on foot, and 
 expressed his desire that whatever property he left behind 
 7
 
 98 
 
 him in Koollala should be legally made over to the bearer 
 of the missive. 
 
 Away galloped the horseman, and the gay youngster 
 dashed into the bouse again, flung together a few trifles, — 
 brush, comb, tooth-brush, soap, and towel, — and, tying 
 all these up together, proclaimed himself ready to 
 leave. 
 
 " Come along, my Petrovna. We start to-day for 
 Paris, the centre of the universe ! " 
 
 " And what," asked Petrovna, with unusual solemnity, 
 " shall we do when we get there ? " 
 
 "We shall eat and drink and be merr^^" cried the count, 
 "and we shall spread the propaganda. We will have 
 pleasant days, my friend, in Paris." 
 
 Petrovna went about his preparations slowl}', and with 
 an air of great unwillingness. 
 
 "You will change," he said. "I foresee it; you will 
 change." 
 
 " Change ? " cried the count. " Not I ! " 
 
 He grew serious on a sudden, and laid both hands on 
 his companion's shoulders. 
 
 "Look you here, my good Petrovna. Listen to me. I 
 have been now all these years an exile, and j^ou must not 
 think because I am bright and guy sometimes that there 
 is no bitterness in my heart. You must not think that 
 because I have lived with the poorest I have ceased to 
 think of the poor. You must not think I shall forget the 
 faith we have talked of so often. No, no, j'ou shall not 
 think these things, Petrovna." He released Petrovna's 
 shoulders, and held out both hands to him impetuously. 
 Petrovna took them with a yearning smile, shook them 
 once up and down, and turned away. 
 
 "Now," cried the count, "let us march ! The world is 
 all before us where to choose, and I choose Paris. En 
 avant ! "
 
 99 
 
 Tliey left the door standing wide ojjen. They walked 
 out together. 
 
 " But, oho ! " cried the count, before they had travelled 
 a score of yards, " who is to take care of my faithful 
 porkers ? They will die of thirst if they are not seen 
 to." 
 
 He turned, and, running, shouted to a neighbor, who, at 
 a distance of a hundred yards, was at work in his own 
 garden. The man lifted up his voice in answer, and 
 undertook during: the count's absence to take chartje of 
 his belongings. Then, with no farewell spoken, the 
 Comte de Montmeillard turned his back upon Koollala, 
 and set his face toward the goal of his desires, 
 
 Petrovna walked with a subdued aii", his massive fore- 
 head wrinkled, and his eyes cast down upon the ground. 
 His companion went with something of a dance in his 
 gait, snapping his fingers, and breaking into short bursts 
 of song. At the end of the first mile or thereabouts he 
 also became silent and thoughtful, and when they had 
 tramped another mile without speaking, he laid a hand 
 upon Petrovna's arm. 
 
 " I have been thinking," he said. 
 
 " I knew it," returned the Russian, casting a gloomy 
 and regretful look upon him. 
 
 *' I have been thinking," said the count, with a touch of 
 irritation and impatience in his tone, " that we might be 
 of service to the world at large in perhaps a more good- 
 humored way than we have fancied." 
 
 "Yes," said Petrovna, "that is certainly possible. If I 
 were still at your age, and if I had your news, I should 
 think so. I told you you would change, but I did not 
 think you would justify my prophecy so earh'." 
 
 "My dear fellow," returned the count, in irritated 
 expostulation, " I have done something for my political 
 ideas. I have suffered something for them. I am not
 
 100 
 
 yet an old man, and I don't see why I should not enjoy 
 such part of uiy youth as is left to me since the chance of 
 enjoyment once more presents itself. But 3'ou, man of 
 blood and iron that 3'ou are, you shall have the sinews of 
 war. You shall preach and labor as much as you will." 
 
 "Well, well," said Petrovna, " we sliall see." 
 
 Tliey were botli uneas}'^, and from this time forward 
 they marched on side by side in silence, until they emerged 
 from the bush, and came in sight of the Pentliearn Station. 
 There, far awa}', half across the big paddock, a little 
 figure painfully crawled toward them, and Petrovna, lift- 
 ing up his eyes at the end of a prolonged revery, observed 
 it with astonishment. 
 
 "Look yonder ! " he cried ; "your eyes are younger than 
 mine, but surely I am not mistaken." 
 
 The count's glance followed the direction of Petrovna's 
 extended hand, and he also exclaimed, and started. 
 
 " Wliat brings that unfortunate young imp back here 
 again ? " he asked. 
 
 "Heaven knows," returned Petrovna, "but I was not 
 mistaken." 
 
 They increased their pace, and in a very little while 
 were assured of their conjecture. The tattered and woe- 
 begone figure of Evan Rhys drew near. The boy walked 
 painfully, limping and halting, and when at last the 
 travellers met, it was seen that under the tan of his thickly 
 freckled skin he was i)ale. There was a deep fringe of 
 color round his suidvcn eyes, and his lips were of an 
 unwholesome bluish tint. The count laid a hand upon 
 him, or he would have gone by, 
 
 " What brings you here ? " he asked. " IIow did you 
 get back from Melbourne ? " 
 
 " Walked," said young Evan. 
 
 " Walked !" the count echoed in astonishment. "But 
 why — what for ? "
 
 101 
 
 " I wasn't going to leave dad," the boy answered, " not 
 while he was there. I told 'em so." 
 
 The count knelt down upon the grass, and took young 
 Evan gently by the elbows. 
 
 " Where are you going now ?" 
 
 " To Koollala," Evan responded curtly. 
 
 " But, my poor little fellow," said the count, " there is 
 nobody now at Koollala who cares for you, or who can 
 keep you. Que faut il faire, Petrovna ? " 
 
 Petrovna shook his head in answer to the enquiry, and 
 spread his hands abroad, as if he resigned the problem. 
 
 " Wednesday," said the count, speaking in French, " was 
 the day appointed for the execution. The child is left 
 absolutely alone in the world. He is a brave little fellow, 
 and an affectionate little fellow. I cannot leave him here 
 to starve. It's against human nature. Why did you run 
 away, ray silly little fellow ? " he continued in English, 
 turning to the boy as he spoke, and putting one arm about 
 his shoulders. " You would have been happj'^ and well-to- 
 do. I had found a rich friend for you. You Avould have 
 gone to school, and learned many useful things, and would 
 have grown up to be useful and respectable." 
 
 " They took me away from dad," said the boy, with a 
 sort of dull defiance in his tone. " I wouldn't stand it. 
 You wouldn't ha' stood it. Nobody would ha' stood it." 
 
 "At least," said the count, "it is of no use to go to 
 Koollala, my little Evan. You will come with me, will 
 you not ? You and I have always been the best of friends, 
 and there is now nobody left to look after you. You will 
 come with me." 
 
 " Yes," said Evan, thrusting his dirty little paw into 
 the count's extended hand. His throat and lips worked, 
 and his eyes twinkled, but he gave no other sign of emo- 
 tion. Montmeillard rose to his feet, still holding the dirty 
 paw for an instant. The sun-burned landscape winked
 
 102 
 
 before him, and was seen all awry through a mist of thin 
 trees. Young Evan followed the example of his com- 
 panions, and set his back against Koollala forever. 
 
 The first day's journey was toilsome, and was accom- 
 plished with some difficulty. Next day the buggy the 
 count had sent for met them, and they Avent on at ease. 
 That evening landed them in the South Australian capital. 
 There Montmeillard encountered the solicitor who had sent 
 him the news of his accession to the fortune, and, at once 
 obtaining an advance of money, he betook himself to an 
 outfitter, by whose aid for the first time for eight years he 
 was habited once more like a gentleman. Petrovna and 
 young Evan were also provided for, and the trio went to 
 an hotel, where the Due de Marais Castel and his com- 
 panions were received with a welcome wliich would scarcely 
 have been extended to the three forlorn-looking wanderers 
 who had entered the city only an hour or two before. 
 
 The novel splendors of his surroundings abashed the 
 boy, and made him feel dreadfully uncomfortable. He 
 had been bred very much like a young savage, and the 
 glass and silver and snowy napery of tlie first civilized 
 table at which he had ever sat filled him with astonish- 
 ment. He rebelled at these things, and thought that he 
 had never been so ill at ease in his life. He was more than 
 half afraid to sleep in the bod provided for him, though 
 b}'' and by, being alone, he learned to appreciate tliat 
 luxury, Petrovna, Nihilist and Communist as he was, had 
 no rooted objection for once to a good dinner, a glass of 
 sound wine, and a reasonable cigar ; and after dinner, 
 when Evan had been sent to bed, the Russian and his 
 newly wealthy companion sat on the veranda of the hotel 
 in the cool of the evening, and under the quiet stars dis- 
 cussed young Evan's future. 
 
 " It would be best," said Petrovna, " to put him to 
 school here. You can easily provide for him now."
 
 103 
 
 " No," the other declared, with some heat, " he shall 
 not stay in these colonies, where his father has been hanged 
 for murder, and his mother lies in penal servitude. These 
 things are not the fault of the child ; but the record is not 
 a pretty one. I will take him away, and provide for him 
 in England. I am sorry," he said, reaching out his hand 
 toward a tumbler of iced brandy and soda — " I am sorry in 
 my heart for the little beggar. Ohe, my Petrovna, it is a 
 happy thing to have a little money, and be able to do a 
 little good with it." 
 
 " Do you remember," asked Petrovna, " a certain injunc- 
 tion which was laid upon a young man who had great 
 riches ? Give all that thou hast to the poor, and follow 
 me." 
 
 " I remember," Montmeillard answered, " that the young 
 man went away sorrowful. For my own part, I see no 
 reason to go away sorrowful. I'm going away to be as 
 happy as I can. I can do my little bit of good in my own 
 way, and you, my dear fellow, shall do yours as you please. 
 If you blow up your Czar, I shall neither rejoice nor grieve, 
 but there will be another Czar to-morrow, and if you blow 
 him up, there will be another the day after." 
 
 Petrovna shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. The 
 young Frenchman and he had had many talks together, 
 and hitherto Montmeillard had been the reddest of red 
 revolutionists. He had grown to be an indifferentist 
 already, and once back in Paris it was easy to see that he 
 would become at heart an aristocrat. 
 
 M. le Due de Marais Castel could not for the life of him 
 help being a personage. He would, as a matter of fact, 
 have given a good deal to be left alone, but consideration 
 was thrust upon him, and he had no chance to escape from 
 it. Deputations of curious and congratulatorj^ citizens 
 waited upon him at his hotel. Interviewers from news- 
 papers without number called to make enquiry into his
 
 104 
 
 family history and tlie political romance of liis own career. 
 The newspapers were full of him. He was respectfully 
 mobbed in the streets, and his departure from the cit}^ was 
 made the occasion for a general demonstration. All this 
 had a rather damaging effect upon liis temper, for in the 
 course of his years of exile he had lost something of that 
 fine sense of savoir /aire which had once belonged to him, 
 and he was no longer as much at home when beleaguered 
 by a crowd as he had been. He was plentifully supplied 
 with money, and, with the easy generosity of extravagance 
 which had always been natural to him, he had engaged 
 saloon berths, not only for himself and his bod^^-servant, 
 but for Petrovna and young Evan. Petrovna chose to be 
 sullen about this matter. 
 
 "I am of the people, and I do not separate myself from 
 the people, or give mj'self airs above the people. What 
 is good enougli for the poorest of ra}'^ brethi'en is good 
 enough for me." 
 
 The temper of ]\[. le Due was that morning a little short, 
 and when Petrovna declared, with perhaps more than 
 necessary emphasis, that, if he travelled at all, he would 
 travel b}- the steerage, he M'as told with sudden acerbity 
 tliat he miglit go to the devil. Petrovna did not avail 
 himself of the permission thus given, but he went to the 
 shipping office, and with some difficulty succeeded in per- 
 suading the authorities there to exchange the two first- 
 class berths which liad been taken for Evan and himself 
 for room in the steerage. The generous patron thought 
 he had a right to be aggrieved at this, and showed it in his 
 manner. 
 
 It seemed as if fate had it in charge to make the very 
 name of gentleman odious to young Evan. That most 
 charming, amiable, and sympathetic of friends who had 
 once been simply known to liim as Frenchy was now a 
 person of consideration, and was instantaneously changed
 
 105 
 
 in character and manner. It was not the boy's fault that 
 he thouglit this, for, like other chiklren, he took his mental 
 color from his elders, and Petrovna grumbled incessantly. 
 
 "It is the same," he said, "everywhere and always. 
 While he himself was one of the people, he had a heart 
 for the people, and now he is changed. He is once again 
 an aristocrat." 
 
 " What's an aristocrat ? " asked 3' oung Evan. 
 
 "An aristocrat, my little friend," responded Petrovna, 
 " is one of those who cause all the sufferings of the poor. 
 They do nothing, and they claim every thing. You must 
 bow to them. You must worship them. You must stand 
 with your hat in your hand before them. You must live 
 in sweat and misery that the}^ iiiay be happy and idle." 
 
 The boy mused over all this for a long time. 
 
 " I liked ' Frenchy,' " he said at last. " He wasn't half a 
 bad sort." 
 
 "No," returned Petrovna, "there are many of them 
 whose hearts are in the right place, but they are spoiled 
 by their titles and their money." 
 
 The maligned Frenchman was not at hand to justify 
 himself. He sailed in the same ship ; and sometimes from 
 their lower quarters the steerage passengers caught sight 
 of him on the upper deck in company with gayly dressed 
 ladies or in converse with the captain. The child's mind 
 was already attuned to a sullen chord. His father's last 
 words had taught him that the rich were execrable. He 
 was an orphan because the rich were tyrannous and 
 wicked, and everywhere he found the same lesson repeated. 
 It was a man who, like the new-translated Frenchy, was 
 rich and titled who had torn him from all that was left 
 after his father's condemnation, and who had caused him 
 that month of agony in which he had struggled back to 
 Adelaide. A cliild knows little how to reason, but at 
 least he can feel ; and Evan felt that these rich were
 
 106 
 
 altogether hateful and abominable. When he came to be 
 a man, he would do something. He would punish some of 
 them. They should not always sit in high places, and 
 be happy and idle, while common people suffered. It is 
 hard to translate the thoughts of a child, but, vague as 
 his reflections were, and little as he could himself have 
 expressed them, they were inspired by a genuine passion. 
 Petrovna told him stories of his own sufferings in Siberia, 
 and of the wretchedness of his fellow-exiles. They, of 
 course, were all saints and angels, and it Avas the immeasur- 
 ably wicked Czar who was responsible for all they endured. 
 The Czar was Petrovna's red rag, and at the merest 
 flutter of his name his mind lost its balance, and was filled 
 with hate and fury. At many of the stories he heard in 
 the course of the seven-weeks' journey young Evan cried. 
 
 "In m}^ country," Petrovna told him, "there are hun- 
 dreds, there are tliousands, of little boys as small and as 
 young as you are, and they are all alone in the world, and 
 helpless, because the Czar has stolen away their fathers 
 and mothers, and has given them to misery." 
 
 The little listener wept his own misfortunes in bewailing 
 theirs, and was roused to a sudden fit of rage. 
 
 "If I was you," he said, with his wliite milk teeth 
 clenched, and his small fists in the air — " if I was you, and 
 lived in your country, I should kill that Czar. I'd buy a 
 knife and kill him. They might do what they liked to me 
 after, but Pd kill him." 
 
 " Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings," said Boris 
 Petrovna to himself, with a quiet solemnity of approval ; 
 and with that curious reflection he went on deck to smoke 
 a last pipe before turning in.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 When a man is fixed and obstinate in his determination 
 to have a grievance, it is not gasy to prevent him from tak- 
 ing his own way. Boris Petrovna had formed such a 
 resolve, and in the solitude of the homeward voyage he 
 found ample opportunity for the irritation of his own self- 
 created sore. The genial and generous comrade of the 
 past half year, the man who had succored him at his need, 
 and had shared his own very limited resources with him 
 ever since, was obscured to Petrovna's view altogether by 
 the figure of the new-made Due de Marais Castel. It 
 was not that the man was natively selfish, ungenerous, or 
 ungrateful. For his own satisfaction he was able to put 
 the noblest complexion on the change which had taken 
 place within him. He was a democrat of the democrats, 
 and to him all titles which marked differences between 
 men were hateful. The possession of riches, howsoever 
 acquired, was the vilest of crimes against the bod}^ politic. 
 There are a good many thousands of people nowadays 
 who have learned to share these opinions, but there are not 
 many who hold them, or, to speak more wiseh', whom 
 they hold, with such intensity as was manifested in Pe- 
 trovna's case. Petrovna's ideal of a social landscape was a 
 plain as level as a billiard-table. He Avould not have had 
 its sacred monotony disturbed by so much as a hillock, and 
 that a mountain should presume to be a mountain in defi- 
 ance of his logical theories was like a blasphemy. The 
 Due de Marais Otistel was a mere bubble, an airy some- 
 thing blown out by chance. Yet even him he could not 
 tolerate. The title was a stench in his nostrils. The con- 
 
 lor
 
 108 
 
 templation of liis wealth grew to be odious. The friend of 
 a month ago was now worthy of all hatred, and was in all 
 possible ways to be pricked and stung and girded at, and 
 made to feel the monstrous wickedness and falsit}'^ of his 
 own position. What made matters all the worse for the 
 righteously indignant Petrovna was that the steerage had 
 no access to the first saloon, and that for some weeks of the 
 voyage the first saloon in the person of the new-fledged 
 nobleman paid no visit to the steerage. Petrovna used to 
 dilate to little Evan, who was his only companion, on the 
 wickedness of rank and wealth, and the two sometimes 
 would see the figure of the duke on the upper deck, where 
 he stood smoking a cigar with the captain, or engaged in 
 bright badinage and laughter with a group of gayly dressed 
 ladies. The little fellow had been very fond of Frenchy 
 from his first acquaintance with him. He had always 
 found him kind and sweet-tempered, and these Avere char- 
 acteristics which had not cropped up everywhere in his 
 limited ex2:»erience. But now it seemed that there was a 
 gulf between them, and it was clear as daylight that the 
 gulf was made by the wicked title and the still wickeder 
 money. All the lessons of his own life pointed in the same 
 direction. For his own part, the duke called to mind as 
 often as might liave been expected those two proteges who 
 had wilfully witlidrawn themselves from his society. He 
 had been a little sore at first at Petrovna's behavior, but in 
 his own careless fashion he had whistled away the griev- 
 ance. For the first time for eight years he found himself 
 once again in fairly civilized society. The people with 
 Avhom he travelled were commonplace, bourgeois folk 
 enough, but they were all respectable and well to-do, and 
 if in his own sense they were not exacth' ladies and gentle- 
 men, they had at least the surface mafiner of people Avho 
 were accustomed to move in good society, and he found 
 that an acceptable change from the manners and customs
 
 109 
 
 of the convict settlement of New Caledonia, or the 
 scarcely less j^enal existence of Koollala. He was going 
 back to his regretted Paris, returning thither for the enjoy- 
 ment of heaps of money and an old and honored title. He 
 had in his hot youth been a revolutionary, partly because 
 he had been bred in ideas profoundly aristocratic, and 
 therefore hated the gimcrack glories of the second empire, 
 partly because he honestly thought the third Napoleon a 
 usurper and a scoundrel, but mainly because he was poor 
 and discontented. Now, being suddenly and unexpectedly 
 rich beyond any dream he had ever dared to dream, he 
 began to feel mightily more contented with the world. A 
 spirit naturally vivacious, and disposed to clothe things 
 in bright colors on the slightest provocation, spread the 
 immediate future with such roseate hues that it would 
 have seemed a crime to darken them by any cloud of 
 politics. He had had enough of active politics, so he began 
 to think, to last him his lifetime. The analysis is the 
 shallowest and the most commonplace in the world. He 
 had been without the good things of this life, and had thus 
 been discontented ; he came in for more than his full share 
 of those good things, and his discontent vanished like a 
 morning mist. He began to think well of those inequali- 
 ties in life which had once seemed so monstrous and 
 unbearable — that is to saj% a change took place in him 
 which, the conditions being granted, would take place in 
 nine hundred and ninety-nine men in a thousand. He 
 had got over his soreness at Petrovna's desertion, and on 
 one fine day in the tropics he made up his mind to pay 
 a visit to \\\% proteges. He induced an officer of the ship to 
 accompany him, and made his way to the steerage. There 
 he found Petrovna and Evan seated over a draught-board. 
 They were both absorbed in the game, and the Russian was 
 instructing the boy in some detail of its principles, when his 
 old companion's hand descended genially upon his shoulder.
 
 110 
 
 " Well, mon brave, how goes it ? " 
 
 Petrovua looked up at the sound of the once familiar 
 voice, and rose, cap in hand, with a mock humility. 
 
 " It is very gracious in the Due de Marais Castel to 
 remember his humble friends." 
 
 The Due de Marais Castel felt the sneer implied, but, 
 not being disposed to be suddenly resentful, he pretended 
 not to notice it, and turned to Evan. The boy edged 
 away from him, and the ship lurching a little at that 
 moment upset the camp-stool he had been sitting on, so 
 that he tumbled harmlessly to the deck. His patron 
 helped him to his feet, but Evan recoiled again with everj'- 
 sign of stiffness and aversion. 
 
 " What is this ? " the duke asked, looking from one to 
 the other, and speaking in his own language. " Is it ray 
 fault that we have not been companions all along ? " 
 
 " If I had guessed," said Petrovna, " that your Excellency 
 would so emphatically have remembered 3'our Excellency's 
 place and mine, I would have stayed behind, or would have 
 found some other way to Europe." 
 
 " Olie ! " said the duke, " I was not aware that you 
 Russians counted ingratitude among the virtues.'* 
 
 " Your Excellency and I," said Petrovna, " are — no fit 
 companions." 
 
 " That shall be as it may," the other retorted. " I had 
 thought you were a better fellow, Petrovna. The change 
 in my circumstances has not altered me, and I had hoped 
 that it would not have altered you." 
 
 " Bah ! " said Petrovna gruffly, " it has altered both of 
 us. I prophesied in my own mind exactly what would 
 happen on the day when we left Koollala." 
 
 Kow, his Excellency was perfectly well aware that lie 
 had neglected Petrovna and young Evan, and, being aware 
 of it, he was naturally all the more angry at having it 
 brought to mind. He became for a moment very injured
 
 Ill 
 
 and stately, and Avith a bow to tlie Russian he turned 
 round on young Evan. 
 
 " You must come and see me," he said, with a brightness 
 and geniality of manner which were not altogether real. 
 Children are quick to see through this kind of assumption, 
 and Evan read the manner perfectly, and recognized the 
 restraint which lay under it. 
 
 " We shall see," pursued the peacemaker, " if Ave can't 
 find something good for our young Evan. We Avill go 
 and consult the cook, eh ? What shall we say to gx-apes 
 and bananas ? What shall we say to apples and pears ? 
 And what, oh, what shall Ave say to a Maraschino jelly ? " 
 
 Young Evan responded to none of these queries, but, 
 with a defensive elbow raised, he looked across his arm at 
 the smiling wickedness before him. The duke had fallen 
 on one knee to address him, but at this reception of his 
 friendly overtures he rose from the deck and turned, Avitli 
 a somewhat loAvering countenance, on Petrovna. 
 
 " The bo}'^, at least," he said, returning to his own 
 language, " has no reason to regard me Avith anything 
 but gratitude. You have poisoned his mind against 
 me, and I choose to remove him from your influence. 
 Mr. Sparks ! " 
 
 The officer, avIio had been lounging at a little distance, 
 Avatching with some interest a scene he only half compre- 
 hended, stepped forward. 
 
 " There is, I believe, an empty state-room next to 
 mine ?" 
 
 " There is, sir," Mr. Sparks replied. 
 
 " Kindly see the purser or the captain, or whomsoever it 
 may be necessary to see, and arrange that this boy shall be 
 placed there. I wish to have him near me for the remain- 
 der of the vo3'age." 
 
 " Yes, sir," the ofiicer answered, and, being requested to 
 make the arrangement at once, departed for that purpose.
 
 112 
 
 The duke, with a curt nod of tlie bead to Petrovna, 
 followed. 
 
 When the time came for his removal from Petrovna's 
 society in the steerage, Evan yelled, fought, and struggled. 
 The ship rang with his protestations, and two laughing 
 sailors bore him, leg and wing, plunging and bowling at 
 each step, to his new quarters. For a whole day be was 
 sulky and unmanageable, and refused whatever overtures 
 of friendship were made to him. Finding after two or 
 three abortive attempts at escape that he was to be kept 
 in the more luxurious compartment to which be had been 
 conveyed, he bolted himself in, and refused all communica- 
 tion with the outer world. 
 
 The cajitain at the dinner-table that nigbt counselled 
 the ai3plication of a stout rojje's end as the best medicine 
 for the young cub's insubordination ; but on the following 
 day hunger drew the small badger from his den, and, being 
 pi'ovided with such a breakfast as he had rarely made 
 acquaintance with before, be began to find his allegiance 
 to Petrovna weaken. The duke assailed bim with an 
 irrestible weight of argument. 
 
 " You can stop here and be good and happy," said his 
 patron, "or you can stop here and be foolish and unhappy, 
 but you shall stop here in any case. Nothing is being 
 done to you Avbich is not meant for your good." 
 
 In the depths of his own mind his Excellency knew 
 very well that bis one active impulse was to break the 
 small imp's wilful spirit, but he didn't care to proclaim 
 that fact. 
 
 " So long as you are good and quiet every-body will be 
 kind to you. If you like to stop and sulk in your own 
 room, you can starve. Nobody will try to hinder you if 
 3'ou are silly enough to do it. It is quite in your own 
 hands. You shall be a good boy or a naughty boy, just as 
 you like. If you are a good boy, every-body will try to
 
 113 
 
 make you happy. If you are a nauglity boy, nobod}^ will 
 care how miserable jou are." 
 
 " I want to go back to Petrovna." 
 
 " You will not be allowed to go back to Petrovna," 
 returned his patron. " You had better understand that at 
 once. Now, you can be good and liappy, or unhappy and 
 miserable, just as you like. That is your affair, my young 
 Evan." 
 
 Young Evan, like older people, succumbed to irresistible 
 authority, and by and by began to like it. A child of eight 
 may have had instilled into him the most admirable princi- 
 ples of radicalism and anarchy, and may yet find the flesh- 
 pots of Egypt desirable, and their contents toothsome. As 
 a matter of course, he took his meals in the ship's nurser}^, 
 but when once he had shown signs of subjection, his pro- 
 tector took lavish care of him, and all manner of delicacies 
 were sent to him from the saloon luncheon-table, and his 
 provision from the dessert after dinner was liberal enough 
 to rejoice the whole mob of the ship's infantry. 
 
 The young Evan, being thus entrapped, like the panther 
 in the fable, by the spices and luxury, remained for a 
 while more or less well content. At times his conscience 
 pricked him, and sometimes when he saw Petrovna loung- 
 ing about lonely on the lower deck he felt guilty of deser- 
 tion, without being quite able to accuse himself of any 
 real dereliction from friendship. He had only done what 
 he had been obliged to do, and had only discovered that, 
 on the whole, he was glad to have been compelled b}^ force. 
 Except that he was strictly forbidden to leave that portion 
 of the ship which was set apart for the first-class passengers, 
 he had ample freedom, and was allowed to wander about 
 exactly as he would. 
 
 It happened one sweltering tropic night, when the ship 
 was swishing through an oily sea and under a starless and 
 moonless sky, that he lounged as far aft as his boundaries 
 8
 
 114 
 
 permitted, and there, peering through the rail, saw Pe- 
 trovna seated below, smoking, within a yard or two of 
 him. The Russian was alone, and just dimly visible in the 
 light of a swinging lamp. Evan looked cautiously about 
 him in the close dark, and, seeing nobody near, ventured to 
 call out : 
 
 " Matey ! I say, Matey ! " 
 
 This was in a guarded wliisper. Petrovna looked up at 
 him, peering with contracted ej^es. 
 
 " Who is that ?" he asked. Then rising : " Oh, it's the 
 little deserter." 
 
 " I ain't a deserter," hotly answered Evan ; " I was made 
 to come here, and I could not helj) it. You know that as 
 well as I do." 
 
 " Ah, well, well," said Petrovna, and Evan could tell by 
 the tone of his voice that he was smiling, " a prisoner is 
 not a deserter. But, remember," he added seriouslj^ "you 
 have no right where you are. Your place is among your 
 own people. You have told me what your father said to 
 you in prison. You are never to forget that as long as you 
 shall live." 
 
 " I sha'n't forget that," said young Evan. " I sha'n't 
 forget it — never. You bet on that." 
 
 llis voice was choking, for the merest allusion to his 
 father's fate always had power to move him, and his 
 father's words were oftener in his memory than an}' thing 
 else he had ever heard or known. 
 
 "That is well," said Petrovna. "They're treating you 
 kindly ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm first-rate. I wish I wasn't sometimes. I want 
 to be sorry that I'm here." 
 
 " Flesh-pots of Egypt," said the Russian to himself, and 
 then aloud : 
 
 " My little bo}^, remember always, — I may not be able to 
 speak to you again, — but remember always what you owe
 
 115 
 
 to the people who call themselves gentlemen. Your old 
 matey is changed since he kept pigs at Koollala, eh? You 
 don't know yet how much he is changed, but I know. He 
 was once a friend of the poor, because he was one of them. 
 Now that he is rich again, and an aristocrat, he is their 
 enemy." 
 
 "My good Petrovna," said the tranquil voice of the 
 duke, very close at hand in the darkness, "you're a liar. 
 I haven't changed at all. It is only your own pig-headed 
 obstinacy that has come between us." 
 
 The duke himself, clad in white linen, rose from the 
 lounge chair on which he had been sitting and leaned over 
 the rail. 
 
 "Why do you want," he asked, "to make bad blood 
 between the child and me ? " 
 
 " Because," Petrovna answered, " the cliild was in the 
 right way before we started on this journey, and because 
 you are leading him astray from it. There is no end to the 
 corruption of riches. You were a man a poor six weeks 
 ago. Now you are no more than an aristocrat." 
 
 " You irreconcilable old idiot," cried the nobleman, with 
 a laugh, half of vexation and half of humor, " what do 
 you propose that I should do ? Sliall I go back and feed 
 pigs again at Koollala ? Shall I disown ray name, and throw 
 my money into the sea ? Am I behaving like a scoundrel 
 because I take this unhappy little waif and trust to train 
 him into a well-educated and useful citizen?" 
 
 He had fallen into his own tongue again, and Evan 
 could no longer understand the conversation. 
 
 "The child's birthriglit," Petrovna answered, "is his 
 intellectual freedom. He lias cause enough behind him to 
 be on the right side. It is a fine spectacle," he added 
 scornfully, " to see a revolutionary turned aristocrat, and 
 devoting himself to the creation of a bourgeois.'''' 
 
 " There is no talking with you, my good Petrovna," the
 
 116 
 
 other answered good-humorcdly ; and tl)en, returning to 
 Englisli, he addressed Evan, laying a liand upon his 
 shoulder : 
 
 " You have always liked me, ray little friend, have 3'ou 
 not ? Tell me, now. In the old days at Koollala j^ou 
 used to like me very well ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the boy, in a somewhat sullen and reluctant 
 tone. 
 
 " And why did you like me ? Was it not because I was 
 kind to you always ? AYas I not kind to you always?" 
 
 Evan answered " Yes "again, and this time the less con- 
 strainedly. 
 
 "Well, now," said the duke, "I promise you if you are 
 a good boy I will always be kind to j^ou. You shall be 
 well taught, and well fed, and well clothed, and when you 
 grow up to be a man, and can think for yourself, you shall 
 think exactly what you please, and I shall still always 
 be your friend. Now, Petrovna, by what right do j^ou 
 attempt to stand between the boy and his welfare? What 
 kind of career can you offer him if you persuade him to 
 refuse my offer ? " 
 
 Petrovna was silent. 
 
 "Come wath me, Evan," said the duke. 
 
 The boy half reluctantly surrendered his hand, and 
 allowed himself to be led away along the deck. It was 
 many years before he next saw Petrovna. 
 
 END OF BOOK FIRST
 
 :©ooFi ScconD 
 THE REAPING OF THE HARVEST 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Fourteen years have gone by. The date is 1893, and 
 the scene a dingy student's apartment in Paris. 
 
 A young man, tall and graceful in figure — a young man 
 mustached and bearded, with deep, abstracted-looking 
 black eyes, and a pale olive complexion, walked up and 
 down tlie uncarpeted room with a newspaper proof-sheet 
 in his hand, and a penholder held crosswise between his 
 lips. The young man and the apartment were alike poorly 
 furnished, and showed alike indications of having witnessed 
 better days. The floor of the room had once been waxed 
 and polished, but was now scored over everywhere with 
 boot-marks, and here and there showed the bare and ragged 
 fibre of the wood. There were clean spaces, oval and 
 oblong, on the soiled wall, which declared that pictures 
 and mirrors at no very distant date had hung there. The 
 young man was attired in garments of fashionable cut 
 which were wofully gone to seed. The edges of his cuifs 
 and collar, well washed and starched, had begun to fray 
 into threads, and the scissors unskilfully applied had cut 
 them out of shape. The trousers were trodden at the heel. 
 The shoulders of the coat shone with the gloss which 
 comes of overwear. A button hung by one loose thread 
 at the back of the waist, and another was missing 
 altogether. The pale olive complexion was paler than it 
 had a right to be, and the young man's cheeks were slightly 
 
 117
 
 118 
 
 sunken, as if with privation. As he marclied up and down 
 the chamber, muttei'ing to himself indistinctly past the 
 penholder, which gagged his utterance, he paused now and 
 then to glance at the proof-sheet, and, having read a line 
 or two, invariably waved it with an air of triumph, and 
 resumed his march with an aspect of renewed determina- 
 tion. 
 
 There were many proof-sheets on the unclothed, meagre 
 table which stood in the centre of the apartment ; and the 
 corners of the room were untidily littered with heaps of 
 newspapers. Steps sounded on the stair outside, but the 
 occupant of the chamber took no notice of them. They 
 paused at the door of his room. There was a loud knock- 
 ing at the door, and the young man with an impatient 
 "Halloa, there ! " threw it open, and confronted his visitors 
 witli an instant change of manner. 
 
 "Come in, Mr. Quahar — Aliss Quahar, I am honored 
 beyond measure." 
 
 Mr. Quahar was Scotch — Scotch in the fringe of gray 
 hair and whiskers, once of a fiery red, and now of a foxy 
 white with many years ; Scotch in the deep wrinkles, 
 which looked as if they were cut in a mask of lignum 
 vitae ; Scotch in the shaggy eyebrows, in the bulb of 
 humor at either end of the upper lip, in the mouth, at once 
 unctuous and secretive, and most Scotch of all in the light 
 gray twinkling eyes, which looked on all things with an 
 air of penetrating sagacity and droll appreciation at one 
 and the same time. 
 
 He entered the room on its rightful occupant's invita- 
 tion, and held the door open for Miss Quahar to enter. 
 She was Scotch also, with that almost excessive fair pallor 
 wiiich is sometimes to be found among northern beauties, 
 and hair like floss silk of an auburn or cliestnut tinge. 
 Her features were finely formed, and quite feminine, but 
 they impressed the observer with an altogether masculine
 
 119 
 
 sense of courage, purpose, and the capacity for clear think- 
 ing. Her gray eyes were as candid as the day, and as 
 innocently courageous as a child's. Tlie owner of the 
 room closed the door, drew into position the two chairs 
 the apartment contained, and begged tlie arrivals to be 
 seated. The old man, with his hat in one hand and his 
 walking-stick in the other, looked about him, with his lips 
 twitching and his eyes twinkling in response to some 
 inward humorous prompting. 
 
 " And this," he said at last, " is the market you've 
 brought your pigs to ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir," the young man answered with a laugh; "this 
 is the market." 
 
 " Now, Evan Rhys," said Mr. Quahar, with a sudden 
 tone of solemnit}^, " I've called to see you on a matter of 
 the very greatest importance. I'm just fresh from reading 
 that infernal article of yours in to-day's issue of that rag 
 yonder." 
 
 He pointed the walking-stick at the litter of papers in 
 one corner. The litter consisted entirely of copies of one 
 publication. The title of the newspaper, visible here and 
 there in ill-printed large black letters of a blockish shape, 
 was La Renaissance de V Homme. 
 
 " Suppose, instead o' christening the d d thing the 
 
 new birth o' man " 
 
 " Father ! " said the young lady. 
 
 "Your pardon's begged," he answered. "Supposing, 
 instead o' christening yon murderous thing the new birtli 
 o' man, you'd called it Universal Death, ye'd ha' been 
 nearer the title for the day's issue. What d'ye mean by 
 it, and how long d'ye suppose that the Due de Marais 
 Castel is going to stand that kind o' nonsense ? " 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure, sir," Evan Rhys answered ; 
 " and I don't know that I very greatly care." 
 
 "But, man," the Scotchman answered, "you have a
 
 120 
 
 right to care. It is your business to care. Lad never had 
 a finer friend in this world than you found in him. You've 
 an obligation to respect his opinions." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Quahar," said Rhys ; " I have 
 a right to respect my own conscience." 
 
 " Conscience ! " cried Quahar. " He talks o' conscience 
 with that devilish, bloodthirst}'^, damnable manifesto lying 
 on the table there under his nose, and signed with his own 
 name." 
 
 The girl laid a restraining hand upon his arm. 
 " Father^! " 
 
 " Your pardon's begged, Effie, my darling. But I just 
 lose ra}^ temper at this advocacy of the wholesale murder 
 of the innocents. Here's a young man that sets up in busi- 
 ness as a public assassin, and talks about his conscience. I 
 suppose that in the heart of you, Evan, j^ou're perfectly 
 well aware that you're an awfu' fool." 
 
 " I'm told so often enough," said Evan, with a sour and 
 mournful smile. " I suppose it's only my native obstinacy 
 which enables me to doubt it." 
 
 " I read the article only this afternoon," said the girl, in 
 a soft and musical voice. 
 
 The old man's cacophanous tones broke upon her speech 
 like the quack of a duck on the song of the blackbird. 
 
 "Listen to Miss Effie, my man. There's a heap o' 
 worldly wisdom and common-sense hidden away in that 
 little head o' hers, I tell you." 
 
 "I shall listen with pleasure, as I always do," said 
 Evan, " to any thing Miss Quahar may have to say 
 to me." 
 
 His eyes, and, indeed, his whole countenance, had grown 
 with the passage of tlie years to an extraordinary^ melan- 
 choly, which had at times something altogether wild in it ; 
 but he turned upon the girl with a smile which was all the 
 more bright and fascinating because of the Quixote lean-
 
 121 
 
 ness of his countenance. It was evident enough that he 
 smiled but rarely, 
 
 " Thank you," said Miss Quahar, raising a small gloved 
 hand in warning against further interruption on her 
 father's part. "I read the article only this afternoon, and 
 I confess that I was very shocked and sorry to see your 
 name attached to it. It is not true, Mr. Rliys, that you 
 advocate wholesale murder, but it is quite true that an 
 ignorant man reading what you have written might very 
 well believe you to mean that." 
 
 " The condition of society " broke out Evan, with an 
 
 oratorical gesture. 
 
 " Is very varied," said the girl gently. 
 
 lie stopped himself in the very beginning of a torrent 
 of excited speech, and listened. 
 
 *' In many cases," she went on, " it is very terrible. My 
 father has told me of his own early struggles, and I know 
 something of the condition of the poor in Paris. But will 
 it help the poor to excite them to anger and hatred ? 
 Might it not be as useful to teach them thrift and honesty 
 and sobriety ? " 
 
 " Ah," said Evan, beaming on her. " You are one of 
 those. Miss Quahar, who can afford to make war Avith 
 a fan and a vinaigrette. A man needs sterner weapons." 
 
 " Let him alone ! " cried the old Scot. " Look here, 
 Evan. I have received from his Excellency this morning 
 the usual monthly allowance of one thousand francs for 
 you, and I am going to take it upon myself not to hand it 
 over without an undertaking on your part. The duke's in 
 ignorance of the fact that you've been spending your 
 allowance — his money — for this last half year on that 
 incendiary rag yonder. Now, I am in a position of 
 responsibility and trust toward the duke, and if his CA'es 
 are not open to the fact, mine are. I'm not going to 
 allow his money to be expended in tl)at way without
 
 122 
 
 his knowledge, as you very well know. You'll have no 
 penny of his money to lay out on any such mischievous 
 business. The allowance is made to you to enable 30U to 
 prosecute your studies, and to live like a gentleman. 
 You're not prosecuting your studies. You're wasting 
 your time and your talents in the propagation of the 
 most mischievous and damnable ideas I ever heard of, and 
 you're living like a dog in a kennel. Now, if you'll just 
 forgive me for putting the matter in a plain man's plain 
 way, I'll tell you that that's no less than malversation of 
 funds. I'll be no party to it." 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Qualiar," said Evan. "You shall do 
 exactly what your sense of dutj^ prompts you to do, and 
 on my side I shall ask for no greater freedom." 
 
 Again a rap sounded at the door. Evan cried : 
 "Entrez!" and a magnificent Swiss entered, bearing a 
 letter. 
 
 " I am bidden to say, M. Rhys," said the messenger, 
 handing him a letter, " that his Excellency requests an 
 immediate answer." 
 
 Evan, with a hasty word of apology to his visitors, 
 broke the seal of the letter and read with an unmoved coun- 
 tenance. It was headed with the ducal insignia of the 
 writer's house, and was dated in pale embossed plain 
 letters from the Hotel de Marais Castel, Quai d'Orsay. 
 
 " My dear Evan," it ran : " Tell the messenger at what 
 hour it Avill be convenient for you to call upon me here. 
 Make the hour as early as possible. I have to see you on 
 business of the utmost importance to 3'^ourself." 
 
 Evan handed the letter to Quahar, who glanced over 
 it and lianded it back again. 
 
 " He's been told o' that screed o' rubbish," he said 
 quietly, "and for the first time identified you with tlie 
 responsible editor of the New Birth of Many 
 
 lie spoke with a voice of weary nausea, as if the very
 
 123 
 
 utterance of the title tired and sickened him. "You'd 
 best get away at once, lad." 
 
 " Yes," said Evan, " I suppose I bad better. You'll 
 excuse me, Miss Quabar." 
 
 Sbe rose and beld out ber band to bim. He took it in 
 bis own, and beld it a second or two longer tban was 
 necessary. His dark eyes burned over ber, and bis sallow 
 face flusbed, but tbe girl's look of quiet candor and inno- 
 cent courage underwent no cbange. 
 
 "Let bis Excellency know," said Evan, releasing ber 
 band and turning upon the messenger, " tbat I will follow 
 you at once. You will forgive me," be added, resuming 
 bis Englisb as be turned to bis visitors, and the Swiss 
 departed, closing tbe door behind him. " I must make 
 some cbange in my appearance before I go to tbe Quai 
 d'Orsay." 
 
 "I wish you'd make some in your opinions," said 
 Quabar, balf pettishly — " whose adornment let it not be 
 the plaiting of the hair, or the wearing of jewels, or tbe 
 putting on of apparel, but let it be tbe hidden man of tbe 
 heart. Tbat would please tbe duke and me, and," — with 
 a sideway glance at bis daughter, — " mair folk beside." 
 
 Evan, being left to himself a moment later, retired to an 
 inner room, and there washed his bands and changed his 
 coat. He came out, looking a trifle less seedy than before, 
 and, emerging hastily upon the street, marched swiftly in 
 the direction of the Quai d'Orsay. 
 
 A liberal education, an excellent though neglected 
 tailor, and years of contact with all sorts of well-bred and 
 intellectual people, had made tbe little ragamuffin of 
 Koollala a gentleman in outward aspect. The snub-nosed 
 boy, with a face freckled by Australian sun and wind 
 until it looked like a toad's back, was barely recognizable 
 in the tall, soldierly, bearded figure of the man who wore 
 that too emaciated mask of almost transparent olive. Tbe
 
 124 
 
 doggedness and sadness of the boy were recognizable still 
 in the doggedness and sadness of the man ; but even there 
 tlie very type of suffering and of sullenness was changed. 
 It had been dull, inert, blunted, and was now informed 
 with fire and cultured intellect. It might perhaps have 
 been better and happier for the man, and no less better and 
 happier for society, if the rage and grief of childhood had 
 been left to smoulder at the plough-tail until it died in quiet 
 ashes. But this is a great problem, and not fitly to be 
 discussed in these pages. The genius of humanity has 
 worked in many strange ways, and ma}^ yet work in ways 
 still stranger. The contemporary chronicler sees too close 
 to see well. 
 
 Evan reached the hotel of his patron, and was admitted 
 without delaj'. He ^jassed through the noble hall, and up 
 the magnificent staircase. Every thing at the mere 
 entrance of the great house spoke of wealth and taste. 
 The staircase was all marble, but the foot fell soundless 
 on a thick pile carpet of deep crimson. The supports of 
 the broad balustrade of black oak were of polished steel, 
 and the brass rods which held the carpet in its place were 
 of extraordinary solidit}^ and so lustrous that they shone 
 like gold. Marble busts on porpliyry columns and priceless 
 antique bronzes ornamented the landings and the corridor ; 
 and the painted windows of the house made a dim religious 
 light, as if the i)lace had been a house of Avorship. It was 
 to Evan's mind a house of worship for the mammon of 
 unrighteousness — one of the many shrines which are built 
 in all great cities to that shameful and shameless deity. 
 The tall servant who preceded him softly and reverently 
 opened the door, and Evan entered an anteroom. 
 Another servant passed him to a further chamber, and a 
 third announced his name to the occupant of yet another 
 room. The Due de Marais Castel was half sitting, half 
 lying on a lounge covered with Utrecht velvet. A book-
 
 125 
 
 rest with a student's lamp attaclied to it, as yet, of course, 
 unlighted, swung easily at his elbow. He closed the book 
 which lay upon the rest, but kept a right-hand fore-finger 
 between the pages, as if to mark the place, his left hand 
 stretched out languidly toward Evan, not in salutation, 
 but as if to mark the spot at which he should arrest his 
 footsteps. The young man paused, and bowed with the 
 slightest possible inclination of the head. It might have 
 been a gesture of derision, it Avas so slight, and had in it 
 so little of gratitude or of courtesy. The Due de Marais 
 Castel had amply fulfilled his promise to Petrovna on that 
 far-off day, in that far-off Koollala, on which he had first 
 learned of his great inheritance. He had turned flaneur, 
 and had done his business well. His benefactions to the 
 poor were beyond counting. His pensioners, if from the 
 time of his rearrival in Paris until now they could have 
 been gathered together, would have formed quite a 
 respectable army. As Petrovna had prophesied, he had 
 long since ceased to be in the least degree revolutionary 
 in his ideas ; but his own intimate knowledge of human 
 suffering had softened a heart always generous, and had 
 made him an easy prey for every kind of adventurer 
 known beneath the sun. His mustache and his close- 
 cropped hair had grown snowy white, but his eyebrows 
 had kept their color, and gave a marked distinction to his 
 face. If a stranger had been told, knowing nothing of his 
 history, that this incarnation of middle-aged dandyism had 
 once kept pigs by way of making a living in a starved 
 antipodean colony, he would have laughed at the mere 
 baldness of the lies. But, then, the pig-keeping had onl}' 
 been an episode. 
 
 " You will find," said M. le Due, " a copy, — may I be 
 allowed to say a very dirty and ill-printed copy ? — of a 
 journal called La Renaissance de VHomme on the 
 gecretary, there. Will you oblige me by looking at it ? "
 
 136 
 
 Evan crossed the room in the direction indicated, found 
 the journal, and returned to his old place, 
 
 "There is/' said M. le Due, " an article on the first page 
 which bears your signature. Will you confer upon me 
 the privilege of hearing it read aloud ? " 
 
 Evan bowed, folded the paper, found the article referred 
 to, and began to read. 
 
 " I admit," said M. le Due, at the end of the first 
 paragraph, " that your French is excellent, and so far you 
 confer credit upon my training. Go on, if you please." 
 
 " ' Here and there,' " read Evan, " ' is to be found an aris- 
 tocrat of a more generous turn of mind. Here and there 
 we meet with a man of great wealth who can afford to 
 himself, amid all the other luxuries which make life 
 pleasant to him, the luxury of doing a little good, reliev- 
 ing a little distress — a friend of the people who pays toll 
 for millions by a tithe of mint and anise and cummin, 
 without a thought of remorse. Such a man consumes 
 in countless extravagances the bread of hundreds or of 
 thousands, while he gains an ecstasy of self-complacence 
 by offering here and there the heel of a loaf to some one 
 of his innumerable victims.' " 
 
 The Due de Marais Castel threw both hands abroad, 
 losing the place he had hitherto marked in the volume he 
 had been reading, and looked at Evan with a humorous 
 reproach. 
 
 " Et tu, Brute ! " he said, laughing. 
 
 The reader went on. He read with an obvious reluc- 
 tance of constraint and awkwardness, which stole most of 
 the fii'e from his periods. He had meant every word he 
 had written, and now, being forced to repeat aloud, in the 
 presence of his lifelong benefactor, the charges he had 
 founded upon his patron's action, he felt rebuked and 
 foolish and ungrateful. 
 
 " * So long,' " he continued, " ' as this easy dole is accepted
 
 127 
 
 •with gratitude, so long, indeed, as it is not I'ejected with 
 contempt and scorn, so long as the luxurious giver is 
 regarded as a benefactor of his species, just so long will 
 charity be the cloak which covers the curse of the whole 
 world. It is sometimes to be lamented that all the wealthy 
 and titled are not as hard of heart, as degraded in the 
 enjoyment of their own selfish lusts, as the vast majority. 
 The hands of the few sprinkle perfume upon a putrescent 
 mass, the public nose sniffs the perfume gratefully, and 
 the general common-sense is not keen enough to guess what 
 lies below it. These benefactors of the poor are the poor's 
 worst enemies, for were it not for them their race would 
 long since have been recognized for what it is : the 
 incubus of the world — the Old Man of the Sea choking 
 the staggering Sinbad who carries him — the inert moun- 
 tain which lies on the laboring breast of Enceladus.' " 
 
 " I say nothing," interrupted M. le Due, " of the majes- 
 tic mixture of your similes — whether Sinbad the Sailor 
 sprinkled Etna with rose-water, or the Old Man of the Sea 
 rides a cock-horse on a dunghill, or whether both do either, 
 or either neither ; the nonsense is equally amusing. But 
 do you seriously propose, my young friend, that I, for 
 example, should put an end to your allowance in order 
 that after fourteen years of the help and friendship received 
 from me you shall have a proper right to hate me ?" 
 
 "I beg your j^ardon, sir," said Evan. " You place me in 
 a position of extreme awkwardness." 
 
 " I am flattered," said his patron, " to find that you do so 
 much justice to my dexterity ; but, on the whole, my poor, 
 foolish Evan, don't you think it is yourself by whom you 
 are placed in a position of extreme awkwardness ? Go 
 away, my lad, resign this silly nonsense, and devote your- 
 self to a life of usefulness. All, you may retort on me, 
 I am not useful, and, since I yearly assume a form more 
 and more globular, cease even to be ornamental. But, my
 
 128 
 
 dear fellow, it takes all sorts to make a world. Yoii know 
 very well that you don't really mean all that nonsense. 
 You have not so exaggerated an ojjinion of j'^our own 
 intellect as to suppose that you are so much wiser, so much 
 clearer-headed, and so much more experienced than other 
 men who have tried to heal the sores of the world, that 
 you can afford to tr}^ such rash remedies as you have 
 advised in that stupid article. You have not to fight with 
 society. Yon have to fight with human nature. The 
 world is a very big place, my little Evan, and you live in a 
 very little corner of it." 
 
 " I have been told all this, sir," Evan interrupted. 
 
 " And more, no doubt," said the duke, " and more wisely 
 and more eloquently. But, ray dear child, I am old 
 enough to be your father, and I have not treated you 
 unkindly; and, honestly, I deserve a better return than 
 this. You should reall}^ not spend a man's money, even if 
 he were your enemy, in paying a barber to set the razor 
 which is intended to cut his throat. I confess," he added 
 airily, as if the matter were one of no consequence, "that 
 I find something in it which is rather at war with my 
 sense of loyalty. Bread and salt, and the tent of the 
 Bedouin, jou know, ray dear Evan. You want to be 
 accounted a dweller in the desert. Is it not worth while 
 to remember the ancient maxims of the desert tribes ? " 
 
 " I have alwaj's known, sir," said Evan, " that my 
 opinions would be distasteful to you. I have been cow- 
 ardly enough until now to hide them from j^ou partly. 
 AVhen I wrote this article," — he tapped the paper as he 
 spoke, — " I resolved to sign it, and to put an end to my 
 own cowardice." 
 
 " And to my good-M'ill ? " the duke queried. 
 
 " I expected that, sir." 
 
 "Now, really," the duke asked him, in a more serious 
 tone than he had taken hitherto, " won't jou consent to
 
 129 
 
 be quiet for a little while ? Go and travel — go out and see 
 the world — see what democracy has done in the United 
 States. See what democracy is doing in the English colo- 
 nies. Travel France, and see what democracj^ is doing 
 here." 
 
 " Democracy," the young man answered, " has been put 
 upon its trial, and has failed. We shall have a democracy 
 one day tliat will be Avorth having ; but Ave shall never 
 reach it by the old-fashioned road." 
 
 " You are quite sure of that ? " the duke asked. " You 
 are certain of your mission ? You are so wise and so clear- 
 beaded tliat there can be no doubt about the ultimate suc- 
 cess of the means you propose to employ ? You are quite 
 
 — quite What is your English word ? I speak so 
 
 little English lately. You are quite cocksure?" 
 
 " No reform, sir," answered Evan, " Avas ever offered to 
 the world Avhich was not encountered by conservatism Avith 
 such arguments." 
 
 "Oh, I grant you," said the duke. " But will you take 
 my scheme? Will you travel and observe, and will you 
 for say two years unload your pen ? Come — for your 
 own sake, silly boy ?" 
 
 " I cannot pledge myself, sir," Evan ansAvered, " to dis- 
 guise my opinions." 
 
 "Your opinions! Your opinions!" cried the duke. 
 " Little egotist ! There are twelve hundred millions of 
 people in the Avorld, and they all have opinions, and they 
 are mostly not worth having. What are the chances of 
 yours being inspired ? " 
 
 " They are mine, sir," the young man answered, Avith 
 a complete lapse into his own sullenness. " A man is 
 responsible to himself for his own thoughts and actions 
 only." 
 
 " Ohe," said the duke, "you allow me a personal lati- 
 tude ? " 
 9
 
 130 
 
 The young man bowed, and if his first deference to his 
 patron had been a little mutilated, the second was so far 
 overdone that his protector found an open insult in it. 
 
 " I accept my personal responsibility, mj'- dear Evan," 
 he said, with great tranquillity, "and until you choose to 
 moderate your present madness you may, so far as I am 
 concerned, go to the devil." He struck a gong which 
 stood upon a little table within easy reach of his hand, and 
 the interview was over.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 There is nothing so inexorable, so cruel, so impossible 
 to fight against, as nature. To be born a fool is a great 
 misfortune which affords no chance of amelioration. Next 
 to nature in point of cruelty comes habit. A man may 
 teach himself, or may be taught, to be a crank and a 
 fanatic, and find that there is no reteaching him, no going 
 back upon the road travelled. There were certain things in 
 Evan Rhys's mind which did not reconcile themselves. He 
 knew that he owed a great deal to his patient and easy- 
 going patron ; and he knew that he had been spending 
 that patron's money for a purpose which he could not 
 possibly be supposed to sanction for a moment. He was 
 behaving with undeniable ingratitude, and yet in his heart 
 he knew himself to be grateful. Conscience, he told him- 
 self, was stronger than mere emotion. He believed with 
 the whole force of his nature ,that he was right; he knew 
 that he would be sunk deep in his own contempt if he did 
 not give voice to the thoughts which filled him, and all the 
 same he was very unsatisfied with his own conduct. 
 
 It was already late on a February afternoon, and a cheer- 
 less drizzle was falling. He walked, neither knowing nor 
 caring in what direction his footsteps led him, along the 
 river-side, where the open-air venders of books had 
 covered their stock with tarpaulin, and stood, blue-nosed 
 and patient, in no expectation of custom. The towers of 
 Notre Dame stood like a pale water-color wash against the 
 leaden blank of the sk}', and were now and again half 
 obliterated by the driving mist and rain. The chamber in 
 which he had held his final interview with the Due de 
 
 131
 
 133 
 
 Marais Castel was still in liis mind. Its warmth and 
 brightness, and the solid and chastened sj^lendors of the 
 house, accented the chill and gloom of the sordid quays, 
 the turbid river, and the tearful, stormy close of day. 
 More by habit than resolve Evan struck off to the right, 
 near the statue of Voltaire, and, walking raj^idl}", turned 
 from left to right, and left to right again, until he reached 
 a smoke-blackened and ancient street, where he could hear 
 distincth' the clank of printing machinery, recognizable all 
 the world over to the journalistic ear. He had onlj' just 
 distinguished it Avith an awakened mind when it stopped 
 suddenly, and a curious sense of forecast fell upon him, 
 Every-body knows the peculiar condition of mind in wliich 
 a trifle of this sort takes importance. La JRenaissance cle 
 VMomnie was in the act of being printed, and something 
 or other had occurred to check the issue of the weekly 
 number. It might be, as he knew ver}^ well, only a 
 momentary interruption ; but he guessed, with an intuition 
 so strong that it would not be disregarded, tliat the stop- 
 page meant more than that. He quickened his pace to 
 a run, dashed through a narrow ojDcn entrance, and ran 
 full into the embrace of a gendarme, who held him tight, 
 and demanded his name and business. 
 
 " My name," he responded, " is Evan Rhys. I am the 
 editor and proprietor of the journal printed here." 
 
 "In that case, my friend," the gendarme answered, "you 
 are m^'^ prisoner. Pray give yourself the trouble to come 
 this way." 
 
 He marshalled Evan into tlie printing-room, and there 
 were seven or eight more officers of the law. The office of 
 the Henaissance cle Vllomme had been raided, and its 
 plant legally seized only a minute ago. He was just in 
 time to witness the official impounding of his property. 
 Langlois, tlie recognized printer, was leaning against a 
 type-rack, blanched with terror, and murmuring that he
 
 133 
 
 was not responsible, when Evan entered. The police made 
 but short work of the business. The forms were stripped 
 from the machine, all printed and written documents on 
 the premises were packed, the very reserve galleys were 
 impounded, and the whole of the spoil, being packed away 
 in a cart, was removed for later examination, and Evan and 
 Langlois were conducted to the local police-office. There, 
 a formal charge being entered against them, tliey were 
 bestowed for the night, and left to their own reflections. 
 
 The printer probably felt and thought otherwise, but to 
 Evan this, tlie first taste of martyrdom, was delicious. It 
 made him a personage to his own esteem. These unholy 
 dogs of the law, he told himself triumphantly, saw the 
 need to be afraid of him, and he indulged in unblurred 
 visions of a trembling government. To his imagination 
 the president marched up and down his gilded chambers, 
 pale, and gnawing a nether lip, while he awaited with 
 anxiety the arrival of his ministers ; Paris was stirred to 
 its centre ; excited groups in the cafes discussed the event 
 of the day ; and under gray sheets of rain and yellow gas- 
 light on the boulevards people whispered the news to one 
 another. The imagination of all these things was as full 
 of solace as the fact could have been. A knowledge of the 
 fact, indeed, might have been heart-breaking ; for none of 
 the things the solitary and excited prisoner triumphed 
 over were really in course of transaction. The Renaissance 
 of Man was known at the outside to a few hundreds of 
 people, and even to them the arrest of its issue was not of 
 overwhelming importance. The mart^'r felt otherwise, 
 however, and gloried in his chains until midnight, when he 
 fell beatifically asleep prepared to face armies on the mor- 
 row. When the morrow came, he had nothing worse to 
 face than a jack in office of the average juge d'instruction 
 type, who barked at him in the common, imperative Avay 
 of his tribe, and did his excellent French best to make
 
 134 
 
 justice ridiculous and the attitude of the accused seem 
 dignified by contrast with his own. 
 
 The court was fairly tilled with seedy people, most of 
 whom had nowhere else to go ; but seated among them 
 was a gray man, respectably attired, who watched the pro- 
 ceedings with an interest in marked contrast with the 
 indifference displayed by most of the steaming and ill- 
 favored crowd. It had rained outside. The little court 
 was closely packed, and the odor of garments drying on 
 the bodies of their owners was pungent and choking, like 
 that of the father of all foxes. Even a careless observer 
 looking at the gray, respectably dressed man might have 
 thought him in some points remarkable. He had a marble 
 mass of forehead, eyes of an extraordinarj^ melancholy wild 
 sweetness, a snub nose, a loose and protrusive mouth, and 
 a huge gray beard. The upper part of tlie head and face 
 cried angel and philosopher : the broad, coarse base of the 
 snub nose and the brute mouth said animal. The whole 
 countenance was typically Slavonic. It was marked with 
 intellect, gentleness, patience, courage, tenacit}', and all 
 manner of animalisms ; and it was wrinkled everywhere, 
 like water under a cat's-paw of wind. 
 
 When the juge d'instruction had snapped and barked, 
 and bullied and cajoled, and had exercised every faculty 
 Qcnown to the law courts save those of dignit}^ and judg- 
 ment, and when the prisoners had been allowed to pose 
 as men of dignity and saviors of society, the hearing came 
 to an end. Evan and his comrade, the printer, who took 
 courage, after the theatrical French fashion, from his com- 
 panion's demeanor, were committed for trial, and taken 
 back to last night's abode. The crowd melted away into 
 the mist and rain of the streets, and the gray man called a 
 fiacre, and was driven about his own business. He was 
 present again when the case came on for trial barel}^ a 
 fortnight later. The proceedings here were as brief and
 
 135 
 
 decisive as in the earlier court they had been long-drawn 
 and futile. 
 
 In half an hour the business was over, Evan Rhys and 
 Philippe Langlois were each condemned to a fortnight's 
 imprisonment, and each ordered to pay a fine of five hun- 
 dred francs. The plant of the journal was confiscated by 
 the state, and it was ordered that all discovered copies of 
 the journal itself should be destroyed. When the prisoners 
 were removed, the gray man had an interview with an 
 official of the court, and paid the fines. Then again he 
 found a fiacre, and Avas driven home. 
 
 A fortnight later, in the gray and slush of a bleak spring 
 morning, he was at the door of the jail from which Evan 
 Rhys was discharged. The young man walked out proudly, 
 in expectation of a popular reception for martyred valor. 
 He was pale, and his cheeks were even thinner and more 
 hollow than they had been. There were circles of bistre 
 about his eyes, and altogether he looked like a man new 
 risen from a sick-bed. There was no popular reception 
 awaiting him, but the average blackguard or broken- 
 hearted crowd which awaits every jail deliver}' in a great 
 city stared at him, dull and incurious, as he came upon the 
 street. There were bloated rascals in blue blouses, smok- 
 ing, and hiding their pipes in both hands, as if the pipes 
 were secrets, and as ugly as themselves. There were 
 respectable parents whose children had gone astray, or at 
 least had been caught for the first time ; wives awaiting 
 the husbands who had been imprisoned for assaulting 
 them ; pickpockets with a hospitable handful of sous ready 
 to refresh comrades who had come under the rigors of the 
 law. 
 
 Evan Rhys stood for a minute, looking about him and 
 recognizing no human creature. Here, at least, valor and 
 martyrdom were not to find their earthlv reward. He 
 buttoned his coat about him, jammed his hat upon his head,
 
 136 
 
 and walked away. He felt a hand upon his shoulders, and 
 turned. 
 
 " M. Rhys," said a voice for which he liad no recogni- 
 tion, " has forgotten me this many years." 
 
 Evan stared hard at the speaker's face. He could make 
 nothing of him. There was a dim dream of the man, 
 to be sure, in his mind as having been somewhere seen 
 before, but the dream eluded identification. 
 
 " Look well," said the stranger. " You will know me bj"" 
 and by." 
 
 Evan looked again, and looked hard, but the effort of 
 memory still remained illusive. 
 
 " I fancy I ought to know J'ou," he said at last. 
 "Where have we met?" 
 
 " Do you remember Koollala ? " 
 
 Instantly the unfamiliar lineaments of the stranger's face 
 flashed into the remembered likeness of Boris Petrovna, 
 and Evan held him with a beaming pleasure. 
 
 " I saw you in court at tlie first hearing, and again at the 
 second. You puzzled me, but a good many jj'ears have 
 gone by since I last saw you." 
 
 "We cannot talk here," said Petrovna. "I have been 
 up and abroad this three hours, and, early as it is, I am 
 famishing for breakfast. There should be some early 
 restaurant hereabout. You, too, I presume," he added, 
 with a smile, " have not yet breakfasted ; or if at all, not 
 too luxuriously." 
 
 Tiiey found a restaurant, entered, ordered breakfast, and 
 were served. The hot and fragrant coffee was refresliing 
 and restorative to a man who liad liad two weeks of prison 
 fare. The eggs d la coque, cutlets and fried potatoes, the 
 glass or two of petit bleu, awoke a new soul in the martyred 
 savior of society, and when Petrovna had called for a 
 glass of cognac for himself and his companion, and had 
 produced a paper of cigarettes, life again had sunshine in
 
 137 
 
 it, though the drizzle of the Marcli morning smeared the 
 window-panes, and the voice of the wind in the almost 
 empty street was a noise of lamentation. 
 
 "And now," said Petrovna, when the meal was over, and 
 he had paid the bill, " I want to have a serious talk with 
 you. Come home with me. We are liable to constant 
 interruption here." 
 
 Evan assented, Petrovna amiably chattering trifles by 
 the way. 
 
 '■^Bourgeois, you observej" he said with a grin, when his 
 rooms were reached — " respectably bourgeois. I have 
 been here some time, and am registered as a rentier.'''' 
 
 *' You seem to have prospered since I saw you last," 
 returned Evan. 
 
 " The cause," said Petrovna, " has prospered since you 
 saw me last. No movement the world has ever seen has 
 ever grown from such beginnings to such proportions in so 
 brief a time." 
 
 Evan with shrugging shoulders glanced round the room, 
 took in his companion's respectable overcoat, respectable 
 boots, irreproachable linen, his gold-rimmed spectacles, 
 and the gold watch-chain which dangled across his waist- 
 coat. 
 
 " You are still attached to the cause ? " he asked, with 
 more than a suspicion of satire in his voice. 
 
 " You might speak more truly," Petrovna retorted, " if 
 you said that the cause was attached to me. For 3'ears I 
 have been its soul and centre, its heart and brain." 
 
 " Your services seem not to have been ill paid," said 
 Evan. 
 
 Petrovna turned upon him with a peculiar smile. 
 
 " Paid," lie echoed ; " they have been paid by a year in 
 the oubliettes, by exile to Siberia, by seven years, since I 
 saw you last, in a Spanish prison. They have been paid 
 by poverty and misery for more than half the years I can
 
 138 
 
 count since the daj'^ of my birth. It is not for you to sneer 
 at my payment, my young friend." 
 
 Evan hung his head a little at this rebuke, which was in 
 part delivered with considerable fire. He had as yet seen 
 but little of Petrovna since their new meeting, but he had 
 seen enough to know that he was ordinaril}^ calm and 
 reticent, and he argued that it took a good deal to excite 
 him to such a pitch. 
 
 There was no renewal of the discussion until Petrovna 
 himself broached it aijain after dinner that same eveninaf. 
 He had taken Evan to a restaurant, and had given him an 
 excellent meal. Then he had slid awaj to enter into talk 
 with a stranger who sat at a corner table. Evan, not 
 knowing what the transaction signified, saw Petrovna 
 empty his pockets apparently of all their contents, and 
 hand over every thing to the stranger. A pocket-book, a 
 handful of gold and silver coin, the gold Avatch and chain 
 Petrovna wore, and what looked like a roll of notes, w^ere 
 passed from one to the other. The Russian came back 
 smiling to the table at which Evan sat, jingling in his hand 
 two pieces of copper money. 
 
 " That is for you," he said, laying a gros sou upon the 
 table, "and this," — holding up another between thumb and 
 finger, — " is for me." 
 
 Evan looked enquiry, but said nothing. 
 
 " You sj)eak of what you have done," said the smiling 
 Petrovna. " Now, I tell you that you have done nothing, 
 endured nothing. H you have the courage, — pluck is Aour 
 English word, I think, — you shall come with me armed 
 with that one piece of mone}'', and you sliall see what it is 
 to spend forty-eight hours in Paris at this season of tlie 
 year with no better provision than that. I am older than 
 you, but I submit myself to the same ordeal. Are you 
 ready to face it ? " 
 
 " Lead where you like," said Evan. " I shall follow."
 
 139 
 
 They passed into the niglit together. The wind had 
 changed, and now came from due north-east, clanging 
 amid overhanging signs, and roaring in the chimney-pots, 
 and charging with bitter gusts at the corners of the 
 streets. Not many were abroad, and the few who faced 
 the weather walked hurriedl}^, with bent heads and rounded 
 shoulders. 
 
 The pale moon climbed over the roofs, and shone down 
 amid the clouds with a gusty alternation. In a while the 
 flying scud massed itself together, and the faint yellow 
 disk vanished. Then the wind dropped, and a burst of 
 stinging rain came down. 
 
 " We shall miss our two sous' worth of fried potatoes in 
 the morning," said Petrovna. 
 
 " Will that matter?" asked Evan. 
 
 "Not at all," the elder man answered. 
 
 They were both thinlj^ clad, and miserably, considering 
 the weather; and the chill of the icy rain and the breath 
 of the reviving wind began to find its way to the marrow 
 of their bones. They struck into a brisker pace, but the 
 prison fare of the last fortnight had left Evan somewhat 
 enfeebled, and after a few hundred yards he began to gasp, 
 and shortly came to a stand-still. 
 
 "We shall assuredly miss our two sous' worth of fried 
 potatoes at this rate," said Petrovna. "We are yet better 
 off than many. At least we can buy a few hours of shelter, 
 and we have no right to be hungry before morning." 
 
 This time Evan returned no answer. Spots of white began 
 to fleck the pavement, disappearing almost as soon as seen. 
 In a minute or two the snow-flakes were eddying every- 
 where, whirling down from the darkness, and fading from 
 the muddy pavement as they touched it. The feel of the 
 pavement grew pasty and gelatinous to the feet, and the 
 snow began to lie ever so little in gray, wet patches. The 
 patches spread and whitened fast on all level places. The
 
 140 
 
 street kennels and the puddles kept their gloom, save 
 for flashes of dim fire, caught by reflection from the 
 lamps which lined the road, or shone here and tliere from 
 the windows of a gargotte. In half an hour the wayfarers 
 were whitened with moist and clinging snow. Evan 
 plucked off the soft wide-awake he wore, and beat from its 
 brim twice its own weight. Then he swept his arms and 
 shoulders, and beat his bod}^ with both arms. 
 
 " This will never do," said Petrovna. " We have chosen 
 an unfortunate night for our expedition. We have always 
 home before us when we choose. Shall we turn ?" There 
 was a distinct touch of mockery in his tone. 
 
 "You may if you like," returned Evan. "It is not my 
 way to make a bargain for the sake of breaking it." 
 
 " Aliens, done ! " cried Petrovna cheerfull}'. " This 
 recalls mv beloved Siberia." 
 
 "D Siberia !" said Evan, with sudden emphasis, 
 
 " With all my soul ! " Petrovna answered, laughing. 
 
 The wind so drove tlie moist snow that at each time of 
 speaking flakes of it flew into the mouth, and the freezing 
 air bit at the tonsils. Petrovna turned his back upon the 
 storm and halted. 
 
 "Can you stand a night of this? " he asked. "Or shall 
 we ask shelter, and forego breakfast in the morning ?" 
 
 Evan was bhie with cold, and when he answered, his 
 teeth chattered noisil}'. He would have given the world 
 to have hidden this sign of distress, for he Avas there to 
 play the Spartan. 
 
 "You are the leader of this enterprise," he answered ; 
 " it is my business to follow." 
 
 "Follow, then," said Petrovna. 
 
 They were at the door of a wide hall, dimly lighted by 
 a single lamp, and approached from the street by three or 
 four flagged steps, built in a semicircle. The floor of the 
 hall was thickly caked with mud. From a side room on
 
 141 
 
 the ground floor came a sickly gleam of light, and a noise 
 of riotous voices. 
 
 PetroVna led the way, and they came into a lofty 
 chamber with what had once been a noble fireplace. A 
 great fire of wood and peat smouldered on the hearth, and 
 the room was dimly illuminated by two or three lamps, 
 which were more prodigal of odor than of light. Seated 
 here and there were great clumsy tables of blackened wood, 
 Avith benches drawn up to them, and at and on the tables 
 sat as choice a sample of both sexes of blackguardism and 
 rascaldom as even Paris could show. A man with a car- 
 buncled nose and pins' heads of eyes sat drunk with a 
 comrade on his knee. He embraced that comrade, as foul 
 a rufiian as himself, with maudlin terms of endearment, 
 while the woman, who had just escaped from his caress 
 and had substituted the male abomination, shrieked with 
 drunken laughter from a corner. This comed}^ had too 
 much of an air of every day about it to excite the attention 
 of the crowd. They played dominoes, they drank, they 
 discussed politics in the grisliest terms, they slept and 
 snored. They engaged in every diversity of employment, 
 but in one matter they were unanimous. Thej^ fed the air 
 with odors, and the smell of unwashed humanity, and stale 
 raiment drying in the heat, fought hard Avith the exhala- 
 tions of the lamps. The blended airs were loathsome, and 
 to come on them rapidly from the raging freshness of the 
 storm-driven streets was to be gripped with nausea. 
 
 A man came forward with an air of authorit}^, and asked 
 with what he should serve the new-comers. 
 
 " You have a sou, comrade ? " asked Petrovna of Evan, 
 with a feigned voice of humility. " I have mine." 
 
 " You are late," said the host. " You will barel}' find a 
 place. You know the Avay ? " 
 
 Petrovna nodded. The man accepted the two copper 
 pieces and dropped tliem into a capacious canvas pocket
 
 143 
 
 Avbicli bung at Lis stomach. He tuinetl on his heel, and 
 the Russian, with a sidelong beckoning nod to Evan, made 
 his way upward through the shadows of a broad staircase 
 with a balustrade of oak. The filthy house had been a 
 mansion once u^^on a time, and wealthy people had lived 
 in it. It was strange to think that not a lost wretch who 
 found a shelter within its walls had had a deeper tumble 
 from res2)ectability than the house itself. 
 
 Evan followed his guide into a great waste chamber, 
 which might have served as an assembly-room — an apart- 
 ment with so lofty a roof that the single oil lamp burning 
 beneath it left it invisible. At his first step forward a 
 voice cursed and snarled. He had trodden by inadvertence 
 on a sleeper's nose. Scores and scores of noses gave forth 
 a sleepy music. Some purred, some gasped, some snarled 
 like a dog with a bone, some two or three dealt on the air 
 a ponderous organ note which seemed to vibrate in the 
 floor, and this profound bass knitted all the other tones 
 together as the blast of the trombone unites the wandering 
 fancies of a German band. 
 
 Men and boys of all ages, in rags Avhich showed pale 
 trenches of flesh, and boots tliat leaked out mud-stained toe 
 or heel, lay so thickly scattered on the floor that it was 
 difficult to pick a way among them. The path of the novice 
 was marked by writhings and curses, for when he had once 
 tripped, he was compelled to stumble forward at any hazard. 
 
 At last he found room to sit in with his body against a 
 wall, do\vn which an unwholesome moisture rolled. The 
 chill of the night liquefied the breath of a hundred sleepers 
 and more, and, like their more moneyed friends below, the 
 gentry here were unanimous in stinking. Wet, foul rai- 
 ment in the act of drying predominated, and the dirty 
 lamp added its sickening quota. At ever}' inspiration the 
 air seemed to glide down the throat like a snake, so foul it 
 was, so thick and dense.
 
 143 
 
 "This is an agreeable change," Petrovna said, lolling 
 his back against the wall, and cautiously stretching out 
 his legs. " This is an agreeable change from the dormitory 
 oftheLycee. Eh?" 
 
 He spoke in English, and an English voice near at hand 
 crashed out with an execration. 
 
 " Hold your d cackle ! " cried the voice. 
 
 There was a groaning murmur as the tired wretches 
 stirred and turned, and then the nasal concert went on 
 again in full blast — hiss and chuckle, and ventriloquial 
 moan of far-away ship's siren, and spurting breath as of a 
 swimmer against the wave, and the curt snort of the 
 supercilious hog, and under all, and over all, and entwined 
 with all, the massive voices of the two or three. 
 
 The sleepy chorus, the heavy air, the languid heat 
 which succeeded the biting cold, all tended toward a swoon 
 into insensibility rather than sleep, and in a little while 
 Evan succumbed. The light flickered, the wavering noises 
 blended, and all on a sudden, with a little shudder of sick- 
 ness and returning warmth and comfort and repulsion, he 
 lost consciousness of his surroundings. He awoke, with a 
 head like lead, to hear a voice bawling with the monotony 
 of long usage : 
 
 " Messieurs, minuit a sonne. Les ofiiciers sont a la 
 porte. Douze heures ! Douze heures ! Enleve toi, done, 
 cochon ! Minuit, minuit ! " 
 
 He saw that Petrovna Avas rising to his feet, and that 
 the sleepy crowd was surging and crawling. 
 
 The monotone went on, and a swinging lantern seemed 
 to punctuate its phrases. 
 
 " II faut partir ! Minuit a sonne ! Enlevez-vous, mes- 
 sieurs. II faut partir ! " 
 
 The dreadful, pitiable crowd arose, and melted away. 
 Men stumbled down the broad staircase, rubbing their 
 eyes and yawning. A great-coated ofiicer of police, with
 
 144 
 
 snow on his shoulder like an epaulet, stood watching to 
 see that the room was cleared. 
 
 The snow outside whirled as if in a touruiante, and or* 
 the ground it lay thick, smeared by a hundred bestial feet. 
 The wretches wandered devious, shuddering, with hump- 
 ing shoulders and self-embracing arms. Their tattered 
 foot-gear sobbed and sucked at the wet pavement. 
 
 " What is this ? " asked Evan, dizzy in the scourged 
 night air after the fetid atmosphere of the room in which 
 he had fallen asleep. " I thought we had secured a night's 
 lodging," 
 
 "The place is not licensed as a lodging-house," returned 
 Petrovna, "and after midnight the patron has no right to 
 harbor any body. We are free of Paris until daybreak. 
 We must either march or freeze." 
 
 Once more Evan followed the leader's footsteps. His 
 mind was in a haze, and he dreamed as he ploughed his 
 way. On a sudden Petrovna paused, and Evan j^aused 
 also. He lifted his eyes and knew the surroundings. They 
 had been for many years familiar to him. He was on the 
 Quai d'Orsay, and before the hotel of the Due de Marais 
 Castel. Lights gleamed in every Avindow. Over the 
 whole road ran the tracks of Avheels, and the snow was 
 churned to a gray paste. Even now late comers to some 
 festivity within doors were being set down. 
 
 "You know the interior of that house fairly well?" 
 Petrovna asked. 
 
 "Fairly well," Evan ansAvcred, with an inward sense of 
 bitteiness. 
 
 "Is it just?" asked his companion, gripping him tightly 
 b}'' the arm. "Is it the will of Heaven, do you think? 
 You have seen Avhat you have seen. You know what goes 
 on here ! " He pointed with a passionate hand to the 
 illuminated house. " The price of a table ornament — the 
 cost of a bouquet — would have housed, would have fed,
 
 145 
 
 them all. Shall it last ? You, child of the people ; you, 
 
 son of a murdered father ; you, descendant of generations 
 
 of the oppressed — shall it last ? " 
 
 "No," said Evan Rliys. " By God ! it shall not last." 
 
 Petrovna changed from fire to ice in a second. 
 
 " The gulf is a little too wide, you think ? " 
 
 "Yes," Evan Rhys answered. " The gulf is a little too 
 
 wide." 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 They crossed the river and traversed the Place de la 
 Concorde. They must needs move to keep their blood 
 flowing and their limbs from stiffening. At the foot of 
 the Rue Castiglione they came upon an old man plodding 
 through the freezing slush at the side of a donkey-cart. 
 He paused to light his pipe, and they saw that he was a 
 very old man indeed, and bent with infirmities and years. 
 He had a frosty stubble of a beard, and his rheumy old 
 eyes were rimmed with red. 
 
 " Comfortless weather to be out in," said Petrovna. 
 
 The old man gave a suck at his pipe, and laid his hand 
 on the rein of his patient ass, who stood hanging his head 
 in the roadway, as if reconciled to all things. 
 
 *' II faut vivre," said the old fellow. 
 
 " II faut mourir aussi, vieux camarade," returned 
 Petrovna. 
 
 " C'est encore plus vrai," the old man answered, and 
 went on his way with his dumb companion. 
 
 " What brings him out at such an hour ? " asked Evan, 
 hugging himself as he stared, shivering, after him. 
 
 "Who knows?" said Petrovna. "There are many 
 ways of making a living in a great city." 
 
 It was between one and two o'clock in the morning, and 
 the streets were like a desert. Even the police seemed to 
 have left them. The column in the Place Vendume was 
 barely visible against the lowering sky, and even the tops 
 of the houses were indistinctly seen. The night seemed to 
 grow more bitter and inhospitable moment by moment. 
 In the profound silence of the street the droppings of the 
 
 146
 
 147 
 
 thaw sounded distinct and nois}^, though they would have 
 been inaudible by day, when the loud clatter of traffic was 
 awake. 
 
 " Let us keep stirring," said Petrovna, " or we shall 
 freeze." 
 
 " Ugh ! " returned Evan ; " this is an experiment in 
 poverty with a vengeance." 
 
 " It is not even an experiment," his companion declared. 
 "We miss the one ingredient which makes the dish of 
 poverty nauseous." 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 " Despair. We are cold and wet, to be sure, but we 
 have left food and warmth behind us, and can go back to 
 them at any minute if our courage fails. We have learned 
 as much at least as this jaunt could teach us. Do you care 
 to go on with it? " 
 
 " I have told you already," Evan answered, " tliat I 
 follow my leader." 
 
 " Ah, well," said Petrovna, with a laugh, " since you are 
 not to be tempted, let us talk about other things. We are 
 as private here as we should be in the middle of the Great 
 Sahara. Let me put a question to you, ray young friend. 
 Are you one of us, or are you only one of those who are 
 determined and courageous on paper ? " 
 
 " What do you mean by ' one of us ' ? " 
 
 " When I ask if you are one of us," said Petrovna, paus- 
 ing to lay a fore-finger upon his breast, " I mean to ask if 
 you are one of those who are determined that at all hazards 
 the present miseries of the world shall cease." 
 
 "At all hazards?" Evan answered. 
 
 " At all hazards," Petrovna repeated. 
 
 "That is not a question to be lightly answered," said 
 the young man, after a moment's indecisio!i. 
 
 " No," Petrovna assented, " it is not a question lightly 
 to be answered. Think it over as we walk."
 
 148 
 
 They went on through tlie desei't streets, Petrovna steer- 
 ing northward more by hazard than design, and Evan, 
 sunk in many conflicting thoughts, keeping shoulder to 
 shoulder with him. 
 
 " He that is not with us is against us," said Petrovna in 
 a while. " The time for the war of words is over. We 
 must come to deeds." 
 
 " Let me think," said Evan impatiently. 
 
 " Good," returned the elder man ; and so for another 
 space they went on in silence. 
 
 '* For one thing," said Evan, " 3-ou and I don't know 
 very much about each other. It might be wortli while on 
 both sides to know a good deal more before we enter into 
 any compact." 
 
 " I know almost as mu h of j^ou," returned Petrovna, 
 " as I need to know. Ever since I left my Spanish prison 
 I have kept an eye upon 3'ou more or less." 
 
 " What brought you in a Spanish prison ? " Evan asked. 
 
 " There are people," the elder man responded drjdy, 
 "who have alwaj^s regarded my political ideas as extreme. 
 I was credited Avith an intention to translate Christ's 
 vicar to his rightful place in heaven — or elsewhere." 
 
 "You were engaged in a plot against the Pope ? " 
 
 "It was so concluded," said Petrovna. "I lay seven 
 years in prison, but fortunately not under my own name. 
 Since tlien I have watched you pretty closely, for I have 
 always had hope of you. As for me, my young friend, you 
 may secure my credentials from any man who knows the 
 interior history of the propaganda for this last thirty years." 
 
 " How do I know that you have not turned mouchard 
 since the day I left you at Marseilles ? " 
 
 " That is a very right and just enquiry," Petrovna 
 answered, perfectly unmoved. " It is one which can be 
 answered very easily ; but you are justified in making it. 
 I like you, indeed, the better for your caution."
 
 149 
 
 " I will answer you better," said the young man, " when 
 I know you better." 
 
 He had scarcely spoken the words Avhen a tremendous 
 booming noise at a little distance broke upon the air, and a 
 second later he was hurled from his feet, and thrown with 
 great violence against a street-door. He stared about him 
 half stunned, unable to form an idea of what had happened. 
 Petrovna was scrambling from the wet pavement a dozen 
 yards away, and, when he had reached his feet, stood feel- 
 ing himself all over, cautiously, as if in search of breakages. 
 
 " That was Laurent, for a million," Evan heard him 
 murmur, " Are you hurt ? " he asked, a second later. 
 
 " Not so far as I can tell," the lad answered, in a be- 
 wildered way. " What was it ? " 
 
 There had been a general crash of falling glass, which 
 neither of them had noticed, and already excited voices 
 were crying and calling aloud in every house in the neigh- 
 borhood. The street, which had been as desert as the sea, 
 and as silent as the grave, had suddenly broken into mad 
 clamor. A huge volume of gray smoke floated over the 
 house-tops, and in a very little while began to lighten and 
 to assume a reddish hue. Petrovna, looking in the direc- 
 tion from which it came, muttered to himself once more, 
 loud enough for his companion to overhear : 
 
 " That is Laurent assuredly." 
 
 In an almost incredibly short space of time the loads 
 were crowded with half-clad people, who rushed toward 
 the scene of the disaster. Petrovna seized a lad who 
 clattered by him wrapped in a trailing blanket. 
 
 " What is the name of this street ? " he asked. 
 
 " Rue de Pot d'Etain." 
 
 Evan saw him shake his head with the air of a man who 
 bad received confirmation of a fear. The companions 
 hurried along for a distance of three or four hundred j^ards, 
 and came upon a scene of awful devastation. The houses
 
 150 
 
 hereabouts were all of a weather-stained and sordid type, 
 but they were lofty. In one place on the right-hand side 
 of the street, looking northward, there was a liuge wedge- 
 shaped gap with rough edges, and in front of it the road 
 was covered with debris. On the other side of the way the 
 houses for a space of fifty yards or so looked as if they had 
 sustained a terrible bombardment. Every thing was clearly 
 visible now by the light of the flames which sprang from 
 the base of the huge ragged Avedge. The awe-struck, 
 curious, or stujjid faces of the crowd, the unkempt hair, 
 the wild deshabille in which everj^-bodj^ was attired, the 
 ghastly figures, many of them cut and bleeding, which 
 stood rending the night with shrieks of pain and terror, 
 were all as clearly seen as if it had been broad noon. 
 
 The police came hurrying up in force, and, pressing back 
 the maddened people, formed a cordon about the ruins. 
 The fire-engines came thundering along. Calm, stalwart 
 men appeared upon the scene with stretchers for the 
 trans23ort of the wounded. Evan and Petrovna found 
 themselves side hj side in the fore front of the crowd, so 
 tightl}'^ packed and so urged forward by the pressure of 
 the multitude that an escape from it seemed hardl}^ possi- 
 ble. The wounded were to be counted by scores, and for 
 hours to come it would be out of question for any man to 
 estimate the number of the dead. Everj'wherc, amid 
 balks of timber and heaps of brick-work and great blocks 
 of stone and piles of broken stucco, there were mutilated 
 remnants of humanity. There was a smell of roasting 
 flesh upon the air, and Evan sliuddered with a repulsion so 
 terrible that it sliook him from head to feet, and inspired 
 his very soul with nausea. It seemed as if the whole dis- 
 trict were afoot by this time, and the tumult of excited 
 voices rose like a storm. Thousands of tliroats vociferated 
 at once ; but out of the unformed chaos and babel of noise 
 one phrase seemed gradually to grow :
 
 151 
 
 " Les anarcliistes ! " 
 
 Hundreds of voices spoke tlie words together. " The 
 work of the anarchists ! Ah ! those vile anarchists ! 
 Down with the anarchists ! " The cr3^ sprang ever^'where, 
 louder and louder, wilder and wilder, more and more 
 savage. Evan forgot his horror at the scene before him 
 in recollections more personal to himself. If at such a 
 moment of public delirium he were seen and recognized, 
 he would not have set his life at a })in''s fee. He looked 
 at Petrovna, who stood calm and observant amid all the 
 roaring din, and watched the action of the firemen as 
 coolly to all appearance as he would have watched a spec- 
 tacle upon the stage. It looked for a while as if the two 
 were doomed to remain there for hours at least ; but the 
 elements had a word to say to that question. A steady, 
 heavy rain began to pour, and the crowd so greatly thinned 
 that in the course of half an hour retreat was possible. 
 Petrovna tapped Evan upon the shoulder, and the two 
 glided away. 
 
 From tlie Chateau Rouge they had found but a confused 
 route to Batignollcs, wandering with no other aim than 
 to pass away the hours of the miserable night. Now Pe- 
 trovna led the way resolutely, though it was half an hour 
 before Evan, to whom that quarter of Paris was strange, 
 discovered tliat his guide was leading in the direction of 
 his own apartments, at the far end of the Boulevard Vol- 
 taire, near the Place de la Nation. The concierge there 
 was asleep in his glass box by the side of a dimly burning 
 lamp, but atPetrovna's call he mechanically pulled a string 
 which released the inner door from its fastening. In the 
 living-room the last embers of a wood fire still gleamed 
 on the hearth. Petrovna knelt down and piled up a heaj) 
 of logs from the basket beside the fireplace, and then, pull- 
 ing down the reverberator, had a great blaze roaring up 
 the chimney in a minute or two.
 
 152 
 
 Evan dropped into an arm-chair, wet to the skin, chilled 
 to the bone, and sickened by the memory of the scene so 
 lately witnessed. His companion in the meanwhile found 
 a bunch of ke^^s, opened a buffet, and drew from it a 
 decanter of cognac and a couple of wineglasses. He filled 
 them both, and pushed one toward Evan, who, after look- 
 ing at him dimly, and without apprehension for an instant, 
 seized the glass, drained it, and held it out for more. 
 Petrovna filled it up a second time, and, having emptied 
 his own glass, began to divest himself of his soaked coat 
 and waistcoat. 
 
 " I can supply you also with the material for a change," 
 he said, " and you had better make it. Our experiment in 
 poverty is over for the time being. I have other fish to f r^'." 
 
 He bustled into his bedroom, and returned with a suit of 
 clothes, which he threw upon the floor. 
 
 " You are taller and slimmer than I am," he said, " and 
 they will not fit you very picturesquely, but they are 
 better than nothing." 
 
 He turned again into the bedroom, and Evan sat in the 
 arm-chair stupefied. Petrovna was back in five minutes, 
 and found him thus, staring vacantly at the reverberator, 
 which by this time had grown to a dull red, and made 
 a loud crackling sound in the heat. 
 
 " Take a little more cognac," said the Russian. " You 
 are overtired. I should have remembered your two weeks 
 of prison fare before I put you to such an ordeal." 
 
 He laid a hand upon Evan's shoulder as he spoke ; but 
 the young man rose with a sudden and unexpected vivid- 
 ness of movement, and stared at him witli wide-open e3'es, 
 full of horror. 
 
 " You know something of what happened to-night? " lie 
 said. 
 
 "Yes, ray friend," l*etrovna answered with tranquillity. 
 "I know something, and I can guess the rest."
 
 153 
 
 "Is that the fruit of your progaganda ? " the younger 
 man demanded, shaking all over, half from the clinging 
 cold of his wet clothing, and half from horror. 
 
 " No," said Petrovna quietly, " It was a pure and 
 simple accident." 
 
 " I heard you speak twice of Laurent. Who is Laurent ? " 
 
 "You had better cliange your wet clothes," said the 
 elder man iraperturbably. " We will talk together after- 
 ward. It is dangerous to sit as you are doing, let me tell 
 you." 
 
 "I will take no aid or service fx'om you," Evan answered, 
 " until I know something more." 
 
 "You will do as j^ou please about that," the otiier 
 retorted. " But I have many things to see to." 
 
 He opened a secretaire which stood upon a little table 
 in one corner of the room, and began to rummage among 
 its contents. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me," cried Evan, advancing 
 toward him passionately, " that you make Avar against the 
 suffering and laborious poor ? Is this night's work part of 
 the propaganda by deed you talk about? " 
 
 " No," said the elder man, " it is no part of the proga- 
 ganda. I have already told you it is an accident. The 
 cause has suffered a great disaster, and I very much fear 
 we have lost a great man, one of our most capable, our 
 bravest, and most devoted." 
 
 Evan started as if a new light broke in upon him. 
 
 " Laurent," he murmured once or twice, " Laurent." 
 
 "You should remember him," said Petrovna. "He was 
 not so long ago a comrade of your own at the School of 
 Chemistry." 
 
 " I thought he had left Paris. I understood he bad gone 
 to London." 
 
 " He spent a little time in London," Petrovna responded, 
 busying himself over the contents of the secretaire by the
 
 154 
 
 light of a candle. " He returned two years back, and Las 
 since been engaged in experiment and investigation. I am 
 afraid we have lost hiui." 
 
 " You think," asked Evan, " that the explosion took 
 place in his laboratory ? " 
 
 " That is almost an absolute certainty," said Petrovna ; 
 " but we cannot yet be sure that he was there. It might 
 have happened in his absence. If he were dealing with 
 explosives of a very sensitive nature, as he might have 
 been, a cat, a rat, or a mouse might have been the cause of 
 the mischief. We shall know more in the course of the 
 day, but I shall be sorry if we have lost Laurent." 
 
 " You take all this very coolly," cried Evan. 
 
 " Like a veteran, m}'^ young friend," the other answered. 
 " I have seen too much to be easily disturbed." 
 
 He went on calmly sorting the pajiers he searched for in 
 the little secretaire, and presently, b}^ the light of the 
 candle, made up a number of them into a small bundle. 
 He went over this minutely, and then, walking deliber- 
 ately to tlie fireplace, dropped the papers one b}^ one 
 into the flames, beating down with great care such 
 fragments as rose upon the hot wind of the fire, until the 
 last fragment was consumed. To Evan this was signifi- 
 cant of a fear lest his aj^artment should be visited by the 
 l)olice and searched ; but if Petrovna were disturbed by any 
 such apprehension, he gave no other outer sign of it. 
 
 " Come," he said at length ; " you will decide in your 
 own way in jour own time. In the meanwhile I am 
 dressed for the da}^ and will take the arm-chair. You, 
 since you have not thought fit to change, had better take 
 the bed. My dear child," he added, in answer to a move- 
 ment of objection, "I pledge you to nothing. I ask you 
 for nothing. You shall choose for yourself, and you will 
 choose none the less clearlj^ for a night's rest." 
 
 What with the long hours in the nipping air, the emo-
 
 155 
 
 tion he had passed through, the two wineglasses of cognac 
 he had taken, and the change of temperature, the young 
 man was utterly worn out. He argued sleepily within 
 himself that it was of no use further to fight against the 
 general condition of things ; and so, almost falling asleep 
 as he undressed, he crept into Petrovna's bed, and lay there 
 like a log, until a loud knocking at the outer door awoke 
 him. He saw that it was broad da^'light, and the fra- 
 grant odor of strong coffee assailed his nostrils at the 
 moment at which he turned. Petrovna's voice sang out 
 quite cheerfully in the next room, calling on the person 
 who knocked to wait a little. Evan sat up in bed, won- 
 dering if this were a domiciliary visit from the police. The 
 first words of the new-comer, uttered as soon as Petrovna 
 had opened the door, disabused his mind of this fancy. 
 
 "You heard ? " asked a voice in English. 
 
 " I was there," returned Petrovna, closing the door as 
 he spoke. 
 
 Evan conjectured some signal of caution made by 
 Petrovna, for the visitor's voice sank into an inaudible 
 whisper, and a hand silently closed the door between the 
 bedroom and the living-room. Then voices went on in a 
 guarded murmur, and Evan was falling half asleep Avhen 
 his host entered the room, and laid his clothes upon the bed. 
 
 " I dried these for you last night," he said. " Coffee is 
 ready. You had better get up and dress." 
 
 The lad obeyed, and, attiring himself in the well-lighted 
 bedroom before a looking glass, thought himself seedy and 
 repulsive-looking. His clothes, which were not of the 
 best material to begin Avith, had been carelessly dried, and 
 had shrunk considerably, so that his wrists and ankles 
 stuck out gauntly. His linen was yellow, crumpled, and 
 disreputable ; and his boots were covered with a paste of 
 half-dried mud. 
 
 While he was surveying himself distastefully, Petrovna's
 
 156 
 
 deep voice called out to him to say that coffee was growing 
 cold. He answered the summons, and found himself in the 
 presence of two strangers. He had guessed at one onh' ; 
 and he knew by a kind of instinct which of the two it was 
 of whose presence he had been unaware. This, to take 
 him first, was a secretive-looking, small man, who stood, 
 a little bent, with his hands clasped together. He was 
 dressed in respectable black broadcloth ; and was so spick 
 and span that he might have been purposely attired that 
 morning for a bourgeois wedding. He wore a white tie, 
 and his linen was unexceptionable. Despite the condi- 
 tion of the streets, there was no spot upon the lustre of his 
 boots. In face and attitude he was stealtli personified ; 
 and Evan noticed from the first that except when his eyes 
 were veiled they were never still for a single second, and 
 that he never b}' any chance looked in the face of any 
 body whose glance for the merest instant challenged his 
 own. So long as he himself was unregarded lie would 
 steal quick, dai'ting glances from face to face ; but at the 
 moment of encounter Avith another's gaze his eye dropped, 
 and his face was like a shuttered window. The otlier 
 stranger was of a different type — a man tall, gaunt, and 
 upright ; a man Avho threw back his shoulders and folded 
 his arms with a theatrical exaggeration of the military 
 attitude. He was hook-beaked and grizzled, and his face, 
 tanned by the sun and wind of many climates, was deeply 
 wrinkled. He wore a great, swaggering military mustache ; 
 and his eyes, which were of an astonishing pallor, — the 
 palest conceivable gray blue, with a pin-point of black 
 pupil, — had a curious inward look. But for the intense 
 speck of dark in the middle of these strange orbs they 
 would have looked like those of a blind man. 
 
 " M. Georges Dusaulx," said Petrovna, waving a hand 
 in the direction of the small man in the I'espectable broad- 
 cloth, " Mr. Evan Rhys."
 
 157 
 
 Evan bowed, and the little man cast one furtive glance 
 at him, nodded, and began to march with cat-like steps up 
 and down Jhe room, studying the pattern of the carpet with 
 great intentness. 
 
 " If you have not yet taken coffee, gentlemen," said 
 Petrovna, " will you join us ? " The gentlemen had taken 
 coffee. " Can I offer you a glass of cognac this bitter 
 morning ? " 
 
 " Not for me," cried M. Georges Dusaulx, with emphasis. 
 He waved both hands vehemently against the suggestion, 
 but the military man received the proposal with a loud and 
 enthusiastic " Ha ! Ha ! " and rubbed his hands. 
 
 Petrovna unlocked the buffet in which he kept his 
 decanter, and as he stooped before it said : " Your pardon, 
 general ; I had forgotten to introduce my young friend. 
 General Vincent, Mr. Evan Rhys." 
 
 The general blinked his pale eyes, and nodded in a very 
 curt and military manner. 
 
 "I beg you not to suppose, sir," he said, "that because 
 I bear a military title I ever held the commission of the 
 queen. I gained my rank in the republic of Del Oro, and 
 my sword has always been at the service of the oppressed." 
 
 Petrovna set the decanter of cognac and a pair of 
 glasses on the table. As he did so he glanced at M. 
 Dusaulx, who caught his eye for the mere fraction of a 
 second. 
 
 "No, no, really," said the eminently respectable person. 
 " Let me be candid with you." Evan found himself 
 smilinii-. Tlie ideas of candor and M. Dusaulx seemed 
 curiously apart. " I have a temptation in that direction, 
 and my only plan is not to yield." 
 
 The warrior filled his wineglass to the brim, and sipped 
 it with an air of relisli. The little man prowled up and 
 down the room, casting swift and furtive glances at the 
 decanter.
 
 158 
 
 "That is an astonishingly fine cognac," he said after 
 a while. " I remember it." 
 
 "Common stuff enough," returned Petrovna, munching 
 at his roll and sipping at his coffee. 
 
 "My dear Petrovna," said the other, "you do yourself 
 an injustice. You do that admirable liquor an injustice." 
 He began to fondle the decanter with both hands. Then, 
 having turned it upside down, he withdrew the stopper 
 and smelled at it with the manner of a connoisseur. Next 
 he touched it with the tip of the finger, and applied the 
 finger to his tongue. "Yes," he said, with the doubtful 
 accent of an enquirer reluctant to commit himself, "I 
 think it is the same. I really fancy I remember it." 
 With this he poured out half a glass and sipped at it. 
 Evan, watching him, saw a red flush steal into his droop- 
 ing eyelids, and spread over the cheek-bones. He emptied 
 the glass suddenly with an air of decision. " That," he 
 said, " is the same brandy," and, turning away from the 
 table, with the decanter in one hand, and the wineglass in 
 another, filled up again to the brim, and tossed the fiery 
 spirit down his throat as if it had been water. 
 
 Again a knock sounded at the door, and Petrovna rose 
 to answer it. This time a portly elderly gentleman, with 
 a clean-shaven face and long silver hair, entered the room. 
 lie wore a look of marked benevolence, and the profusion 
 of his white hair and the scrupulosity of his attire gave 
 him the aspect of a college professor. His eja^brows were 
 jet black and very mobile. When he removed his hat, he 
 displayed a beautiful dome of bald forehead. 
 
 " I see," he said, looking about him with a smile, " that 
 you have heard." 
 
 "Yes," said Petrovna, " we have heard. Allow me to 
 introduce to you, sir, iny j^oung friend Evan Rhys." 
 
 " I have the honor," said Evan, " to be known already 
 to M. Paul Cadoudal."
 
 159 
 
 M. Paul Cadoudal, in effect, was no other than the pro- 
 fessor of logic and rhetoric in that great educational institu- 
 tion in which the young man had been bred, Evan was 
 mightily surprised to find him here, though all the world 
 knew that the eminent logician had a theoretical sympathy 
 with the most advanced forms of social revolution. His pres- 
 ence in this room, and his knowledge of this society, seemed 
 to imply something more than a theoretical adherence. 
 
 Almost upon his heels came a further arrival, a man in 
 thick boots and a blue blouse of glazed linen. This person, 
 who was announced as M. Josepli Ducos, wore a look of 
 simple brutality and stupidity. His bullet head had been 
 recently cropped by a prison barber, and his debased face 
 was purplish black with the unshorn beard of a week. 
 He seemed to be at perfect ease in the company in Avhich 
 he found himself, and to be known by all. 
 
 " We have matters of moment to discuss," said M. 
 Cadoudal, drawing off a black kid glove, and passing a 
 hand of exquisite whiteness through his silvery hair. 
 " Are you responsible for your young friend, Petrovna ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Petrovna, " I am responsible for my 3'Oung 
 friend." 
 
 Had a secoiul intervened between the question and 
 the answer, Evan Rliys himself would have spoken to the 
 contraiy effect. At least, he tliought afterward that he 
 would so have spoken. But the chance was gone, and lie 
 was burning with curiosity to know what plan of action 
 had brought together so strangely assorted a body of 
 men. Petrovna, exile and Nihilist, and General Vincent, 
 soldier of fortune, were easy enough to account for ; but 
 Cadoudal was the representative of all the graces of life, 
 Dusaulx, a well-to-do dealer in pinchbeck jewehy in the 
 Palais Royal, and M. Joseph Ducos was an evident jail- 
 bird, carrying the insignia of scamp and tl^runkard boldly 
 stamped upon him from head to heel.
 
 160 
 
 " I had expected Frost here," said the general, whose 
 French, it turned out, was of the most elementary 
 sort. 
 
 " Frost," returned Petrovna, " is of no great service in 
 our counsels. It is enough for him to know on what we 
 have decided."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 M, Paul Cadoudal, who was not only portly, but tall, 
 stooped benevolently over Petrovna, with a soft, white 
 hand upon his shoulder, and whispered smilingly in his 
 ear. 
 
 "Assuredly," Petrovna answered aloud ; and, turning 
 to the remainder of his guests, begged that he might be 
 excused for a mere instant. Cadoudal, smiling and nod- 
 ding at each in turn as he went by, walked into the bed- 
 room, whither Petrovna followed him. He closed the 
 door, and, drawing his host toward him by both shoulders, 
 addressed him in a soft whisjser. 
 
 " Is our young friend," he asked, with a sidelong nod in 
 the direction of the outer room they had just quitted — 
 " is our young friend quite ripe ? And is he — now, is 
 he," — this with a smiling air of most amicable interroga- 
 tion, — "is he entirely to be trusted ? " 
 
 " He is a chemist," said Petrovna, answering obliquely, 
 " and for his years a very good one. Poor Laurent seems 
 to have come to grief over your formula. We want some- 
 body to try again, and this I think is our man." 
 
 " Exactly," said M. Cadoudal, tapping his friend lightly 
 on the shoulders. "Exactl}', my dear Petrovna. But is 
 our young friend entirely with us, and is he entirely to be 
 trusted ? " 
 
 *' Not as yet," Petrovna answered. " We might enlist 
 him for particular work." 
 
 "I see," said M. Cadoudal— "I see." He stood for 
 a while in placid consideration of the problem which pre- 
 sented itself to his mind, and then with an air of sudden 
 briskness tr.pped Petrovna again upon both shoulders, and 
 
 11 161
 
 163 
 
 said : " Leave him to me, my friend. Leave him to me." 
 They were perfectly cool and collected, and might have 
 been arranging the most ordinar}^ business in the world. 
 
 Petrovna laid liis hand upon the door, but glanced over 
 his shoulder, as if to ask if any thing remained to be said. 
 Cadoudal signalled him forward with a genial gesture, and 
 the pair returned to their companions. Petrovna moved 
 about to find seats for the wdiole party. They gathered 
 round the table, and at Cadoudal's invitation Evan sat 
 next to him. The renowned and amiable scholar laid his 
 hand upon his ex-piipirs shoulder, and kept it there. 
 
 "Has any body," he asked, " any trustworthy news of 
 Laurent? Do w^e know with absolute certaintj'^ that we 
 have lost him ? " 
 
 Ducos broke in with an oath. 
 
 " I will bet Paris to a toothpick," he said, " that they 
 will never find hair or hide of him. I should have liked 
 a tooth or a toe-nail as a keepsake, but I shall never 
 get it." 
 
 *' May I enquire why you are quite so certain of that ?" 
 asked tlie benevolent Cadoudal. 
 
 "My word ! " cried Ducos, " I was in his room less than 
 ten minutes before he blew up. He was already in bed 
 when I called on him, and the stuff was packed under his 
 bed for safety. Had it been properly distributed, he had 
 enough to wreck half Paris." 
 
 M. Dnsaulx, wath both elliows resting on the table, ca- 
 ressed the now empt}' decanter, and muttered of reckless- 
 ness and waste. 
 
 "A year's work thrown away," he said — "brought to 
 nothing by mere criminal carelessness." 
 
 " Our incautious young colleague," said Cadoudal, "has 
 paid his penalty, and we all lament hini. For my own 
 part, I do not know where to look for a man of equal 
 courage and capacity."
 
 163 
 
 "Your news," said Petrovna, addressing Ducos, "puts 
 an end to all doubt. My young comrade and I, as chance 
 would have it, were first upon tlie scene. We were both 
 thrown to the ground by tlie explosion. I guessed at once 
 it was Laurent." 
 
 Cadoudal shot a meaning glance across the table to 
 Petrovna. 
 
 " You, my young friend," he cried, turning to Evan at 
 the very instant at which he gave the signal — "you were 
 there ? Let us know what happened ? " 
 
 " Tell the story," said Petrovna ; " I am a poor 
 historian." 
 
 All heads bent forward, and all eyes fixed themselves 
 upon Evan. The friendly Cadoudal passed his hand to 
 the lad's further shoulder, and turned to him a mildly 
 attentive face. 
 
 "There is little enough to tell," said Evan. "The 
 citizen Petrovna and I were walking together in the 
 direction of Batignolles. We had just entered the Rue 
 de Pot d'Etain when an explosion took place at a distance 
 of a hundred and fifty paces. I seemed to be caught in 
 a sudden wind before the noise of the explosion reached 
 me, and I was hurled against a door. Petrovna was 
 thi'own upon the pavement. There was a great clash of 
 falling debris, and I felt the ground tremble. We 
 gathered ourselves together, and ran to the place. What 
 we saw there you know, I suppose, as well as I do." 
 
 The memory of the spectacle he had seen still sickened 
 him, and Cadoudal felt him shudder under his own caress- 
 ing hand. 
 
 " Tell us what you saw ? " said Dusaulx. He spoke in 
 a grating voice, and kept his eyes fixed upon the empty 
 decanter, which he was now gently rolling round and 
 round upon its base. 
 
 The old repulsion came back upon Evan strongly, but
 
 164 
 
 he told the story, and flattered himself that he told it well. 
 Petrovna had exj^lained his own sang-froid only a few 
 hours before on the ground that lie was a veteran. Evan's 
 heai'ers were much older than himself, and more than once 
 gratified vanity gave a fillip to his heart, and kept his 
 goi"ge from rising. 
 
 " Tliere was a woman there," he said, in the course of 
 his narrative, " a handsome woman, who liad been blown 
 bodily from one of the houses, and had fallen in the street, 
 on the very bed on which she had been lying. Her feet 
 and her face were bare, but a balk of timber had fallen 
 upon her body and crushed it so flat that the timbers 
 seemed to lie level with the street." 
 
 As he narrated this ghastly detail M. Dusaulx ceased 
 to toy with the decanter, and not only raised those veiling 
 eyelids of his, but looked the speaker full in the face. 
 
 Evan encountered his glance with a kind of horror. The 
 man's upper lip was drawn away from a set of broken and 
 discolored teeth, and he was gnawing at his finger-nails. 
 His eyes shone with a ferocious joy. Evan stopped dead, 
 and M. Dusaulx's furtive eyes went back to the pattern of 
 the table-cloth. 
 
 " These scenes of human misery," said Cadoudal, " are 
 very appalling. I protest that our young friend's graphic 
 narration has afilicted me with a positive sense of sickness. 
 A faint sickness," he said, with one white hand upon his 
 white shirt-front. He looked about him with a slightly 
 distorted face, as if in imagination he saw the scene 
 described. 
 
 "It is not eas3%" said the soldier of fortune, " to make 
 war with rose-water. There is no making of omelettes 
 without breaking of eggs." He spoke the first phrase 
 haltingly, but he knew the French of the proverb, and 
 rattled it off quite glibly. 
 
 " Ah, my friend," said Cadoudal, " but we regret an
 
 165 
 
 accident of this nature. We make war, but we do not 
 willingly turn our fire upon our friends. It is for the wel- 
 fare of these unhappy wretches that we struggle. It is in 
 their interest that we brave all dangers." 
 
 At this moment a knock sounded at the door — a knock 
 so loud and imperative that M. Cadoudal started to his 
 feet with trembling hands, and a face as white as chalk. 
 lie had risen so suddenly that his portly figure gave a 
 shock to the table, which communicated itself to his ojipo- 
 site neighbors. 
 
 " Vieux lache ! " Ducos muttered, rubbing at his elbow, 
 while Dusaulx caught the falling decanter. 
 
 " No, my friend," Cadoudal retorted ; "I am cursed with 
 a nervous temperament, but I am no coward, as you may 
 perhaps find." 
 
 He steadied himself by an effort, and it was he who 
 opened the door. 
 
 " Our friend Frost," he said, and the friend Frost came 
 in, smoothing a chin beard with one hand, and carrying a 
 glossy hat and a pair of gloves in the other. The new- 
 comer shook hands all round Avith profound gravity. 
 
 " Mr. Petrovna, sir," said Mr. Frost, " our ambitious 
 young friend M. Laurent has at length succeeded in get- 
 ting himself talked about, but I am afraid he has exhausted 
 his chances of future usefulness." 
 
 " Our distinguished young friend Mr. Evan Rhys," 
 said Cadoudal, in vei-y labored English, " relates to us the 
 calamity of this morning, of which he was an eyewitness." 
 
 " Mr. Evan Rhys, sir," said the late comer, bowing with 
 an overstudied air, which miglit have been meant either 
 for burlesque or reality, " I am proud to meet you. You, 
 sir, I believe, are the latest martyr on the roll of freedom," 
 
 In spite of himself Evan looked for a sign of mockery 
 in Frost's face. He might almost as well have looked for 
 expression in a blank wall.
 
 166 
 
 "I think it riglit," said Cadoudal, "to inform our dis- 
 tinguished young friend of the purpose of our gathering." 
 
 M. Ducos, in an argot thickly interspersed with oaths, 
 expressed his personal determination that no confidence 
 whatever should be reposed in the stranger until he was 
 thoroughly guaranteed. He declared with emphasis that 
 he was not prepared to see his own head made into a saw- 
 dust pie for any body's gratification, 
 
 " My friend," said Petrovna, " we are engaged upon 
 particular business, and I must beg that 3'ou will not inter- 
 rupt us." 
 
 " Oh ! " Ducos grumbled. "If the business is particular, 
 that alters the question. It is no affair of mine." 
 
 " Let us get to business," said Cadoudal. " It is ex- 
 tremely important that we should secure a successor to 
 our poor, dear friend Laurent, Avho is lost to us so far as 
 this world is concerned. For my own part, I regard the 
 presence of our distinguished young friend here this morn- 
 ing as a circumstance entireh" providential." 
 
 "I object," said M. Ducos, speaking with his inevitable 
 garniture of oaths and curses, " to the introduction of con- 
 troversial matter." Xobody, he went on to say, had a 
 right in a mixed societ}^ to talk about Providence. For 
 his own part, he felt that such an allusion was an insult to 
 his intelligence. 
 
 " We Avill sa}'," said Petrovna, " that the circumstance 
 is fortunate." 
 
 "And thus," said Cadoudal, "find refuge from the 
 modern theologies in the arms of a heathen goddess." He 
 looked about him with a bland smile, which did not fade 
 even when he saw that nobody understood him. " I will 
 say, for the satisfaction of our friend Ducos, that I am 
 glad mj' young friend Evan "Rhys is here. When I read 
 that proclamation of freedom for the utterance of which 
 he suffered, I trembled with delight. I proclaimed aloud
 
 167 
 
 to myself in the solitude of my study that the good seed 
 had not been sown in vain." 
 
 The unappeasable Ducos asked why all this fuss was 
 being made about tlie new-comer. Nobody made a fuss 
 about him, who had served the cause faithfully for years. 
 
 "Pardon, my good Ducos," said Cadoudal, when the 
 good Ducos had cursed himself to a purple stand-still, and 
 stood banging at the table with a throttled execration half- 
 way between lungs and teeth — " pardon me, my good 
 Ducos, we all value your services, and recognize your 
 enthusiasm, but that is no reason why we should not 
 recognize the possibilities of the service which our young 
 friend can render us. You j'ourself in jonr calmer 
 moments will confess that those services may be in- 
 valuable." 
 
 Dusaulx plucked Ducos by the skirt of his blouse, and 
 whispered in his ear. The blackguard listened sulkily at 
 first, but by and by gave an assenting grin, and thence- 
 forth sat silent. 
 
 There were meat and wine and hone}'- in all this for the 
 delight of Evan Rhys's vanity ; but the memory of the 
 morning was still strong upon him. All the brave words 
 he had written, and all the swelling thoughts of indigna- 
 tion he had experienced, seemed to him for the time so 
 much cold cloud and vapor. He tried to tell himself that 
 philosophically he was as much convinced as ever of the 
 justice of his opinions, but the shrieks of wounded and 
 terrified women, the agonized cryings of mangled men, and 
 the wail of children Avere still in his ears. He saw again 
 one horrible human joint, a dismembered limb, bleeding 
 and ghastly, projecting from a heap of broken masonry 
 almost at his feet, and a sense of physical sickness oppressed 
 him. He conquered this, and rose to his feet white and 
 staring. 
 
 " Citizens," he said, " I deniand to be allowed a word.
 
 168 
 
 I am profoundly flattered by the confidence you place in 
 me, but I cannot accept the post you seem inclined to 
 offer." 
 
 Cadoudal laid a hand upon his arm. 
 
 " M}^ dear young friend, believe me, we shall ask noth- 
 ing of you which will revolt your sensibilities. \Yith the 
 permission of our friend Frost I will detail the scheme 
 which he has laid before us, and, having done so, I will ask 
 you if your objection still exists." 
 
 Friend Frost looked puzzled for an instant only. "When 
 Evan turned to look at him, he had screwed from his face 
 the faintest sign of expression, and sat there, a little with- 
 drawn from the table, blank of meaning, nursing big 
 polished silk hat in both hands between his knees. 
 
 " The American society," continued Cadoudal, " which 
 is so ably represented by our friend Frost, reports to us the 
 existence in the United States of a mass of human misery 
 and despair the like of which we cannot show even here in 
 Paris. It reports, further, the existence of regiments of 
 the wealthy. The poorest man, or shall I say the least 
 swollen ? of these plutocrats might buy up two or three of 
 the average rich men of our own country. America is the 
 land of monstrosities, but it is noAvhere so monstrous as in 
 its contrasts of wealth and poverty." 
 
 " Are we in for a sermon, daddy Cadoudal ? " Ducos 
 asked, with a grin. 
 
 " It is proposed," Cadoudal flowed on, with a passing 
 smile for the interruption — " it is proposed to offer these 
 plutocrats a lesson and a warning. Our distinguished 
 young friend must not look u])on us as a pitiless gang of 
 wretches who are eager to shed blood. AVe do not for the 
 present propose to castigate the vile society we see about 
 us. We intend nothing more than a warning. If the 
 warning should not be accepted, we may be moved to 
 sterner measures."
 
 169 
 
 " There is no making of omelettes without breaking of 
 eggs," said General Vincent. He had practised the phrase 
 already, but had not been absolutely pleased with his own 
 accent. He succeeded so well this time that he leaned 
 back in his chair and folded his arms in a smiling pride. 
 
 " Our friend Frost's suggestion," Cadoudal continued, 
 " strikes me, strikes all of us, as being at once practical 
 and humane. Our poor Laurent was engaged in the charg- 
 ing of bombs, and had he been discovered by the police, 
 there is no doubt that he would have been confounded in 
 the common mind with those vulgar criminals whose ap2:)ar- 
 ent association with us degrades our reputation." 
 
 Evan had half turned his chair, and gave eyes and ears 
 unreservedly to his old master in rhetoric. Ducos took 
 advantage of this circumstance to nudge Dusaulx, his 
 neighbor, *in the ribs, and Dusaulx smiled back at him with 
 ugly mirth. 
 
 " The purpose," pursued Cadoudal, " for which our 
 lamented Laurent was engaged in the occupation of Avhich 
 I have spoken was simply this : It was intended, when the 
 instruments Avere ready, to intrust them to a number of 
 safe hands, and to have them exploded at a safe hour, say 
 four o'clock in the morning, when nobody was likely to be 
 injured, in the hall of the American plutocrats. It was 
 intended to select two or three or more in every con- 
 siderable cit}^, and it was decided that at the hour at which 
 the demonstration was made a manifesto should be issued 
 by the post to this effect : ' To the capitalists of tlie 
 United States : To-day's demonstration is intended as a 
 warning. The society which proffers the warning is 
 resolved at all costs to put an end to the shameful 
 inequalities in the distribution of wealth which disgrace 
 society, and are provocative of misery and crime. The 
 society does not propose to itself at once to create a dead 
 level of equality. Its object, however, is simple and direct.
 
 no 
 
 It will for tlie moment permit the retention in the hands of 
 any inordinately Avealthy man a sum of one million francs, 
 but it insists inexorabl}^ that no larger sum than that should 
 be retained by an}^ individual, and that all and any over- 
 plus shall be surrendered to the state for the relief of the 
 poor and needy, the sick and aged, the maimed and halt 
 and blind, and them that have no helper.' " 
 
 " Mr. Cadoudal," said Frost, " that recommends itself to 
 my mind as a real gaudy scheme. It is practical, it is 
 humane, it is reasonable." 
 
 Frost had never heard of the scheme before, but he 
 fathered it with a perfect gravity. 
 
 "If no more than that were meant " said Evan. 
 
 " That," said Petrovna, " is our scheme." 
 
 " That," echoed Dusaulx and Ducos together, " is our 
 scheme." 
 
 " I shall rest satisfied," said General Vincent, " with no 
 such absurd lialf measures." If he had expressed himself 
 in Englisli, he might possibly have made some impression, 
 but, as it haj^pened, his halting French was intelligible 
 only to Petrovna, who brought down a grinding heel upon 
 the warrior's toe, and thus cut short his protest. 
 
 "Give Petrovna and myself a moment alone with our 
 young friend," said Cadoudal, rising and opening the bed- 
 room door. 
 
 Petrovna rose also, and between them Evan marched 
 into the bedroom. The door closed behind the retreating 
 figures, and Mr. Frost, who had been attentiveh' studying 
 the maker's name in his hat, looked up, and, permitting his 
 features to relax into a weary smile, winked slowly at the 
 general, who was nursing a patent leather foot in both 
 hands, and feeling it gingerly. 
 
 " Do you suppose, sir," said the general, "that I came 
 here to listen to this infernal milk-and-water nonsense ?" 
 
 " No, sir," said Frost. " Blood and brandy is your
 
 171 
 
 mixture, general, and j^ou like a stick of dj'namite to stir 
 it with. But can't you see that we must have a chemist 
 
 somehow to manipulate that d d stuff ? 1 don't lay 
 
 out to speak mucli French, and, as a j^oint of fact, I can't 
 express my notions in tlie language much better than you 
 can ; but I can take in what I hear, and I do assure you, 
 general, that I have been amused. Old Cadoudal is a real 
 glory, and I reckon, after all, it doesn't matter much 
 what that young man believes so long as 3'ou get your 
 material." 
 
 " Oh ! " said the general, and said no more. 
 
 Messrs. Ducos and Dusaulx had risen from the table, and 
 had drifted together into a corner of the room. They were 
 both convulsed with silent laughter, and each stood, hands 
 on knees, with head projected, and chin thrown upward, 
 purple and gaping with restrained mirth. 
 
 " That is our plan, my friend," said Ducos, when he had 
 breath to speak. 
 
 " Our friend Cadoudal," responded Dusaulx, " is a master 
 in rhetoric." 
 
 Then there fell a silence, and all four sat round the 
 table, awaiting the result of the conference in the bedroom. 
 The general produced a cigarette-case and solemnly 
 handed it round. They all began to smoke, and in about 
 five minutes' time the hum of voices in the adjoining apart- 
 ment ceased. The noise of the scraping of chairs on the 
 uncarpeted floor announced the breaking up of the con- 
 ference. Then the door opened, and Evan Rhys appeared, 
 pushed forward gently by the applausive hand of Cad- 
 oudal, who patted him again and again on the shoulder. 
 Evan was pale, but his lips were set, and his 03'es shone 
 with an unusual lustre. Petrovna brought up the rear, 
 rubbing his hands and smiling. 
 
 " The post of danger," said Cadoudal, " is the post of 
 honor. Our young friend has accepted it."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Evan was back in his own meagre lodging, which was 
 no better equipped than of old. He sat alone with rounded 
 shoulders over a crackling wood fire, while the spring rain 
 lashed at tlie window, and the late March wind howled in 
 the cliimney. He Avas sunk deep in thought when, without 
 warning, Petrovna opened the door and entered, shining 
 with rain from head to heel. He carried in one hand a 
 cardboard box, Avhich he placed with extreme delicacy on 
 the unclothed table in the middle of the room. 
 
 " Here," he said, "is the sample I promised you. It is 
 very small in quantity, but there is enough of it to enable 
 you to compare Laurent's results with your own." 
 
 Evan rose from his seat in rather a listless fashion, and 
 Petrovna saw that he held a letter in one hand. His keen 
 eye even detected the crest of the Due de Marais Castel 
 stamped in raised crimson and gold on the thick note- 
 paper. 
 
 " Do we keep up our aristocratic correspondence still ? " 
 he asked, with half a sneer. 
 
 "You ma,j read it if you like," said Evan ; and, tossing 
 the letter on to the table, he resumed his seat, half turning 
 his back upon his visitor. Petrovna, stretching out one 
 hand to take up the folded sheet, eyed him curiously for a 
 full minute, then, with an enigmatical nod of the head, took 
 up the letter and read it tlioughtfully, smiling to himself 
 from time to time. It ran thus : 
 
 " My Dear Evan : I have given instructions to Quahar 
 to call upon you at three o'clock to-morrow, Thursdaj*, after- 
 noon, and I shall be obliged if you will be at home to
 
 173 
 
 receive him. He will carry witli l)im certain solid reasons 
 for the arguments I have authorized him to offer, and you 
 will do well to accept them. It is beyond doubt that you 
 are a very clever young man, but it is also beyond doubt 
 that, like other very clever young men who have lived 
 before you, you have to pass through a stage of folly and 
 ferment. I have always liked you, and, in spite of your 
 recent absurdities, — and perhaps, to be quite frank, in psLVt 
 because of them, — I like you still. A milksop is my horror, 
 and I like a young fellow who has a spice of the devil in 
 him, and can make a fool of himself on good occasion. 
 But, my dear Evan, to be quite serious with j'ou, it is time 
 you took counsel with yourself. Let Folly attend her own 
 funeral, and do you listen to experience. If you choose to 
 return to j^our old footing with me, you shall be welcome. 
 The past month should have taught you something, and I 
 hope with all my heart you have had the good sense to 
 study its lessons." 
 
 This good-hearted and friendly epistle bore the duke's 
 usual slapdash, happy-go-lucky signature. Petrovna turned 
 the letter over twice or thrice before he sjDoke, looking 
 from it to its receiver. 
 
 " Well," he said at length, "have you answered this ?" 
 
 " No," said Evan, " I have not answered it." 
 
 His voice and bearing were alike sullen, and seemed to 
 proclaim some inward disturbance. 
 
 " The man mentioned here will call to-day," said 
 Petrovna. " I presume you mean to have your answer 
 ready ? " 
 
 "I suppose so," answered Evan, as sulkily as before. 
 
 Petrovna approached him, and laid a hand upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " My young friend " he began. 
 
 " Young friend ! " echoed Evan, rising savagely, and
 
 174 
 
 flinging away the hand. " Young friend ! Old enemy. 
 I am sick of your young friend. If we talk at all, let us 
 talk as man to man. Drop these airs of patronage." 
 
 Petrovna stared for a minute with a readable look of 
 anger in his glance, but his young friend, raging to the 
 other end of the room and back again, missed this. The 
 elder man forced a laugh, which was meant to express a 
 humorous allowance. 
 
 " I beg 3'our pardon, my dear Rhys," he said ; " I had 
 no notion of offending or of patronizing you. I am old 
 enough to be your father, that is all. Believe me, I grudge 
 you your youth much more than you are likely to envy me 
 my years. Come, come, shake hands." 
 
 Evan still flinging up and down the room with hasty and 
 disordered footsteps, and taking no notice of the prof- 
 fered hand, Petrovna sat down and held liis peace for a 
 little while. When he next spoke, it was in a changed 
 voice. 
 
 "Do you remember, Evan," he began, %vith a little tremu- 
 lous note in his speech, Avhich at once arrested the other's 
 attention — "do you remember Koollala? Do j'ou remem- 
 ber the day Avhen I was lost in the forest ? But for j^ou I 
 should have perished miserably. It was no virtue in you 
 to be there by accident, and you did no more for me than 
 any body would have done for any body, and yet I have 
 not forgotten, and shall never forget." 
 
 Evan did not refuse the outstretched hand this time. 
 On the contrary, he seized it eagerly, gripped it with 
 warmth, and turned aM'ay to hide a flash of moisture in his 
 e^'es. Petrovna made a derisive mouth behind him, and 
 quoted in a regretful voice a proverb of his own people : 
 " If not for the whip, then for honey." He spoke in his 
 native tongue, and Evan turned round with an involuntary 
 enquiry. 
 
 " What ? "
 
 175 
 
 " A verse of an old song," said Pctrovna, with a tone of 
 tender melancholy, " nothing more." 
 
 Evan resumed his seat, but before he did so he took up 
 the letter, glanced at it in an irresolute sort of way, and 
 dropped it back upon the table. The action looked signifi- 
 cant, for the sheet of paper slid slowly from between 
 finger and thumb, as if he parted with it reluctantly. 
 
 " Do you care for my advice on this matter ? " asked 
 Petrovna, flirting the edge of the thick notepaper with 
 his fore-finger. " It is an old soldier's motto — ' Quarter 
 yourself upon the enemy.' Apart from that it will be use- 
 ful to have it known that you have abandoned the foolish 
 and violent ideas for which you have suffered, and that 
 you are once again under the protection of so conservative 
 a personage as the Due de Marais Castel." 
 
 "I can't do that," said Evan. " Old Frenchy has been 
 very good to me. You remember how he used to feed his 
 pigs at KooUala ? I've been thinking, Petrovna. The sys- 
 tem's wrong, — the system's wickedly and insanely wrong, — 
 but there are good fellows even among the aristocrats, and 
 Marais Castel is one of them. I can't take his bread and 
 lie to him the while. I did it once, and I lived to be 
 ashamed of it." 
 
 " It would be useful," said Petrovna, in a half-resigned 
 voice. *' Under such auspices there would be no chance 
 of suspicion. And, don't you see, my dear Rhys," he went 
 on, as if warming to his theme — " don't you see that you 
 are at present a suspect, that you are at any moment liable 
 to a domiciliary visit from the police, that tlie duke's 
 protection would free you from any such risk at once, 
 that you might move again in the most respectable societ}^ 
 and do your work at home in tenfold security ? I do not 
 urge it against your conscience, but think it over, I beg of 
 you, my dear fellow — think it over." 
 
 " I have thought," said Evan, " until my head aches, and
 
 176 
 
 my heart is sick. If it were any one else, I might bring 
 myself to do it. I will live in one camp or the other, and 
 I will wear the clothes of the regiment I belong to. I am 
 not ashamed of my uniform, or afraid of the chances of 
 battle." 
 
 " Ah, well," sighed Petrovna, this time with an expres- 
 sion of complete siirrender, " it is a little bit of a pity 
 from the point of view of an old campaigner like myself ; 
 but youth will have its impulses of generosity and honor, 
 and, in short, ray dear boy, I could wish we were all like 
 you. And now let us get to business." 
 
 He unbuttoned his water-proof overcoat, streaming from 
 which a trail of wet had marked his progress about the 
 room, and, diving into an inner pocket, produced from it a 
 number of small packages, which he laid out upon the table. 
 
 " You will know more about this matter than I," he 
 said, " though I also have studied a little chemistry in my 
 day. Tlie ingredients, as you see, are separately harmless. 
 Cadoudal has, I suppose, already supplied you with the 
 formula." Evan nodded gloomily. " This," — lajnng a 
 delicate finger on the cardboard box, — " is the final result 
 of poor Laurent's experiments. I shall leave all these in 
 your charge, and as f or anj^ implements j^ou may want, you 
 must procure them for yourself. You can relj^ upon me 
 for funds, and, though I shall ask you not to be extravagant, 
 I shall allow you a complete discretion." 
 
 While he spoke, he drew a jDenknife from his waistcoat 
 pocket, and with great care cut the string which bound 
 the cardboard box. Next he removed the lid, and revealed 
 a packing of cotton-wool. He stripped this away with 
 extreme delicac}'^ and caution, and finally brought to sight 
 a test-tube, some five inches in length, and of the width of 
 a man's little finger. It was corked with a plug of cotton- 
 wool, and about three parts filled with a fine, greenish gray 
 powder.
 
 177 
 
 " Laurent told me," said Petrovna, holding out the box 
 for his companion's inspection, " that he had established 
 different degrees of sensitiveness according to temperature. 
 It is quite safe in a moderately cool place unless disturbed. 
 I fancy," he added contemplatively, " that poor Laurent 
 met his end by a disaster happening to some unguarded 
 trifle such as this. A mouse might roll this from a shelf, 
 and the shock of its explosion would awake any thing else 
 that might lie in the same room with it." 
 
 Evan packed up the diabolical little article in its cotton- 
 wool, restored the cardboard cover to its place, and stowed 
 the box away in the safest spot he could think of. He 
 locked away also the other packages Petrovna had brought 
 him. These contained the separate materials for the 
 manufacture to which he had j^ledged himself, and were, 
 in their separate condition, purely harmless. Petrovna 
 shook hands with him, with a great show of friendly 
 warmth, before leaving, and Evan once more sat down by 
 the fireside to think his own thoughts, and to dream his 
 own dreams. Mr. Quahar was about to visit him, and it 
 was not unnatural that Mr. Quahar should find a way into 
 his reveries. From Mr. Quahar himself to Mr. Quahar's 
 daughter, Effie, was a step neither long nor diflicult. At 
 any rate, it was taken in Evan Rhys's faiic}^, and by and 
 by indeed his whole thoughts were centred in the girl. 
 
 When the Comte de Montmeillard left Koollala, he left 
 behind him a humorous Scottish acquaintance who answered 
 to the name of Sandy Quahar. This same man had lent 
 Evan books to satisfy the early craving of his intelligence 
 for knowledge. Quahar hit upon an idea for a speculation 
 in which he thought he saw a great fortune, and with a 
 rather vague hope of success he wrote to the Due de Marais 
 Castel, setting forth his plans, and offering to become his 
 Excellency's agent in the matter. The genial nobleman 
 had but newly come in for his vast fortune, and was ready 
 J3
 
 178 
 
 to be generous to any body. He sent Sand}^ Quahai* the 
 money asked for, and, never expecting to hear of it again, 
 appointed Quahar to the solicited agency in a spirit of 
 solemn banter. The Scot, however, accepted the position 
 in perfect good faith, and his Excellency was surprised to 
 discover that he possessed a paying property in Australia, 
 a property which increased so rapidly year by year that at 
 last the very agent grew wealth}^ on his percentage. Then 
 Sandy Quahar burned to see home again, and longed to 
 settle his bones finally in the old kirkyard in which his 
 fathers lay. Coming home he must needs jjay his respects 
 to his patron and emplojer. He was received with genuine 
 respect and liking, for the duke had not met so many 
 honest men in his time that he could afford to allow such 
 a human curiosity as Quahar to go by him unregarded. 
 Now, for two or three years past, — the Australian property 
 had been prosperously sold, — Quahar had lived in Paris, 
 acting as a sort of factotum to his noble friend and 
 patron. 
 
 Evan remembered little EfEe as a barelegged and bare- 
 footed child, and Effie remembered Evan well enough as a 
 begrimed and freckled urchin. Tliey were both in a way 
 under the protection of the Due de Marais Castel, and they 
 were thrown a good deal together. That the lad was a 
 hare-brained enthusiast in politics was no bar to his falling 
 passionately in love. Whatever Evan Rhjs did, he did 
 Avith his whole heart and soul. 
 
 He sat thinking and thinking until the crackling logs 
 burned to a solid core of heat, and still sat thinking till the 
 glow scarcely shone through gray ashes. Ever3'^ man is 
 real to himself, and the maddest of madmen thinks his own 
 theories sane. Evan was profoundly convinced of the truth 
 of his own peculiar tenets, but he knew that to adhere to 
 them was to set up an impassable barrier between the girl 
 and himself.
 
 179 
 
 It seems rather a forlorn hope to attempt to enlist sym- 
 pathy for the sentimental woes of a young gentleman who 
 is resolved on the reformation of the world by the explo- 
 sion of bombshells. And yet, if the young man be abso- 
 lutely convinced that duty calls him in that curious direc- 
 tion, and if in order to follow the call of duty he 
 surrenders all that makes life dear and pleasant, he is at 
 least entitled to a wondering pity. The insane wretch who 
 gives battle to the dragons of delirium meets enemies as 
 real as were encountered by the valorous apostle who, 
 after the manner of men, fought with beasts at Ephesus. 
 We can't hold them in equal sympathy, we can't admire 
 blind Fury slinging flame, as we admire calm courage. 
 But the poor deluded fool is, after all, a man, and in his 
 own twisted and darkened mind is willing to suffer to 
 insure the approval of his own conscience. 
 
 To the mind of this particular young fanatic there was 
 a charm in the scheme that had been presented to him by 
 M. Cadoudal, and that charm lay in its complete moder- 
 ation. The longer he looked at it the more admirable 
 it seemed. Just to frighten the wicked rich and the 
 unspeakable aristocrat without effusion of blood, and to 
 bring about an immediate millennium of equality by the 
 destruction of an uncertain quantity of hall furniture, 
 seemed beautifully feasible. He was rising to a sense of 
 enthusiasm about the whole idiotic business when the 
 hour of three soutided from the clock of a neighboring 
 church, and, punctual to a second, Mr. Quahar appeared 
 upon the scene. He was once more accompanied by his 
 daughter, and at the sight of her Evan turned pale, and 
 began to tremble. 
 
 The Scotchman's humorous and sagacious face wore an 
 odd look of blended amusement and pity as he shook Evan 
 by the hand. 
 
 "I'm doubting, my lad," he said, "that you're not
 
 180 
 
 greatly given to the reading of Holy Writ, but maybe 
 you'll mind the parable of the prodigal son." 
 
 " Perfectly well, sir," Evan answered. 
 
 " You've been playing the part with consaderable vagor 
 an' the Due de Marais Castel, who's been just a father to 
 ye, is fulfill in' the other side o' the stor3\ He's wellin' 
 to kell the fatted calf for ye ef ye'll only come home 
 again," 
 
 "I have bad a letter from him," Evan said in answer. 
 "He told me that you Avould be here at this time, and 
 asked me to be at home to meet you." 
 
 " Well, lad," said Quahar, " ye've had a wee bit experi- 
 ence, and experience, they saj', is the mother of wesdora. 
 I'm not expectin' that she's borne ye a vary large family so 
 far, but haven't ye just a leetle bit of a bantlin' to show 
 us?" 
 
 " If you mean to ask me," Evan retorted coldly, 
 " whether my recent experience has changed m}'^ opinions, 
 I can only answer ' No.' " 
 
 " Upon my worrd," cried Quahar, " ye're about the most 
 obstinate young idiot " 
 
 Effie's restraining hand touched his coat-sleeve light as a 
 snow-flake. 
 
 " Well, well, well," he cried, " it's no use talkin'." 
 Then, with a sudden determination to fulfil his duty in 
 spite of irritations, he took out his pocket-book and drew 
 from it a note for a thousand francs, which he laid upon 
 the table. " That," he said, " is the offered month's allow- 
 ance. I shall just leave it here in any case, and if you 
 don't like to accept it, ye can just send it back again. 
 That's no afeer o' mine." 
 
 "I cannot possibly accept it," Evan answered. "The 
 conditions which accompany the gift are too hard. I am 
 asked to surrender my convictions." 
 
 " D your convections," said Quahar, rumpling bis
 
 181 
 
 hair with both hands in an agony of irritation. "Yes, yes, 
 yes, Effie, I beg your j^ardon. But what's to be done with 
 a felly like this, that's hardly out of his swaddling-clothes, 
 and talks about his convections as if he were a bald 
 philosopher of ninety ! I tell ye, man, that ye're notliin' 
 less than maddenin'. Ye haven't a right to any convections 
 at your time o' life. It's just your business to be sittin' 
 humble and watchful at the feet of experience. Your 
 convections, as you call them, are so much clotted non- 
 sense. You're clean distempered wi' vanity." 
 
 He raised both hands in a gesture almost tragic. 
 
 " At least, sir," said Evan, " I prove my sincerity." 
 
 "Brag," snarled the old man, turning on him fiercely. 
 "Brag, and nothin' but brag. Ye're just attitudinizing 
 before the distorted raerror of your own intelligence. God 
 forgive me for the use o' that last word, but it was the 
 only one that I could find. Ye're thinkin' it looks great 
 and magnanimous to refuse an easy livin', and I can tell 
 ye that ye're just a fool for your pains. Ye take in no- 
 body, y' idiotic young poseur." 
 
 "Do you know, sir," Evan answered, "I take some 
 credit at least for keeping my temper." 
 
 " Ye deserve none," Quahar shouted. " Ef your prenci- 
 ples were worth a feg to je, 3'e'd fight for them," 
 
 "I shall fight, sir," said Evan grimly, "with the right 
 people, at the right place, and at the proper time." 
 
 " Well," said the Scot, with that pretence at coolness 
 which is so favorite a device Avith men who have com- 
 pletely surrendered themselves to anger, " I'll say no 
 more. Ef the openion o' one honest man's an^^ use to ye, 
 ye can have it. Ye're without exception the most rcdicu- 
 lously vain j^oung gentleman I've ever met in my life, and 
 your convections, as ye call them, will have done the Avorld 
 some service when they land ye at tlie gallows." 
 
 With this statement, uttered witli a philosophic calm
 
 182 
 
 and slowness, he snatched up his hat, banged it savagely 
 twice upon the table, whirled round upon his axis, and 
 sliot from the room. 
 
 Evan looked after him with a bitter smile. His eye fell 
 upon the bank-note, which still lay upon tlie table, and he 
 offered it to his remaining visitor. 
 
 " Pra}' oblige me by returning this to your father, Miss 
 Qualiar." 
 
 " I would rather not do that," she answered. "I have 
 no right to speak, but are you justified in bringing so 
 much grief among your friends? Every-body who knew 
 you looked forward to a career for you. Oh, Mr. Rliys, 
 you must admit that your opinions are extreme. You 
 must know that the great majority of people think them 
 even mad and wicked. I am only a girl, and I know I 
 have no power to persuade you, but would it not be wise 
 to weigh those opinions for a year or two before being 
 quite sure of them ? Are you quite sure of being right, 
 when all the woi'ld believes you to be wrong?" 
 
 " Do you remember my father. Miss Quahar ? " he 
 asked. " lie was hanged fourteen years ago for the mur- 
 der of a man whom he killed by accident in self-defence. 
 That man ruined my father, as his father had ruined my 
 grandfather. There was a feud generations long between 
 the two families. The gentleman followed the laborer 
 with curses for a mile or two, and at last would have 
 flogged him like a dog. The law hanged the sufferer, and 
 had nothing but pity for the tyrant. Do you remember 
 my mother ? Wliat was her crime ? She tried to save her 
 husband, and her reward Avas ])cnal servitude. Do you 
 remember my baby sister? I have seen you nurse her 
 when you were a child. They tore my mother away from 
 her, and she was left in that lonely shanty. Nobody heard 
 her crj'ing, nobody entered the house. She died there 
 of starvation, tlie pitiable little mite. I remember these
 
 183 
 
 things, if other people forget them. The law is one mon- 
 strous engine of cruelty and ojjpression. Every hour of 
 every day the rich are at active war against the poor. 
 Society is built on pillage. There is no denying these 
 things. There is no disguising them. To ask me to deny 
 them is like asking me to swear that noon is midnight. I 
 don't choose to sell my conscience for a thousand francs a 
 month. So long as I have head and heart and brains, I 
 will use them to do such work as one man can to break 
 up the reign of selfish wickedness." 
 
 " There is trouble everywhere," the girl answered, Avhen 
 at last the impetuous torrent of his speech had ceased. 
 "I'm afraid there will be trouble always, but surely all the 
 rich are not cruel and wicked and selfish. You should 
 know that. Here is one little proof." She laid her hand 
 upon the bank-note. 
 
 " A very little proof indeed," said Evan. " Have you 
 any guess at the income of the Due de Marais Castel ? 
 I suppose that what he spends on what he does not need 
 would find bread for a thousand hungry people every day. 
 The poor get a crumb from the rich man's table now and 
 then, but what right has the rich man to his table while 
 millions starve ? I will touch none of his money. Miss 
 Quahar. If I were myself a rich man, I should think mj^- 
 self a criminal. I would purge myself of that offence in 
 a day. Wealth is the crime which darkens all the world, 
 and poverty is its sliadow." 
 
 " I am too young and ignorant," she answered, " to argue 
 these large questions ; but I know that there is a great 
 deal to be said on the other side, and I should think it 
 worth while to listen for a time." 
 
 Evan was silent. The girl looked about the sordid and 
 comfortless room ; the discolored walls, the bare floor, the 
 meagre table and the chair or two, the smouldering ashes 
 on the hearth, seemed all to lay a chilly hand upon her.
 
 184 
 
 Her eyes travelled back to Evan with a kind of pity in their 
 glance. The rain drove noisily against the window, and 
 the March wind groaned and rumbled in the wide chimney. 
 The young fellow in his shabby dressing-gown and shabbier 
 slippers looked altogether forlorn to the girl's eyes. 
 
 " M}^ father doubted your sincerity," she said, moved 
 by a sudden touch of kindness. "That was unjust. You 
 have given up a great deal." 
 
 " I have given up more than I have a right to say," he 
 answered, " As for this," — he waved his hands scornfully 
 about, to indicate the poor garniture of the room, — " I care 
 less than nothing. I was bred to hunger and to poverty, 
 and it has cost me very little trouble to learn the lessons of 
 my childhood over again." He paused, and the girl found 
 no answer. She was really very genuinely sorry for him. 
 He seemed to her to be throwing his life away for a chimera, 
 and she not onl^'- believed him to be miserably mistaken, 
 but felt in some way that his error was a crime. He had 
 grown to be a handsome fellow, though his face was 
 marred by its settled look of anger and obstinate discon- 
 tent, and his personal aspect had some weight with her, 
 though she had no suspicion of the fact. 
 
 Evan dropped into his old seat, as if he had forgotten 
 her very presence. He threw a last billet of wood on the 
 embers of the fire, and sat for a minute staring at it. 
 
 " I don't know," he said at length, "why I shouldn't 
 tell you. You will go away this afternoon, and it is very 
 unlikely that we shall ever meet again." 
 
 "I hope we sliall," she answered, trying to speak brightly. 
 
 " I hope with all my soul we never shall," he answered. 
 "That sounds brutal, doesn't it ? I don't mean it so, but 
 your road, Miss Quahar, lies one way, and mine another. 
 We shall live in different camps, and fight on different 
 sides, for this is a matter in Avhich everv-body fights — 
 nobody can help fighting." He was silent again for a
 
 185 
 
 second or two, and the girl waited with no guess of Avhat 
 was coming. " That isn't what I had to say," he went on, 
 with his eyes still fixed on the dead fire. "You were 
 saying I had sacrificed something, and perhaps it's just as 
 well that I should tell you of the only sacrifice which has 
 cost rae any thing. If I cared to accept tlie bribe which is 
 offered to me, I might stand a chance, perhaps. I don't 
 know. I might stand a chance of winning the only thing 
 in the world I greatly care for." 
 
 "What is that?" she asked simply. 
 
 The answer astonished her beyond measure. 
 
 " You," said Evan, without lifting up his eyes. " I might 
 perhaps have conquered your affection and esteem, but if I 
 had tried, I should liave despised myself. You don't care 
 for me, except in the way of friendship, and never will, 
 and that's a happy thing for both of us. I never meant to 
 tell you, but I see no reason wliy you shouldn't know." 
 
 The girl found not a word in answer to this strange 
 declaration, and before she had recovered the complete 
 mastery of herself a rapid and angry footstep came up the 
 staircase with a sort of vehement stamp, and Quahar burst 
 into the room. 
 
 " Ye're here, are ye ?" he said. "I'd gone nigh half a 
 mile before I remembered ye. Ye'll do nothing with that 
 sulky heathen. Come away ! "
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 QuAHAE bustled his daughter down the stairs and into 
 the street, himself far too angry and excited to notice any 
 little peculiarity which might have displayed itself in her 
 manner. For a minute or two tliere seemed to be nothing 
 in the girl's head but an empty ringing, but as this sub- 
 sided it shaped itself into words, as if it tolled regretfully : 
 " Poor Evan ! poor Evan ! poor Evan ! " over and over again. 
 His declaration had taken her as mucli by surprise as even 
 the manner of it had done. Slie walked as if in a cloud, 
 unconscious of the things about her. Her father had put 
 up a great umbrella, on which the driving rain pattered 
 noisil3\ When she awoke a little to herself, this thin 
 shelter seemed to shut her out from all tlie world, except 
 for a mere strip of wet and gleaming pavement. 
 
 The two had walked side by side for some minutes 
 before she became aware that her father, with one arm 
 through hers, was talking in a loud and excited tone. She 
 knew then that he had been expressing himself pretty 
 much in the same fashion ever since they had left Evan's 
 room. 
 
 " Yon lad," Quahar was saying, " is just the vary deevil 
 for obstenacy and self-opcnion. He showed it when he 
 was a child. That walk of his from JVIelbourne to Ade- 
 laide — five hundred miles across a country that's four-fifths 
 desert ! What'd bring a baby undertaking a journey like 
 that unless he had tiie deevil in 'im ? He's been like that 
 ever since. When once he gets a purpose in 'im, y've no 
 more hope of changing him than you would have of con- 
 verting a brick wall. It's just siiii[>le waste of breath 
 
 180
 
 187 
 
 t' argue with him, A strong will's one thing, but that 
 brutal kind of insensate obstenacy is another." 
 
 They walked a full mile, and Quahar walked obliquely 
 and talked breatlilessly all the way, and all the while in his 
 daughter's brain tolled, " Poor Evan ! poor Evan ! " 
 
 She was glad to escape lier father when she reached the 
 house in which they lodged. Quahar made no objection 
 to her leaving him, for both were half drenched with the 
 storm, and a change of raiment was as necessary for him 
 as for her. But Ions: after he had returned to the sitting- 
 room, and had begun to solace himself with a pipe and an 
 unwonted glass of whiskey, his daughter lingered, sunk in 
 her own thoughts, and unregardful of the passage of tlie 
 hours. She was eighteen years of age, and had never had 
 a love. She had never troubled her head much about 
 young men, but she had always liked Evan better than any 
 body except her father, and until the misguided young 
 man had taken to journalism they had been on terms of 
 great intimacy and friendsliip. And now Evan, in that 
 extraordinary fashion, had told her he loved her, that she 
 was more to him than any thing else in the world, and in 
 the same breath had bidden her farewell for good and all. 
 
 Poor Evan ! 
 
 She was quite sure that she was not in the least in love 
 with him, but she was very, very sorry that he should 
 waste his life, and throw away all the chances which were 
 spread before him, and sail to his own shipwreck with 
 those foolish windy doctrines to fan him on his course, and 
 the coast of Despair before him. She remembered Avhen 
 she had first come over from Australia how well every- 
 body had spoken of him, and how proud her father's noble 
 patron was of his prot^g^. Now he had ruined himself, 
 and was altogether lonely and abandoned by his own 
 deliberate choice. The ideas for which he had chosen to 
 cast his life away were hopelessly foolish. Even a girl
 
 188 
 
 could see that, she told herself, not suspecting her own 
 clear masculine judgment and the Scottish prudence in- 
 herited from her father. And then — and then — and then, 
 after all, there was something admirable in the sacrifice. 
 Had it been made in a cause she could have approved, it 
 would have seemed altogether admirable and splendid. 
 He was a Quixote tilting at windmills, absurd, and even 
 laughable, if it were not for the sadness of the thing. 
 But he was brave and resolute, and scorned discomfort. 
 And then he cared for her more than any thing in the 
 world. 
 
 Poor Evan ! 
 
 She was quite sure that her own heart was untouched 
 except by pity ; but the more she thouglit of him the 
 more the pity grew, until at last it forced a tear or two 
 from her eyes. She felt a gust or two of anger at her 
 father's treatment of the misguided young man. Nobody 
 could be expected to yield his opinions before a contempt 
 so peremptory as he had displa\'ed. Her father was entirely 
 in the right and Evan entirely in the wrong, and j'et surely 
 it would have been possible to be more conciliatory. She 
 was more than half resolved to attempt the work of con- 
 version in her own person, but after what liad happened 
 that looked imi)Ossible. The confession he had made 
 placed a bar between them which looked as if it must hold 
 them asunder alwa^^s. 
 
 The days and the weeks went on. Smiling April fol- 
 lowed roaring March, and the trees on the boulevard and 
 about the Champs filysecs began to glitter with the first 
 sign of summer's greenery. She thought a great deal 
 about Evan, and heard a great deal about liim. Her father 
 had paid hira more than one visit, and spoke of him occa- 
 sionally with a touch of hope. There might be some 
 lingering remnant of reason in the lad's head, after all, he 
 began to say. He had laid down that revolutionary pen.
 
 189 
 
 it seemed, and had somehow contrived to refit his labora- 
 tory. He had gone back to his chemical studies, and that 
 to Qualiar's mind was a hopeful augury. 
 
 " The lad's not a fool for want of brains," said Quahar. 
 " Outside that idiot craze, he's as bright a lad as ye'll find 
 in a day's march. But he sent back the bank-note I left 
 with him, and he just refuses to argue, or listen to argu- 
 ment, ' I've med up my mind,' says he — the sulky parrot. 
 He'll sa}^ that all day ef ye'll lesten t'm." 
 
 At least, it was well, so the girl thought, that he should 
 have resumed his studies, and have ceased to write the 
 revolutionary rubbish which had awakened such a clatter 
 among his friends. With this dawn of a possible change 
 in Evan's conduct there came also a first faint dawning of 
 another sort. For if Evan, after all, were going to give up 
 his madness, and to become a respectable member of 
 society, it was not utterly out of possibility that a renewal 
 of his strange declaration might be made. If he really 
 cared for her — if she were really more to him than any 
 thing else in the world! She mused often about these 
 things in the quiet of her own chamber, or when she sat 
 sewing and seemed to listen while her fatlier read aloud 
 some instructing and improving volume of the didactic 
 sort, an exercise of which he was inordinately fond. But 
 it was in her free daily rambles about the bright Paris 
 streets that she had her best time for thinking, and at 
 such times Evan was very often in her mind. 
 
 She was not in the least like a French young lady, who 
 cannot move anywhere without an attendant dragon. 
 She, indeed, hardly submitted to the infinitely milder 
 restraint which is imposed upon the English maiden. She 
 had passed her childhood and early girlhood in the colo- 
 nies, and, whether in the bush or in the city, had been 
 accustomed to roam where she pleased, without let or hin- 
 drance. She brought that unconventional habit to Paris
 
 190 
 
 with her, and if sometimes an impertinent boulevardier 
 stared at her, or some foppish jackanapes presumed to fall 
 in step at her elbow, she regarded him no more than the 
 pavement she trod upon, and was not in the remotest 
 degree inclined to be afraid. Some men were built that 
 way — some, but not nlan3^ The few who were so built 
 were curiously contemptible, but otherwise without inter- 
 est of any sort. 
 
 So she thought until one bright afternoon in early sum- 
 mer when over the hard, beaten earth of the Elysian Fields 
 of Paris the shadows of the leaves and the netted sun- 
 beams danced and tumbled over each other to a music she 
 could fancy, but could not hear. The air was balmj^, the 
 sun was not too warm for smart walking, in which she 
 delighted, the children were playing about with a thou- 
 sand dancing globes of many colors, the bonnes, in Alsatian 
 raiment, strolled with their young charges, or sat knitting 
 and gossiping together — the whole scene, in short, was 
 what it has been on any summer afternoon for many years 
 past, and Effie was enjoying it with all her heart, when she 
 was aware of a dandy shadow by the side of her own. 
 The shadow was that of a person of the male sex who 
 wore a tall hat, raking a little to one side, and a tall collar. 
 The shadow of a hand carried the shadow of a walking- 
 cane, and Piffle's nostrils told licr that the owner of the 
 shadow smelled of wine. Quite suddenly she became aware 
 of the fact that the person at her side, whoever he might 
 be, had been walking elbow to elbow with her for some 
 considerable number of seconds, and at that discovery she 
 turned abruptly, and walked toward an avenue on the left. 
 As it happened, this avenue was almost deserted, and it is 
 conceivable that the tipsy fop who followed her accepted 
 this fact as a kind of tacit assignation. Before she had 
 taken a dozen paces he was again up to her elbow. The girl 
 had no want of native courage, and of course in broad day-
 
 191 
 
 light, and within sight and liearing of hundreds of people, 
 she was in no danger of real molestation. She stopped as 
 abruptly as she had turned, and, with a glance of majestic 
 scorn, traversed the intruder on her privacy from top to 
 toe. The man was a decent-looking fellow enough had he 
 been sober, and might, indeed, by his aspect have been 
 something very like a gentleman in his ordinary move- 
 ments. But now, after a too generous breakfast with the 
 fork and eke the bottle, he had grown in his own foolish 
 mind to an inescapable killer of ladies — a dead shot, 
 before whose conquering aim a bird of any plumage was 
 sure to fall. The poor man was so exceedingly tipsy that 
 he accepted the pause and the measured glance of con- 
 tempt as signs of yielding to his own conquering graces. 
 He said : "Bon jour, charmante," and made as if he would 
 embrace her. Miss Effie easily evaded him, and walked 
 on again, still, unluckily for the tipsy gentleman, in the 
 direction of the less peopled avenue. This was nothing 
 more nor less to his absurd imagination than a renewal of 
 the lady's former acceptance of his advances. So he fol- 
 lowed with an amused joy, and actually got an arm round 
 the lady's Avaist. But at that instant his rakish hat was 
 knocked suddenly from his head, and he himself, being 
 seized by the back of the neck, was spun half a dozen 
 yai-ds away, and was only saved from falling by a friendly 
 tree. He saw before him, between the conquered lady and 
 himself, a young man of fiery aspect, Avho, to judge by bis 
 face and attitude, was eager to renew the assault he had 
 already committed. 
 
 "The poor gentleman is tipsy," Effie said ; "don't hurt 
 him, Evan." 
 
 The poor gentleman, surveying the situation with a face 
 of foolish amazement, made a wrinkled progress toward 
 his hat. He stooped for it several times, and straightened 
 himself each time laboriously, and, having finally assured
 
 192 
 
 himself of his own centre of gravity, secured his head- 
 gear, brushed the frayed silken nap on his arm, and 
 walked awa}^, humming : 
 
 " ' Sou vent femme varie 
 Bieu sot est qui s'y fie.' " 
 
 He was allowed to lurch on his way in peace, for Effie, 
 recognizing Evan, held out her hand to him with a pretty, 
 embarrassed grace, and the young man instaiitly took it in 
 his own. He had been watcliing the girl, so it transpired, 
 for half an hour past, and, although this did not transpire, 
 he was profoundly grateful for the opportunity Avhich 
 chance had aiforded him. It is one thing to say farewell, 
 and another to experience division and solitude. And 
 Evan's mind had been travelling in the same direction as 
 that which Effie's had taken. He had been wondering if 
 it were not possible, at least in part, to convert her to his 
 views, and in this case, as in millions of others, the wish 
 was father to belief. His own wild theories were to liini 
 the very acme of common-sense. Otherwise assuredly he 
 would not have held them. It was not to be supposed 
 that a young woman of Effie's training Avould be brought 
 to see the absolute moderation of M. Cadoudul's scheme 
 for the employment of the bomb, but it was b}^ no means 
 necessary that she should hear of that scheme. 
 
 Of course Effie admired her protector's courage. He 
 had looked very cool and resolute, and ready to face an 
 army of such a kind as the person he had just sent about 
 his business. She was pleased to see that he was much 
 better attired than he had been when they had last encoun- 
 tered, and she argued, as much from his appearance as 
 from the news l)er father had brought hei', that Evan was 
 making a backward step toward civilization, and that the 
 task to which she had set herself Avould be easier of accom- 
 plishment than she had fancied.
 
 193 
 
 "Thank you very mucli, Evan," she said warmly, with 
 a boyish grip of the liand, and a boyish candor shining in 
 her eyes. " Thank you very much indeed." 
 
 "Did the fellow frighten you?" asked Evan, looking 
 vengefully after the zigzagging figure. 
 
 "Oh, no," Effie answered, with a little laugh. "I don't 
 think I was frightened, but it was certainly very disagree- 
 able to be embraced by a tipsy stranger in the open air. 
 If you had not come up just in time, it would have been 
 still more unpleasant." 
 
 " Was the blackguard rough with you ?" Evan enquired. 
 " Did he hurt you ? " 
 
 " Not in the least," she answered, disposed to make 
 light of the incident, and to discharge it from her 
 memory. 
 
 " You will allow me to escort you home," said Evan. 
 " You must not run the risk of further insult." 
 
 "There is not the slightest fear of that," she answered 
 merrily. " It is a thing that never happened before, and 
 is not likely, I hope, ever to happen again." 
 
 " All the same," Evan insisted, " I shall be glad if you 
 will allow me to see you home." 
 
 " Oh, but I'm not going home for an hour or an hour 
 and a half to come," the girl responded. " I have only 
 begun my afternoon's holiday. I Avalk here alone every 
 day in fine weathei"." 
 
 She stopped suddenly in some confusion. The state- 
 ment, offered in all innocence, sounded like an assigna- 
 tion. 
 
 Evan was also silent and confused, and with excellent 
 reason. At their last meeting he had declared his love 
 and its hopelessness, and now that they were again brought 
 face to face he had nothing to say. There was no renew- 
 ing the old theme so abruptly broken, and commonplaces 
 looked hateful and intolerable. Efiie had the better 
 13
 
 194 
 
 courage of the two, as women almost ahva3's have under 
 similar conditions. 
 
 " You can see me home if you wish," she said, " but I 
 "want you to walk with me first, and I want to have a 
 serious talk with you." 
 
 " Yes," said Evan rather stupidly. 
 
 "Come," said the girl, "you must help rae. You must 
 not be lumj^y and gloomy and unsympathetic. I want to 
 see if we two young people cannot contrive to understand 
 each other." 
 
 Evan met the bright and tender gayety of her manner 
 very grimly. 
 
 " There is not much use in trying for that, I am afraid," 
 he said ; and the pair walked on in silence under the 
 leafy trees. 
 
 The bustle of the crowd in the main avenue and the 
 noise of the romping children grew fainter, and at length 
 only came as a confused murmur to the ear. 
 
 " Evan," said the girl suddenly, "j^ou have given me a 
 right to speak to 3'ou. I am going to take it." 
 
 lie turned upon her with a beating heart, and saw that 
 her cheeks were paler than common, and that lier lips 
 were trembling ever so little. She met his startled and 
 wondering look bravely, and her clear eyes looked into his 
 with a candid and fearless affection, 
 
 " You have not forgotten what you said to me when we 
 last met," she said to him. 
 
 " Forgotten ! " he echoed, as if the word were the 
 prelude to a great outburst. He said no more, how- 
 ever, but went drooping along, gluml}'^ enough, at her 
 side. 
 
 " I have not forgotten either," said Effie. She spoke 
 with an ease and tranquillity that considerably astonished 
 herself. " You must let me speak all that is in my mind, 
 dear Evan, for I think I may be able to help you, and do
 
 195 
 
 you good. You told me there was nobody in tlie world 
 for whom you cared so much as you care for me." 
 
 "Nobody," said Evan, sullenly at first, and then with 
 passion : " Nobody ! " 
 
 " I have thought over all you said," she went on calmly, 
 " and I am glad you like me, because that will help me to 
 have some weight with you. Except my father, I don't 
 like any body in the world as much as I do you." 
 
 " I didn't talk of liking," Evan broke out, for the con- 
 versation between them was naturally carried on in Eng- 
 lish, and the difference, which might have been slurred 
 over had they spoken in French, stood out" too clearly to 
 escape perception. " I talked of love," he went on des- 
 perately, " and I was a fool to have spoken a word. I had 
 no right to breathe a Iiint to j^ou. The world isn't going 
 to be changed in an hour or a year. Things as they are 
 may last your time. Your life may be bright and happy. 
 Mine can't be, and I must travel my own painful road 
 alone." 
 
 "But why," she urged him, "should your road be pain- 
 ful? You have everything on your side : jouth, health, 
 and friends. You are clever. There is nothing to pi'e- 
 vent you from making a name and a place for j^ourself." 
 
 "I shall do that," he answered. "But it will not be a 
 name j^ou would care to hear, or a place that you would 
 choose to see me in." 
 
 His words chilled her more than she cared to own, but 
 she made a pretence of valuing them lightl}'. 
 
 " Come, come, Evan, this is mere melodrama. Let us 
 be serious. Let us talk as friends talk. Let us have no 
 secrets between us, and no misunderstandings." 
 
 "I speak of love," said Evan, pressing both clenched 
 hands against his heart with undemonstrative inward 
 rage, " and you speak of friendship. I was a fool to speak 
 at all, for I know that there is no possibility of any thing
 
 196 
 
 between us. You will go on in j^our own way, and I shall 
 go on in mine. You will be taught bj' those about you to 
 execrate my very name, and every day that passes over us 
 will lead us further apart from each other." 
 
 "I am sure," she answered steadil}-, "that I shall never 
 execrate your name whatever hapi^ens, for I am sure that 
 whatever you do will be done because you think you see 
 your duty in it. That is my main reason for liking you, 
 and admiring you." 
 
 " There have been some women," he returned, " who 
 have fought in such a cause as that in which I am enlisted. 
 Not many. And they have not been of your type." 
 
 " What is the matter with my type, Evan ? " she asked 
 him patiently enough. 
 
 "I find no fault with the type," he answered, with a 
 passing touch of gayety and affection; "but you have 
 none of the enthusiasm which impels a woman to lay down 
 her life for an ideal." 
 
 " You mean," she answered, lifting her straight, sensible 
 eyebrows, "that I am not flighty, and that I have a little 
 saving common-sense. You see, Evan, I am very young, 
 and, in comparison witli you, I am very ignorant ; but you 
 remember what old John Selden said : ' Nobody is the wiser 
 for his learning. Wit and wisdom are born with a man.' 
 I suppose it's the same with a woman. The world has 
 always seemed to me such a great, heavy, sluggish thing, 
 so impossible for any one man to move. There are hun- 
 dreds of things to regret in it, hundreds of things to mend, 
 but each one of us can only do his duty. The gi'cat big 
 ball goes on rolling, jon know, and we can neither stop it 
 nor turn it aside. If you will let me speak quite plainly 
 to you, Evan " 
 
 " Certainl}'-," he said. He Avas going to demolish her 
 whole argument by and by, and could afford to be gra- 
 cious for a moment.
 
 197 
 
 "Well, then," she went on, "I think the rock on which 
 all you fine theorists come to grief is egotism, pure and 
 simple. You think your ideas are of value because you 
 hold them. You are here on tliis monstrous planet for an 
 hour or two. You can't even lift yourself for a second at 
 a time if you tug your liardest, and you think you can 
 lift the whole world. You are in too much of a hurry. 
 The social rosebud doesn't open fast enough for jou, and 
 you want to pull it open, as if that was the way to grow a 
 flower. I am not trying to hurt you, Evan, I am only 
 trying to tell you exactly what I think. The root of all 
 your trouble, and the root of the trouble of all the people 
 who think as you do, is an impatient vanity." 
 
 " Aiul so," said Evan sardonically, " we are all to sit 
 down in humility and patience, and to be ground body and 
 soul by this diabolical social mill. We are to see Lazarus 
 at the door of Dives, without even the crumbs which fall 
 from the rich man's table, or so much as a friendly dog to 
 lick his sores. And we are not to gird at Dives. We are 
 not to tell Dives that he is a sordid and selfish beast, or 
 even to notice that he sickens with his own excess of 
 pleasure." 
 
 "Why not," she answered — "why not tell the honest 
 truth in all places? You are clothed in no purple, Evan, 
 but you wear fine linen. I don't think that you fare 
 sumptuously every day, but you have enough to eat, and a 
 roof to cover you. Sometimes when I see the very poor I 
 am ashamed to be well dressed and well fed and happy, 
 and to know that I have done nothing to deserve it all. 
 But these things are not ordered by you and by me. We 
 can't help them. We can't change them. There have 
 always been rich and poor." 
 
 " There's the cloven hoof of the true conservative," said 
 Evan. " As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall 
 be, world without end, Amen. If the fault on our side is
 
 198 
 
 vanity and impatience, the fault on yours is indolence and 
 selfishness, and I would rather overestimate my power a 
 little, and be in a little bit of a hurry, than do nothing at 
 all because no man can do much." 
 
 " Let us sit down," she said ; for in the heat of speech, 
 Evan had begun to walk at a jiace which gave the girl 
 some trouble to keep up with him. There was a shaded 
 seat near at hand, and he obeyed her wish. 
 
 A slow and statel}^ step drew near, but neither of them re- 
 garded it until M.Paul Cadoudal paused before them, with 
 a big umbrella over his shoulder, and a dove-colored hat 
 surmounting his benevolent head of silvery hair. M, Paul 
 Cadoudal bad recognized Evan a full five minutes back, 
 and had meant to have speech with him. He himself was 
 a bachelor, and had a natural and legitimate dread of the 
 womenfolk of all his co-conspirators. 
 
 " Bon jour," said monsieur, with his most amiable and 
 winning smile. " Your pardon, mademoiselle." It was 
 im2)ossible to look at Efiie and to imagine for a moment 
 that she was such a chance companion as a young man of 
 rackety taste might find in the Elysian Fields at that hour. 
 He raised his hat, and stood before her with his tall bald 
 forehead and his genial smile, a venerable and beautiful 
 figure. " My young friend may perhaps do me the honor 
 to introduce me." 
 
 Evan performed the ceremony of introduction, and M. 
 Cadoudal shook hands with the young lady with a paternal, 
 and, indeed, almost a caressing, air. 
 
 " You will come to me," he said, addressing Evan 
 suavely, " at your earliest possible convenience. I have 
 business of the utmost importance to yourself, and the 
 sooner I can explain it to you the bettor." 
 
 Every-body knew M. Paul Cadoudal, and Effie, J'oung 
 as she was, and a foreigner, was familiar with his dis- 
 tinguished name. She was honestly jjleased that Evan
 
 199 
 
 should have so eminent a friend. M. Cadoiulal was, to be 
 sure, a man of advanced opinions, but he Avas no extremist, 
 and his influence was bound to be exerted on the right 
 side. 
 
 " I will not detain you for a moment," she said there- 
 fore ; "I shall make my Avay straight home." 
 
 She shook hands with Evan, made a pretty little half- 
 rustic obeisance to the philosopher, and walked briskly in 
 the direction of the Rue de Rivoli. 
 
 "A pretty girl," said M, Cadoudal. " An old acquaint- 
 ance ? " 
 
 " I have known her," said Evan, " almost ever since I 
 could remember. We were playmates in our childhood in 
 Australia." 
 
 " Tenez," responded M, Cadoudal. " I want you to come 
 to my house, my young friend. I have news to give you." 
 
 He offered no further explanation, but, encountering 
 near the Rond Point a man who was carrying a great 
 load of papers to some outlying kiosk, he bought from 
 him an evening journal, and, folding back the page, laid 
 a gloved finger on the head-line of a column : " Anarchist 
 Outrage in the Rue Tirabale ! "
 
 CHAPTER, 'VII 
 
 M. Cadoudal resided in tbe Avenue de la Grande 
 Armee. He owned a well-to-do looking house, wLicli 
 stood a little back from the street, in the shade of its own 
 trees, and was approached through a trim little bit of 
 garden. Mignonette, the Frenchman's darling, circled all 
 the little oval flower-beds, and bloomed odorously in shal- 
 low green boxes on the window-sills. The front door was 
 set in trellis- work, and the climbing roses were alread}'' 
 rich in leaf, if sparse in blossom. The whole place looked 
 like the abode of innocence, and M. Cadoudal in his broad- 
 brimmed, dove-colored soft felt hat, with his clean-shaven, 
 benevolent countenance and his flow of silver hair, was as 
 appropriate an inhabitant of such a domicile as might be 
 found in all Paris. 
 
 At the back of the house there was a garden, very much 
 larger than that which bloomed in front of it. This second 
 garden was surrounded by a high wall, pierced in one place 
 by a green-painted, weather-blistered door, which fastened 
 by a clumsy lock into a rusty staple. M. Cadoudal, smok- 
 ing a cigarette, and sauntering slowly up and down the 
 path which led directly from the French windows of his 
 own study to the door in the garden M'all, took occasion 
 to turn the key in the shrieking lock and to look up and 
 down the lonely little back road which lay beyond. Evan 
 took no note of the circumstance at the moment, but M. 
 Cadoudal left the door unfastened and resumed his walk. 
 
 From the moment at which ho had laid his fore-finger on 
 that significant head-line Evan's guide and ])hi]osopher 
 had said nothing. He had folded the evening journal into 
 a convenient size, had conveyed it to his breast-pocket, 
 
 200
 
 201 
 
 and bad walked on witli an air of beatific calm. As he 
 strolled up and down the garden with Evan at his side he 
 drew out the paper and read aloud from it the story of 
 that day's mischief. Evan learned that in broad daylight, 
 though in a deserted thoroughfare, a bomb had been 
 exploded in a third-rate cafe, that a waiter had been 
 frightfully injured, and that one or two guests who were 
 in the enjoyment of a jjetit verre after their mid-day meal 
 had incurred minor damages, 
 
 " These people," said Cadoudal, " are curiously unre- 
 strained and motiveless. What could have induced any 
 body to attack a place of that sort ? " His voice rose as 
 he put the question, and ended in a crack. " What is to 
 be gained by it ? I ask you, my young friend, what is to 
 be gained by it? 'The gai-yon of the cafe,' " he read, " ' is 
 not expected to survive. The bomb exploded immediately 
 beneath the unfortunate man, and his injuries are of such 
 a nature as to leave room for surprise that he was not 
 killed upon the spot.' Now, ray young friend," continued 
 M. Cadoudal, " is there not a most lamentable waste of 
 enterprise, of energy, of ingenuity, of courage, or what- 
 ever goes to make a revolutionary movement admirable ? 
 All thrown away. Absolutely thrown away." 
 
 He talked in a loud and excited voice as he strode up 
 and down the garden path. 
 
 " I am in sympathy," he said, " and I do not care who 
 knows it, — I proclaim it from the house-tops, — I am in sym- 
 pathy with the down-trodden and oppressed, and I would 
 blow up an emperor or a czar with all the pleasure in life ; 
 but I protest, all the same, against these meaningless and 
 purposeless outrages, which make the cause of liberty 
 accursed in the eyes of the world at large. The ruffian 
 who threw that bomb," he declared, flourishing his right 
 arm in the air, " has put back the clock of progress by a 
 year."
 
 202 
 
 He was extremely oratorical and vehement, and said 
 much more to the same purpose, and when the flood of his 
 eloquence had subsided, he led the way into his study, 
 closing the French doors behind him. 
 
 " My neighbor on this side," he said, with a backward 
 nod of the head, " is a somewhat curious person. He had 
 the window open just now, and had his ear laid to it. I 
 saw him, the scelerat^'' he said, laughing with an innocent 
 heartiness, " and I thought it worth while to treat him to a 
 spoonful of that infant's meat on which our good republi- 
 cans feed us. All the same," he added, with recovered 
 gravity, " I am inclined to think the event of this afternoon 
 lamentable. And, talking of meat and spoons, my young 
 friend, let us see when we may expect dinner." 
 
 He touched a gOTig which lay near his hand, and a 
 fresh-colored, neatly attired waiting-maid came into the 
 room. 
 
 " Now, here is a charming young woman," said Cadou- 
 dal, rubbing his white hands, and beaming on the pretty 
 little domestic, who blushed and smiled, and bridled in a 
 pleased confusion. " I am an amateur in youth and beauty. 
 My compliments to the cook, Lucile, and when dinner is 
 ready for me, I am ready for dinner. I need not remind 
 you. You see my guest. An extra cover." 
 
 The prett}^ girl disajipeared, and the distinguished 
 philosopher chatted with a delicate animation, touching on 
 many points of interest for the hour, and ornamenting all 
 with a stroke of wit or good-nature or apt quotation. 
 The d'ning-room was a snug little chamber, with climbing 
 plants about the window, and a bird in a gilded cage, 
 which, late as the hour was, began to sing with great 
 ardor as the master of the house entered the apartment. 
 
 " You will meet," said jNI. Cadoudal, when the pretty 
 domestic had served the soup and retired — "3'ou Avill meet 
 this evening a colleague whom I think you have not
 
 203 
 
 hitherto encountered. Do you know our friend Lebon ? 
 No ? I thouglit not. Jacques Lebon, a useful man, by 
 trade a brass-founder. I must make him known to you. 
 It is a little interesting that our friend Lebon should have 
 been led to embrace the cause mainly from the evil treat- 
 ment he has received at the hands of an old friend of 
 yours." 
 
 " An old friend of mine, sir ? " 
 
 " Your friend the Due de Marais Castel," resjDonded 
 Cadoudal. "This man Lebon has a motlier — no unusual 
 circumstance, but one to which he appears to attach a 
 superstitious value. lie is of tlie same age as the duke, 
 and his mother acted as the young aristocrat's wet nurse. 
 In the mind of our friend Lebon that has established 
 a claim against your late patron. Your late patron, it 
 seems, declines to recognize the claim, or forgets it, or 
 neglects it, and behold ! the poor Lebon is driven into our 
 brotherhood. It is not a logical movement, as j'ou 
 observe. The man obeys a passionate instinct, wliich is 
 something of a pity, for what I would seek most of all in 
 the futherance of our aims is the spirit of dispassionate 
 justice. Not to gratify this, that, or the other private 
 spite, but because it is necessary for the salvation of the 
 body politic, we resolve upon a certain course of action. 
 You will see our friend Lebon," he concluded, " and I dare 
 say you will understand from him why I desire that you 
 should be known to each other," 
 
 Beyond this M. Cadoudal gave his young friend no 
 reason for having sought his companionship. He seemed, 
 indeed, so far as Evan could judge, desirous not to be 
 questioned, and the young man, seeing this, forbore to 
 trouble him. He Avas somewhat puzzled by his host's 
 speech and manner, and had some difficulty in deciding 
 upon the nature of the philosopher's sentiments. The 
 j^oung man liked to classif}^ jieople, and he did not find it
 
 204 
 
 easy to classify M. Cadoudal, who contrived to be all 
 manner of people in a single half hour, to be delightfully 
 sympathetic, to be icily cj'nical, to be serious and flijipant 
 in a breath, and to cover all with the same innocent, bland, 
 and engaging smile. 
 
 But when dinner had been over for an hour, and the 
 Ma}'" dusk had alread}^ fallen on the pleasant garden and 
 the broad avenue, guests began to drop in, as if M. 
 Cadoudal were holding a holiday reception. Petrovna 
 came, attired in evening dress, having an engagement 
 later on, as he jirotested, at the opera. M. Dusaulx 
 appeared in speckless black and white as heretofore, 
 guarding his shift}' eye from the remotest contact with his 
 neighbors'. Mr. Frost came later on, full of Irish-Ameri- 
 can urbanities, but obviously a good deal stricken by the 
 news of the afternoon, and drawing people into corners to 
 consult them as to their views. 
 
 " Naow," said Mr. Frost, with an evidently genuine 
 solicitude, " what I want to know is what effect this 
 ridicalous folly is going to produce on the public mind. I 
 am known, sir," he explained to Evan, " in most Euroepian 
 capitals as an emissary of the Cave of Freedom, and it is 
 likely enough to be supposed that my society has had 
 something to do with thisblahsted nonsense. Now, sir, my 
 society does not encourage this particular kind of stoo- 
 pidity. Because I happen to be a representative public 
 man I have no desire to be lynched in the streets of Paris. 
 These ridicalous manifestations should be put down, and 
 put down, sir, with a strong hand. We have no right to 
 waste our forces, and when our forces air expended, they 
 should be expended in the right direction. And I reckon, 
 sir, that it is the dooty of the conclave to apprise every 
 one of its members of what is intended to be done before 
 any overt act is committed. I reprehend the remissness 
 of the committee, sir," said Mr. Frost with emphasis. " I
 
 205 
 
 feel it keenly. They have no right to expose a prominent 
 citizen of another nation to danger." 
 
 In fluent but tremulous Anglo-Hibernian-Aniericanese 
 Mr. Frost discoursed on this topic to all who could listen 
 to him, and to those who could not understand his native 
 tongue he explained his woes in halting French, until at 
 last he made a sort of halo of solitude about himself, and 
 the mere indication of a movement on his part sufficed to 
 clear any corner of the room. Finall}^ M. Dusaulx was 
 the only person whom he could induce to listen to him, and 
 that gentleman afforded him the coldest comfort. 
 
 " If the mob," said M. Dusaulx, " should be moved in 
 the direction you indicate, they would probably tear you 
 into little pieces. I have never seen a man torn into little 
 pieces." 
 
 He said this with such a dreadful air of disappointed 
 relish that Frost shivered as if an icicle had been passed 
 between his collar and his spine. For many years past the 
 anarchic creed had afforded Frost a laborless means of 
 livelihood, but he had never really liked it. It was delicious 
 to live without woi*k, but it was hard that a paradise of 
 harmless dreams should be broken in upon by realities like 
 these. 
 
 By the time at which the dark of the spring night had 
 fairly fallen there were some ten or a dozen resi)ectabl3^ 
 attired people gathered in M. Cadoudal's study ; and, the 
 evening air being soft and balmy, the tall and wide windows 
 were left fully open, so that a broad beam of light ran for 
 some distance down the garden path, and showed tlie 
 springtide blossoms which grew on either side of it. The 
 hour of nine struck resonantly from the mantel-piece, and 
 the last note had barely vibrated into silence when a step 
 was heard in the garden, and a dark, formless figure gradu- 
 ally resolved itself into the aspect of M. Ducos. M. Ducos 
 was in his customary attire of unblacked boots, blue
 
 206 
 
 blouse, and flat workman's cap. lie was, as usual, dirty 
 and unshaven, and he had, as usual, been drinking. He 
 saluted every-bod}'^ with an air of coarse faniiliarit}', and 
 slapped the philosopher on the shoulder, calling him "Mon 
 bon," " Mon brave," and " IVIon ami," with a tipsified effu- 
 sion. The master of the house submitted to these endear- 
 ments with an excellent grace, and handed on the new-comer 
 to a fellow-guest with perfect urbanity. Then came sepa- 
 rately three men who to look at were members of the 
 decent working class. One turned out to be a compositor, 
 and another a shoemaker. The third was the man of whom 
 Cadoudal had already sjDoken, Lebon, the brass-founder, 
 the declared enemy of the Due de Marais Castel. 
 
 This Lebon was one of the unfortunates of nature who, 
 whether the world go well or ill Avith them, find it insuffer- 
 ably weary. There was neither discontent nor anger in the 
 expression of his face, but he looked as if he could cry at 
 any minute, saving his manhood. And along with this 
 look of tearful lassitude he had something of the facial 
 aspect of a man who has just tasted a nauseous medicine. 
 Fatigue and a resigned disgust were upon him, but when 
 Evan, interested in the man because of his association 
 with his own old patron, fell into conversation with him, the 
 man made no complaint and offered no grievance against 
 the world. His face alone and his presence in that society 
 seemed to offer a sufilcient i)rotest. 
 
 Cadoudal, having received Iiis last guest, closed the 
 French windows, and drew the blinds, but before he did 
 so Evan observed that he exchanged a whisper with a 
 person who remained on guard in the outside darkness. 
 
 "The event," said the rhetorician, "which lias induced 
 me to take the liberty of calling you together this evening 
 is without doubt familiar to us all in the fullest details 
 the press of the city can afford. I do not know how far I 
 shall be followed by the symjiathy and approval of my
 
 207 
 
 colleagues when I declare that, in my opinion, no more 
 foolish, futile, and mischievous act could have been com- 
 m^itted by the bitterest enemy of our cause. It is not my 
 business to inflict an oration upon you, but I wish to offer 
 for your approval a simple and direct suggestion. I learn 
 from the journal I hold in my hand," — he drew it from his 
 pocket as he spoke, — " that the explosive employed was 
 incased in bronze, and that the bronze was cast in a cir- 
 cular form. That, my comrades, is enough to mark the 
 missile. I shall propose that every person to whose care 
 an instrument has been confided shall produce it at our 
 next meeting, in order that we may know by whom this 
 meaningless outrage was perpetrated. In the course of the 
 campaign which is forced upon us by the existing condi- 
 tions of society we are certain of making many enemies. 
 We are assured beforehand of being misunderstood and 
 vilified, but we are not content to be branded as purpose- 
 less madmen, or to make our own cause hideous in the 
 popular mind by acts which can do nothing to advance 
 our hopes." 
 
 "Regardez un peu, mon bon," said the drunken Ducos, 
 lurching upward from his seat. "Je suis CoUectiviste, 
 moi." 
 
 M. Cadoudal attempted to soothe the interrupter, but 
 had no success in that direction. 
 
 " Needless," said the alcoholized Ducos, " to make any 
 perquisition into ray affairs. The act was mine, and in it 
 I find my glory. I shall acknowledge it before the accursed 
 tribunals of my unhappy country as freely as I proclaim it 
 here. Je suis CoUectiviste. Vois-tu?" 
 
 With this proclamation of his faith he tumbled back 
 into his chair, and looked about him with a sleepy defiance 
 in his little blood-shot eyes. 
 
 "For my own part," said M, Cadoudal, "I profoundly 
 regret the action of my friend Ducos, and I venture to ask
 
 208 
 
 him on wliat groimd of service or expediency to the cause 
 he supposes liimself to excuse it." 
 
 The drunken Ducos demanded from his seat to be 
 answered. Was a Frenchman a slave ? Was a man who 
 had eaten a dinner or two at a restaurant to be persecuted 
 for his bill ? If he had mistaken the garyon for tlie patron, 
 that was his affair. He regretted his error more than any- 
 one else Avas likely to do. For the rest, he was a man, and 
 a freeman, Collectiviste to be sure, but a man all the same 
 and answerable to nobody — ni Dieu ni maitre. 
 
 Having offered this proclamation with great warmth and 
 much exuberance of action, he fell asleep. 
 
 " I fail to see," said M. Cadoudal, his customary smile a 
 little distorted — " I fail to see in what manner we are to 
 deal with our friend Ducos." 
 
 " I," said Petrovna, springing to his feet, " rise to pro- 
 pose that the satisfaction of au}^ private grudge by means 
 provided by this society be henceforth punishable by 
 death." 
 
 "I support that proposal," said M. Dusaulx, rising in 
 his turn. " It is shameful that good sport be spoiled at 
 the whim of a drunken fool." 
 
 Carried, nemeni contradicente. 
 
 Practically, the business for which the meeting had 
 been called together seemed ended with the statement 
 Ducos had volunteered. The opinion was universal : this 
 drunken ruffian had brought obloquy upon the cause for 
 naught. 
 
 ]V[r. Frost pointed out in a speech which was translated 
 by Petrovna that every effort the society made exposed 
 every member of the society to the gravest danger. The 
 prudent Frost argued that no more danger could be 
 incurred by the most damaging blow they could strike at 
 the institutions they desired to abolish than was brought 
 upon them by this snoring drunkard's madness. Frost
 
 209 
 
 invited the company to strike and strike strongly in the 
 right direction, but he appealed to their sense of justice 
 and fairness. ' He pointed out, not without delicacy, that 
 before the blow was struck it was their duty to a foreign 
 aid and representative like himself to give him warning, 
 so that he might be clear of the ground before the explo- 
 sion occurred, and thus be free to continue and extend his 
 own career of usefulness. 
 
 For the present at least it was decided that work should 
 cease, and that every possible precaution should be taken 
 until such time as the vigilance of the police should be set 
 to sleep again. The ruffian origin of the society's alarms 
 snored like a hog throughout the latter part of the discus- 
 sion, but being awakened, and being reminded tbat his 
 fellow-guests were leaving, insisted on departing by the 
 front door. " Parceque je suis Collectiviste, vois-tu, et 
 connais ni Dieu ni maitre." He attached himself to his 
 comrade Dusaulx, and sang a ribald version of the " Mar- 
 seillaise," until the cool air of the outer night brought an 
 exposition of sleep upon him, and he was left alone. 
 
 Evan, of his own will, had taken a seat near to the 
 despondent Lebon. He was inclined to be more than a 
 little sick of the whole business. To make stern war 
 against authority was one thing, and to prepare weapons 
 of destruction to place in the hands of irresponsible and 
 bloodthirsty idiots was another. He ventured to say as 
 much to Lebon as they came upon the street together. 
 
 " You are my collaborator, n'est pas ? " said Lebon. 
 " It is cruel to be so used. I am sick of it altogether. Do 
 yon mark me, comrade ? There is as much to regret in the 
 doings of our own body as in the working of the world 
 outside. Every thing is cruel, every thing is wrong. We 
 shall never mend it. But, thank God, there is a grave in 
 front of every-body." 
 
 " Our venerable comrade," said Evan, walking by the 
 14
 
 210 
 
 man's side, " tells rae you have a quarrel with an old friend 
 of mine." From end to end the road, so far as it could be 
 seen, was silent and deserted, and the two, though they 
 spoke by instinct in a low and guarded fashion, were in no 
 danger of being observed or overheard. 
 
 " I know whom you mean," Lebon answered. " You and 
 I have not met before, but I have learned all about you. 
 Look you," he added, abruptly laying a heavy hand upon 
 Evan's shoulder. " These aristocrats are the devil for in- 
 gratitude and heartlessness. Are you walking my way ? " 
 
 " All ways are the same to me for an hour or two," Evan 
 answered. 
 
 " If you will come to my house," said the brass-founder, 
 " I Avill show you the woman who for two years was a 
 mother to your friend. He and I were born in the same 
 montli, and nursed at the same breast. He is an aristocrat 
 and I am an ouvrier, but if he were a man, there ought to 
 have been something like a bond between us. You would 
 have thought he would have cared for the old mother. 
 You would think that any thing but a beast would remem- 
 ber the breasts that suckled him." 
 
 Evan's political beliefs, profound and irrevocable as they 
 were, left room in him for a saving grain of honest}' with 
 respect to the characters of people who took the other 
 side. 
 
 " That is the last thing," he said, " I should ever have 
 exjiected to hear about him." 
 
 " It is true, all the same," Lebon retorted. " A year ago 
 I broke an arm. We had had sickness in the house, and 
 were desperately poor already. . Then came this disaster, 
 and but for the help of the neighbors there would have 
 been no bread to eat. Then said my mother, * I will write 
 to my child. I have left him alone these forty j^ears, but 
 he cannot have forgotten.' She wrote once, twice, and 
 thrice, and he sent no answer. I went myself to that great
 
 211 
 
 house of his on the Quai d'Orsai, and his lackeys, — there 
 were two of them, — drove me from the door. That day, 
 my comrade, I turned against God ! " 
 
 Evan was always prepared to join in a general denuncia- 
 tion of the wicked aristocracy, but it was barely just to 
 allow the man whose generosity for fourteen years had 
 clothed and fed him to be assailed on such a ground as 
 this. 
 
 " I know the man well," he answered, " and what you 
 tell me is impossible." 
 
 "It happened," said the brass-founder curtly. 
 
 "Then," said Evan, " it happened without his knowledge. 
 The letters have been throAvn aside by his secretary, and 
 have never reached him. He was a man of the people 
 once, and he has changed and fallen away from all his 
 promises. But for generosity he has no equal. If all men 
 of his order were like him, it would be a pit}", for they 
 would be beloved by the common people everywhere, and 
 the reign of inequality might be eternal." 
 
 " I bother my head very little about those things," said 
 the workman, in his moaning voice. " This I know : that 
 we drank the same milk from the same breast, and he left 
 me to misery. He had not even a word to throw at the 
 poor old mother. It is abominable, my friend. It is only 
 an animal of an aristocrat who could behave so." 
 
 " You're wrong," said Evan. " I've known him almost 
 ever since I could remember. It is no part of my business 
 to fight his battles. He is one of the few with whom the 
 faults of his class are misfortunes, but his virtues are his 
 own. It is easy to be generous when generosity costs 
 nothing, but at least his purse is always open." 
 
 "It was closed to me," said the brass-founder. "It 
 was closed to his own foster-mother. I am Avhat I am 
 because of him. I have turned against God, and I am an 
 enemy to mankind ! "
 
 212 
 
 Personally, Evan thought he was not likely to be formi- 
 dable, though in the hands of the society he became a 
 force by virtue of his trade. 
 
 " I will tell you," said Evan, " what I will do. I will 
 write to him myself before I sleep, and I will guarantee 
 that the old mother shall want no more." 
 
 " What ! " cried the man, turning on him with distended 
 eyes. "Appeal again to that abominable! Never, never 
 in life." Evan shrugged his shoulders in silence, but 
 resolved to write, all the same. So long as people of 
 wealth existed, it was but just that they should be 
 exploited for the benefit of their poorer brethren. " If 
 you will do me the favor to step out this waj^ for a few 
 hundred yards, you shall see my bouse and the mother. 
 It makes me angrj'^," the man continued, "but she will 
 be glad of a word with any body who has known him. 
 Women are queer creatures, and she will listen to no word 
 against him, though he has deserted her. She is proud of 
 having suckled an aristocrat, and she loves him as if her own 
 body had borne him. You see, my friend, she is a woman 
 of the people, ignorant, and used to being trodden upon." 
 
 They had turned abruptlj^ to one side, and now paused 
 among a crowd of mean tenements, in front of one 
 which stood a little back from its neighbors, in a small 
 and frowsy field. In a smaller building than the house 
 itself, which stood on one side to the rear, a furnace was 
 glowing, and the figure of a lad lounging against the 
 door-janib in shirt-sleeves and apron was silhouetted 
 against the glare. 
 
 " This is my house," said the workman. "If you will 
 give yourself the trouble to enter, I can offer 3'ou a glass 
 of little blue and a crust. The old mother will be glad of 
 a word about him." 
 
 As he was speaking there was heard the sound of tramp- 
 ing of horses and rolling of wheels, and up came a mag-
 
 213 
 
 nificeiit equipage. Evan stared in amazement, and hailed 
 the coachman, who brought the horses to a halt at his feet. 
 
 " Hullo, Victoire ! What on earth brings you in this 
 part of the world ? " 
 
 "Bon soir, M. Rhys," said the coachman, touching the 
 brim of his hat with a white-gloved fore-finger. " His 
 Excellency is within doors." 
 
 "Here?" said Evan, indicating the house. 
 
 " Here, monsieur," the coachman responded. 
 
 The brass-founder stared like a man w^ho had received 
 a blow. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ? " he said. " Let us go 
 in."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Lebon entered the house, pushing Evan gently before 
 him, Tlie outer door opened immediately upon the living- 
 room, which was scrupulously clean and orderly. A cheap 
 lamp burned upon the table in the centre, and beside the 
 table sat a very clean and alert old lady in the attire of 
 fifty years ago. She had a tight, sparse band of silver hair 
 on either side of her venerable forehead, which was ridged 
 with wrinkles like a ploughed field, and her bright and 
 friendly old eyes shone with all the brilliance of youth, 
 though her fallen cheeks were of parchment, and her lips 
 drawn close to the toothless gums. She had a downy little 
 grey mustache and beetling eyebrows, and she was 
 smiling with a look of contentment and happiness so com- 
 plete that Evan's heart was quite melted at the first sight 
 of her. By her side, and holding one withered old hand 
 in his own, sat the Due de Marais Castel. There was a 
 very fine and delicate odor in the air, and it was not diffi- 
 cult to guess that this emanated from a tall, slender flask, 
 the label on which was obscured by the gathered dust of 
 many years. His Excellenc}^ and his foster-mother had 
 apparently been drinking to each other's health in the rare 
 vintage which scented so divinel}'-, for two glasses which 
 stood upon the snow-white table-cloth still held traces of 
 wine. In one confer of the room was a hamper, the lid of 
 which, being thrown open, revealed the necks of a number 
 of bottles and a quantit}^ of packages, of various forms and 
 sizes, done up neatly in gray paper. 
 
 Lebon paused, arrested, on the threshold, and looked at 
 the scene before him open-mouthed. 
 
 " Aha ! " said the old lady, " you are home at last, my 
 
 214
 
 215 
 
 son. This is my Henri, mon clier." The duke rose and 
 turned to his foster-brother, stretching out a hand to him. 
 The action was so full of friendliness, so graceful, and 
 apparently so spontaneous that the founder of bombs, not 
 without a later sense of amazement, put out his own 
 horned fist to meet it, and the two stood for an instant 
 hand in hand looking at each other. The nobleman was 
 evidently attired for some great function, for he wore a 
 broad ribbon of green silk across his shirt-front, and the 
 left lapel of his coat sparkled with orders. The workman 
 was in his every-day attire of cap and blouse, and the con- 
 trast between the two was striking. " Eh ! " said the old 
 woman. " How long is it since you two stood in the same 
 room together ? " 
 
 Lebon dropped the duke's hand, and, drawing up a chair, 
 which grated noisily on the unclothed brick floor, sat 
 down. 
 
 " We should be better acquainted," said the duke. " It 
 is more than twenty years since I saw you last, and, ray 
 faith, my friend, your mother's milk seems to have agreed 
 with you less than it has with me." 
 
 " Ah," said the old lady, wagging her head with supreme 
 satisfaction, " I told you he would come, if he did but 
 know where to find us. He has learned only to-night by 
 chance, and has come at once to see me." The good soul 
 was inflated with pride and affection unutterable, but 
 Lebon's mask of feeble despair had hardened into a scowl, 
 and he glared at the visitor as if he would willingly have 
 killed him where he sat. 
 
 The duke had recognized Evan at his entrance by a mere 
 smile, and the faintest elevation of the eyebrows. 
 
 "How comes it," he asked, " that I never heard from 
 you of your acquaintance liere ? Tliis," he added, laying 
 an affectionate hand on the crisp white cap of the crisp old 
 lady beside him, " is my foster-mother."
 
 216 
 
 " We have not met before," said Evan, speaking stiffly 
 and with reluctance. He felt as if there were a burden of 
 ingratitude upon him, and as if he somehow misused the 
 duke's past generosity in refusing his present help. His 
 intellect rose in protest against that assumption, but the 
 feeling was there, and was not to be denied. 
 
 " My old nurse," said the duke caressingh^ " will pro- 
 cure for us two other glasses, and we will drink to this 
 encounter." 
 
 The old lady arose, full of sedate pride, and walked to 
 a cupboard, from Avhich she returned with a cheap and 
 common tumbler in either hand. She set them on the 
 table, and the duke emptied the bottle, distributing its con- 
 tents into the four glasses. Lebon sat glowering at him as 
 if fascinated, but when his Excellency proffered him one of 
 the tumblers, he rose abruptly and clutched it with a 
 gesture so savage as to spill one-half of its contents. 
 
 "Confusion to all aristocrats !" he said, and with this 
 sentiment he tossed off what remained of the wine, and 
 flung the glass through the open door-way. It broke upon 
 the rough pavement outside with a crash, and the high- 
 bred horses, nervous in proportion to the fineness of their 
 breeding, set off with a rush, and were not controlled until 
 they had traversed a hundred yards or so. 
 
 " Shame on you ! " clamored Mme. Lebon. " Is that 
 how you treat j^our foster-brother after a score of years? " 
 
 " If my foster-brother had come when he was wanted," 
 the man answered, breathing short and hard, like one who 
 had just finished a race — " if my foster-brother had come 
 when he was wanted, I might have had another welcome 
 for him. We have been poor, M. le Due, but we have our 
 own pride. We humbled ourselves to write to you three 
 times, and your servants turned me from your door." 
 
 "My dear friend," cried the duke cordiall}--, "I am 
 sorry for-it, — I am profoundly sorry, — but I received none
 
 217 
 
 of your letters, and until now Inevei^ heard of your Laving 
 called upon me. Had I known of it, you should have 
 been made welcome. I am a forgetful fellow, and with 
 me out of sight was always out of mind. When I was 
 young and irresponsible, I had, as you may remember, 
 some share in the opinions of my young friend here. I 
 paid for it, as you may be able to recall, by an enforced 
 visit to New Caledonia. When I came back, after the 
 lapse of half a dozen years, a good many of my old friends 
 had disappeared, and you among them. Come, my good 
 friend, is it worth while to be angry ? " 
 
 He held out his hand again, but this time Lebon was 
 not to be taken by surprise. He resolutely refused to sur- 
 render his own, and plunged both clenched fists into the 
 pockets of his trousers. The old woman ran round the 
 table and tugged at one arm, but he resisted her in a surly 
 quiet. 
 
 " If you choose to be unreasonable," said the amiable 
 nobleman, with imperturbable good-humor, "I cannot help 
 it. At least you and I, vieille nourrice, are going to be 
 once more the best of friends." 
 
 " Ah, but yes," said the little old woman, clinging to 
 him with both shaking wrinkled hands. " It was never 
 in your heart to leave us. We have had hard times, but 
 God has been good, and has brought you back at last," 
 
 "Ell, bien, ma mere," said the duke, stooping to kiss 
 her wrinkled forehead, "I am sorry for the hard times, 
 but the}'- shall come no more. Good-night, Henri," 
 
 But Henri was not to be conquered. His mother cried 
 shame upon him, but he kept his sulky demeanor to the 
 last, 
 
 " Are you staying here, Evan ? " the duke asked, " or 
 can I drop you at your lodgings, I drive that way." 
 
 " I thank you very much, sir," Evan answered gravely, 
 "but I am staying here for a little while." •
 
 318 
 
 " Good-niglit," said the duke again, and so stepped into 
 his carnage, and was driven away. 
 
 "Oh, Henri, Henri," said the old woman, shaking a 
 reproaclif 111 head at her son, " how have you behaved ? 
 Tliou didst not know of this," and she took from her dress 
 pocket under her tidy little white aj^rOn a battered old 
 porte-monnaie which she held up tremulously before him. 
 "Is he generous ?" she asked, Avith tlie tears trickling in 
 her black eyes. " Is he good ? Has he a heart in a thou- 
 sand?" Her fingers shook so much that she could hardly 
 unfasten the hasp of the purse, but by and by she suc- 
 ceeded, and drew from it in a weeping triumph a bank- 
 note for five hundred francs. She held out the note in one 
 hand and the purse in the other, the tears running down 
 her face meanwhile. She kissed the note over and over 
 again, and at last dropped upon her knees, calling upon 
 the Virgin and all the saints to bless her benefactor. She 
 was of Provence, as her marked accent, the deep jet of 
 her eyes, and the tawn}^ brown of her skin declared, and 
 she surrendered herself to this passion of gratitude and 
 emotion as Avillingly as a savage or a child. She would 
 not rest satisfied until Lebon had examined the note and 
 had pronounced it to be real. 
 
 " Real ! " she cried then, bouncing to her feet, and 
 snatching the note from him in a sudden rage of another 
 sort. "Is he a forger of bank-notes, then, the' i:)roudest 
 gentleman in France? And the richest and the hand- 
 somest, and the boy I nursed at my bosom ? And one 
 would think that it made you unhapp}^ to know that your 
 old motlier Avas free of care for the rest of her life." 
 
 " No, no," said he, " I am glad of that — right glad of 
 that for thy sake." 
 
 " This is my son, young man," said the old lady, address- 
 ing Evan for the first time. "For months past he has 
 done notfcinj; but rave against all aristocrats. He has
 
 219 
 
 cursed his own foster-brother a thousand times, and even 
 now he liasn't a word of thanks for his kindness. I tell 
 him it is a good thing for a man to remember his place, 
 and not to speak evil of dignities. In my young days 
 poor people respected their masters, and those in authority 
 over them, but now with half the poor it is neither God 
 nor master. They are atheists, and they hate the people 
 whose bread they eat." 
 
 The excellent Rhenish, whose potency the old lady 
 probably undervalued, had loosened her tongue, and she 
 galloped away at a great rate, discoursing on the superior- 
 ity of former days over these republican times, and exalt- 
 ing the splendors of the old Coratesse de Montmeillard, 
 Lebon arose at last with a somewhat better grace than he 
 had hitherto shown, and kissed her on the cheek. 
 
 " I am glad thou art happ}^, my mother," he said, with 
 a rather uncertain voice. "Get tliee to bed and dream of 
 thy two sons, and think they both love thee as well as one 
 of them does." 
 
 Then, with a nod of invitation to Evan, he left the house 
 and made his way to the small foundry at the reai". Here 
 he dismissed his apprentice, who seemed to have no other 
 occupation than that of feeding the furnace fire. 
 
 " When my mother has gone to bed, we can go back to 
 the house," he said, " and have our crust and our glass of 
 wine in peace. Meantime I may as well see if my mould 
 is ready for to-night's casting. No, nor will be," he cried 
 angrily; "the stupid lout has moistened it again. He 
 will be the death of me one of these days. Look you," he 
 called to Evan. "You see this great iron frame, and this 
 other which fits it with a hinge." He closed tlie ponderous 
 lid carefully. "You lock it with a bolt," he explained in 
 his own slow and cumbrous waj^, suiting the action to the 
 word in illustration. " Your molten metal comes in through 
 here, and then if your sand is wet no anarchist ever made
 
 220 
 
 a bomb to do half the mischief. I have stood at the other 
 end of a workshop and seen a man blown to pieces. I was 
 twenty paces away, and a piece of iron as big as my fist 
 passed me by a band's breadth and killed the man behind 
 me. I helped to pick up the pieces," he went on. "It 
 was an easy death, I should think. Eh ? You would think 
 it an easy death, wouldn't you ? I have wondered often. 
 I have had half a mind to try it, many a time, if it had 
 not been for the old mother. She is a good creature, the 
 old mother. She scolds sometimes, as you heard just now, 
 but what does a man care about a woman's tongue ? " He 
 drew away the bolt, and raised the ponderous lid again, 
 his speech rumbling and grumbling meanwhile like flow- 
 ing water in a cavern. " Mon Dieu, but you are right 
 about our aristocrat. C'est un beau gars, 9a. It was no 
 fault of his. I begin to think I have been a fool in curs- 
 ing him. Why should I make shells for bombs to blow 
 up the bourgeoisie ? It is a dangerous game, that, my 
 lad." He turned his lugubrious countenance on Evan, 
 and nodded his head in a series of little jerks, as if to say : 
 Consider that, and mark well its source. " I begin to think 
 I have been a fool in more ways than one. Anyhow, the 
 old mother's cabbages are fat now. What have I to growl 
 about ? These plots are nothing to me." 
 
 The workshop was illuminated only by the dim glow of 
 the furnace fire, and by a stump of candle which adhered 
 by its own grease to a disk of tin, to which was attached a 
 long handle of the same metal. Tlie man, looking Evan 
 very steadily in the face, took up this odd candlestick, and 
 then set out across the shop. He made his way to one 
 corner, where a number of massive odds and ends of metal 
 lay in a heap against the wall. These he removed one by 
 one, groping for thcin alternately Avith either hand, and 
 meanwhile keeping his ej^es fixed on Evan's face. This 
 persistent regard drew the young man across the room to
 
 221 
 
 watch more closely, and, if he could, to divine the mean- 
 ing of his companion's movements. 
 
 When all the incumbrances were removed from the 
 corner, Lebon took up a loose fragment of board, and 
 revealed a hole in the floor. He had scarce done this 
 when he sprang to his feet, and barred both the door and 
 the heavy wooden shutter of the single window. 
 
 "I was mad to forget that," he muttered, as he went 
 back to his corner. He knelt down again and drew from 
 the recess a small box, such as is commonly used by 
 moulders in his trade. He opened this, and showed it to 
 Evan. Its purpose was obvious at a glance. It could be 
 used for the casting of a hand grenade a little larger than 
 an orange. Lebon carried it to the end of the bench 
 beneath the window, and there, reversing it, quietly beat 
 out the firm sand, which fell in pieces like an extremely 
 friable sandstone. 
 
 "No more of that," he said almost joyously. A third 
 time he went to his corner, and, once more kneeling there, 
 brought out a series of hollow copper balls, which jingled 
 musically together as he handled them. When he had 
 groped in every corner of the hiding-place and had brought 
 out all its contents, he replaced the board, and once more 
 concealed the aperture with the massive odds and ends of 
 metal. 
 
 Evan watched him without a word, thinking how nat- 
 ural the man's apostasy was in the circumstances, and con- 
 jecturing the simple working of his mind. Lebon gathered 
 into the skirt of his blouse all the clinking, hollow balls, a 
 dozen, perhaps, in number, and, folding the linen into a knot 
 in one hand, seized an iron hook in the other, and drew 
 away the cover of his melting-pot. The metal, with a 
 coaly scum upon its surface, gleamed dusky red, and into 
 it, one by one, the apostate from anarchy dropped all 
 his implements of destruction. Then he covered the
 
 222 
 
 melting-pot again, sat down upon tlie bench, and filled his 
 pipe. 
 
 "If tLey want more bombs," be said placidly, "they 
 can go to the devil for them. The old mother is happ3\ 
 Why should I put my neck under the knife ? " 
 
 " Your principles do not appear to have been too deeply 
 rooted," said Evan. 
 
 " Wh}^," returned Lebon, " I hate a man who does me a 
 bad turn, but I can't quarrel with a man who does me a 
 good one." 
 
 " You had no quarrel with society?" asked Evan. 
 
 " Not I." 
 
 "Only wuth the Due de Marais Castel ?" 
 
 " Nobody else in the world," Lebon replied, pulling at 
 his pipe. "You see, I thought these fellows were all alike, 
 and now I find that, after all, there's a bit of human feeling. 
 As for that game," — jerking a thumb in the direction of the 
 melting-pot, — " I never liked it, when I came to think of 
 it, and now it's done with ; I shall risk my head no more." 
 
 "Suppose the society should refuse to allow j'ou to 
 resign j^our post," asked Evan, " what are you going to 
 do?" 
 
 "Nomme d'une pipe ! " Lebon cried, with a shrug of his 
 heavy shoulders. " I am a free man, I suppose. We live 
 in a free countr}^ A man can do as he pleases." 
 
 " I do not think that you will find it so," Evan said, with 
 great seriousness. He had thought this question over in 
 his own case pretty closeh', and he saw that, so long as 
 his companions demanded his adhesion, there was no way 
 of escape from the jilcdges given. He had had no wish to 
 escape, but he had looked the whole matter full in the face 
 and recognized his own position. 
 
 Lebon was silent until he had finished his l^ipe, when he 
 knocked out its ashes on his heol and jmt it in liis i)ocket. 
 
 " And besides all that," he said, pursuing the current of
 
 223 
 
 his own thoughts, wliatever the}" may have been — "and 
 besides all tliat, I shall never feel comfortable about this 
 day's work. That blackguard Ducos would never have 
 found the means if it hadn't been for you and me. Did I 
 tell you that I saw the fellow ? " 
 
 " What fellow ? " 
 
 "The waiter at the Gigot de Mouton, in the Rue Tim- 
 bale. Did I tell you I saw him after the explosion ?" 
 
 " No," said Evan with a shudder, which he could not 
 have repressed to save his life. 
 
 " It was ten minutes or a quarter of an hour after the 
 bomb had been thrown," said Lebon. " I heard what had 
 happened just as I was passing the corner of the street. 
 There was a tremendous crowd there, and the police 
 were wheeling the poor devil through it. A woman came 
 out with a clean sheet, and ' For the sake of Heaven and 
 all the saints,' said she, ' cover him up.' They put the 
 sheet over him, and it mopped the blood up like a sponge 
 in a second. Thei'e were patches as big as both my hands 
 in half a dozen places before they wheeled him on again." 
 
 The man, with perfectly unconscious brutality of phrase, 
 went into detail as to the condition of this injured wretch's 
 body before it was hidden from sight. He had seen, and 
 he told what he had seen with a ghastly simplicity and 
 directness. Men of his breeding do not paraphrase ; they 
 use plain words. 
 
 The scene was vividly and horribly present to the 
 younger man's imagination. He put both hands before 
 his face and groaned aloud. 
 
 "Eh,bicn!" said the convert. "That is what you and I 
 have been doing." 
 
 " I wash my hands," said Evan, " of this hideous assassi- 
 nation." 
 
 "It will be a long time," Lebon retorted, "before the 
 poor devil will wash his hands of your powder. They
 
 224 
 
 were both black with it. The}'^ had no shape in them. 
 They looked like over-roasted pork," 
 
 Evan, with a cry in which hori'or and pity and remorse 
 were blended, rushed toward the door, hurled the wooden 
 bar aside, and staggered into the open air. Lebon called 
 after him, but he did not even hear. 
 
 The early summer night was beautifully tranquil. The 
 air was sweet, as one finds it sometimes in great cities, as 
 if a broad, slow gust of countr}- odor had been drawn into 
 the streets. 
 
 In the wide avenue there were sober revellers seated in 
 front of small cafes, over their cigarettes and pipes, their 
 coffee and sugared water, and more than once as the young 
 man walked, hard-eyed and pale of cheek, along the cause- 
 way his ear caught a word or two which told him with 
 unmistakable clearness what Avas the one universal topic of 
 the hour. It chilled him to the heart to think that, had 
 the members of any one group known him for what he was, 
 tliey would have rent him limb from limb. He was no 
 coward, and it was no fear that chilled him. It was 
 rather the monition of a certain still small voice within 
 himself which told him that the rage and loathing of the 
 mob would have been natural, just. All his mind clamored 
 in rebellion against the verdict of his heart, but the ver- 
 dict repeated itself inexorably. 
 
 There Avas no making war with rose-water. There Avas 
 no making of omelettes Avithout breaking of eggs. This 
 affair of the Avaiter Avas a small disaster in a great cam- 
 paign. One innocent non-combatant had suffered. IIoav 
 many innocent non-combatants — how mau}^ millions — had 
 suffered in the shameless and shameful Avars Avhich had 
 been thrust upon the Avorld by its tyrants, its conquerors, 
 its brilliant statesmen, and the abandoned Avomen of the 
 courts ! 
 
 It was war against Avar that he had declared in his OAvn
 
 225 
 
 heart, — war against all forms of tyranny and oppression, — 
 and victory meant the end of unnecessary human pain. 
 
 He had found these reflections very tonic and inspiring 
 before now, but under the stars and along the quiet streets 
 he was haunted by the figure of a man on a wheeled 
 stretcher, and his brain made a picture in which every 
 abominable detail Lebon had given him was as clearly seen 
 as if the injured man had been there bodily before him in 
 broad daylight. 
 
 15
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 In these fast-rolling times no event seems capable of 
 holding the public attention even for the nine clays of the 
 proverb. The waiter at the cafe in the Rue Timbale died 
 in hospital, an inquest was held upon him, a verdict 
 found, the man was buried, and there an end. There 
 yas not a capital city or a village in the whole civilized 
 world in which the unfortunate creature's name had not 
 been bruited to and fro. But in half a week it needed an 
 effort in most men's minds to recognize it. 
 
 But, though the world forgot, as the world with all its 
 manifold forms of business and interest is compelled to 
 forget, Evan Rhys remembered. Lebon's crude and gross 
 picture was before him night and day. He sat idle in his 
 laboratory, or roamed listlessly about the streets, comj^elled 
 to think, and striving hard against the compulsion. He 
 received one or two secret messages from Petrovna. The 
 work was at a stand-still. Why were not more bombs 
 provided ? He had no answer for the messenger, and did 
 no work. 
 
 It was full summer, and the brawling, sparkling human 
 tide flowed gayly as ever along the boulevards. The 
 tragedy of six weeks ago was buried deep, sunk in com- 
 pletest oblivion ; but Evan Rhys's chemical labors were 
 discontinued, and the young man had mighty trouble in 
 convincing himself that his principles were unchanged, 
 and that the doctrines on which he had acted were just as 
 irrefutable as before. 
 
 He was sitting, unkempt and disorderly, in his own 
 rooms one broiling day, when Petrovna made a call upon 
 
 326
 
 227 
 
 him. The Russian was portentously solemn. Evan 
 expected him to break out in reproach, but Petrovna had 
 no word to say in that direction. There was a great cause, 
 he announced, and a great opportunity. A meeting was 
 to be held that night at the house of Cadoudal, and certain 
 arrangements were to be decided upon which would be of 
 vital result to the future of the society, perhajJS of vital 
 effect on the future of the world, 
 
 Evan's presence was indispensable, yet somehow Evan 
 was languid. The mysterious, important scheme would 
 have fired him with a loose enthusiasm two months ago 
 and would have set his pulses thrilling with curiosity. 
 Petrovna noted the change in him clearly enough, but for 
 his own reasons he made no comment on it. 
 
 " Be punctual to the hour," he said. " Our business will 
 commence at ten o'clock, and you will meet there the whole 
 executive of Paris." 
 
 "Very well," said Evan indifferently, "I will be there." 
 
 He would not confess it even to himself, but if he could 
 have escaped from the position in which he had placed 
 himself, he would have given his right hand to do it. The 
 arguments were all just as sound as ever, the world was 
 abominably mismanaged and full of suffering. The 
 bourgeoisie kotowed to the nobles and trod upon the poor. 
 There was no justice in human law, no fair distribution of 
 human burdens ; it was all wrong together — incurably 
 wrong, unless the anarchic reign of terror could bring 
 about a change. He remembered all the old familiar argu- 
 ments, the old plausible, lucid instances, which had once 
 convinced him, and they carried conviction no more. 
 
 All the same, he was summoned to witness the develop- 
 ment of the new movement about which Petrovna had 
 striven to be so impressive, and he would go. He must go. 
 Tliere was no help for it. 
 
 He kept his own room until the fall of evening, and
 
 228 
 
 then dressed, and dined at tlie sordid little restaurant in 
 his own neighborhood, lie sat among the people in the 
 pathway, smoking his cigarette and sipj^ing his coffee after 
 dinner, until it should be time to set out. The evening 
 was exquisitely cool and pleasant after the heat of the day, 
 and the simple, innocent, harmless folk among whom he 
 sat enjoyed themselves in a simple, innocent, and harmless 
 mirth. Respectable, broadclotlied people who kej^t shop 
 all day were there with mothers of families, fat or 
 meagre, — for the Frenchwoman of the lower middle classes 
 knows no mean, — and spruce clerks were polite to their 
 fiancees under the watchful mother's eye ; and out in the 
 roadway a number of children danced in the dust to the 
 strains of a steam-organ in a big beer-hall on the other 
 side of the street. 
 
 It was all commonplace, pure commonplace, and at 
 another hour he might have been scornful of it. He 
 seemed, in spite of himself, to find little reconciling touches 
 of humanity everywhere about the crowd. Theoretically, 
 these amiable people were, of course, the enemies of the 
 world, sunk sluggishl}^ in their own infinitesimal affairs, 
 and presenting a log-like resistance to all thoughts of 
 social advancement. But somehow the theory did not 
 work just then. His heart ached bitterly, and, vacating 
 his place among them, he paid his little reckoning, and 
 walked away. 
 
 The twilight sank slowly into gloom, and the lights of 
 the cafes and the street lamps grew brighter. The ga}-" 
 chattering crowds multiplied and grew denser as he strolled 
 along, and he, with his saturnine face and downcast heart, 
 shouldering his wa}^ among the merry-makers, seemed to 
 himself as if he were the only man with a care in the world. 
 
 He lounged along with no otlier aim than to kill time, 
 and made an aimless point in arriving at Cadoudal's door 
 with precise punctuality. When he was ushered into the
 
 229 
 
 study, it seemed to him as if business had already begun, 
 for the master of the house occupied a chair at the head of 
 a long table, and guests to the number of a score or there- 
 abouts were drawn up about it. Lebon, who had appar- 
 ently entered only an instant before him, was closing the 
 shutter of the French window, and Dusaulx had risen to 
 offer him a chair. 
 
 " Now," said the president on Evan's arrival, " we may 
 enter upon our business. I will not waste time in unneces- 
 sary words. There is no man here who is not mindful of 
 his obligations. There is no man here Avho is not aware, 
 completely aware, of the inevitable result which must fol- 
 low disobedience or recalcitrance. The inner council has 
 decided upon a most momentous and important line of 
 action. What that line of action is it will be my duty to 
 explain when we have by the drawing of lots decided upon 
 the two members of this assembl}^ who will be intrusted 
 to pursue it. I call upon M, Percheron to produce tlie 
 printed list, and to read it over. Those present will kindly 
 answer to their names." 
 
 Whoever else felt the solemnity and importance of the 
 occasion, it was very evident it was impressed very deeply 
 on the mind of M. Paul Cadoudal. He was very pale, and 
 he was forced to press his shapely white hands upon the 
 table to prevent them from trembling. When he tried to 
 assume his accustomed benevolent smile on Evan's entrance, 
 he looked like a man who Avas going to the scaffold, and 
 who tried to endure that ordeal bravely. 
 
 M. Percheron, a gaunt man with a squint, rose, and pro- 
 duced from a breast-pocket a narrow ribbon, like a strip of 
 scarlet paper. He read from this strip of crimson color a 
 list of names, and at every name a voice answered. Many 
 of the voices were harsh and acrid, as if they came from 
 throats constricted by strong emotion. Ducos offered his 
 response in a braggadocial bellow.
 
 230 
 
 When all the names were called and answered to, the 
 president continued. 
 
 " The list," he said, " will now be cut into strips of equal 
 size. Those strips will be folded, will be placed together, 
 and shaken in a hat, and one name will be drawn. Will 
 our friend Rhys act as croupier ?" 
 
 Evan made no objection, but by way of sole sign of 
 assent threw his hat upon the table. It was of a soft 
 black felt, and lie had sat nursing it, and crumpling it to a 
 ball upon his knees. 
 
 " That will do very well," said Cadoudal. 
 
 Meanwhile the gaunt man with the squint had taken a 
 pair of scissors from the table, and now proceeded with 
 grave deliberation to slice each name separately from the 
 printed list. Everj'-body watched him as if fascinated. 
 When all the strips were cut, he folded each one twice, 
 until it assumed the form of a little scarlet square of about 
 an inch in size. Wlien all were folded, he beckoned for the 
 hat. Evan passed it to him, and M. Percheron took it by 
 the rim between thumb and finger. He laid the liat upon 
 the table before him, manipulated it with both hands for a 
 second, and then dropped in lightl}' the crimson squares. 
 Tlie silence was so intense that every-bodj' could hear the 
 faint rustle they made in falling. Next, M. Percheron 
 took the brim of the hat in both hands, and, drawing its 
 sides closely together, swung it rapidly to and fro. He had 
 risen from his seat to do this, and now, with a bow to the 
 president, lie laid tlie fateful hat upon the table. 
 
 " Will our young friend Rhys oblige us," asked Cad- 
 oudal, "by withdrawing one name, and one name only?" 
 
 Evan looked round tlie table and saw all e^'es bent on 
 him. His hands underneath the table quivered like aspen 
 leaves, and he hesitated for a second to control them by a 
 resolute will. His throat was harsh and dry, as if he were 
 choked with ground glass.
 
 231 
 
 "Oblige IIS, if you please," said Cadoiulal, in a voice 
 which told that he was trembling from head to foot like a 
 shaken spring. 
 
 Evan obe3'ed, and the president's quivering hand was 
 stretched out to accept the scrap of paper. He unfolded 
 it with obvious difficulty aiul read the name. 
 
 "Henri Lebon." 
 
 Lebon had sat as fascinated as the rest, with his usual 
 lialf- weeping look fixed upon his face. But at the mention 
 of his name he gave a sudden bound in his seat, and his 
 jaw dropped piteously. Other men shook themselves, and 
 passed their hands over their eyes, sighing as if awakened 
 from a sleep. 
 
 " Tliat," said the president, reaching out his hand and 
 appropriating the hat, " is number one. We have still to 
 trust to destiny for another choice." 
 
 He carefully extracted all the remaining fragments of 
 paper from the hat, and, crushing them in his hand, rose 
 from his seat and carefully burned them in the tire grate, 
 while the gaunt Percheron produced another strip and read 
 out the names it bore for verification and answer as before. 
 The whole scene re-enacted itself. Again the list was 
 shown and the slips were folded, and again the hat was 
 placed before Evan. Every-body was as intensely eager 
 and interested as before except the miserable Lebon, who 
 sat at the foot of the table with a mask of misery as immo- 
 bile as stone. There were only four or five in the whole 
 assembly who knew precisely what hung upon the drawing 
 of the names, but every luan there knew full well that the 
 game was pla3'ed for death. No such solemnity as this 
 would have marked a light occasion. 
 
 Evan Tihjs drew for the second time, and drew with a 
 firm hand. Cadoudal's fingers shook so, and so fumbled 
 over their simple task, that Petrovna, who sat near him, 
 relieved him of it. He laid tlie paper on the table, and
 
 232 
 
 pushed it gently over toward Evan. Tlie hapless young 
 man read his own name there in staring black letters — 
 Evan Rhys. The very letters seemed to have some fan- 
 tastic meaning he had never seen before. He was not 
 shocked or terrified or moved in any way, he thought : 
 and he speculated in an indifferent fashion as to whether 
 a man suddenly sentenced to death would feel the same 
 indifference. 
 
 A voice which sounded as if it were at a great distance 
 spoke to him, and a hand touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 " You had better drink this," said Petrovna, and he 
 seemed to awake to the consciousness of lights and faces 
 he had for the moment forgotten. He drank from the 
 proffered glass, and tasted nothing. Petrovna had given 
 him neat brandy. 
 
 "Yes," he said, looking about him with an awakening 
 air. "Evan Rhys. Yes, that's all riglit." 
 
 His hat was lying before him empty, and there M^as a 
 pungent smell of burning paper in the air. He looked at 
 the faces about him, and the strain of expectation and 
 terror was removed from all. Lebon still sat like a tear- 
 ful garg03-lo, and Evan wondered witliin himself : " Did I 
 take it Avorse than that fellow ? Nobody gave him any 
 thing to drink." 
 
 "I should like to smoke a cigarette," he said aloud. 
 " May I be permitted ? " 
 
 "Assuredly," returned Cadoudal, Avho had recovered 
 something of his usual bearing. 
 
 Evan found himself thinking how terribl}- afraid Cadou- 
 dal was lest his own name should be drawn. As for him- 
 self, he knew that he was about to be told off for some dark 
 service, and he rather wondered what the bland, fat benevo- 
 lent Avould have done with such a task. 
 
 " It now becomes my duty," said the president, rising 
 to his feet, " to explain the meaning of the ballot which
 
 233 
 
 has just been held, and to lay before those brethren upon 
 whom the choice of destiny has fallen as precise an 
 account as I can offer of the tasks they are called upon to 
 perform. In order that I may make the purpose of the 
 inner conclave perfectly clear, I shall offer a few prelimi- 
 nary observations. 
 
 "The difficulties we encounter in the advocacy of our 
 ideas are various and many. Some of them at tlie begin- 
 ning, — I speak for myself, at least, and of my own experi- 
 ence, — some of them at the beginning were of so unex- 
 pected a nature as to be actually startling. It was 
 inevitable that we should find enemies among the upholders 
 of caste, and among the swollen votaries of Mammon. We 
 knew that the so-called religious societies would oppose 
 us in the mass, and would denounce us as creatures void 
 of all human feeling. But we did not at first perceive that 
 many of our subtlest and most powerful enemies are to be 
 found among those that not only profess but exhibit in 
 their daily lives a pronounced affection and solicitude for 
 the poor. But on reflection it will be seen that it is impos- 
 sible to secure universal acceptance for our doctrines while 
 the suffering poor in wliose cause we labor are hoodwinked 
 by the benevolence of a few of those whom tliey have a 
 right to I'egard as their hereditary oppressors. It must be 
 obvious to the poorest understanding that whatever tends 
 to keep the peoples of the Avorld in a state of contented 
 subjection to the existing condition of things is a bar to the 
 progress of those great and lofty ideals, to the realization 
 of which we look forward to witli so majestic a hope, and so 
 tremulous an anxiety. It is only by compression that you 
 can secure force for an explosion, and if all tyrants had 
 been as tyrannous as the worst of their class, the explosion 
 toward which we look, and for which we are each in his 
 degree preparing, would have occurred centuries ago. It 
 is the benevolent despot, the man of power who uses his
 
 234 
 
 power benevolently, who is the bitterest and the most 
 accursed among the foes of humanity. 
 
 " Our most dangerous foes, then, among the aristocracy 
 are those who lull themselves into the dream that the 
 whole of tlieir class may one day be converted to a gener- 
 osity superior to their own, and who proclaim that the 
 duties of capital toward poverty outweigh whatever privi- 
 lege raaj' belong to wealth. There are men, my friends, 
 who would bail the Atlantic Ocean with a tailor's thimble. 
 They would soothe the fiery sores of Vesuvius with a porous 
 plaster. In the words of Shakspere, they would cool the 
 sun by fanning his face witl) a peacock's feather. It is 
 these weak and futile enthusiasts who are the most dan- 
 gerous enemies of our ideals, and they are, therefore, the 
 men whom we are most urgently called upon by every 
 voice, alike of expediency and duty, to remove. 
 
 " Were we, my friends, the heartless and bloodthirsty 
 wretches whom the world imagines, we might rush to the 
 task wliich awaits us with feelings far other than those 
 which now animate our breasts. But we are men, and 
 men of sensibility ; men with eyes to see the intolerable 
 misery of this widespread world ; men whose ears are filled 
 witli the echo of a groan which has not ceased since power 
 first begat Property on Falsehood ; men with hearts to 
 answer to the call of a mangled and bleeding humanity ; 
 men with the clear-sighted courage wliicli dares to look 
 into the very soul of truth ; men wlio recognize that the 
 old ways of reform are liopeless, and that nothing can be 
 acliieved until the whole fi'amework of tyranny is broken 
 down, and the cataclysmic forces of a world in wild revolt 
 have crushed and rent, and burned to ashes, the last vestige 
 of existing law. 
 
 " Acting, then, on these convictions, which are common to 
 us all, which have been arrived at not in a moment of beat 
 or passion, but as the result of long and calm enquiry, we
 
 28.5 
 
 dedicate our two brethren on whom to-night's lot has 
 fallen to a duty which, though stern and dreadful, is rati- 
 fied by the voice of our own individual and collective 
 conscience." 
 
 Here M. Cadoudal brouglit his speech to an end, and 
 resumed his seat. Two envelopes, each with a crimson seal 
 impressed Avith his own private crest, lay before him, face 
 downward, on the table. He shifted these nervously, 
 shuffling one above the other for a little while, as his 
 listeners took breath. M. Cadoudal had not achieved his 
 position, and held it in the face of Paris and the world for 
 thirty years, for nothing. Declamatory as his periods were 
 in form, they were not declaimed — they dropped from his 
 lips in a quiet, natural music, and the tone of heart-wrung 
 regret which ran through all the sweet-voiced passion of 
 his speech haunted the ear and set the heart tingling. It 
 was a common saying that while Cadoudal spoke his 
 listeners believed any thing. Reason freed itself from the 
 enchantment of that exquisite manner, that touching voice, 
 that noble and unconscious gesture ; but reason had no 
 seat at his table that evening, and the honeyed poison 
 poured by a fanatic for the lips of fools and madmen 
 was swallowed as if it had been the very wine of 
 wisdom. 
 
 Two hearers sat indifferent — the men who knew them- 
 selves appointed to the shedding of blood. The others 
 expressed themselves in a deep murmur, for open applause 
 was dangerous. 
 
 Petrovna, half rising, leaned across the table and pos- 
 sessed himself of the two envelopes which were shuffling 
 to and fro in the hands of the late orator. They were 
 marked simply with the figures 1 and 2. Without a word 
 he handed the latter to Evan Rhj^s, and sent the other 
 skimming along to the foot of the table, where Dusaulx 
 laid a hand upon it, and puslied it toward Lcbon.
 
 236 
 
 Evan broke the seal, drew out a plain card, and read 
 these words : 
 
 " Son Excellence le Due de Kingsclear, I'hotel de son 
 Excellence le Due de Marais Castel." 
 
 The matter seemed to concern him very little, but he 
 slipped the card into the ticket pocket of his coat, and 
 placed with it the crumjiled crimson slip which bore his 
 own name, and indicated his destiny. Then he looked up, 
 and encountered the glance of Lebon. He too had opened 
 his envelope, and had read the inscription on his card. 
 He wore the look of a man who is falling into a fit of 
 epilepsy. His eyes rolled, his features writhed and jerked, 
 his whole body was moved by involuntary spasms. There 
 was a thick foam upon his lips. Twice he tried to speak, 
 but his lips gave forth nothing but an inarticulate murmur. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " he cried at last. " Qu'est que c'est 5a ? 
 Mon frere ? Jamais ! Jamais ! Jamais ! C'est infame ! 
 C'est horrible ! C'est impossible ! " 
 
 Petrovna rose quietlj^, and patted the table twice or 
 thrice to secure the miserable man's attention. 
 
 " My friend," he said, " it is necessary to say but a word. 
 
 The penalty for disobedience is Shall I speak the 
 
 word ? " 
 
 "Oh," said Lebon, Avith a shrug of infinite misery and 
 resignation, "je connais bien le mot ! "
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Four weeks elapsed. 
 
 For the first fortnight Evan was stunned by a sense of 
 the misfortune which had fallen upon him. He had 
 promised himself many things, and seen himself a thou- 
 sand times in fancy posed as a hero and a martyr. But he 
 had never pictured himself as an assassin. 
 
 He began to take an extraordinary interest in the doings 
 of the English Duke of Kingsclear, who at this time, 
 indeed, made a great figure in Paris, and was to be read 
 about in the journals of almost every issue. The biogra- 
 phers of the distinguished English stranger left the 
 enquirer but little to seek with regard to his public career. 
 He was that Marquess of Avelchurch who, fourteen years 
 ago, after a four-years' tour around the world, had entered 
 the House of Commons, and had introduced a half score of 
 bills for the amelioration of the condition of the working- 
 man — bills so radical and sweeping in their tendency that 
 even a House inspired by the free voice of enlarged con- 
 stituencies had not dared to pass them without conservative 
 amendments. It was that Marquess of Avelchurch who, at 
 enormous cost, had built a phalanstery on his Devonshire 
 estate, and had gathered there the discharged criminals of 
 the I'ealm in the hope of reforming them, and winning 
 them back to an honest life, until at last they had burned 
 his costly palace over their own heads, and gone devious 
 about their separate wicked ways. It was that Marquess 
 of Avelchurch who was known as chairman to countless 
 societies for the reformation of the criminal grown and 
 netted; for the dredging of criminality's sea for criminal 
 
 237
 
 spawn ; for the sterilization of the criminal and pauper 
 microbe, here, there, and everywhere. A man complained 
 of by the lively Gallic journalist as exhibiting in perfection 
 la morgue Anglaise, and yet admirable and admired for a 
 constant heroism of effort in the cause of the poor — known 
 to have spent his huge fortune like water on schemes for 
 tlieir benefit ; a teetotaller, a vegetarian, and anti-tobac- 
 conist, the foremost Avarrior against the opium trafiic, 
 a spiritualist, a faddist, a cold enthusiast, a most noble- 
 minded and unutterably wearisome crank and bore. One 
 of God's angels, none the less, spending himself day and 
 night without reserve in the service of his fellow-creatures ; 
 worshipped and flouted, scoffed at and pityingly endured. 
 
 This Marquess of Avelchurch had, in fulness of time, 
 come to be Duke of Kingsclear, and now bored the gilded 
 chamber instead of the popular. Ever3'-body admired 
 and esteemed him for his moral qualit}', but all men 
 shunned the prim arrogance of his spoken platitudes. He 
 could empty a festive chamber as effectively as a smoking 
 chimney in a March wind. He gave the world an unstinted, 
 aching love, and got back from it for main paj'ment a 
 tolerant laughter ! 
 
 It was this Marquess of Avelchurch, Evan remembered, 
 who had once attempted to rescue him from savager}^ and 
 pauperism, and from whom he had run away, only to see 
 the black flag floating over the walls of Adelaide jail at 
 the close of a memorable journey. 
 
 It was this Marquess of Avelchurch whom he was 
 deputed, on the peril of his own life, to assassinate. 
 
 He made one step in that direction. He went to 
 Petrovna, and asked him for the shell of a bomb. He filled 
 that shell with his own diabolical compound, made after 
 the formula of the benevolent and eloquent Cadoudal, and 
 put the bomb away, ready for use, in a little black hand- 
 bag, in which it lay safely packed in cotton-wool. Many
 
 239 
 
 a time he was tempted as he sat alone to cast the bomb 
 upon the floor of his own chamber, between his own feet, 
 and so bring an ignominious and frustrated life to a close. 
 
 But the four weeks had gone by, and there came an 
 ominous warning. The ruffianly Ducos swaggered into his 
 room one day without a preliminary knock, stared with 
 blear eye at the occupant, slammed his hand on the table 
 noisily between them, and went out again without a word. 
 Two minutes later Evan found on the spot at which the 
 blackguard had struck that resounding blow upon the table 
 a scrap of paper, on which in a rough and unformed hand 
 these words were traced : 
 
 " L'ouvrage ou la mort." 
 
 Evan was almost at the end of his financial tether, but 
 he went out steadily that evening, and bought a revolver, 
 which he loaded in every chamber. From that night for- 
 ward the weapon was his constant comjDanion. He learned 
 its mechanism. He unloaded it, and went through a form 
 of practice at a postage stamp gummed on the blank wall 
 of his room. 
 
 So another week went on. 
 
 At the end of it a letter came through the post unsigned, 
 undated. It was written in English, and read : 
 
 /'You have till to-morrow midnight. Not an hour 
 after." 
 
 " Very well," said Evan on reading it. " So much the 
 better for me. I would rather die fighting than eat poison 
 of my own making in this sewer of despairing cowardice." 
 
 He walked the streets till midnight like a phantom. He 
 had not tasted food for da3's. For the last three daj^s he 
 had had no money for food, and had felt no need of it. 
 When at night he retui-ned to his chambers, from which 
 every thing salable had been stripped, he cast himself 
 upon his bare pallet, and, worn out by the emotion of many 
 days and nights, slept like an innocent child.
 
 240 
 
 When he awoke, the dawn was rising over the great city. 
 All the smoke with which the manifold fires of that busy 
 little insect man darken the fair face of heaven had fallen 
 under the quiet dews, or had been blown away by tranquil 
 winds which drew softly from the blue Mediterranean to 
 the gray Channel waters. As he looked through his win- 
 dow the lower reaches of the sky were of the faintest and 
 most tender apple green. This merged softly into pure 
 amber. The amber resolved itself into rose, so delicate 
 and ethereal that it looked like the element of a dream, 
 and, in turn, the rose color grew fainter and fainter, until 
 it was drowned in the blue of the zenith. Infinitely rest- 
 ful. Infinitely mournful. Infinitely calm. The young 
 man set his elbow on the window-sill, and looked up at it 
 all, seated in a ragged cane chair, and wondered, and, in 
 such a blind fashion as was possible for liim, worshipped. 
 Right away overhead in the deep heart of the deepest blue 
 of the zenith one belated star throbbed and tingled, and 
 went out, extinguished in the smaller but nearer glory of 
 the rising sun. Why was it tliat at that instant the one 
 caress his mother had given him in all his bitter and 
 neglected infancy should recur to his remembrance ? It 
 brought the tears tingling to his eyes with a sense of barely 
 endurable physical pain. 
 
 The light broadened, and the forehead of the day, clear- 
 ing the lower roof-tops of the cit}', struck into his lofty 
 chamber through a golden mist, and smeared its shabb}- 
 M-all-paper with amber and gold and topaz, and all such 
 sublimated tones of 3'ellow as the level sun can ^-ield. 
 
 The clock of a neighboring church tolled four. He bad 
 yet twenty hours in which to gain life as the wage of 
 murder. It Avas bj'- no will of his own that he made his 
 final resolution. Ho walked into the room in which he had 
 lived and worked for the past few months, and in the 
 drawer of his unclothed table, which stood in the middle of
 
 241 
 
 it, he found a pen, a bottle of cheap ink, a sheet of writing- 
 paper, and an envelope. 
 
 He sat down, and, without being conscious of any inward 
 impulse, he wrote this renunciation of all the errors of his 
 life : 
 
 " To his Grace the Duke of Kingsclear : 
 
 " Sir : Your friend the Due de Marais Castel will give 
 to you any information you may require concerning the 
 writer of this letter. Before you receive it I shall have 
 ceased to live. 
 
 " It is not my purpose to reveal to you the names of my 
 associates, but I am a member of a society which, as it 
 seems to me, for curiously inadequate reasons, has resolved 
 upon your death. Five weeks ago I was cliosen b}'^ ballot 
 to be your assassin, and I have now received warning that 
 unless my own mission is completed before midnight of 
 this date I shall myself be subjected to the penalty of 
 deatli. When my bodj' is found, as it will be in all prob- 
 ability within tlie course of the next few hours, this com- 
 munication Avill be conveyed to you by the police, who will 
 take all the precautions necessary to safeguard you dur- 
 ing the remainder of your stay in Paris. 
 " I am, sir, 
 
 " Your devoted servant, 
 
 " Evan Rhys." 
 
 He enclosed this brief epistle, and addressed it to the 
 Duke of Kingsclear " Aux Soins de Son Excellence le Due 
 de Marais Castel, Quai d'Orsai." Then, being heavy 
 with hunger and with many wakeful nights, he threw him- 
 self anew upon his pallet, and slept again until higli noon. 
 
 He awoke savagely hungrj', and, chuckling to liimself at 
 the idea that it was worth while to sustain life in a body 
 so near dissolution as his own, he stripped off his coat and 
 16
 
 243 
 
 waistcoat. He rolled the inner garment into a small 
 bundle, and buttoned his coat over his last threadbare 
 shirt, 
 
 " We will eat and drink and be merry," he said, " for 
 to-morrow we shall have made a stir in the world, and 
 nobody will care one sou about it." 
 
 He walked into the sunlit streets and found the shop of 
 a dealer in second-hand raiment, with whom he chaffered 
 for the sale of the waistcoat. The dealer examined it 
 with the wrinkled nose, raised e3'ebrows of disdain, and 
 pursed lips of calculation which mark the practised pur- 
 chaser. It Avas nought, said the buyer. 
 
 " It will be Avorth something to-morrow," said Evan, 
 with a laugh, " if you keep it till to-morroAv. Come, what 
 are you disposed to give for it ? " 
 
 " Two francs," the purchaser groaned. " Two francs at 
 the utmost." 
 
 " Good ! " said the desperate youngster, with an air of 
 Bohemian merriment. "I don't see why I shouldn't make 
 it valuable to you. Give me a pencil or a pen, and I 
 guarantee that you sell it as a curio for a hundred francs 
 to-morroAV." 
 
 The HebroAV dealer, void of speculation in the larger 
 sense, pottered doAvn upon his counter a franc, a piece for 
 fifty centimes, and ten greasy sous. Seeing his customer 
 pi-e-engaged, he AvithdrcAv one of these, and smiled to see 
 the victim of his art sweep the miserable little handful of 
 money into his pocket Avitliout counting it. 
 
 "Come," said Evan, "a pencil. You shall have my 
 autograph on tlie litiing. For one day, to-morrow, I shall 
 be tlie most celebrated man in Paris." 
 
 The man gave him a pencil, and he Avrote his name in 
 sprawling letters upon the Avhite satinet. He did this 
 Avith a certain complaisance, and quoted to himself as he 
 left the shop, out of his English reading, Avhich had been
 
 243 
 
 wide and varied considering his years : " The mirth of fools 
 is like the crackling of thorns under a pot." The ancient 
 Hebrew hobbled to liis door-way, and, having cast a single 
 glance in the direction of his departing customer, went 
 back, clothed with mercantile splendors of his own imagi- 
 nation. The pilfered halfpenny was sweeter than a pennj'" 
 of honest profit. 
 
 Evan's cheap five-chambered revolver was in the breast- 
 pocket of his coat. He hugged it as he walked toward 
 the restaurant at which he took his meals. If a guest was 
 not particular as to the quality of his provender, he might 
 have a great deal for two francs at this house of entertain- 
 ment, and Evan breakfasted raagnificenth', and drank half 
 a bottle of thin wine. The stomach is the one enduring 
 organ, he reflected. It asserts its claim and levies its tolls 
 up to the last minute. 
 
 There was a little spot he knew not far from the Cascade 
 in the Bois de Boulogne, a green space with overshadow- 
 ing trees and grass to lie upon. At this season of the year 
 the place would not be deserted for five minutes at a time 
 all day long, and the body of a suicide lying there would 
 be certain of almost immediate discovery. As he walked 
 along tlie street his fancy showed him a hundred wa3's in 
 which the discovery was made. His own body lay in its 
 respectable dark garments, with arms extended, and now a 
 spectacled student, with his index finger between the leaves 
 of a book, and now a romping girl, in a white dress with 
 pink sprigs, pursued by her sweetheart, and now a chatter- 
 ing party of children, came upon the scene. Imagination 
 was so vivid that he saw all these people and countless 
 others, and emotion was so numbed that within himself he 
 felt absolutely nothing — neither fear nor remorse, neither 
 sorrow nor self-pity. From time to time, as he Avalkcd, 
 he put up his hand to the weapon which nestled near his 
 heart and felt its outlines.
 
 244 
 
 Well, at least he was meeting bis doom like a man. 
 There was a certain satisfaction in his mind, a certain 
 approval of his own sang-froid. Pie had, in one way or 
 another, mislaid the purpose of his life. He had no time 
 in which to look for it, and could do nothing with it now 
 if it were found. He reasoned out the theories which had 
 led him to so early and so mournful a close for all things. 
 Even now he could find no fault with them, could discover 
 no flaw. The eloquent periods of Cadoudal's speech, which 
 at the time of its utterance he seemed scarcely to have 
 heard, came back to him. They sounded convincing as 
 they repeated themselves upon his inward ear, and yet his 
 heart rejected the conclusion to which they forced bis 
 mind. Like Hamlet he had seen that the world was out 
 of joint, and like Hamlet he had felt that he was born to set 
 it right. He bad experienced the cursed spite of it, but 
 be bad put all that behind him. With all his indifference 
 he knew that the calm in which be walked was the calm 
 of the heart of the whirlwind. 
 
 He walked leisurely, for be felt neither baste nor dread, 
 and the end would come in its due time. The road lead- 
 ing to the Bois was not crowded at this season with fashion- 
 able equipages, as it would have been two or three months 
 earlier, but brakes and omnibuses, beaiing crowds of Eng- 
 lish and American tourists, bowled along, and a flood of 
 hired fiacres and an unending procession of foot passengers 
 poured in one direction. He was one of the throng. 
 They were all travelling in the same direction, and would 
 all reach the same bourne, he a little earlier than tlie 
 rest. 
 
 Suddenly be caught sight of the Marais Castel liveries, 
 and a second later met the eye of tlieir owner point-blank. 
 He did not guess it, but, in spite of the inward calm on 
 which he congratulated himself, there was a look in his 
 face to arrest attention. No discerning man could have
 
 245 
 
 regarded him for an instant witliout reading pure despera- 
 tion there. The duke held up a hand to him and called 
 sharply to his coachman. Evan had raised his wide-awake, 
 and passed on, but the returning carriage caught him in a 
 moment. 
 
 "Evan ! " called the duke imperativel}^, and he was com- 
 pelled to turn. " Jump in here. I have to speak to 
 you." 
 
 Evan entered the open carriage submissively. He was 
 in no hurry, and one place would serve his purpose as well 
 as another. He surrendered the fancy in favor of that 
 shadowed turfy space in the Bois. 
 
 The duke gave his orders to the coachman, and the car- 
 riage turned again and rolled swiftly cityward. The drive 
 to the Quai d'Orsai occupied the better part of half an 
 hour, but neither the duke nor Evan spoke a word. As 
 the carriage pulled up briskly at the entrance to the hotel 
 on the Quai d'Orsai a gaunt, slouching man, Avho was 
 lounging near at hand, gave a great start, and Evan, 
 recognizing him, started also. 
 
 " You know that blackguard ? " asked the duke sternly. 
 " He slinks off, you observe. I met that fellow in Adelaide* 
 a pretended convert from the Roman Catholic Church, 
 addressing nonconformist audiences in broken English, and 
 varying his devotional exercises by a little pocket-picking 
 and an occasional forgery. I saw him again two years ago 
 in Lyons, itinerant pill-vender and street conjurer. Now 
 I learn tliat he is one of your own precious confraternit}'." 
 They were by this time in the duke's private apartments. 
 " My poor lad. You are going from bad to worse. I 
 know your associates, and the police know them as well as 
 I do. Cadondal is a rhetorical old -windbag. Petrovna is 
 a madman. Frost is a blackguard w^ho has traded basely 
 for years on the American-Irish. What is the good of 
 these people ? Why do you consort with them when you
 
 246 
 
 have the chance of knowing tlie best men in the world? 
 And, forgive me, my young friend, what is this ? " 
 
 He laid a sudden hand upon the young man's breast, 
 where the outline of the revolver was clearly marked in 
 the cloth of the close-buttoned coat. 
 
 " Why does a civilized man in a civilized city carry that 
 sort of gimcrack ? Hand it to me." 
 
 " I have a use for it, sir," said Evan. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried the duke, " is it so deep, and are we so far 
 under water ? You infernal young idiot ! You wilful 
 muncher of bitter bread ! You crowned king of the long- 
 eared thistle-eating tribe ! I have never been able alto- 
 gether to play the grandee with you, Evan, for a good 
 many years ago j^ou helped me on occasion to carry slops 
 to the pigs at Koollala, and that memory detracts from 
 any sense of more recent dignit}^ I won't play the patron, 
 but take me as an elder brother, you foolish and misguided 
 fellow. Come, my lad." He laid a hand on either shoul- 
 der and rocked the wretched youngster to and fro. "You 
 should do what the devil j^ou liked with yourself, but I 
 
 don't want you to hurt me. D it all, my bo}', I love 
 
 you, and it goes to my heart to see you spoil yourself." 
 
 The bright calm in which he had walked toward death 
 was clouded for Evan. The tears ran down his face, and 
 a gasping sob or two escaped him. He crumpled in his 
 nervous hands the black felt hat from which he liad drawn 
 the two fatal tickets five weeks ago, and on a sudden, to 
 his utter and complete amazement, there fell from the lin- 
 ing, before his tear-blurred eyes, a crimson slip, on which 
 he read his own name. He dashed a hand across his face, 
 seized the slip, and stared at it hard. 
 
 "What is this?" asked the duke. But the young man 
 returned no answer. His right hand travelled mechanically 
 to the ticket pocket in which he had placed the fatal paper 
 which had condemned him to the assassination of the
 
 247 
 
 Duke of Kingscleav. His fingers found it, and be laid it 
 side by side with the otlier in the crown of bis hat. 
 
 "Is that," asked the duke, " the form of visiting-card in 
 iise among tlie brotherhood ? " 
 
 " No, sir," Evan answered, " It seems to serve another 
 purpose." 
 
 He was like a man who, standing in pitch darkness, sees 
 the whole landscape before him from right to left suddenly- 
 illuminated by a flash of lightning, and finds every detail 
 fired, as it were, upon the mind with a minuteness and dis- 
 tictness which could only have come of long observation 
 in plain day. 
 
 " You say, sir," he said, " that that fellow Percheron 
 was a conjurer ? " 
 
 " Are you mad ? " cried the duke. " What are you talk- 
 ing of ? " 
 
 " The man you pointed out to me outside," said Evan — 
 " the fellow who slunk away when the carriage drew up at 
 the door?" 
 
 " Oh, that fellow," said the duke. "I thought j^our 
 wits were Avandering. Yes, I saw him amusing a crowd 
 by conjuring tricks in Lyons two years ago. What about 
 him ? " 
 
 " He seems to have played a trick on me, sir," said 
 Evan calmly. " Something hangs upon it, but not much. 
 I shall have to play a trick upon him and his confederates 
 in return." 
 
 "My young friend," said Marais Castel, " I confess hon- 
 estly I do not like your manner. Give me that toy you 
 carry in your pocket. If you have any use for that at all, 
 it can scarcely be a wholesome one." 
 
 Evan surrendered the cheap revolver. 
 
 "I have no use for that at present, sir," he said with a 
 queer smile. " If j^ou will alloAv mc, I will go now. I find 
 that I have business to attend to."
 
 248 
 
 "Upon my word," said the duke, "I like your manner 
 less and less, Evan. Either you are playing a theatrical 
 part, — and that is a thing I will not readily insult you by 
 believing, — or there is something in your mind which has no 
 right to be there. Can't you make a friend of me ? Can't 
 you make a clean breast of it, and tell me all your troubles ?" 
 
 As he spoke he reached out both hands toward the 
 lad, who seized upon them with a burst of sobs and tears 
 he had no power or will to control, Evan kissed the 
 hands over and over again, gasping inarticulate words of 
 love and gratitude and contrition. The duke waited, him- 
 self not unmoved, for the subsiding of the storm ; but on 
 a sudden Evan, with one last Avringing of his hands, 
 turned, snatched from the table the hat with the two 
 crimson slips within it, and fairly ran from the room. His 
 kind patron and constant fiiend followed him, calling on 
 his name, but Evan returned no answer. The astonished 
 doorkeeper let him out into the street, still weeping wildly, 
 and catching his breath in great inward sobs. Passers-by 
 stared after him as he plunged along the pathway. Two 
 or three minutes went by before he was sufficiently master 
 of himself to know that he was observed. When he 
 became aware of this, he smoothed his disordered hair, 
 sought and found the two crimson slips, assumed his hat, 
 and, walking steadily with renewed composure toward the 
 Avenue de la Grande Armee, soon left conjecture and 
 curiosity far behind.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 And so M. Percheoii was a prestidigitateur, and the 
 ballot of five weeks ago had been a traitorous and wicked 
 farce. His name and the name of Lebon alone had been 
 placed in the hat, and the devilish scheme had made it 
 certain that whatever fragments of paper he had drawn 
 would have condemned the two and no others to the 
 deed of blood assigned them. Cadoudal, the benevolent 
 Cadoudal, was privy to this infamy. Evan read the shak- 
 ing hand, the strained smile, the choking voice — read their 
 indications now with so absolute a precision that he groaned 
 aloud to think of the blindness which had beset him at 
 the moment. Petrovna knew it. There was a hard, quiet 
 something in his eye Avhich said so much. Dusaulx knew 
 it, and Evan read his knowledge in his downward, listen- 
 ing smile. Ducos knew it, and his braggadocio, semi- 
 drunken swagger, and the bullying bellow with which be 
 answered to his name proclaimed his villany ari'ogantly. 
 The whole scene was pictured in his mind, not like a 
 picture, but as in a scene upon the stage. He saw the 
 faces, heard the voices, remembered tones and gestures 
 which he did not seem to have noted at the time. 
 
 But why should he and Lebon have been fixed upon as 
 the instruments for this double deed of wickedness ? He 
 thought he saw the answer clear. Both of them were 
 useful, and each was wavering. A man with an act of 
 assassination behind him was likely to stick at nothing 
 later on, and was held in such a cage of fear and horror by 
 his comrades that he would obey their lightest bidding. 
 
 Lebon was in his workshop, pipe in mouth, punching at 
 
 249
 
 250 
 
 a sand mould with the rounded stick used in the trade. He 
 turned and greeted Evan on his entrance with a sidelong 
 nod. His face was even more tearful of aspect than of 
 old, and the very droop of his shoulders as he worked 
 spoke of dejection. The apprentice was away, and Evan 
 closed and barred the door before he spoke. 
 
 "Lay that tool down," he said, "and listen to me. I 
 have something to tell you which you must hear." 
 
 The man threw down the tool and turned, the corners 
 of his mouth sagging downward like the loose ends of a 
 purse, and his big, jjrotrusive eyes winking and blinking 
 behind a mist of tears. 
 
 " They may do as they please," he said. " They will 
 get nothing out of me. That blackguard Ducos has been 
 here. Le vaurien ! And unless the job is done to-night, 
 he tells me, it is all over with both of us. I told him to his 
 nose I would see him in hell. We are in rough weather, 
 my comrade." 
 
 " We have been brought here by wicked pilotage," said 
 Evan. " You remember it was from my hat that the 
 papers were drawn ? " 
 
 " I remember," Lebon answered, with a melancholy nod. 
 " What of it ? " 
 
 Evan laid the two crimson slips before him. 
 
 "I found one of these in the lining of my hat to-day. 
 Do you see what that means ? This is tlie paper I drew 
 and this is the one I found. Do you understand ? That 
 villain Percheron made a living as a street conjurer. 
 The names of the other men never went into the hat at 
 all." 
 
 The man seemed dazed, and looked as if he were wander- 
 ing in his wits. Evan sliook liim savagely by the shoulder. 
 
 " Do you understand ?" 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I understand. That is because I would 
 make no more shells for them."
 
 251 
 
 " What do you mean to do ? " Evan demanded. 
 
 " Do ? " said the otlier. " Nothing." 
 
 At this minute there was a hammering at the door, and 
 Evan unbarred and opened it. There stood Petrovna, in 
 his respectable black frock coat, his broad-brimmed soft 
 felt hat, his spectacles, and his huge grizzly beard, present- 
 ing a figure almost as benignant and venerable as M. 
 Cadoudal himself. 
 
 "Ah," he said, "you are here. I shall kill two birds 
 with one stone." 
 
 Evan stood on one side to allow him to enter, and 
 Petrovna crossed the threshold, saluting Lebon by a wave 
 of the walking-stick he carried. Evan's glittering eye 
 never left him for an instant, but the young man put 
 out a backward hand and took up the two strips of 
 paper which lay on the sand in the open half- made 
 mould. 
 
 " There is nobody likely to hear us, if we talk business ? " 
 asked Petrovna, taking out a handkerchief and lifting his 
 hat to mop the perspiration from his forehead. 
 
 " There are three of us," said Lebon sulkily. " You can 
 say what you like. There is no one else to hear." 
 
 " I have come to warn you," said Petrovna, addressing 
 Lebon. " I have taken trouble for the sake of my young 
 friend here. You have both liad your warning already, 
 but I have busied mj'-self in your belialf. There is a meet- 
 ing to-night at the house of our venerable friend. If you 
 choose to attend it and make promise of amendment, your 
 
 late misconduct may be overlooked. If not " He 
 
 waved botli hands abroad, with the stick in one hand and 
 the handkerchief in the other, and suffered them both to 
 fall resoundingly upon his thighs. 
 
 " I shall be there," said Evan, holding that unchanging 
 glance upon him. 
 
 " And I," said Lebon, " shall not."
 
 253 
 
 " You told me," said Petrov.na, " five weeks ago to-day 
 that you knew the word." 
 
 "But yes," said Lebon, " I know the word well, I am 
 afraid neither of the word nor of the thing. Look thee, 
 my friend. A man like me has not a great deal to live for. 
 The best I could do at any time was to keep the old mother. 
 When I had broken my arm and had sold everj^ thing, I 
 took your money. Slie has need of nothing now, and you 
 may do as yon please. You are a bloodthirsty lot," he 
 added, with a curious simplicity. " I Avould do none of you 
 harm if you would leave me alone, but because I will not 
 oblige you by killing my foster-brother you will kill me. 
 Soit ! I never reckoned on making old bones, and I have 
 been ready a hundred times to make away with mj'self. 
 There is quiet under the green turf, hein ? And the old 
 mother is taken care of." 
 
 " You," said Petrovna, surveying him with cool scorn, 
 " were always a fool since I liave known you. But you," — 
 he turned on Evan, — "I am glad to see, have the wit to 
 choose the wiser course." 
 
 "Yes," said Evan, fingering the slips of paper in his 
 pocket. " I have, as you sa}'", chosen the wiser course. I 
 shall be there to-night, Petrovna, What is the hour?" 
 
 "You had best come early," said Petrovna. " We shall 
 meet at nine. Let there be no mistake about the time or 
 place, and do not allow tlie appoititmcnt to elude your 
 memor}'. You may as Avell know that your ever}' move- 
 ment is watched and reported to me hourlj'. You were 
 seen to enter the house on the Quai d'Orsai not yet two 
 hours ago." 
 
 "Yes," said Evan, "I saw and I was seen. That fellow 
 Percheron, Avho made a living as a pill-vonder and street 
 conjurer in Lyons among otlier places a year or two ago. 
 The man who arranged the papers for the ballot this night 
 five weeks."
 
 253 
 
 Petrovna neither started . nor clianged in the slightest 
 degree in color, nor gave any slightest indication of an 
 understanding of the inner meaning of this speech. 
 
 " That," he said with a faint nod, " is the man. He told 
 me you had recognized him. You," he added, turning to 
 Lebon, " may think things over if you will. That is 3^our 
 own affair. You have till nine o'clock. After that the 
 orders with respect to you cannot be rescinded." 
 
 With this he resumed his hat and walked tranquilly 
 away. 
 
 " What was there," asked Lebon, laying his hand upon 
 a heavy iron bar which stood beside his furnace door — 
 "what was there to prevent my beating out his wicked 
 life with this ? Ah, well, it is best as it is. It would have 
 grieved the old mother to see me go to the guillotine. 
 She will grieve as it is, but the duke will look after her, 
 and a man can only die once. If I were you, my comrade, 
 I should pluck up a heart. You are young, but it is better 
 to die than to have blood on your hands. I have never got 
 rid of that waiter in the Rue Timbale. I may meet him 
 in hell, for any thing I know, though I trust for m}^ own 
 sake that he was a good man." 
 
 He took up the tool he had abandoned, and, having made 
 a few aimless strokes with it, threw it down again. 
 
 " What is tlie good of that ? " he said. " I have done 
 my last bit of work. Comrade, pluck up a heart and send 
 these wolves to the devil." 
 
 "I shall do no work at their bidding," said Evan, "j^ou 
 may be sure of that." 
 
 Lebon stretched out liis rough hand, and Evan grasped it. 
 
 " In that case," he said, " we are going on the same 
 journey. I shall have a glass of wine before I go. It is 
 rare good stuff he sends us. It comes from his own cellars, 
 and I might be drunk from New Year's Day to Christmas. 
 Share a glass, comrade."
 
 254 
 
 Evan would not refuse his whim. Tliey left the work- 
 sliop and entered the house together. The old woman 
 stood at the window in the cleanest and crispest of caps 
 and aprons, her brown withered fingers busily plying her 
 knitting-needles while she looked out upon the street. 
 
 " 'Tis thee, my son," she said, turning and smiling as the 
 burly fellow entered. 
 
 " C'est bien moi, ma mere," he responded. "Here is our 
 friend Evan Rhj's, the protected of our protector." 
 
 Mme. Lebon received the young man graciousl}', and 
 if her bright old ej^es took note of his solemnity, she for- 
 bore to remark upon it. 
 
 " Our friend," said the brass-founder, " is going upon a 
 journey, and has come to say ' Good-by.' We shall 
 break a bottle, my mother, and wish to each other good- 
 luck." 
 
 "Eh, bien!" said the old lad3^ "And a bottle of the 
 best, with all my heart. My good Edouard allows it, and 
 he would not have us stint our friends." 
 
 She went nodding and smiling to the cupboard, and took 
 from it a cob webbed bottle, which she dusted gingerl}" and 
 insisted on uncorking with her own hands. 
 
 "A bottle of good wine," she said, "must be handled 
 like a baby. If I were a duchess, I would never have a 
 man for a butler. You are great clumsy creatures, and 
 are always in danger of breaking things." 
 
 Slie filled two glasses with a humorously affected care, 
 and put one into either hand. Lebon touched Evan's 
 glass with his own. 
 
 "Bon voyage, camarade." 
 
 They drank together, and then the great fellow put his 
 arm about the old woman's waist. 
 
 " Thou also," he said, holding the glass to her lips. 
 
 She made at first a pretence of refusing, but finall}'^ she 
 sipped at the wine as a bird might have done, and then
 
 255 
 
 made a movement to retire from her son's embrace. He 
 held her still, however, and, having emptied his glass, set it 
 upon the table and took the old woman in both arms. She 
 looked up at him in some amazement, as if this sort of 
 caress were a rarit3\ 
 
 " Eh, ma mere," he said, his big voice shaking a little. 
 
 " Eh, mon fils," she answered, in a tender mockery, and 
 he stooped and kissed her twice or thrice upon the fore- 
 head, straining her little figure hard in both arms. Evan, 
 standing there, saw that his knotted and warty hands were 
 shaking. *'Eh," said Mme. Lebon, half laugliing and half 
 crying, " what is it ? Thou art more my lad to-day than 
 thou hast been many a year." 
 
 "Thou art happy?" said Lebon, looking down at 
 her. 
 
 " Right happy, my son," she answered, nestling her 
 withered old face against his blouse for a moment. Then 
 she escaped from him laughing, and gave him a smart tap 
 upon the cheek. " 'Tis long," she said, " since thou wert a 
 baby." 
 
 Lebon took up the bottle and his glass. 
 
 " Good-by, my mother. Come along, friend Rhys." 
 
 He led the way back to the workshop and there refilled 
 Evan's glass and his own. 
 
 " Thou art unlucky, lad," he said, " to have come to an 
 end so soon. But courage. Maybe the next world will 
 make amends for this." 
 
 Tliey clinked their glasses, and drank togethei'. 
 
 "My God," said Evan, "you're a brave fellow ! " 
 
 " Not I," said Lebon quite simply. " I've been a crying 
 coward all my life, but it has always been for her, you 
 understand. As for raj^self," — he struck the framework 
 of tlie mould before him with a heavy hand, — "this won't 
 hurt. I sha'n't have time to feel it. The old mother will 
 tliink it was an accident, and will have masses said for me.
 
 256 
 
 She is a good woman, and has never neglected her services 
 for a day." 
 
 He began to bustle about, stirring his furnace fire, and 
 inspecting his melting-pot. Then he took the bottle, and 
 poured what remained of its contents into the sand of the 
 mould, and busied himself in mixing it until the whole 
 mass was slightly moistened. 
 
 " That should serve my turn," he said. 
 
 He turned over the ponderous lid, and bolted it down. 
 
 " Good-by, lad." 
 
 Evan took the proffered hand in both his own and wrung 
 it in silence. 
 
 " Go now," said Lebon. " My affair will be settled in 
 five minutes. The metal is ready." 
 
 "VYIien Evan had left him, Lebon made quiet preparation 
 for the end. He arranged the duct by which the metal 
 was to flow into the mould, and swung out from the fur- 
 nace the big crucible of molten brass. He seized this 
 firmly in a huge pair of nippers, and poured with a steady 
 hand. The shining, blinding stream ran along the duct, 
 and there came a crash in which, for a mere instant of 
 time, the whole Avorld seemed to reel. 
 
 Poor Lebon had been a true pi'ophet. He had had no 
 time to feel.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Evan walked very quietly along the Avenue de la 
 Grande Armee, and nobody encountering him would have 
 been inclined to think that he had any thing very special 
 on his mind. He looked a little moodj^ and a little tired, 
 perhaps, but that was all. He had made up his mind at 
 a crisis so tremendous that its contemplation in another 
 man's career would have been appalling, and for the time 
 being he was barely able to take an interest in it. When 
 the body has endured as much as is endurable, the sufferer 
 swoons. When a mental agony has grown unbearable, the 
 mind refuses to regard it further. Nature will endure so 
 much, and no more. If she is pressed beyond her powers, 
 she slips aside and finds refuge in insensibility or indif- 
 ference. 
 
 He was walking about the streets of a great capital 
 with the signs of the reign of law and order everywhere. 
 He might have purchased a temporary safety by an appeal 
 to authority, but he had no impulse in that direction. 
 There was no permanent refuge for him anywhere, and he 
 saw no relief from his present certainty of death in the 
 prospect of a life of fears. 
 
 There was only one person in the world to whom he 
 cared to say good-by. He bent his steps toward Quahar's 
 lodgings, but, when he reached the door, he was reluctant 
 to enter. He feared that something in his manner would 
 betray him, or that he might break down under the stress 
 of his farewells. He lingered for a time, and then walked 
 away decisively. 
 
 It was a strange thing, he could not but tliink, — though 
 it interested him less than the relation of such a case in a 
 
 17 257
 
 258 
 
 story-book, — tliat he sliould be walking about, alive and 
 well, free of restraint, and yet marked for death, and as 
 much a prisoner as if he were immured among stone walls. 
 
 Of only one thing he was quite certain : He would not 
 be snuffed out and thrown aside by that congregation of 
 callous traitors without struggle and without protest, and 
 he would not die unavenged. 
 
 lie went to his own rooms, and sat there for an hour or 
 two, hardly feeling the time so long. He thought of his 
 childhood in the English western countr}-, and his earl}' 
 bo^^hood in Australia. The clock of the neighboring 
 church chimed and chimed, and at last he heard it with a 
 conscious ear, and arose to put into execution the purpose 
 M'hichhad, from the first moment when he had been certain 
 of his own doom, formed itself within his mind. 
 
 There lay in a locked drawer in his bedroom a hollow, 
 uncharged shell, which had long since been handed to him 
 by Petrovna as a sample of the weapons of destruction he 
 was expected to make active. He unlocked the drawer, 
 and found the harmless thing still lying in the small black 
 handbag of American leather in which it had been carried 
 to him. He took it from its resting-place, and charged it 
 with a compound so delicate and deadl^^ that merely to 
 lian.dle it was to risk life. Early in his manipulation of 
 the material supplied to him, and in the pursuit of an 
 ideal fulfilment of M. Cadoudal's formula, he had discovered 
 that the preparation in this especial stage was so suscepti- 
 ble that the faintest shock would awake it to action. He 
 had experimented with infinitesimal quantities only, but he 
 could guess what the effect of a bomb charged with this 
 irritable devil of a ])owder would be. Of necessity he 
 handled it with the utmost care, but he filled it to its 
 capacity, closed the orifice through which the j^owder had 
 been poured, and, when the dangerous engine was full}' 
 prepared, packed it lightly yet firmly in cotton-wool, stuff-
 
 259 
 
 ing it inside the bag in such a manner that an explosive 
 shock was scarcely possible. 
 
 He had still some hours before him, and a restlessness 
 which began to creep upon his nerves forbade him to 
 remain indoors. He locked up the bag and wandered into 
 the street again, and his feet led him back to Quahar's 
 door. Tiie original objection to entering there was to the 
 full as strong as ever ; but he made light of it, passed the 
 concierge with a nod, and mounted the stone stairs. There 
 at the very door of the chambers he fell musing, and so 
 stood, staring nervously before him, for five minutes or so, 
 until at last, without being conscious of any new impulse 
 in his own mind, he knocked. 
 
 Effie herself answered to his summons, and bade him 
 enter. Her father and the little French maid who minis- 
 tered to their wants were both awa}'', she explained, and 
 she was quite alone. There was a radiant something in 
 her manner the young man had never before noticed. 
 She had been thinking of him, and hoping for him, and 
 even yearning over him a little, and "ow at his coming 
 for the first time in her life she was shy. She led the way 
 into the sitting-room, and, taking up a piece of work she 
 had laid down, pointed hira to a chair. What with the 
 unwonted delicate clear flush on her cheek, and the softer 
 glance of her eye, she would have looked charming to the 
 eyes of any man. The lover condemned to death had 
 never seen a woman so lovely, so beautiful. 
 
 In spite of her invitation to be seated he kept his feet. 
 He had come to say good-by, and now that seemed the 
 last and the greatest of follies. He was unable to find a 
 word, and could only stand there, awkward and mournful, 
 looking at her with an almost vacant gaze. 
 
 "You are not well, Evan," she said, rising and stand- 
 ing before him. " What is it ? You are in trouble I in 
 distress ! Has any thing happened ? Tell me."
 
 260 
 
 "Notliingof any moment," lie vespomlecl, cleaving his 
 harsh throat with difficulty. "I was passing, and I 
 wanted to call." 
 
 "You are not " She left the question unfinished, 
 
 but she stood before him with clas])ed hands, and tried to 
 read his gloomy face. As she looked he smiled, with a 
 w^onderful, strange sweetness. 
 
 "God bless you ! " he half whispered. " I don't know 
 Avhy I said that," he went on, in an inward, strange-sound- 
 ing voice. "I was never bred to believe in that sort of 
 thing, but it felt like a ])rayer, and I said it without know- 
 ing it. I hope you'll be happy. It's a queer sort of world, 
 as I've found it, but some people can be happy in it. I 
 hope you may be one of them." 
 
 "You are very strange to-da}-, Evan," she answered, 
 "lam sure I can see some very serious trouble iii your 
 face. Sit down and tell me what it is. Even if I can't 
 help, I can sympathize, and it eases one to tell one's trou- 
 bles to a friend." 
 
 "No," said Evan, "I have no trouble that won't be 
 cured in an hour or two. There is nothing of lasting 
 moment. I wanted to see you so much to-day that I 
 couldn't resist the impulse to come here. But now I have 
 nothing to do, and I am very dull company, and I will say 
 good-b}-." 
 
 He held out his hand, and she surrendered her own, 
 searching his face with a glance of kindly perjdexity and 
 wonder. The look was a little more than friendly. There 
 was a tenderness in it which he had never seen before. 
 He met her eyes with the same strange smile, and it 
 seemed to cut her to the heart. 
 
 "Oh, Evan!" she besought him, "tell me what your 
 trouble is, and let me try to help 3'^ou." 
 
 "No," he said, still smiling. "I can't tell you any 
 thing, dearest. The trouble, such as it is, will soon be over."
 
 261 
 
 "Evan," she cried, with pule face and dilating eyes, 
 *' you can't mean tliat " 
 
 "You shall know every thing to-morrow," he answered. 
 
 "1 shall see you to-morrow ? " she asked him, holding 
 his hand in both her own. 
 
 " Yes," he replied. " There is no reason why you 
 should not see me to-morrow if you wish it." 
 
 Half the fear went out of her face, and she drew a 
 breath of relief. 
 
 "Evan," she said, " you are ill, and aged and altered. 
 My father speaks often of your associates, and is alwaj-s 
 certain that they will lead you into mischief — into ruin. 
 Don't let them do that. You are so young ; you have so 
 much before you ! You might be so happ}'^ and useful 
 and honored. Don't throw it all away for a chimera." 
 
 " Dearest," he said, and she made no pretence of coy- 
 ness at the repetition of the word, " I shall remember 
 all you have said. I shall think of it. It will not leave 
 my mind. Let that content you now, and let me say 
 good-by." 
 
 They had held each other by the hand all this time, and 
 now, bending over her, he put his arm about her neck and 
 drew her to him. He kissed her solemnly and dispassion- 
 ately, and she submitted to the caress. 
 
 " You promise me that ? " she asked. " You promise to 
 remember ? " 
 
 " Alvvaj's to the very end," he answered. "I have mis- 
 managed my life somehow, or it has been mismanaged for 
 me. I must make a better use of what is left. Good-by." 
 
 He kissed her again and left her, smiling througli brave 
 tears at him as he turned to look at her for the last time 
 at the door-way. His heart, dull as it was with aching, 
 smote him for the deception his words conveyed. 
 
 " I could not help it," lie told himself. " When she hears 
 what has happened, she may understand. At least, she will
 
 263 
 
 be at peace for a few hours, and in a few hours I shall be 
 at peace forever." 
 
 It was as if a whole ocean of despair throbbed through 
 the caverns of liis soul, with Farewell, farewell, fare- 
 well ! in tlie voice of its awful surge. 
 
 At the very sounding of the hour of nine he presented 
 himself at Cadoudal's door, and was admitted. He was 
 ushered as usual to the library, and there he found the 
 master of tlie house, together with Petrovna, Dusaulx, 
 Ducos, Pecheron, and Frost. 
 
 " We have awaited your coming with anxiety," said 
 Cadoudal. " W^ have learned from our excellent friend 
 Petrovna that 3'ou had promised to be here." 
 
 Tliey were all standing in various attitudes about the 
 table. Petrovna and Cadoudal were cordial in their looks, 
 but Percheron, Dusauix, and Ducos looked angry and 
 sullen, and Frost was purely indifferent. Evan set down 
 the black bag he carried on a table at the end of the room, 
 and kept his place near it. 
 
 "Yes," he said, in answer to Cadoudal, " I promised to 
 be here." 
 
 " I am rejoiced," said Cadoudal, "that you have kept 
 your promise. There is no disposition on my side toward 
 hostility, but the commands laid upon you have been 
 disregarded, and it is necessary that you should under- 
 stand tlie position." 
 
 " My voice," said Dusaulx, " is for the penalty." He 
 spoke so rarely that his raven croak sounded as a surprise. 
 
 " And mine," said Ducos. 
 
 " And mine," said Percheron. 
 
 " Comrades," urged Cadoudal, in his most persuasive 
 tones, " the question has already been debated, and it lias 
 been thought advisable by the greater number of us to offer 
 our youthful companion an opportunity of returning to his 
 allecfiance."
 
 268 
 
 "Just so," cried Ducos with an oatli. "And wliat are 
 we all doing, I should like to know, if we are to be gov- 
 erned by majorities ? To the devil with majorities ! Let 
 us have liberty. Liberty and death ! " 
 
 "My good Ducos," Cadoudal besouglit him, "leave 
 something to the balance of opinion in our commonwealth. 
 Let us at least understand what our comrade is prepared 
 to do." 
 
 " Very well," said Dusaulx. " Let him give an account 
 of himself." 
 
 "Yes," said Frost. "Let him give an account of 
 himself." 
 
 " I have something here," Evan said, panting in his speech 
 at first, and looking from one to another with a strange 
 glance — " I have something here which maybe of service." 
 
 He opened the bag with extreme nicety, drew away the 
 cotton-wool from over the bomb, and witli that instrument 
 in his right hand approached the table. Whatever else his 
 face spoke, — and it was full of strange matter, — there was 
 no fear in it. 
 
 " This, messieurs " he began ; but Ducos broke in, 
 
 objecting to the form of address. There were no messieurs 
 here, no, nor citizens. Comrades was the word, and the 
 only word. " Silence, animal ! " cried Evan passionately. 
 " Listen, all of you ! " 
 
 Ducos made a movement as if to pass round the table, 
 but Petrovna waved him back. 
 
 " Wait a little. Wait a little." 
 
 " I hold here," said Evan, "a shell made after our excel- 
 lent Cadoudal's formula. It is fully charged." Cadoudal 
 backed with a blanched face, and Frost uttered an inarticu- 
 late moan. " Some of you, it would seem, ai"e men of 
 peace," continued Evan, with a wild badinage. " If a man 
 moves hand or foot I let this fall. I think I can command 
 safety until I have said my say,"
 
 264 
 
 Petrovna stood like a vock, hut the rest cowered and 
 crouclied, starnig at the speaker and his weapon, witli dis- 
 torted faces. 
 
 " I Avas warned hy you this afternoon," said Evan. 
 " Tell me by what authority the task I have failed to per- 
 form was imposed upon me ? " 
 
 " The choice fell upon you hy ballot," Petrovna said. 
 
 " By ballot ! B}' a ballot in which every paper bore one 
 name, my own." 
 
 At this each man started, and for a mere instant of time 
 even the swift death which lay poised in the accuser's hand 
 was half forgotten. 
 
 "Traitors ! Liars and murderers all ! " cried Evan madly. 
 He flung into the air the two crimson strips of paper, and 
 bj^ liazard thej'^ fell upon the table face upward, so that all 
 could see and read. " It is in this nest of infamy Ave hatch 
 our schemes of reformation for the world. That wretch," — 
 pointing with his left hand to Percheron, who shrank 
 against the wall as if he would fain shrink through it, — 
 "that wretch was brought here to falsify the ballot! He 
 did his work well, and he shall be paid for it. 
 
 " I came here under sentence of death, and I know full 
 well that there is no escape for me. I ask for no promise, 
 and I would not accept it if it were sworn and signed by 
 every one of j'ou." 
 
 "You will not be troubled to accept it," Petrovna broke 
 in, unshaken by the threat which had quelled the others. 
 "You will be dealt with only on the ground on which we 
 have decided. You will obey the instructions given, or 
 you will go to 3'our doom." 
 
 " I shall not go alone," Evan answered, " nor shall I 
 delay my going long." A wail of terror rose from Frost 
 and Percheron, but the rest at least were men. "You saw 
 me slipping away from you, you saw me with eyes open- 
 ing little by little to the monstrous nature of your creed,
 
 265 
 
 you saw me week by week a less willing tool, and so I was 
 to be put away by treason. You found the same change 
 in Lebon, and he too must go. Well, you have passed 
 sentence upon me, and I accept my fate. But you share it 
 with me, comrades at the last, at least." 
 
 " Despatch, then ! " cried Cadoudal. 
 
 " Let him have his life !" screamed Frost, recoveringthe 
 power of speech. " Give him a safeguard ! Let him go 
 away ! " 
 
 "He shall have no safeguard!" said Petrovna. "I 
 claim obedience or I ask for punishment." 
 
 " Punishment ! " cried Evan in a wild voice, raising the 
 bomb high in his right hand. Not a man moved except 
 Ducos, and he, with his bloodshot eyes blazing, and with 
 trembling hands, was searcliiiig for something underneath 
 his blouse. His hand found and clutched the butt of a 
 revolver, and he levelled the weapon full at Evan's breast. 
 " Fool ! " said the young man. " Fire, and bring down 
 your own doom." 
 
 Tlie shot rang out, and Evan, falling forward, struck the 
 bomb upon the table before him. There was one hideous 
 crash. The house seemed to rock, and the room was 
 wrecked from end to end. A sluggish, evil-smelling smoke 
 crawled through orifices in walls and ceiling, and the six 
 men lay in eternal quiet, to dream no more mad dreams, to 
 plan no more horrors for the relief of a suffering world. 
 
 They are gone each to his own place, Avhere, perchance, 
 some root of wisdom grows. But of this no man knows 
 anv thinsr. 
 
 THE END
 
 By DAVID CHKISTIE MURRAY. 
 
 Mr. Christie Mnirray is a kindly satirist who evidently delights in the analysis 
 of character, and who deals shrewdly but gently with the frailties of our nature. 
 . . . The pages are perpetually brightened by quaintly humorous touches. 
 Often in describing some character or something that is commonplace enough, 
 a droll fancy seems to strike the author, and forthwith he gives us the benefit ot 
 it. Consequently there is a spontaneity in his pen which is extremely fascinat- 
 ing. . . . We can only say generally that Mr. Murray's plot is sufficiently 
 original and worked up with enough of skill to satisfy any but the most exacting 
 readers. We found ourselves getting duly excited before the denouement. 
 . . . Readers of Mr. Christie Murray's novels will know that he belongs to 
 the school of Mr.Charles Reade. And it is no small praise to say that he has caught 
 a fair share of the vigor and rapidity of that romancer. His characters, too, be- 
 long to the same category as those that figure in Mr. Reade's stories. They are 
 drawn with a sufficient resemblance to nature to take a complete appearance of 
 vitality so long as we are in the whirl of the plot, which is also what we feel 
 about the characters of a good modern drama while we are watching its repre- 
 sentation. . . . There is a certain alertness and vigor in the author's por- 
 traits which make them pleasant to meet with. — Saturday Review, London. 
 
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